Love Me Knot - Novel

Love Me Knot

By Rod Stewart

The characters, places and events portrayed within this novel are for fictitious purposes only. Reference to persons either living or dead, is purely coincidental, and is not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. Copyright © 2008 Rod Stewart

For my parents, Barbara and Colin

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I wish to acknowledge the generous assistance from the North Cumberland Historical Society and the Eaton-Webb Guest House for kindly researching local facts and archival information which have imbued this story with an authentic maritime flavor. I express my gracious debt to my family and the many friends whom we have encountered over the years of vacationing at Pugwash, Nova Scotia. For they have created the fond unforgettable memories which cheer my heart to this day. May the reader enjoy these words with a pleasure equal to my revel of those youthful summer times.

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ONE The button thumb pressed pink onto the knot, as her teenage sister pulled the blue bow tight over a dried starfish. Natalie swished around in circles with her new magic wand, and danced with giggles. “It’s even better than Daddy’s cane,” as she jumped, hugging Samantha’s bony hairpin frame, “You’re the best pretender.” “And you are always my Princess,” smiled Sam, kissing her rouge powdered cheek and straightening her lopsided doily tiara. She wiped away an almost tear, the cold make-believe one, still dripping inside, from the accident long ago. “Remember now, I’m the ghost, and you can’t see me,” played Sam, although it was real enough for her. She wrapped herself into a cloud with a cotton sheet, knowing all too well, how easy it was to become invisible. “Are you a good ghost, or a bad ghost?” tugged Natalie, on the apparition’s hood. “That is a secret, for you to find out,” breathed her hollow voice, “Now count to ten,” as the specter floated down the cottage veranda stairs, fading lost among the thick scented blackness of spruce. “Three..two..one. Ready or not here I come!” squealed the Princess, opening her ocean blue eyes to the summer shrill of pine beetles, and blaring June sun. “Now if I was a smart ghost, where would I hide?” she hummed to herself, tapping the wand on her puckered crimson painted lips. Natalie was very good at finding out things, which perhaps, should not be known in the first place.

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She crept around the corner, sagging slightly, like the cement pillar foundations, teetering unsettled among the pungent earthen shadows beneath the deck. Carefully, she snailed down to her knees, furling away the edge of her royal nightgown robe, and then sniffed into the gray maze for any trace of ghost wanderings. It had poured lightning last evening, and although the thirsty ground had drank most of the rain, a few rivulets and mirrors still puddled under the cottage. Except for a squirrel prance, and deer hooves cutting deep into the south side moss, Natalie didn’t see any fresh ghost tracks. All the same, she pricked her elf ears taut, just in case something was festering in the putrid silence. Behind the lichen shingled outhouse, a root strewn path led away from the Allen property, wound by a mosquito infested bog, then skirted along the western barbwire fence of MacMillan’s field and finally punctuated in the ditch by the patch-plagued Route 6. The humid suffocating canopy of dense birch and old forest pine along the trail was the most logical retreat for a runaway specter. The sheet would most likely be torn, in any event, by the nettle of overgrown shrubs and dense alder thickets crowding onto the footpath. Samantha ripped off several shreds, hanging them as tattle tale tongues along her route. She had to move quietly and quickly, because the Princess was sure to be following her lead. Samantha glanced back at the cotton feathers, fluttering like soft kisses waiting to be held. Piece by piece she was giving herself away to Natalie, until she was completely unraveled, free from her skin, as a spirit released into the air. Natalie scooted around the backyard, nearly tripping over the knee high poison puffed toadstools, a common hazard for fairy princesses. Even the scar-faced rotting woodpile snoring alive with fire ants had nothing to say about a passing pale shadow. If Samantha had ran along the dusty potholed road, over the bank, and down to the beach, someone would likely have spotted her, ending their game. From most of the

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bedtime stories Natalie knew, spooks roamed in darkness. A breeze rustling near the Indian pear bush behind the outhouse caught her attention. Of course! She clapped her hands with a chuckle, and began bulldozing her way through the brush along the trail. The Princess began to melt, as the humid brightness took her breath away. She was becoming trapped, like a fly in a web, by the alder fingers snatching at her robe. Frustrated, she peeled away the gossamer, rolled it into a ball, and tucked it away under her T-shirt. After ten minutes of huffing and puffing over roots and through ankle mud, she stopped. Maybe this was the wrong way, her stomach tightened, halfsobbing, she was ready to yell “Samantha!” Natalie dropped herself onto a soft mossy stump, and buried her head in a cradle of elbows and knees. She was about to cry, when a sparrow chirp broke her tears. Looking up, she spotted a white tail flagging from a branch. Then another, not too far away. Her heart lit up with a smile, as she bobbed after the ghost woolies. She found the last shred in the middle of dappled nowhere, at the edge of the swamp. Bending down, by an algae soup pool, Natalie’s squint was returned by a stare from a pair of glassy pearls. She touched the end of her wand softly toward the frog, “Where or where has our ghost gone, dear Prince?” Insulted by the poke, it dove with a burp, and disappeared into the emerald fold. “Somewhere. Somewhere,” she insisted, looking carefully, circling slowly on the spot where she stood. Near the branch where the final feather waved, she pulled at a bone swaying in the breeze. It dangled by a twisted wire, knotted with an array of sparkplugs and odd bolts. A few teeth were missing from the deer jaw, bearing the rusty scrawl “Find my face.” There was only one place where those trinkets could have come from! The Princess eagerly loosened her prize, and wrapped it carefully inside her robe, before swatting through the bushes to MacMillan’s field.

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At the corner of the clearing, wallowed a crumpled ’67 Dodge, stripped of its former blue and ebony glory. It was swallowed in mud up to the bumpers, and porcupined with various quills of young spruce through the trunk, and wild roses tangled around the engine block. The Princess smirked, and slithered low as a snake, toward the wrinkled wreck. A crackle of straw underfoot betrayed her trespassing. A white cloud exploded from the backseat roaring “Moo! Moo!” The Princess shrieked, jumped back with startled shock, and then laughed “What kind of ghost goes ‘Moo! Moo!’ ” The specter pointed at its face “Mmmmoo! Mmmmoo!” “Oh, I see!” said the Princess. She removed the deer bone from beneath her shirt, and handed it over to the cottoned palm. “That’s better. Thank you!” as the ghoul craned her head to one side. “And what are you doing in there?” “I have been trapped in this prison for centuries. Without teeth I couldn’t ‘Boo!’ and everyone thought I was just another cow.” “How did you lose your ghost voice?” “Nobody thought I was real. They forgot about me, like a bad dream. They didn’t hear me anymore.” “And because they didn’t hear you, you lost your voice?” “That’s right. Do you believe me?” “I believe in dreams.” “And secrets?” “Yes! Especially secret secrets!” “Welcome!” as the rear door creaked open, almost breaking off its last hinge. The two squirmed together, under the white sheet, like a pair of newly hatched tent caterpillars, crawling over the ripped leather seat.

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“You must be thirsty after your long journey.” “Yes it has taken days.” “May I offer you some fresh cold blood? I am feeling a little pale myself,” as she poured some red lemonade from the thermos. “A little sour, just the way I like it,” rose-smiled the Princess. After a few drinks, they tickled and poked, and picked away at the cracked reptilian upholstery. From underneath the driver’s seat, Samantha fished for a beer bottle. It was capped with tin foil, and contained a few tinkling items. “Can I see?” “Secret first!” “O.K. Ummm. The wasps are building a really big nest by the roof. It’s hidden by lots of branches.” “No Silly. Real secrets. People secrets.” “Hmmm. Alright,” as she cupped her frowning face within her palms, “Jake is in love with somebody.” “Who? Who?” flushed Sam’s cheeks, with a hopeful quiver in her throat. “I’m not really sure,” teased Natalie, “He was drawing a heart in the sand. I saw his initials. Then he wiped away the rest before I had a chance.” “He wouldn’t tell?” “No,” she clammed, “Your turn, Ghostie.” “Well, a long time ago, before you were born, I saw Mom and Mr. Nelson in his kitchen.” “And?” “They were doing something. She struggled. Then something crashed. And they fought. I could hear them through the window.” “Then?” “Mom ran out of the house. Mr. Nelson followed. And that’s when he fell down the front doorstep. And broke his arm.” “What was the fight about?”

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“I don’t know. Mom slapped me. Said to never ask her again. It was the only time she ever hit me,” sniffed Sam. Samantha unplugged the bottle, and dumped the contents onto the sheet between them. She unrolled a curl of paper, and asked Natalie to hold it flat against the glass. With the pencil stub, she wrote in tiny gray veins, the first of the half-secrets between them. Things which were better not believed, and left dead in a memory grave. “Finger please,” as she undid one from Natalie’s fist, like a delicately unspiraled butterfly feeler. “Hold still,” she made a lightning prick, oozing a ruby bead from her tip. “Ouch!” winced the Princess. Samantha did the same to her forefinger, and then pressed both wounds together. “Now sign after me. Our sister secrets. Forever. Promise,” as she wiggled a scarlet “S” on the bottom. Followed by a nervous “N” beside hers. The contract was sealed and then rolled away to sleep under the seat for another month. They still had plenty of afternoon sunshine left. The sisters played tag around the wreck, tossed cones at one another, and then storied themselves with imaginings along the trail home.

TWO There was little difference between tonight and the one almost ten years ago, when the single minute replayed in her mind a thousand times over. Bulging suitcases were jammed to the roof inside the family station wagon, as they rocketed from the picket fenced suburbia toward summer paradise on the Northumberland Strait. They were headed on a cross country migration, over the Cobequid Mountain backbone. The tedious winding roller coaster drive through the foothills heated tempers after a few hours. Acid remarks dripped about unfinished office business, doubts over double checked latches and switches, and things that should have been packed that weren’t. Sparks flew easily between her parents. Samantha watched the trees spike by on the treadmill through her window while her stomach turned dizzy. She had to shake her eyes away, onto the comic book flapping open on her lap. She needed air whistling through a crack; otherwise they would be forced to pull over, with a roadside deposit of her lunch. She fretted, as the trees on the shoulder of the road became a blurred watercolor. The tires hummed and squealed around tight curves, and the front seat mouths boiled at each other. Her eyes headlighted at the behemoth eighteen wheeler barreling down the narrow ribbon, eating the scant seconds of distance between them. All she had to do was tug on Daddy’s perspiring sleeve, to wake them up from the fighting dream, and make them see the roaring lion throttling down on them. Before. It was too late.

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The station wagon veered over the solid line, swerved to avoid collision, lost control, and plowed through the railing with a nose dive into the gully. It was a miracle that none of them were killed. Tim’s fractured hip healed over several months, while his aggravated organs and internal tissues pained longer. A cane steadied his left step, which wobbled for the rest of his days. The other two passengers fortunately faired only scrapes and bruises. The nightmare continued to haunt Samantha. Her hand trembled through the midnight air, vainly grasping for an invisible sleeve. The dreadful moment tormented her fingertips with agony for years. Kate pleaded for therapy, but Tim refused, afraid that one problem would avalanche into an exposed plethora of family misgivings. Tim routinely prescribed a mild sedative to dull his daughter’s trauma, until her delicate nature could no longer cope with a prolonged stupor. Kate talked her through the days and nights as best she could, to help Sam fit together the shattered pieces. Tonight, Natalie heard the familiar whimpers from across the hall. It was doubtful that Kate would comfort Samantha, especially after popping some 292’s to numb the back to back shifts at O’Brien’s Pharmacy. Father was away, as usual, attending to a case backload. Natalie warmed inside, pleased to mother her Samantha doll. She tiptoed into her room, allowing the fumbling waving hand to flower softly over her cotton pajama chest. Their fingertips met with warm reassurance. Samantha awoke, and turned over the ruffled blanket inviting her sister to curl into the pea pod. Their eyes met, and said more than words ever could. Samantha hugged Natalie to her as a second skin. Her mouth whispered “Thanks,” with a kiss peppered upon the cherub’s cheek. Her long twig fingers combed affectionate curls through her sister’s chocolate hair. Above them a pair of moth wings hung with a tender echo against the moon silvered window screen. It climbed,

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fell, sputtered and then rose again toward an unknown silent darkness. When Samantha squeezed her sister tight, against her blossom breasts, she could feel Natalie’s angel wings folded behind her shoulder blades. Sometimes, with a feather touch back rub during the early hours, they would twitch beneath her skin, almost ready for flight. “How about you Sam? Do you have angel wings, too?” breathed Natalie. “I am afraid not. Only you are the precious lucky one,” sighed Samantha. She had held Natalie within her heart since birth. Samantha was the companion of all hours when Kate worked marathon shifts. Samantha’s favorite bedside tales became Natalie’s. Her first crush, her first broken promise, her first confessed lie poured from Samantha’s lips into innocent ears. To be fair, Kate nursed and bonded with her youngest child, as her schedule had allowed. She was thankful that Samantha could mortar the gaps she left behind. This was the 70’s, and a modern woman had her responsibilities. It was peculiar that Samantha prepared more baby formula, laundered more diapers, and kangarooed her treasure everywhere in her arms, unlike her mother’s schedule, that was perpetually full with other agenda. Kate made sure the medicine cabinet was well stocked with iodine and bandages. Samantha was the one who healed the tricycle curb rash with hugs and wiped away the tears and blood with a sympathetic kiss. Natalie was the balm that began to close her sister’s wounds from the accident. She was the vigor grafted onto her broken stem. A bud, which would unfold with hope, for both of them. Samantha held her teddy bear’s heartbeat close to her own. She cuddled Natalie into herself, against the evening hours which slowly stole her away, year by year. Summer after summer she lay closer to the edge of their nest, as Natalie swelled from a baby bundle into a svelte young girl. The single bed for their twin soul was shrinking. A winter

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thought chilled over Samantha’s neck. Without her Natalie nights, who would hold her together? Saturday, Natalie pestered to have a friend over. Of course Samantha would be there to baby-sit, and take care of the catering, without saying. Samantha rarely invited anyone. Kate assumed that her doting over Natalie would preclude any friendship. She was an infantile sixteen-year old shadow trailing after an eight-year old. Samantha belonged within Natalie’s world. Kate wondered if the dream child would ever wake up. “Why Jake?” asked Kate. “Well, he makes great sand castles. And plays Fish really good,” answered Natalie. Kate had known the Nelson family for years. Jake was a fine strapping boy, already hauling lobsters with his father. She had seen him play well, as a gentle leader, among the other children at the beach. Kate had regularly visited Dot, Jake’s mother, when her husband was hung over from a binge with the boys in town. She could see Dot’s kindness shining through Jake. Dot was more of a sister, than a neighbor to Kate. “O.K. young lady. But you be good! And don’t stay up too late,” agreed Kate. She was thankful to have her fledglings still under her thumb, while other teenagers entertained themselves with disreputable notions. “Thanks, Mom!” hugged Natalie, with spaghetti arms encircling her waist. Kate jingled her keys, and was out the back door with a click of her heels, and a “Varoom!” down the lane in her black Corolla. Samantha pulled a chair over to the counter for Natalie to stand on, to mix the orange juice and fizzy ginger ale punch. They filled the biggest mixing bowl with chips, and peeled open a fresh garlic dip. They didn’t have to count many moths fluttering around the porch bug light, as Jake promptly appeared with a soft tap on the screen door by ten.

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Natalie flew to the door, and pulled Jake over to the couch, “Glad you could come!” She had the seating all planned. “I hear you are the best Fish player in Pugwash,” teased Samantha, flicking a curl of jet black hair behind her ear. “You mean second best!” piped Natalie. “I guess we will settle who is the champ tonight,” drawled Jake with a sparkle. The cards were shuffled and dealt over the round table. Natalie stacked two extra cushions on her high-backed wicker chair, for a commanding view of her opponents, huddled together, opposite on the sofa. The incandescent light filled the naturally finished pine room with a warm glow. From her position, Natalie could read Samantha’s fanned cards mirrored in the window. Jake’s hand was more of a challenge, since he only glanced at his cards briefly during his turn. Otherwise they were stacked tightly face down. After playing cards with Natalie, over the summers, Samantha had quickly caught on, as to why her sister won more often at night, especially when she demanded her throne to be placed just so. Samantha, and for that matter, Jake didn’t mind the suspicious winning streak of six games in a row. They smiled at Natalie’s bubbly giggles when she cleaned them out with winning cards. For Natalie it wasn’t cheating, rather, a way of knowing certain things, which would be played out sooner or later anyhow. It was an important lesson that she wisely applied at later times. Natalie’s cards were thinning away, while the other players had fistfuls. “Any Three’s?” asked Jake. “Go Fish!” snickered Natalie. The new house rule was to make a fish face before picking up cards, when you lost on your turn.

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Jake lunged at Natalie, curling back his lips, baring fangs, with palm fins flapping by his cheek gills. “What’s that?” squealed Natalie, with a jolt from her seat. “The fierce wolf eel! A sea snake with iron jaws,” said Jake clicking his teeth, with a feigned threat. On the next round Jake raised an eyebrow, “Don’t suppose you have any Seven’s?” ‘Sorry! Go Fish!” blurted Natalie. She clamped her claws deep into the wicker arms, bracing herself for the seaprise. Jake ballooned his face red and rolled his googly ping pong eyes, while wiggling finger fins under his chin. After a few seconds, he let out a gasp “A big ugly lumper!” “That’s a good one!” clapped Natalie. “It blows up like that when you catch one. Except their mouth is as wide as a cave. You can see right down their throat to the tip of the tail.” “Wow,” cooed Natalie. “Do you really see all those animals when you go lobster fishing?” spouted Samantha. “Yes,” asserted Jake, “The ocean is amazing. I suppose there are things at the bottom that we haven’t even imagined.” “I have never been out on the ocean,” perked Samantha, drawing closer to Jake’s oxen shoulder. “I can ask Dad. If you would like to come along some morning,” replied Jake. He glanced over across the table, “How about you Natalie?” “No thanks. I get kinda scared around water over my head,” declined Natalie, surprised that she came up with a lame excuse so easily, “You guys have fun.” “We’ll bring something back for you,” offered Jake, as a compromise. “As long as it doesn’t bite,” joked Natalie, fighting to pry open her eyelids between yawns. “Looks like someone is ready for bedtime,” remarked Samantha.

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“Awww!” whined Natalie. After a hug from Jake, Samantha coaxed her sister off to bed. “I had a great time,” whispered Natalie. “Me too. Jake is really nice,” melted Samantha. “I hope we can play together again, tomorrow,” grinned Natalie. “We’ll see, my Princess bedbug,” said Sam, tucking her sister snug under the covers. When Natalie was content, Sam joined Jake back in the living room. “It’s getting late,” she reminded him. “Can I stay, just a little longer?” he begged. “Maybe, for a sea tale or two,” she smiled softly into his pooling blue eyes, settling light as a feather along his robust chest. His mellow voice rolled through her, like a shell being filled by an ocean breath. He held her hand tenderly, weaving his fingers among hers, and then raised their palms together, over his heart. She drifted easily into him, awakening as a woman for the first time. Her dreamy dark eyes became heavy from the weight of the long day. He eased her from the curve of his shoulder, onto a pillow, and then lightly draped a blanket over her. “Can I see you tomorrow?” as his syllables slipped like silk from his mouth, and hovered a lick away from her flushed cheek. Her answer followed, with her palm brushing by his stubbled chin. She pulled his lips gingerly to hers, parting her moist, full taste into him. One heartbeat dissolved sweetly, entirely into the other. Through the knothole on the far side of the furnace Natalie sighed, with a clump of lead in her stomach. Morning unbuttoned Samantha’s eyelids first. The squirrels scampered madly over the roof, and blackbirds pecked ferociously at the littered gutters near dawn signaling another sweltering day.

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“I’ll wake you for cartoons,” whispered Sam, patting a soft shoulder buried in drowsy cream. “Mmm,” mumbled Natalie between a yawn. She turned into the pillow, hauling the sheet over her head for another half hour of grey. Samantha slid off the foot of the bed, and into a fresh T-shirt and a pair of skimpies. After a birdbath splash over her face, she peeked around the corner into her mother’s bedroom. Her father never warmed those sheets, except during a token family weekend in August. Kate’s ribs barely rose under the crucifix of her crossed-arm rigor mortis. Her room, on the North side, always plunged into black. The Queen of Darkness. It would be a few hours before life stirred from that grave. Mouse quiet, she slipped over to the fourteen inch black and white TV propped on top of the dented odd drawered bureau, piled lopsidedly with magazines, and greasy finger-printed supper glasses, which never completed their journey to the kitchen sink. She clicked past the Indian chief test pattern, to the static drone. Turned down low, the television fuzz dribbled like a shoreline wave that had crested with foam, but never withdrew back into the sea. It was like a moment held, between being given, and then taken away. She would sink into the couch, by the picture window, and listen to the static, and the things that were trapped inside of her.

THREE The wiry teenager strode confidently down to the sandbar’s edge, where the beach cobbles met the breeze rippled tide pools. A broad calloused hand shaded his cobalt eyes from the sizzling noon glare as he glanced back at the escarpment. The last storm had littered the shore with several crushed pallets and a few cords of pulp wood from the local mill. That would be plenty, he thought, as he uncoiled the bristly rope from his leather shoulders, and tossed the bundle of coarse netting at his feet. A few tins of nails and spikes were dropped off to the side. “Watcha doin’ Mister?” chirped the freckled redhead splashing absently nearby. “Making a boat,” he grinned, heaving basket-size boulders onto the spread net, without much effort. “With rocks?” “Yeah. The small ones float a little. Maybe the bigger ones will float more. What do you think?” “You’re crazy man!” “No look,” as he fired a saucer stone, skipping it a dozen circles and ten yards across the glassed water, “See. I figure a big bunch of them together…” “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” he chuckled, poking a finger into his belly button, “O.K. So what’s the rope for?” “Well, I don’t want my boat to float away.” “So, you’re going to make an anchor?” “Yeah, I’m going to nail some of that driftwood together into a big pile. That should be heavy enough.” “Can I help with the wooden anchor when you’re done?”

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“Yeah, sure. I should have this tied in no time.” A buzz of kids swarmed around Jake like sand flies, after the pallet boards were pried loose, and the pulp pontoons lined up according to plan. The raft crew set to work removing old rusty nails. They pounded the corroded iron claws into stubs, or curled them back into the wood. Some of the kids had begged hammers from home. Their shouts rang loud over the ping of steel meeting steel. The story about the floating rocks spread like wildfire. A few flat rocks were nailed onto starboard, as insurance to buoy the craft. Everyone had a chance to tack lathes onto the deck. A few of the older boys with jackknives carved their initials as a christening rite. There was a fuss when some of the girls tied on shells with ribbons, and decorated the craft with crayon designs. The captain listened and calmed any pouts and tears from purpled thumbs or hurt feelings. It was agreed that the castaway barge belonged to everyone at Mitchell’s Beach. “When is she going to sail?” pestered freckles. “On the big tide. Maybe tomorrow.” “Can’t we do it sooner?” as his temper kicked a sand plume. “Sorry, mate. It’s too heavy to push it that far to the water.” “Ohhh!” he fussed, trailing away with his stick, drawing a sand snake behind him down the spine of the beach. Natalie decorated the raft among the crowd. She was crouched in the sand along port side, drawing a thick red heart. She had finished the pointed tip, with a big “S” inside. Captain Jake sauntered over the deck and hunched beside Natalie. He smiled, watching, waiting for her to finish. His eyes bore into the back of her skull, arrowing painfully into her thoughts. She went blank for a moment. The crayon dropped from her trembling fingers onto the burning sand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother,” as he picked it up, blew off the dust and handed it back to her. “You finish it,” pouted Natalie, pushing away.

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“Sure?” softened Jake. “Yeah,” tested Natalie. She stiffened into wood, as he boldly inscribed an eclipsing cross. Followed by an equal magnitude “N”. Then, with hesitation, a dwarf thread “J” at the very bottom. “I can…” sunk Jake, as the point of his fishing blade glinted into the “J”, poised to carve out the sore. “No,” she blurted, grabbing the hilt of his hand, “It’s fine.” “You’re my true friend Nat. I hope you know that,” said Jake, lowering his blue eyes softly beneath hers. “Yeah,” she weakly nodded. “Listen,” he whispered, only to her ears, “I’m launching the raft tonight at eleven. It’s a secret. Come and watch.” “O.K.!” said Natalie, adding with a pinched heart, “I’ll tell Sam, too.” “That’ll be great. I should check with your mom,” reassured Jake. “No. She won’t mind, really. I’ll see you tonight Jake,” warmed Natalie. It would have been nice to share the secret launch with Jake, but she knew that Kate would not allow her to be alone at the beach late at night. Sam would have to be there too, she admitted with resignation. The new moon would bring two of the highest tides that month, one near midnight, and the other about noon the following day. Jake made sure that the rope was secure at both ends before packing up and leaving that afternoon. “Mom, I can’t sleep” cried Natalie at bedtime. “What’s the matter,” answered Kate, her stern voice mellowed by the cozy natural pine planked room. “I guess I got too much sun.” “There’s lotion in the cupboard.” “Can I go to the beach to cool down, instead? Just for an hour?” “At this time of night?” grumbled Kate, distracted from her sultry explicit novel. “Please…”

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“Alright. Take your sister with you. One hour, that’s all!” “Can we take the garbage too?” “O.K. But no mischief from either of you!” Everyone knew everyone at the Beach. Folks had lived there for generations. It was one big family when they all arrived by midsummer. The children were tuckered out from romping in the sandbox by the sea all day. Their parents appreciated the quietness, away from the bustle of their normal urban lives. Except for the rare neighborhood bonfire, the beach was usually dead by eleven. Natalie didn’t need to wait for Samantha. She had instantly changed into her two piece bathing suit, and then slipped on a pullover. Samantha stuffed newspapers, Kleenex, cardboard packages and other combustibles into the large paper grocery bag, after pocketing a folder of matches. She grabbed a windbreaker from the back of the kitchen chair. The screen door clicked open and her mother echoed “One hour!” The cool night air was refreshing. Natalie pulled away her hood that rubbed like sandpaper against the back of her sunburned neck. A splash of ocean salt would simmer the heat. With no time to waste, the two hares hopped quickly after the flashlight beam that bounced off the pine, and down into the gully, to the beach. Huddled downwind, by the headland stone, they set the pile alight. The paper quickly flared into a fireball. To make the amber dance last longer, Samantha crisscrossed the flames with more tinder, broken sticks and a few hefty bleached logs. The dragon came to life with a crackle and a hiss. They sunk their feet into the sand, side by side and warmed their hands. “Hi,” rose his comfortable voice, gaining familiar color from the grey shadows. “Hi,” they both replied, warmly with expectation. “We can’t stay for long,” peeped Natalie. “Mind if I?” asked Jake.

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Samantha slid over, making a spot for him near the fire. “Can you grab a few more branches Natalie?” hinted Samantha. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute,” nodded Natalie. “Sunburn.” “Anything else? “Just thinking.” “About?” “Them,” as Sam twirled her fingerstick through a blizzard of sparks. “Oh?” “They’re fireflies. Like us.” “How’s that?” “They burn for a second. Then flutter away lost into ash.” “And nothing’s left.” “Or maybe…” “Yeah?” “We are like the stars.” “Uh huh.” “We are souls. Always.” “And which star are you?” “That one. Not so bright. Above the horizon. Near the ocean.” “Sometimes two stars make one light. When they are close,” as he swam deeper into her eyes. “Yes, I believe that, too,” taking his arm around her waist. “Will you join me?” asked Jake, gesturing toward the raft with his hand, but toward her heart with his eyes. “Forever.” “That should be enough!” grunted Natalie, piled up to her chin with dry brush. “Thanks, Sis,” rose Samantha, dusting the sand from off her bottom, to unload the heap from her sister’s arms, “Would you mind if Jake and I tried out the new raft. Only for a few minutes.”

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“O.K.,” shrugged Natalie. “We won’t be long. Promise. I’ve brought a big bag of marshmallows to toast afterwards,” added Jake, trying to brighten Natalie. Samantha hugged Natalie with a deep “Thank you,” as another favor owed between sisters. The two of them scooted over the beach like a pair of jittery sandpipers. Together, they shed down to their under clothes, and piled the rest into a heap among the willowy sand grass. Nearby the raft had already gained momentum with the tide. In knee deep water they pushed the craft out farther. Paddling together, they tugged the rope to its limits offshore. For a brief time they lay as one, not as man and woman, but as companions. She was curled completely, comfortably into his sculptured form, matching the song of her breast to his. Her hands, his hands, flowed tenderly over one another. Not a word said. Only being completely, as twin stars married in the night. Looking, feeling, living as the souls above them. “It’s time.” “Yeah.” he sighed. His rolling biceps rapidly reeled in the line. “Can’t we cut it?” “And be adrift.” “Free, with our cousin stars.” “Someday. Yes. Only with you,” as he embraced her breathless. They swam the rest of the way to shore, and then gently, slowly, toweled one another dry between caresses of palm and eyes. As agreed, the trio devoured the toasted puffs together, becoming as close as closest friends could be. “About time you two showed up,” echoed Kate from the bedroom, as the beach rats squeaked through the back door. They returned fifteen minutes early, to avoid a scolding. “We had a big fire,” perked Natalie.

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“And a quick dip,” added Samantha, having dashed to the bathroom to rinse away the evening’s smoke, sand and salt. “You, too Natalie?” asked Kate. “No, I changed my mind about swimming in the dark,” replied Natalie coldly, biting her tongue. “Probably just as well,” remarked Kate. “Sorry for keeping you up late Mom, we’ll be in bed in a flash,” trailed Samantha, knowing that it was best to snuff out a flame with a fast pinch, rather than to risk a burn. In turn, they gave Kate their goodnight pecks and squeezes then rounded the corner into the hallway. Samantha took Natalie’s hand into hers, nodding toward her room. Natalie tugged away with a pout, turning her back. Samantha’s heart dropped to the floor with her shoulders, crying a whispered “Please.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” wilted Samantha’s watery gaze under Natalie’s frown. “I’m coming after those mice with my broom,” threatened Kate. “O.K. Mom!” apologized Samantha. Then she offered her open arms to her sister. Natalie conceded, and together they settled into their familiar nest. They lay in bed, Natalie stared anger into the ceiling while Samantha bridged the frigid air between them with her hand as a warm waft over Natalie’s cheek. “Don’t you love me anymore?” needled Natalie. “Of course I do! I will always love you Princess,” as she lit a butterfly kiss upon her temple. “But you love Jake more than me!” rang Natalie, rolling over and wrenching the covers around herself. “No my dearest Natalie, I will always love you the most. I promise,” sulked Samantha, as the wings of her moth heart slowly tore apart. Samantha’s tender touch could hardly thaw the statue beside her, as Natalie was frozen inside her own thoughts.

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“I’m really sorry, Nat,” mooned Sam, “Tomorrow will be our day. Just you and me.” “I’m sorry, too,” answered Natalie, her last peep until morning. “I’m cold,” sniffed Sam, drawing her beloved near her heartbeat with a kiss upon her crown, “My darling Princess, my darling Princess.”

FOUR

At half past eleven a beige Buick LeSabre emerged from a cough of dust. It glided without a jar over the potholes and mowed to a stop upon the weed-paved gravel driveway. “Daddy’s here!” gagged Natalie, frog-mouthed full with a raw wiener. She ketchup fingerprinted the kitchen sill. “He’s early,” mumbled Samantha between two gulps of toast. The air conditioning wheezed to a vacuum, as the surgeon’s immaculate pink fingers automatically turned off the ignition. Dr. Allen breathed more easily, noting the absence of the witch’s Corolla. Perhaps he could make a day of it, if Kate was working. There were other places he was more welcome, than for appearances. The girls tumbled over one another down the front steps, as they flew over the lawn to hang off their father’s neck like two monkeys. “Can you stay?” begged Natalie, her embrace choked his windpipe. “Maybe for the day. I’ll talk to your mother about it,” he qualified, loosening his starched collar, and grinding his molars. “She’s gone in to work an early shift,” informed Sam. “Yes, I thought so. She has been working longer hours, with the other staff on vacation,” remarked Tim coolly, wiping the mosquitoes off his brow. His stilted march followed the grasshoppers past the cloaked barbecue, which he had strapped as tight as a coffin

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last August. It was only dragged into the clearing from storage in the outhouse, for convenience, and would likely remain idle for most of the summer. Inside, the thick lime polyester curtains had closed against the oppressive heat, and offered a few discernable degrees of comfort. The living room fan wobbled oscillations of less stale air from one corner to another. Dr. Allen critically scanned the quaint quarters for an instant, noting the general lived-in disarray. Musty beach towels, piled laundry and dishes hazardously stacked by the sink, agreed with his expectations of teenage hygiene. Somehow he would have to endure a week wallowing in this squalor. He would have postponed it indefinitely if it were not for the sake of his two daughters. He swept a spot clean on the sofa with the back of his hand, disturbing one or two crumbs, before sitting down. Samantha poured Tim a tall glass of fizzy ginger ale, crackling with ice. “Thanks,” he smiled, as he sucked a mouthful slowly between his parched adder lips. He glimpsed at the five dozen or so worldwide brands of empty rum, whiskey and scotch marching along the rafters. Any one of those, full, would have been a more palatable choice. “You gals already had lunch?” remarked Tim, noting the drip of marmalade at the corner of Samantha’s lips. They nodded yes. “Then how about ice cream for dessert?” he suggested. After ten minutes his skin was crawling to get out of there. Samantha and Natalie primped themselves for public, while Tim rifled through the moldy produce to the rear of the fridge, in vain, for an Oland’s. He downed another glass of soda, washed his hands scalding red for the third time, and called to the girls, “Let’s go!” Once they were on the Route 6 pavement, it was about nineteen telephone poles to the Sunset Villa retirement home, and another seventy-six past a handful of scattered

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bungalows, until they reached the bridge crossing the river at the harbor. Every week, two or three mammoth ships had their house-sized holds brimmed full with either salt or pulp. When the trucks were steady ferrying cargo, it congested town traffic for an hour or more, delaying passage across the green and rust flecked bridge. They parked off King Street, and walked down Water Street to Mundle’s Hardware. They could have bought a cheap tub of vanilla at the grocer’s, but Mundle’s was the spot for a special treat. Mrs. Mundle had been a widow since Pugwash came into inception, it seemed. She was still addressed as “Mrs.,” being married to the store for all of those years. The matron’s cheery jingle rang with the bobbing brass door bells, welcoming their footsteps that creaked across the polished oak floor boards. Brilliant sunlight beamed through the storefront windows to a spacious interior that was wagon-trained around the perimeter with spotless glass cases of sparkling stainless steel trinkets. Their curious eyes roamed along the clapboard walls completely painted by bright- handled weapons for every trade. They stood together drinking the air, which hung thick with the sour scent of new rubber, freshly mixed paint and the sharp bite of carefully honed metal. “What brings you into town Dr. Allen?” perked Mrs. Mundle, brushing a manly leather hand briefly by her towering wavy auburn mane. She caught the thread of silver chain encircling her stout neck, and fished for the folded spectacles from her buxom depths, ready to fill an order. “It’s a beautiful day. The girls and I are going fishing this afternoon. Perhaps you can outfit us?” “Certainly. Did you have anything specific in mind?” “Yes. Let’s start with the rods,” requested Tim, continuing, “Samantha, Natalie, maybe you can find something to cool down with, from the freezer.”

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“Sure, girls, please help yourselves,” she chirped, nodding for Tim to follow her to the rainbow thicket of fiberglass rods. “Do you have something small, portable and indestructible?” “Let’s see,” pondered Mrs. Mundle, shuffling through several boxes overhead. She deftly snatched down the Fishomatic with her robust talons. In one swift gesture, she flipped off the shoebox lid, curtained the tissue and top underneath the open box in her left hand. It hovered, in balance at waist level snug between her and Dr. Allen. “It looks rugged enough.” “With telescopic extension,” as her hidden fingertips penciled slowly along his engorged male length. “And the tip?” “Yes, sensitive enough,” as she gave a gentle twist to the trouser bulge, “to twitch at the slightest nibble.” “I’ll take a pair,” he coughed, clearing his composure. “Let’s fill your tackle box,” she smiled, sailing over to the fishing sundries counter. “Five pound? Eight pound?” she asked. “Give me twelve. You know what they say, ‘Go big or go home’,” as his attention favored her pearly laced mounds, quivering pendulous with her silken movement, as she dipped down into a drawer for a spool of monofilament. “And a couple of these?” she added, slowly rolling over a pair of billiard-size red and white bobbers in her sweaty palm. “Do you think that they are big enough?” “Believe me, I wouldn’t want to handle anything bigger than that on the business end,” as her cheeks blushed a shade darker than her peacock rouge. “That’s fine. Let’s finish off with some lead, hooks and jigs.” “No bait?”

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“No thanks. A handful of your rubber wigglies will do for today,” he insisted, repulsed at the thought of skewering filthy low life. “Looks like you’re all set,” as Mrs. Mundle snapped the canary yellow case shut, and placed it alongside the spring-loaded Fishomatics. “When I need anything more, I’ll be back,” purred Tim, peeling some twenties into her hand as she rang through the total. They left Mundle’s satisfied; Natalie sucking a banana slurpie, Sam lazily licking a nutty chocolate drumstick and Tim with a pocket of stiff change. “Can you two manage these bags, while I pop into see your mother?” asked Tim. They agreed to wait for him in the car, after lollygagging their way down Water Street. Dr. Allen proudly hobbled uptown to O’Brien’s at the corner of Water and Prince Albert. After a curt acknowledgement at the front cash, he slithered his way through the fluorescent maze of aisles to the dispensing counter dribbling with a cue of potato-faced seniors. He giraffed his head over the glass partition, “Kate around?” The assistant pharmacist, Denise, a pony-tailed sassy blond, was trapped front and centre by the shotgun aim of his eyes. Kate had slipped Denise a few bills on paydays to cover for her absence, if Tim should show up off-shift. Usually she could fudge an excuse that Kate was on break, or a last minute shift change, etc. The proprietor was at her elbow, passing stock through the wicket. Denise’ doe brown eyes flinched, as the truth bled from her lips, “Kate’s on from three to eleven.” “Thanks,” said Tim, “Tell her I’ve got the kids,” as he spun about face on his good heel, striding from the premises with one strike in his favor. Now it was only a question of how to ferret the weasel out of hiding. He would choose the bait carefully.

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Natalie waved at Tim through the rear window, as he approached the driver’s side. Samantha had cranked up the air conditioning full tilt; otherwise they would have been roasted alive. She opened the car door for Tim. “Mom’s fine. She’s sorry to miss our fishing trip. We’ll catch up with her tonight,” bluffed Tim who had played the liar’s game as well as she did. They buckled up, and set course for the government wharf at Port Philip, about ten minutes north of town. Five, in Tim’s rocket. When the girls were with him, Tim would drive more sanely. At five miles over the speed limit, Samantha’s radar would red light, and she would whine for her father to ease his lead foot. She was mortified of driving. Kate had been pressuring her, to get her Beginners. Sam delayed that forever. “Nice to be with you today,” beamed Tim. “We miss you a lot, too, Daddy,” lit Natalie from the backseat. She had opened the tackle box, marveling at the compact tidy compartments. When her father had finished fishing with them, she planned on dumping the useless contents. It would be perfect for her sea glass and shell collection. Natalie knew that her father wouldn’t bother to go fishing with them again, anyhow. That’s how it had always been. One big show fizzling out to nothing. “What have you been doing for fun these days?” asked Tim. “Lots of make-believe. Hey Nat?” replied Sam. “Sam’s the best! She was a really scary ghost, and I was the beautiful Princess, of course!” twinkled Natalie with a chuckle. “Mom takes us to Frenchy’s, and we get a few things for our costume chest,” elaborated Sam. “What do your boyfriends think of that?” teased Tim. Samantha’s face washed pale, and her lips quivered in the mirror, begging a “No!” from Natalie.

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“Ewww! Boys! You must be kidding Daddy!” squirmed Natalie, as she rolled her eyes and snaked her tongue. “We’re there!” exclaimed Tim, coasting the Buick down the last hill, and onto the rattling wash board of wharf timbres. “Yipee!” shouted Natalie, as she ejected from her seat, shooting out the door. “Hang on there young lady!” commanded Tim, chasing after her. Samantha was last. Riding in the front seat was like being swallowed by the oncoming view. Everything poured by, while she was frozen in space. She was like a helpless raindrop falling through a void. Her hummingbird heartbeat had almost pushed her feet through the floor. With her death grip, her fingernails had cut into the leather door handle. She would huddle herself in the backseat when they returned home. Samantha reached underneath the front passenger seat, to adjust it for Natalie. “What’s this?” she puzzled, discovering a thin scallop case tightly wedged between the carpet and the seat frame. Samantha made it vanish instantly into her pocket, before the others found out. Her mother never used that brand. Whose was it? Her stomach gnawed itself into knots around the maybes. Later. The blast of hot air stunned her for a second, as Samantha got out of the car. The other two waved from the corner of the wharf, ready to make the first cast. Tim had brought along the chintzy sombreros they had won at the fair last summer. Some of the red and green pompoms had frayed loose from the edges. The autumn squirrels had chewed holes in the peaks. Despite the abuse and disintegration, the hats continued to be their sentimental favorites among the beach wear. They tied them on snug, against the fresh breeze stirring white caps offshore. Tim demonstrated the fine art of casting with Natalie’s rod, promptly hooking the jig into a piling below.

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He cursed under his breath, broke the line, and attached a new leader. Samantha had better luck, by simply lowering the line, plop, into the whirpooling black water fifteen feet below. After a few minutes the float danced frantic, and her line whistled taut. They cheered her on, as she tugged and played, until the hook bit firmly. The whale fought fiercely, arcing the rod, until it admitted defeat and splashed wildly into the air. They all laughed as she reeled in a small bony perch, gasping with a diamond speckled flick onto the wharf. Natalie and Samantha crowded over their victim. Tim swiftly donned surgical gloves from the kit, broke the hook from its gurgling mouth with the needle nose pliers, and then set it free over the side. Samantha gathered some of the glittery sequin scales shed from perch. She gently wrapped them in tissue, and placed them in a bottom compartment of the tackle box. They baked on the wharf for another hour, mesmerized by the boiling whirl of clashing currents. Suddenly, the ocean drained away, and a stampede of roaring white riptides tore the river’s mouth open. The lion passed as quickly as it came, exposing the pungent low tide mud and slimy seaweed. Their flavors churned with the raw wieners and ice cream. “I’m going to be sick Daddy!” wobbled Natalie, as she doubled over the edge, spewing with a violent spasm. A trio of gulls appeared from nowhere, and dove at the fresh flotsam. Tim scooped his daughter up in his arms, leaving Samantha to pack away the gear. “We’ll have you home in a flash, honey,” comforted Tim, as he gently laid her in the backseat with an old blanket rolled into a pillow. Samantha strapped herself immobile in front. She claimed heat exhaustion, and sunk herself deep into the headrest, with eyelids welded shut. Her mind raced in every direction, as the make-up compact pressed a welt into her thigh.

FIVE Two long rings, then one short. “Got it,” mumbled Tim, uncrossing his restless feet scissored across the ottoman. He never trusted the local party line, since anyone’s ears might be glued to the conversation. The phone trilled once more before he yanked the receiver off the hook. “Hello!” he steamed. “Oh, hi Tim. This is Dot.” “Sorry Dot. I didn’t mean to shout. How are you and Russell?” “Good, thanks. Don’t suppose Kate is around?” “She’s on ‘till eleven.” “I see. Samantha wanted to go fishing with Russ and Jake.” “Tomorrow?” “Jake can pick them up at two-thirty.” “And Natalie?” “She can stay with me, while they’re out fishing. She’s a sweetie.” “That’s a good idea. She was sick at the wharf today. She’s alright now.” “You want to talk it over with Kate?” “No that’s fine. I’ll tell the kids.” “Thanks, Tim. Kate and you should drop by.” “You have a good night Dot,” concluded Tim, as he firmly clicked the receiver dead. Samantha was sixteen. Jake must be about eighteen. The Nelson’s were simple village folk. They were friends over the years, during vacations, but otherwise of no importance. She could have her harmless summer fling,

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reasoned Tim, shrugging his shoulders. Once she was back in school, in September, Samantha would forget all about him. “Who was that?” staggered Samantha, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Dot. Said you’re going fishing?” leveled Tim ready to pounce on Samantha’s next breath. “I asked the Nelsons last week, if I could go with them sometime,” firmed Sam. She was not ready to play her full hand about Jake. “Jake will be by at two-thirty to pick up you and Natalie,” said Tim. “Thanks, Dad!” finished Samantha, turning toward the kitchen. They went crazy over Chinese take-out when Tim was around. Samantha always doused her rice black with soy sauce, which meant late night trips to quench her thirst. Natalie drowned everything in plum sauce. Her plate looked like a murder scene. Tonight she only pecked away at her supper. It was one of those rare times when Tim sat down with his family. He had forgotten how their giddy chatter had made him feel human. “So, you and Jake are close?” pulled Tim, reining in her attention. “We’re friends, Dad. You know that. We’ve been buddies since our days in diapers,” cooled Samantha, talking off the wall to hide the fondness swelling in her cheeks. “Jake’s a good kid. I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” replied Tim. “You staying the night?” yawned Sam. “No. I’ve got surgery scheduled tomorrow morning. I’ll tuck you two in, then I’ll be on my way,” stated Tim, anxious to avoid igniting an argument with Kate. He had a wonderful day with his two children. Waiting for Kate would only bitter the day’s memories. Tim read another bedtime story for Natalie, and then gave them both hugs. He scribbled, “Jake will be here at 2:30 a.m. for the kids.” He taped it to the medicine cabinet, knowing that Kate

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would eat her usual cocktail of drugs before passing out for the night. He couldn’t remember the last time that he signed a note “Love, Tim.” He gathered his few things together, and dissolved invisible into the night, as if he had never been there. Samantha turned back the covers for her companion, as Natalie slipped into her welcome embrace. “I’m really glad we have each other, sis,” sighed Samantha. “Me, too,” answered Natalie, drawing Samantha’s arm tighter around her chest. It was well past midnight when Kate crawled home. She was pleased that the only sign of Tim was the smell of greasy fried rice, and later, the note. It was considerate for Dot to phone, and to confirm the plans. She was sorry to have missed her call. Dot had agreed to look after the kids for most of the day. That would give Kate plenty of time to take care of business in Amherst. She choked back the tears, thinking about it, and took a few tranquilizers to numb her thoughts. Natalie had just finished slurping the last mouthful of milk from her cereal bowl, when the rumble of Ford headlights winked out in the driveway. “Jake’s here,” exclaimed Samantha, trying to stifle her shout into a whisper. She slid toward the door in sock feet, wrapping her arms around him as soon as he stepped onto the veranda. They shared a long soft kiss, before collecting Natalie and their packed lunches. “Sorry about the smell,” spoke Jake. He opened the passenger door for Natalie as she climbed onto the front seat. “Salted herring?” asked Sam. She wrinkled her bunny nose at the stench humming from behind the cab. “Yes, we’ll load that onboard this morning,” replied Jake. “Better roll up the windows tight,” pleaded Natalie, her stomach mumbled in agreement. They rolled like a bubble on the wind, as the lone vehicle followed the black ribbon through the hazy pre dawn gray. Natalie was cushioned, half asleep, on her sister’s

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shoulder. Samantha reached over with a smile, to run her fingertips through Jake’s curly hair. Patsy Cline warbled over the crackling radio static until they swung off the highway and down the graded gravel road to the Nelson’s. They stopped at the last house along the narrowing spruce lane. Only the eastern view toward the satin ocean was cleared of the coniferous wind break. The truck lights dimmed on Russ’ barn door silhouette puffing a curl of smoke on the porch. Nearby, Dot waved through the kitchen curtains. “Shhh!” whispered Jake to the other human shadows standing by. He cradled the sleeping princess in his arms, then carried her over the Nelson threshold, and gently laid her on his bed. Samantha and Dot watched him, with tender admiration, from the doorway as Jake bowed, kissing Natalie’s forehead, “Sleep well, my little one.” His scent mingled with the briny waft drifting under the curtains, permeating the whole room, and enticed her into a deeper dream. They all slipped quietly outside. The men loaded some gear into the back of the truck. “You have a good time, dear,” smiled Dot, exchanging hugs with Samantha. “I will. Take care of our Natalie,” replied Sam, lighting a moist peck on Dot’s cheek. Since Russ’ broad shoulders spanned halfway across the cab, Sam had to sit on Jake’s lap. Her hips rolled pleasantly over his tensed thighs as they jiggled down the lane. She felt his male oar rise along her plum derriere, and blushed with an aroused womanly hunger, as his tepid breath licked past her neck. Another half hour and they landed at the Pugwash Fisherman’s wharf. A couple of other pick-ups were parked in front of theirs, being silvered by funnels of halogen mist. Samantha zipped her jacket against the chilling dampness seeping through her skin. She followed Jake and Russ, who carried the crate of herring to the winch. Without a word, the fishermen moved like clockwork, lowering the gear and bait onto the deck. Two other boats nearby came alive with an

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incandescent cabin glow and a diesel rumble. A web of lines was loosened. “Be careful, it’s slippery,” cautioned Jake, descending the steel rungs stapled down the wharf into the lapping pitch black. He kept close to Samantha, as she inched lower toward him. When her sneakers met the deck, Jake snatched her in his arms, “Catch of the day!” “O.K. you two,” interrupted Russ with a friendly grunt. Jake squeezed Sam lightly, and then went about the routine of storing lines, checking the sump, and getting everything in order, ready to haul a few hundred pots. Dawn woke with a somber grey among thickening drizzle. The smoky sea had a disturbed choppy mood, with plenty of swell to confuse land-steady legs. With his better arm, Russ charted out of the harbor mouth, on a northeast course toward a spatter of coastal shoals. Inside the cabin, Sam helped Jake unpack some allweather clothing. “It’s a spare set,” said Jake, holding up the rubber pants with twice the girth of Sam’s toothpick frame. “A little nip and tuck, and they’ll be fine,” assured Sam, rolling up the cuffs to her knees and gathering in the waist with a twist of line. “Not the latest mermaid fashion,” joked Jake from arms length mocking her with a wavy eyebrow. “Excuse me,” as a silent voice called him. Jake ducked around the corner. “Everything alright?” asked Sam. “Yes, checking with Dad,” reassured Jake, with a soft glaze and weighted sigh. “Your Dad seems worse this year.” “It’s been giving him lots of trouble. Arthritis setting in.” “He must depend upon you a lot.” “Yeah, my life has been cut from the cloth.” “What do you want Jake, really?” He answered with a passionate embrace, pouring his mouth into hers, enveloping her with the trembling of his

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soul. She fell weak and full into him, as the engine halted in neutral. “Buoy starboard,” roared Russ over the diesel grumble. Sam stood aside as Jake gaffed aboard the orange float in one lightening stroke. He wound the lead around the pneumatic head, spiraling yellow propylene in coils onto the deck, then hoisted aboard the first trap, in a series of five. He pushed it astern to Russ, who emptied the catch, banded the lobsters and baited the trap. If the booty was poor, they would stack the trap line aft, motor to another spot, and splash them overboard, hoping for better luck tomorrow. After watching them pull half a dozen lines, Sam stepped in. She was a natural, smoothly handling traps, crusty bait, flapping tails and clicking claws. A grin cracked across Russ’ swarthy face, as he looked back with pride at his two sea mates. The showers soon turned into sheets of rain as the morning brooded darker toward noon. The southwest breeze festered into a gale, tipping the deck beneath their swaggering balance, as they struggled to finish the last few trawls. Suddenly, Sam slipped during a rogue pitch astern. The rope between two pots snapped tight, pinning her to the gunwale, cutting like wire across her twig waist. “Hard aft!” hollered Jake, bouncing with a Herculean surge toward Sam. He groaned, flexing all of his strength to pull a few inches of slack. He managed a sliver of space, enough for Sam to shimmy free. The released line zinged by them, hurtling the last trap wildly through the air in a blur, with a boiling froth into the depths. “Are you O.K.?” worried Jake. “Yeah,” shook Sam, trying to catch her breath. She clenched her left wrist. “Let’s have a look,” insisted Jake, escorting her to the bow. Russ made sure that everyone was alright, and then set for home. In the cabin, Jake removed her glove. A nasty splinter had punctured her palm. Tenderly he plucked out the annoyance, dabbed a sting of disinfectant, and wrapped a few

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rounds of gauze around her hand. Her milky skin quivered, half frozen. “I’m cold, Jake,” trembled Sam. The bitter ocean had poured down her face and neck, thoroughly soaking her pullover and top. From a cubby hole inside the prow he pulled out a knot of musty, cable-stitched sweaters. “You might have to hold your breath until we get back. But at least it will keep you warm,” chided Jake. “Can you give me a hand?” swooned Sam. “Sure,” salivated Jake. He went topside to tell Russ that he would be a few minutes. “That’s O.K. son. You take care of the lady, and I’ll get us back to port,” said Russ. Jake’s fingers were as nervous as they were numb, when he unbuttoned the all-weather jacket. Her pullover was sopping wet, as he peeled it over her head. He stood behind her, with eyes closed, for a measure of decency, as he undid her blouse. “Maybe you want to do the buttons yourself,” trembled Jake. “Please,” answered Sam, raising his touch to the final seal, between her breasts. Her top fluttered to the deck, as she turned her lips into his, pressing her round femininity upon his thundering chest. His fingertips fumbled, to free the clasps on her bra. She cupped herself, as he slipped the straps off her shoulders. They wanted more. But the hungry gulls were crying overhead. And the echo of other harbor engines had joined theirs. He picked up a sweater, and gently pulled it down over her. The bra fell away, as his hand warmed a firm petit breast and their tongues melted as soft waves into one another, if only for a few heartbeats. They dressed themselves and emerged into the pelting rain to help Russ crate the lobsters. “Even with all that, it’s been a good haul,” remarked Russ, counting the dollar value from a full tub of markets, and

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another one three-quarters to the brim with tinkers. They tied up the boat, and crates, beside the wharf. “When can we fish again?” determined Sam. “Soon. Maybe. But nothing about this to the women,” grumbled Russ, glancing at her hand. It was clear that the girl lit his son’s heart. To see Jake happy made him happy. The best he’s felt in years. Perhaps that would somehow lift the lead anchor that tore through his chest. It was the chance to mend a nine-year old wound. “Nothing, nothing at all,” concurred Sam, removing the bandage and rolling it into a ball inside of her pocket. A swish through the icy saltwater washed away the blood spot on her palm. It might scar. This was one day she always wanted written on her flesh, and in her heart. The three drowned rats finished what had to be done, and then piled into the Ford, thirsty for that pot of black coffee only twenty minutes away. A morning alone, in a strange bed tossed and turned Natalie awake. She got up, and followed the amber glow painted across the floor. Her footsteps pattered toward the partially open door. Natalie pushed the crack wider, and found Dot lost among the yellowed pages of a coverless novel. “I can’t sleep. Can I come in?” squeaked Natalie. “Of course, dear,” smiled Dot. She puffed up the warm sunken pillow and smoothed a nest among the covers next to her rotund girth, for Natalie. She settled into the bed, worn with lumps and hollows, then snuggled into Dot like a spoon swallowed by a fleshy, sweaty dumpling. A thigh-thick arm drew Natalie deep into her buxom loaves, while sausage fingers stroked as plump clouds through her hair. Her child body missed Sam’s familiar contours, the leaf thinness that twinned perfectly with hers over the years. Natalie savored every rare motherly night hug that she ever had. Dot clicked on the darkness, as Natalie finally drifted into a dream. Dot would give anything, to have a child again within the womb of her night. It brought back memories when Samantha was eight years old, cuddled at her side while

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Russ helped to winterize Kate’s cottage. Shortly after the accident, Tim and Kate separated over irreconcilable differences. The deed to the family cottage was in Kate’s name. Kate and Sam moved from Halifax to Pugwash, to start their lives over. There were brutal expenses for renovating the summer bungalow. Russ offered his carpentry services free, while Kate slaved for hours at O’Brien’s to pay for materials. The walls and ceiling had to be insulated, copper plumbing installed, baseboard heaters added, and windows replaced. Their first winter was almost unbearable with the Arctic cold bearing down upon them. Snowdrifts had closed the lane for weeks. Russ and Dot generously opened their home to the Allens, until Kate could manage on her own. Dot loved filling their home with a child’s laughter. In a motherly way, she adopted Samantha. They played, ate and slept together, while Russ and Kate provided for them. The tears poured hard and long, when a year had passed, and the Allens moved out. Natalie, the last communion between Tim and Kate, was born before the cottage was finished. Jake stewed for weeks, about losing his favorite playmate. There were times, such as last Spring, when Kate flew to Toronto to visit her sister Peggy, that Dot was blessed with the Allen giggles again. Those circumstances occurred seldom, and she relished every single minute with Sam and Natalie. It was different now, with her babies having grown into young ladies. Her heart wanted to hold onto them forever. Only Dot knew why Kate had gone to Amherst today, and it worried her to no end what might be in store for the two little chicks that she loved. Dot tried to push those thoughts away now, as she made breakfast for the Princess. Later, she would busy herself around the house, and perhaps send Natalie out to gather a bouquet of clover and daises. Natalie quickly came to the conclusion, that although Dot was very kind, she could not pretend nearly as well as Samantha. “Can we make some cookies Auntie Dot?” “Sure, honey. What kind would you like?”

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“Some yummy people ones, with lots of pretty icing!” “I will need lots of help. It could be messy.” “O.K. A real big mess!” chuckled Natalie. Dot soldiered the ingredients across the counter, and then checked them twice with the dog-eared, splash stained recipe book. She measured while Natalie stirred. “Better taste the batter, to make sure our people will be sweet enough,” said Dot. Natalie shoveled a heaping spoonful into her greedy mouth, smacking her lips with satisfaction. “Tastes good to me,” she grinned. The waft of baked molasses began to fill the kitchen as Dot made a few sleeves of colored icing. Soon the gingerbread folk were ready from the oven. They cooled on wire racks while Dot and Natalie had a tea break. “Do you think that cookie jar will hold them all?” asked Natalie, pointing at the gallon size crock, barely held together by glue, and missing many of the original embossed rose petals. It looked more like an art piece of confused random tiles, than a canister. Natalie vaguely remembered Sam and her giving Aunt Dot a new jar for Christmas years ago. She still favored this one, but why? “Oh, I’m sure we can fit them all in. If there are any leftovers…” “That jar must be very old. Old things have lots of cracks and wrinkles.” “It’s been in the family a long time. It got broken before you were born.” “And you put it together. And kept it?” “Some things you love too much, even when they are broken, even when they can’t be fixed right again,” shook Dot. She wiped away a few tears from her cream puffed cheeks. “It’s O.K.,” soothed Natalie, hugging Dot half way around her polka dot apron. “Thanks, dear,” embraced Dot.

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They tidied up their gingerbread population, and made a light lunch, percolating a fresh pot of coffee for the fisher folk who would be home soon.

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SIX The drive to Amherst seemed to wind forever through monotonous conifer and nameless townships. The purgatorial fogged Tantramar marsh haunted the horizon. The oppressive featureless sky pressed low and hard upon her consciousness, like a fly being squished beneath a tissue. She tried to push against her circumstances. Her knuckles froze bone white on the steering wheel, as Kate turned into a choked artery of commerce among sleepy pastel shingles and gardenia window boxes. She made the required turns through the backstreet grid without a blink of thought. Kate had seldom been there, yet, every previous occasion wrote an indelible mark on her family. She pulled into the freshly paved driveway ten minutes early for the life-altering appointment. Towering cedars cornered the three storey Victorian home looming before her. She didn’t glean any movement beyond the ruffled lace curtains. A gardener prodding in prayer among pansied plots looked up with a smile, and waved his trowel at Kate. She would have liked her grave to be as beautiful. Directly, a stooped, balding elderly figure shuffled through the front door. The porch railing supported his frail skeleton that was loosely draped with a three-piece suit, minus the double breasted jacket. Their eyes met with a familiar, yet sorrowful greeting. He waited for Kate, whose heels nailed with pointed determination along the slate flagstone pathway. “Thanks for making the time, Andrew,” said Kate, her dry throat scratching for words. “Always my pleasure,” replied Mr. Keyes, adding, “How are your parents?”

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“Dad is busy as ever with contracts on the West coast. We get a few lines from him at Christmas. He’s mainly consulting now. Like you, Andrew, never knowing when to close shop,” softened Kate, “And Mom, well, she’s hanging on by a thread at the Villa.” “We go back a long ways. You are good people, Kate,” sighed the solicitor. His wrist joints crackled with fire, when his knobby knuckled hand settled upon her shoulder. They stepped into history inside. Mute grim ancestors imprisoned within gilded ornate frames hung stoically everywhere. Around them, faded Oriental wallpaper ran through a maze of rooms and closets. Burgundy hallway mats and stair runners were thinned by the thousands of patrons having passed through over the decades. Kate inhaled the stagnant air lingering from another century “In ’42 I met your parents. They were financing their new home. You were wrapped in your mother’s arms in a blanket,” paused Andrew. “And in ’52 you did their divorce,” reminded Kate. “I am sorry that it didn’t work out. Perhaps a little more time.” “I guess we all run out of that, sooner or later.” “Unfortunate, but true,” conceded Andrew, stiffly adjusting his gait through the entrance into the study, with legal treatises covering every square inch of wall space. They both sunk into armchaired leather on opposite sides of a memo plastered green blotter. The pending file had been drawn and tidily set aside at the corner of the judgment mount. The dim morning light coaxed a warm patina from the mahogany desk between them, but much less so from their brows furrowed with concern. “I want to go over this with you one last time, before we sign,” spoke Andrew, penetrating with authority through his slipping bifocals. “Alright,” tensed Kate. “Under law, when the spouses are still married, yet they live separately and independently of each other,”

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coughed Andrew, wiping a drooling syllable away with a jaundice rumpled handkerchief. “Yes,” acknowledged Kate. “And the children have been under the care of a sole parent,” continued Andrew with hesitation. “Yes,” repeated Kate. “Then, the child rearing parent may appoint an independent guardian in his or her will, in the event of death,” finished Andrew. “Here are the signed forms you asked for,” unfolding the documents concealed within her purse. “And Mrs. Dorothy Nelson understands the gravity of this issue?” “We have discussed it privately.” “Does she have any reservations about being responsible for Samantha and Natalie?” “None whatsoever. She will be the mother I never was,” sobbed Kate. “Here, here, Kate. You are a wonderful mother. In a difficult situation,” comforted Andrew, squeezing her hand, and then nudging the tissue box toward her. “I don’t want Tim ruining their lives.” “He won’t change?” “No. His work and his women come first. They always have,” blurted Kate. “I assume you have not told him.” “Only Dot and I know. I want a stable family for Sam and Natalie if anything happens to me.” “The Nelsons have been a godsend to you.” “I have to see this through Andrew,” insisted Kate grinding her jaw. “I understand Kate,” as he signed the documents, and indicated likewise for her. They concluded their affair promptly, and then walked down the hallway together arm in arm. “Please take care of yourself, Kate.” “I have to Andrew, I have to,” she trailed, dissolving into the drizzle.

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The heavens opened wide upon her windshield, as her head echoed with thunder. The throbbing between her temples was always worse in the morning. The stabbing inside her cranium became more frequent during recent weeks. She would request an increase in the dosage of her painkillers. The Northumberland fog had billowed through her skull, as she found herself drifting across the center line. She spun the air conditioning knob on full and cranked some pop tunes. She would turn off at the nearest gas bar and double up on the caffeine. It was ten o’clock. She had plenty of time to drive home, before Dot returned the kids. Kate could always call ahead. She convinced herself that was unnecessary. She stopped, although her thoughts could not, alone in a forgotten parking lot, a gray abscess swelling along the curve of nowhere. The anonymous roadside stop had long since been torn down to its foundation, with only a few cement plugs remaining, like old teeth rupturing through sunken gums. The seaside view must have been a popular pause in its youth. Friends, lovers and thieves of petty opportunity had called upon her. Another day and a different road would inevitably detour its way past, leaving her nothing, but a broken empty place crumbling over the edge. For an hour Kate fell dead into her past. She had topped her high school class and continued to excel in college. Through her teenage years, her mother’s health gradually failed. Perhaps it was from exhaustion, of raising a family single handedly. Her husband was perpetually away on naval service for months, with only days of shore leave each year. Entrance for female physicians was nearly impossible, so Kate enrolled in a pharmacist program. She hoped to better the well being of others, even if it was too late for her mother. Her intelligence and smartly tailored figure caught the attention of a dashing young intern at Dalhousie University. The tenacious, brilliant Dr. Allen could capture any prestigious position, and heart, he desired, or had a whim for. He quickly established himself with the reputation as the

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foremost cardiologist in the province. His new family rapidly dimmed to an after thought, as the power and wealth from his vocation consumed him. Tim sacrificed days away from work to be with Kate and Sam. Then the days became hours. And finally he was only a voice on the line between surgical commitments. Kate fought with Tim, to save their family. The gossip about town, of Tim having other female company likely held some truth. To anyone, it was obvious their relationship was disintegrating. They were seldom seen together in public, and rarely spoke about one another. She lived in a pretty glass house, warmed by the sun, but hollow and shadowed on the inside. She was becoming her mother, the broken back of failure. Kate wondered, even if she had chosen a better man, whether the game of events would still have happened. Maybe she was meant to fall, as from one generation to the next. It was a chain reaction of destiny. Drained, Kate’s forehead collapsed upon the steering wheel, with tears streaming from her bloodshot zombie eyes. She accidentally set off the horn, electrocuting her senses awake. She would break the circle of defeat, even at her own peril! Sam and Natalie would know real love, where she had not. That was her hope, the last trace of comfort in the cup between her hands, in the equation of null and void. She let the final sweet taste soak deep into her tongue, with resolve. Kate had often considered filing for divorce. She knew that Tim could easily ruin her. With the influence he held, he could call a few high profile favors, and build a case of circumstantial evidence against Kate as an alcoholic, drug addict and unsupportive parent. She would lose her children and die destitute. She had seen his anger crush colleagues on his ascent up the social ladder. Kate would bide her time, and distance herself quietly away from the traitor. The accident had brought issues to a climax. The inevitable separation was the most reasonable compromise. No messy complicated divorce. Tim could keep most of his possessions and honor intact. He reigned as the tom cat

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around town as he pleased. He had the option to visit his children, whenever he felt a mere prick of conscience. More importantly, Kate could begin to live, for herself, and for her children. She glanced at her lying wrist watch, straightened her pride, and tried to identify the woman in the rear view mirror. Her fingers combed smoothly through her silver streaked caramel hair. It had grown completely back, since the procedure last March. Kate’s repeated migraines during the past year were killing her faster than the mind bending medications she was taking to ease the pain. Normally, Dr. Scott from the North Cumberland Memorial Hospital would have suggested an appointment with a neurologist through the Victoria General Hospital in Halifax. However, Kate wanted the utmost confidentiality, and no possible interference or involvement from her estranged spouse. If Tim had access to her medical records, perhaps he would use the information against her. On the unlikely chance of her being admitted to the hospital, she was afraid that Tim might harm her, maybe not physically, but certainly through medical misinformation. He could not be trusted under any circumstances. It was a tragedy, how someone that she loved had become a criminal to her heart. Another internal specialist at the Amherst Hospital was recommended. After numerous laboratory tests, Kate’s illness was still not completely diagnosed to their satisfaction. Her recurring symptoms of dizziness, confusion, memory loss and persistent headaches could be signs of stroke, among suspect maladies. To provide a conclusive answer, Kate would have to spend a week in Toronto at the Princess Margaret Hospital, which provided care for cancer patients. That word cut her to the core. All of the journals and medical manuals she could get her hands on distilled to the same answer. She could not bear to confide about possible brain cancer with Sam and Natalie. How could a mother tell her children that she was dying? She would admit that she was very sick. Yes, very ill indeed, and that she would have to

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make a trip to see some special doctors in Toronto. They would help her to feel better, and hopefully make Mommy well again. Kate explained that they would hook up machines to her head. It would be about the same as postage stamps dangling with threads being stuck all over you. Natalie thought that it might be like walking into a spider web in the woods, and she wasn’t far wrong. “They will have to shave off all of my hair,” sunk Kate. “But why Mommy?” protested Natalie. “Well, the wires are very sensitive, and they have to feel what is going on under my skin,” replied Kate. “You mean like a grasshopper on my knee? The way it sits there, trying to feel when I might move?” reasoned Natalie. She imagined these insect wires, feeling and crawling all over her mother’s naked scalp, like thread worms in a grave. She added, “Will it hurt?” “Not a bit. It should not take long,” reassured Kate. “I will miss your hair,” pouted Natalie. “It will grow back soon enough. Maybe you and Samantha can help me pick out some pretend hair,” suggested Kate. “O.K.! And afterwards, can we keep it in our makebelieve chest?” asked Natalie. “Of course, dear,” smiled Kate, wishing like Natalie that this was only just a pretend game. The whispered evening conversation with Samantha beforehand weighed more heavily. Facts and possibilities wound tight like barb wire around inside them. Words dripped as slow scalding tears, not wanting to say what must be said. Samantha had seen her mother age and wither more than ever during the past nine months. They both knew the obvious without saying. “I’m very sick Samantha.” “How bad is it Mom?” “The tests they will do in Toronto, at the Princess Margaret,” paused Kate, drawing a breath from her heart. “It’s for...”

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“Yes, dear..cancer.” They fell sobbing onto each other’s shoulders. “Please don’t tell Natalie. I want this summer, our last summer to be a happy one for her.” Kate smothered Samantha to her chest, in a torrent of tears. “I have talked to Dot. She knows I might become too sick to look after you and Natalie by myself. She will be there for us, Thank God!” “Dot knows that you might have…” “No. Only you and I know. It will be our secret until the end of the summer. I need that time, for us. O.K Samantha, honey?” They held each other together, not wanting to happen what must. Kate remembered few things clearly these days, but those pivotal conversations seared with burning clarity. So many secrets. It seemed as if she could not live without them. Kate took severe precautions. In April, the Toronto test results were sent to the Pugwash Memorial Hospital. Dr. Scott immediately called Kate into his office. Her paleness dissolved into the blank white walls with sterile expectation. He wheeled his armchair around to the other side of the desk, to lean softly by hers. "I have some bad news," lowered Dr. Scott, lifting the hefty file onto his lap. "I thought it was...all along," breathed Kate, as her quivering fingertips closed the folder. "There are treatment options, Kate," offered Dr. Scott, his palms folding tenderly over hers. "You and I both know..." trickled Kate. "Weeks...maybe months..." "Can you do something for me Ben?" "Sure. You name it," he melted. "I need you to keep this file very confidential." "The records are held confidential by law, Kate. You know that." "If Tim finds out, that I am too sick to take care of

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myself, and my children." "He might take Samantha and Natalie away from you?" "I know Tim, he'll pry for information any way he can." "I understand Kate. I will lock the test results away in my desk. If something happens, God forbid, and the authorities ask questions, I will have to release the file to them." "All I want is two months, Ben. Just the summer," pleaded Kate, desperately grasping his wrist and his pooling butterscotch eyes. "Alright, Kate," agreed Ben, embracing her shoulder tightly into his, as they stood together. Kate wiped away those conversations with the mascara stains writing defeat down her overcast cheeks. She turned the ignition and pulled the shift into reverse. That is all she ever did, spin in reverse, with no tomorrows. Kate swung around onto the Route 6 eastbound for Pugwash.

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SEVEN Shortly after two o'clock the Nelson truck drove into the Allen driveway. "I had a great time, Jake," beamed Samantha. "Me too!" chirped Natalie, dribbling a gingerbread leg from the corner of her mouth. She clamped tightly onto the rest of the cookies, held hostage in the tin squirreled beneath her coat. "I hope we can do it again, sometime soon," sparkled Jake. "I'd love to," buttered Sam, rounding the words into slow kisses. "Let me give you a hand," said Jake. Sam passed one of the two trough-sized tupperware containers. Natalie sprinted through the cats and dogs, slamming the screen door shut behind her. The other two dawdled behind on the porch. "I love you, Jake," rising her wet hungry mouth to his. "I adore you Samantha," answered his lips, closing hot and full upon hers. The rain poured rivers over their faces, as they folded deeply into one another, immersed in passion. "Promise that you will love me forever Jake, promise me," begged Samantha. Her soul gazed through his summersky blues, while her soaking sweatered palms held his sea leathered face. "Yes, Samantha. My forever love. My heart belongs to you," vowed Jake. Natalie's paw rapped soundly on the aluminum frame, "Hey, you two!"

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Their pulses ached, as they withdrew, breaking the seal of their lips into the cold wet air. "Can you come in? For a few minutes?" "Maybe another time. I have taken most of your day already." "Can you call me later then?" "Yes, of course," painting her mouth with one last light kiss, before saying, "You be good Natalie," with a wink. The patter of rain quickly drowned the Ford's grumble. Jake threaded through the weave of muddy trenches. The ditches, now parallel streams, had almost swallowed him several times. The sister prisoners, Sam and Natalie, waved goodbye. They were held hostage by the impassable road. It would be another evening of serving sentence at home, with their mother. They did an about face in the doorway, dripping lakes onto the lumpy kitchen linoleum. A tide of complete mayhem swept from the kitchen, through the living room, and beyond. It was three days of random human activity, compiled generously and loosely, one over the other. Kate must be very ill, otherwise there would have been a navigable clearing to the fridge and bathroom. Sam kicked off Jake's borrowed rubber boots, and barefooted her way to Kate's room. "Hi Mom," she whispered, gingerly sitting on the bed corner. "Hi, dear," slurred Kate, suffocating into her pillow. "What can I get you?" expecting a request from the bathroom pharmacy. "Nothing thanks. Called O'Brien's and cancelled my night shift." "Eat anything today?" "Couldn't keep it down." "Water?" "A small glass please. You and Natalie have a good day?" mumbled Kate, as she rolled into view from the rank perspiring shadows. "Yeah," summarized Samantha, not wasting what would be forgotten within the hour by her mother's stupor.

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"Can you manage supper?" "Sure. Dot packed us some potato salad and cooked lobster." "Maybe I'll try a small bit later." "Natalie and I will tidy up. We'll try to keep it down while you sleep." "Thanks, dear," muffled Kate, sinking into the grey undulations. Samantha levitated. When she pulled the door closed, the last stab of light impaled Kate's mud splashed black pumps. They were tossed by the closet, with a very plump purse dangling on its knob. She wished that she had not noticed. If she had Natalie's fingers, they would certainly explore, not from curiosity, but because whatever it was, had to be known. "Sometimes there is hurt from knowing," mouthed Sam silently to herself. She wanted to erase the chalk questions already scratching themselves on the inside of her skull. The Cinderella sisters gathered, washed, folded, dried and swept for an hour. The hard caked skins from yesterdays had been shed by the afternoon cleansing. Even the nervous tick from the clock seemed brighter, and more punctual. They opened windows that cried a little upon their sills, and inhaled fresh fragrant spruce that diluted the trapped worries and sighs which had mothed inside them too long. "Know what?" "What?" "You stink!" "Says who?" as Samantha wrestled Natalie with tickles over the groaning springs of the lime sectional, smothering her with the briny stench of Jake's sweater. "O.K.! O.K.! I give up!" she giggled, squished helpless between a cushion sandwich. "Tell you what. While I'm having a soak, how about you color in our book." "That sounds good! And after?" "We'll see," trailed Samantha, turning the corner into her gurgling bath. She peeled off Jake's salty husk, drinking

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his scent deep into her heart. She bundled him into her chest, fondled him softly around her neck, and then folded Jake content into a cross-sleeved square near the bathmat. Close enough, for her touch to ask for him. Cold water spewed into the cauldron before Sam dared to enter. She swirled the pool with her blistered heel, finding the temperature acceptable. The red skin had bubbled quickly from the chaffing of his boots. She needed another pair of socks, to stuff herself more snuggly into his feet next time. She could pour herself full into him. Sam immersed completely. Her fingertips tinkled against the tub walls. The womb enveloped her in a dream, as she closed her eyes, and floated in her watery cocoon. Her long ebony hair waved, as kelp caught by current and tide. A bubble, or two escaped from between her lips, like shimmering jellyfish floating toward an incandescent misted moon. The tropical ocean tingled prickly kisses over her skin. Her hand wandered as a cloud shadow over the submerged sandy meadow of her thigh. The touch paused within a tangled softness near her mounded cove. She imagined the two of them together by the tidal pool. They were hidden away, among a weed clad field of boulders at low tide. Waist deep, alone, in the shallows, their legs entwined, thigh pressed to thigh, as they rocked with the waves around them. Their attention was captured by a minnow that deftly scribbled deeper into a tuft of seaweed. Its tail wriggled ferociously, to propel it teasingly along the furrowed path. Then without warning, a claw shot out, and nipped the fish by the head. It struggled with a flurry of shed scales, before releasing its life fluid into the water. Her lover's groin tensed, as he shuddered softly into her, "Promise that you won't do that to me!" They toppled with laughter over one another, kicking up the crab into a plume of sand. Saltwater ran up her nose, stinging her into a cough. Her grip upon him was more than minnow tight. She would dress herself with his scent, his every thought if she could. Her palm wavered, leaving the pulse of pleasure, and then rose over her chest toward the pair of slight feminine

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lumps. She frowned, as other girls her age had blossomed fuller than she had. Her wispy figure was nearly devoid of any womanly curve. Would his eyes fall away from hers, for another? The itchy heel festered for attention. Her fingernail picked at the blister, tearing away a lick of loose skin. She wished upon the translucent fleck, writing a mischievous desire, as it scrolled into a curl, before being sucked toward the drain. Her prayer seeped down through the pipes, into the pebbled stream, to be swallowed by the sea. It traveled around the point, tumbling like a feather lost in a marine blue sky. She dreamed that he would be there, by the shore mending his father's nets, lost within the monotony of darning. The sun rippled around his drumming boots as he hummed content. Her message would gain form. Beneath a twinkle, a miniscule movement snagged his interest. His palm gently scooped up the shrimp which had pestered around his feet. He held the little ghost crawler closer, its organs beating as lightening under its silver sheen. He stared into the black beads of the sea jewel. Fascinated, he drifted deeper into its spell. Those incredible eyes, like the mysterious sweet black pearls he had fallen in love with. Its antennae twitched, as he lowered the gem back into the water. For a time it danced in the puddle of his palm, its microscopic legs like nearly invisible fingers running through a cloud. If he could magnify that infinitesimal touch a thousand fold, he was sure that it would be the same as hers. Those intimate secret rhythms beating within them, as they held each other. Meanwhile, Natalie grabbed some of their Book from the pretend trunk. It could be better described as a chronological pile of loose pages accumulated over the past decade. The earlier leaves were only named with Samantha. When Natalie turned five, it became a cooperative project. Sam sketched the drawings, and then Natalie applied crayon color. When they finished a page, a false phrase might trickle along the bottom, to remind them of the story it wasn't. When Sam began the Book, it was a way of drawing heart things that her mouth couldn't say. In the beginning after

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the accident, there were a lot of crumpled bloody upside down squished boxes. And tiny people pieces scattered everywhere, that wouldn't quite fit together. Then followed too many questions. "Why are you drawing that?" "Can't you draw something happy?" When Sam was older, she drew her day-self, hidden within the outlines and underneath words written for her parents' eyes. Natalie had a few favorites stashed at the very bottom. They were scotch-taped and smeared with wrinkles over the years. She chose one made when Sam was eight. It was very brown, almost black. The same kind of darkness when you breathe night through your eyelids. The sheet was a sky of thick pliable waves, like interlaced fingers, or clumped dirty puffs smudged with tired light. Tiny tracedaround starfish speckled about the edges. A moon spiraled in its orbit, wobbling off centre. In the middle was a pair of eggshell white ellipses, with lightly penciled squarish veins. (When Sam was fourteen she added the smallest prick of red ink in the centre, showing no one but Natalie). The drawing was titled "Fairy Wings in Waiting." That Samantha page happened when she was Natalie's age. The sea was sucked away from the Northern hemisphere, and the sandbars extended for miles, almost to the lighthouse on the horizon. She ran along the rippled sand, stomping beside every clam hole to make them squirt up her leg. When the tide turned, the larger quahog clams rose close to the surface, cracking the sand. Sam chose to dig after one. It is something you do by feeling alone, since the water quickly caved in any hole. One tiny hand pressed onto the shell, while the other palm shoveled around the opposite side. She was soon up to her elbows in warm slurping goo. Penetrating deeper into the tight wetness. The more vigorous she thrust, the quicker it squirmed away. Sam was sure a finger met the fleshy wiggling tip in the burrow. Her body rocked and grunted with sweat as she pushed. It yielded, for a second, as the pearly muscle opened around her delicate

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pinkness. Then it bit shut like a steel vice. Sam's lungs wailed like a siren. Tim galloped at full gait to her rescue with a ten pound iron shovel. Within seconds, sand flew, and he had dug her free. She screamed louder, seeing the basketball sized clam hanging off her wrist. "Hold still!" gritted Tim. With one foul ear shattering clang he smashed the bivalve to bits. Miraculously his daughter's hand was completely unharmed. For a long while afterwards Sam didn't dig for clams. Any dark holes, especially the ones waiting with teeth, froze her cold with fear. Years later, when she had her first cycle, and touched herself below, she had thought that the clam spirit had crawled under her skin when it was killed. Now it was biting her from the inside every month for just revenge. "Be careful where you poke," warned Samantha. Natalie added a few more crimson drops, and blackened the squares into sharp, serrated triangles. It was a magnificent Book of Lies. Samantha wondered if that was how you became an adult, by hiding your inside stories beneath other outside ones, away from the suspicious world. She often told her Princess Natalie how grateful she was to share the precious secret things with her, and to be the one holding her insides together. It was the same at night, when they slept with a hug, and their hearts talked with one another through warm skin. Through the years Natalie had grown into her, as a vital part of herself, while Tim and Kate withered away as vestigial organs. The phone rang, breaking the studious silence. Natalie leaped upon the three legged stool, and stretched to shake the receiver from the hook. "Hello? Yes. Just a minute," Natalie automatically answered. She dropped the phone. It swung and banged sharply across the pine paneling, adding to the arc of previous dents. She slid softly into the bathroom, without a mouse peep to watch her sister. It amazed Natalie, how natural Samantha slept underwater. The licorice mane snaked lazily around her perfect alabaster complexion. The paper whiteness

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of her lithe corpse blended smoothly into the pale aqueous coffin. Between them the mirror surface somehow distanced her from Natalie, like an exquisite ivory carving held immortal within a locket. Natalie bent slowly over the rim, with her ringlets pinned back, and her face hovering a hair above the glass stillness. She held her breath and waited. Samantha’s lungs burned for air, and woke her back into her body. Her eyes burst open, surprised by the dark angel shadowing heavily upon her. Instinctively she screamed an explosion of bubbles, and erupted with a cacophonous tidal wave into midair. Their foreheads collided smartly with one another, echoing with more shouts, a boiled frenzy, and a floor flooded ankle deep in bathwater. "What's the noise about?" mumbled Kate. "Nothing, Mom. I slipped in the tub," answered Samantha. "We're O.K.," added Natalie. "Oww! Sorry!" "Oww! Me, too. Jake's on the phone." "Thanks! I'll be there in a sec," hurried Sam, wrapping a towel around her sleek salamander torso. Natalie avalanched an armload of towels off the shelf, and dragged over the pail and mop. It was a huge mess. Sam would help her. Natalie could not release the image of her sister, the painfully calm marble mask beautifully dead on the other side of the liquid mirror. "Hi, lover," hotly surged Sam, moistening the ear on the other end of the receiver. "Hi, sweet love," warmed Jake, "Sorry that I'm calling early." "Anytime is fine, to hear you," she melted, her eyes closed, lightly tracing over the contours where Jake had kissed with his fingertips. "My Dad's going to the tavern now. I'm his safe drive home." "You'll be away late?" "But not too tired to see you tomorrow." "Yes, tomorrow, lover, please."

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"And Natalie, too? She missed out on the boat trip." "Yes, of course. That's only fair." "After lunch?" "Sure," agreed Sam, looking over to see Natalie frowning with the mop, "I gotta run, and help Natalie clean up a spill." "Have a good night, love." "You take care, Jake. I love you," finished Sam with a kiss. Wishing her hands were Jake's, she toweled herself down with a gentle massage. She wicked away the womanly wetness readily swelling as an ocean within her, from the mere mention of his name among her thoughts.

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EIGHT It was nearly nine o'clock when the Southwesterly gale finally coughed out of breath, and rolled away with the scudding greasy clouds. The antenna which was twisted, nailed and duct taped along the height of the birch tree beside the cottage shivered less. It gave viewable reception for nearly three channels, after persistent random fiddling with the tuning knob. They could watch with reasonable clarity, summer re-runs, which had been previously televised at least four times in as many weeks. From the options against boredom, Natalie and Sam decided upon the best two out of three games of "Snakes and Ladders". It was an unwritten rule that Samantha had fair opportunity to try and win the first round. Natalie would always be victorious by the end of the championship. If the number cast by her die threatened to place her upon a plummeting snake, Natalie counted the square her piece was on as "one". Instead of counting the move to the next square as "one". Thus Natalie was able to step short of the serpent's head. Or she took advantage with her moving choices to conveniently ascend a nearby ladder, positioning her closer to the finish. Sometimes she tossed the die, so that it landed leaning edge up, beside a couch cushion. It gave her the option from either of two possibilities. If neither face was to her advantage, and the game was too close for comfort, she asked to roll the die again. It was completely fair play according to Natalie. Life was a series of choices to make for yourself. It seemed the absolute truth for Samantha, as she considered her parents. How her father had laddered to the top with financial and

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social acclaim as a doctor. How her mother had slid down through a serpentine hole, squirming through one disaster after another. What squares were Samantha and Natalie on? Samantha had her doubts. She wandered through her days patiently, absently, and accepted the dreams and gifts, like Jake. Sometimes it turned Samantha's stomach when Natalie took, and made it belong to herself, for her own sake. Maybe Samantha had to grow up, and become a “Natalie”, to be successful like her father. She secretly hoped not. On the other side of town, a very long arm was doing precisely that, taking advantage from, more or less, available information. It was the easiest five hundred that Thelma ever made from her perch inside the claustrophobic secretarial cage. During the past decade she only heard the same songs of complaint from blank bothersome faces. She blocked them out of her monotonous office hours. What did she care? A few more wrinkles, maybe. And little more hair coloring, definitely. Then sweet retirement would be hers, at last. She would deposit the money towards that trip to Florida she always deserved. And spoil herself with a new dress or two while she was at it. In the meantime, her hands were programmed, to square the stacked paper, sort tomorrow into quarter hour slots, and close the three sets of office blinds that she had religiously dusted every Friday for the past thirty years. The last standing doctor on duty straightened from his desk hunch with a tedious moan. He tossed the bleached lab coat over his arm, closed his office on the evening, and turtle scuffed towards the exit. "You go ahead Ben. I'll finish here in five." "Thanks, Thelma, you’re a darling. Have a good night," as he tipped his hat with a weary smile toward the secretary. She waited a couple of more minutes, fussing among the desk papers, just in case Ben had forgotten something, and might return. He didn't. She fluttered over to the cabinet, and retrieved Kate Allen's file. Keeping everything in exact

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order, she photocopied the medical dossier, with attention to the lengthy record of prescriptions. Thelma noted the frightening increase of medication administered to Mrs. Allen over the past four months, including numerous painkillers; valium, codeine and a few barbiturate sedatives. How could someone survive, let alone function with such chemical abuse? She was filled with more pills than a jelly bean dispenser. If she didn’t know better, it appeared as if Ben was poisoning his patient. Thelma had known Ben since high school. He would have done anything for his friends. More often than not he silently accepted punishment for someone else’s stumble. It didn’t make sense why Ben was doing this to, or for, Mrs. Allen. There was something missing. Thelma could usually page through her memory of several hundred patients for a particular detail. Wasn’t there a note from a Toronto hospital a few months ago? The specific incident escaped her, but she was positive that Mrs. Allen had some tests done out of province. Thelma would ask Ben about it first thing in the morning. While thumbing through Mrs. Allen’s encyclopedic history, Thelma discovered a brief warning letter from the Canadian Medical Association dated from late May. It expressed with pointed concern about Dr. Benjamin Scott having prescribed excessive narcotics for Mrs. Kate Allen. Unless Dr. Scott could validate the drug administration, he would be investigated immediately. She balanced that correspondence in her bony rheumatic palm, trying to ascertain its value. Compared to the other information, it might be worth an additional one hundred dollars. Perhaps even two hundred. Thelma thought twice. Demanding more money was easy enough. It might also snuff out their lucrative relationship. Fear washed over her sunken sallow face, that someone with plenty of money to buy people might terminate her career, or worse. She stuffed that shuddering thought away with the rest of the copied file into a plain manila envelope. Her handwriting trembled as she addressed the

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carefully sealed contents to Dr. Timothy Allen, in Halifax. Even though they had been separated for years, it was a dire situation for his wife. He should know. Thelma hoped that something good would come out of all of this. She extinguished the lone light. Except for the bother of the awkward envelope paper clipped between her bones, Thelma had clicked off the earlier office hours into pitch darkness. Tommy Hunter and warm honey chamomile tea steeped for her at home. Samantha sat cross-legged on the sofa, staring past the window, pictured with swan tufts swimming through the pond blue sky. She was stirring clouds of vanilla yogurt into her breakfast cereal when the phone interrupted her. Samantha’s chest butterflied brightly, as she flew over to the receiver, wanting to taste Jake’s voice. “Hello?” she perked. “Hello, Samantha? This is Ben.” “Yes?” “Can I speak with your mother, please?” “I’m sorry Ben, Mom’s working at the pharmacy until five.” “It’s very important that Kate calls me. She has my home number.” “Any message?” “No thanks. Please make sure that Kate phones me, even if it’s very late tonight.” “O.K. Ben.” “Thanks Samantha. Goodbye.” “Bye.” Ben paused for Samantha to hang up. Then he waited for a moment. For the second click. The line buzzed dead, as he flushed with confirmed suspicion. Earlier, Thelma laid a loose record of Kate’s upon his desk. He glanced over it, and then handed it back to her for filing. She inquired about Mrs. Allen’s recent records, having vaguely recollected a letter from Toronto, which appeared to be missing. Ben said that he would search through the paperwork in his office. Was it urgent? No,

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Thelma replied. Who was asking for the records? She had already turned her back to him, “Oh, no one. Just updating our files. I like to be accurate.” Now he sat there and stewed as a toad with a fly crawling down in its throat. He had phoned the Allen home immediately after the awkward exchange with Thelma. He knew that she was expecting him to place the call. His trust in Thelma totally disintegrated, now that he caught her monitoring his conversations. Twenty years of friendship ruined. Everything he said and did would be under a microscope. Ben’s career was at stake. He toyed with the idea of getting rid of Thelma. Perhaps buying her out with a severance package. Or maybe by some other means? He would see this through with Kate, he owed her that much. Ben had slid the hardcover Atwood into his maple nightstand, and folded away his wire rimmed glasses, when the phone rang minutes before midnight. “Ben?” “Kate.” “Sorry. I know it’s late.” “That’s alright. Thank God you called.” “What’s up?” “Thelma is digging for the Toronto tests.” “Oh?” “I can stall her for awhile.” “Did she say why?” “She was very strange about it. She avoided saying why she needed the files.” “Do you think Tim got to her?” “Yes. I caught her listening in on my office phone. She is up to something.” “What are we going to do?” “Thelma will have to go. You should talk to your lawyer about custody. In case Tim makes his move.” “I need you Ben. I can’t make it without you.” “I’m here for you, always, Kate dear.” “Thank you Ben. Thank you.” “I’ll get back to you next week when the heat in the

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office simmers down.” Ben’s empty heart stared toward the starless ceiling. The bedroom seemed cold and foreign once the black weight of the evening hours had gathered over him. He knew that Kate could never be with him. He would have given his soul to be her companion. He could not push Kate through a divorce, even when she had better health. It would have killed their love for one another. Ben lived modestly, for a physician. A rustic Cape Cod tucked away by a secluded shore near Wallace. He had bought as much forested land around his property as he could afford. His nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away. The remainder of his earnings he set aside for travel, planning to finish his practice when he turned fifty. Ben considered Kate, Samantha and Natalie as his own family, among the handful of friends and relatives who rarely visited him. When the children came over, they talked about where they might go. Ben pulled out table size maps from drawers of an oak cabinet. They tacked one to the wall, and pinned the places of exotic desire. After they had supper, he read a few tropical passages to them in his study. They dream traveled to Bali, New Guinea and Ouagadougou. Natalie on one knee, with Kate and Samantha snuggled content into his shoulders. They had ten great years together. Ben had given a spare house key to Kate. There were times when she needed company. And times when she needed to clear her head alone. This summer would be their last. When she came to him, at any hour, Ben would hold her tight with his life. She would cry, shaking uncontrollably within his embrace. He drank her tears tenderly with his lips, and whispered a circling softness with his fingers over her temples and through her hair. Just to hold her, as the love he could never have. He wept afresh, not for her, but for himself, this one selfish time.

NINE The Saturday afternoon air shifted with an unpredictable breath, wheezing from one way, and then to the opposite direction. Clouds billowed dark with frustration along the pouting blue ocean lip, before they tore themselves apart into silver wisps overhead. Jake jumped out of the Ford, plucked a head of timothy, and twisted it in his mouth. He looked at the sky, like a dazed gopher having popped into daylight, wondering if the weather would hold. Before he took another step, Natalie and Samantha had spilled off the veranda, wagging their puppy dog tails. “All set?” smiled Jake. “You bet!” piped Natalie, tugging him toward the pick-up before Samantha could wet his mouth with a hello kiss. She opened the door for herself, and claimed her spot beside the driver’s seat. “Not so fast cowboy,” firmed Samantha, yanking at his pocket, and spinning him around into her arms. They exchanged a few light kisses. “Come on you two!” complained Natalie. “Just a minute. I’m having my breakfast,” purred Samantha, as she swallowed him slow, long and full into her mouth, inhaling him into the centre of her heart. She could have sucked his soul inside of her, without complaint. “Let’s go! Now!” fussed Natalie, kicking and slapping at the seat. Five minutes, that seemed like an hour, were gone in a day that was already too short for her. Jake’s pay was burning a hole in his jeans. They motored toward town, with the windows rolled down, and a whistle of summer rushing through their hair. The tires

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hummed smoothly around the coastal curves, like tongues along a lover. Sam’s fingertips gently licked the back of Jake’s neck, as she closed her eyes, her dreamy mouth parched for his. Natalie counted the telephone poles backwards until they had crossed the bridge. The ice cream and toy district was a mere three skips away. Natalie was the first to unbuckle, before Jake geared into park off Victoria. She grinned at the bulge in his pocket, a lot of money to spoil her with. Samantha glanced at the hard swelling in his jeans, wondering if Jake loved her more than that. “Gillis’,” suggested Jake. Natalie hop scotched yards ahead of the slowpokes, which were hooked with arms around waists, almost tripping over themselves. Her arms teapotted at her waist, “Hurry up!” fumed Natalie. They were worse than a pair of dogs in heat, stopping at every pole and hydrant. The clothing store was humanely air conditioned, like every other pause along the strip. Garish flimsy cotton adorned most of the hangered carousels. Fine leather wafted from another room, and teased the more expensive tastes. They passed by the towering collision of end-sale sneakers and flip-flops tumbling in the discount bins. A gum-chewing bleached blonde parted from among a curtain of wind breakers. “Can I help you with anything?” she mechanically blurted. She self consciously adjusted the puffed taut sail of her blouse, on tack with the rugged chiseled rock standing before her. She sparkled into him, ignoring the other willowy creatures at his side. “Can we have a look at your swim wear?” replied Jake, asking for a nod of approval from his two friends. Samantha followed the clerk first through the aisles, eclipsing Jake’s view of the swaying hips that preceded hers. “We have these,” as she introduced them, opening her silky fair palm, with a twirl to parade her French manicure. The drab wrinkled one-pieces hung wilted from the

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hundreds of hands, which had molested, and then shrugged away in disgust. Samantha snubbed at the stitching, which would have unraveled in a season. “Anything else?” insisted Jake, catching the grey sigh from Samantha. “And those. Over there,” motioned the tart, four racks away. The two-piece foreign imports were exquisitely cut. Any young feminine form would be molded angelic within the sheer Barcelona silk. A woman wouldn’t dare set one foot on the beach, without a dozen knee-benders offering marriage. “I don’t know why they bring them in. I can’t see anybody wasting that much money on a pair of skin straps,” she concluded, strutting off in a huff, noticing that Jake’s attention was only from courtesy. “You really shouldn’t,” gasped Samantha, choosing an elegant revealing cut in black. “What about me?” spoke Natalie, disappointed by the selection, arguably tailored for adults. Samantha softly brushed through the fabric cascade until she found a junior size aqua blue design splashed with a frenzy of dolphins. “Thanks!” lit Natalie, zipping to a change room. “What do you think?” asked Sam, draping the licks of noir across her torso. “Is that enough bikini?” tomato-faced Jake. Natalie twirled from the room with a watermelon grin, “This is nice Jake! Thanks!” She spun, and hopped about, admiring herself in the mirror. “You look great Natalie,” commented Jake. “Yes, very chic,” agreed Sam. Natalie flicked her curls and tossed her cute doll head in high fashion. “My turn next,” announced Sam, “Don’t wander too far, Jake.” While Sam was changing, Natalie swung on Jake’s hands, “Am I as pretty as Samantha?” “Yes, of course, you are sweetie,” smiled Jake, giving her a peck and a hug.

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“If I was grown up like Sam,” leaned Natalie, “would I be special, too?” “You are very special, just the way you are,” complimented Jake, giving her another light squeeze. Natalie beamed. She stood on her toes, as tall as she could in the mirror, an imagined herself as a young heart throb beside Jake. “Jake?” called Samantha. “I’ll be right there,” he replied, loosening the charm from around his waist with a furious tickle. He knocked on the door, “Ready?” Her palm whispered through the crack, caught his, and whisked him inside. “Well?” she flushed. Her voice quivered slightly, as she statued before him with little more than a few slim lines painted over her private curves. She made a slow pirouette, offering herself fully to his eyes. “Gorgeous, love,” he stammered, turning lobster red, and further stumbling, “The fastener looks tricky.” “You’ll have lots of practice,” she winked, giggling a kiss upon his mouth, “Come here, lover,” wrapping her tendril limbs around him. His palms buttercupped her sweet face, falling over her shoulders, as his mouth moistened along her neck. His strong hands warmed down, into the hollow of her back, as she drew her waist tight into his. Jake’s tongue grazed tenderly over the rise of her chest. She sank her talons into his taut derriere, aroused by his throbbing presence pounding beneath his jeans. Her mouth fell hot into his, as their thighs rhythmed in gentle waves. She breathed soft moans deeply into him, ready to pass out with pleasure, ready to die completely with love into him. There was an impatient knee high knock on the door, “Come on guys!” “Coming,” they melted together, among a mad rustle of garments. They parted, sweating and hungry, half undone with thunder in their loins. Jake tore himself away with a few

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last torrid caresses before exiting the change room. Samantha dressed herself with their amorous scent. She salivated in her mouth, and below, with the desire to devour him. The swim wear was wet from their love. Embarrassed, she repackaged it very carefully, pressing firmly upon the closure. Samantha would be an envelope, too, sealing Jake’s love within her forever. Shortly, both the girls were ready, well pleased with their attractive attire. They left the store, stepping out into the broiling blinding sunshine. “I’m hot!” whined Natalie, dragging herself down the sidewalk griddle like a frying egg. Samantha’s temperature had climbed too, although it would take more than ice cream to satisfy her. “Mundle’s then?” offered Jake. “Race you!” challenged Samantha. “You’re on,” bolted Natalie, as fast as her spindly legs could scamper two blocks. The three of them spilled through the chiming door at once. Drenched and panting, Samantha followed Natalie to the frozen goods. They opened the freezer, letting a blast of arctic air wash over their faces. There were so many choices. “Hello, Mrs. Mundle!” greeted Jake. “Hello there young man. I see you have the company of two lovely ladies,” she remarked. The girls smiled, and waved back at Mrs. Mundle. “Yes. One angel for each shoulder.” “They are nice girls. I hope that you’re spoiling them rotten.” “Sure am! Would you happen to have something to go with swim wear?” “The Red and White up the street carries some beach balls and inflatables.” “I was thinking of underwater.” “We do have a few masks, snorkels and fins left.” “Perfect!” cheered Jake. Mrs. Mundle led him to the sporting goods section. He paled at the prices, and calculated

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that the shopping spree would end with one pair of flippers, for Natalie, and two masks, plus one round of frozen treats. He asked Natalie to try on the diving ware. Samantha milled around the rest of the store, checking out the all-weather wear, for her next anticipated fishing adventure with Jake. Satisfied with their new undersea exploring gear, they met together at the front cash. Jake paid, and thanked Mrs. Mundle, as she filled the shopping bag. “Oh! I found this under the rubber johns. It must have fallen from someone’s pocket,” spoke Samantha, placing the white ladies compact upon the counter. “Well, I’ll be! Thank you dear. I’ve been looking all over for that,” she replied, confirming it as her own, with a glance at the near fluorescent pink shade. “You’re welcome,” said Samantha, with casual coolness, hiding her heart, which had flipped over and sank into her gut. What was her father doing? Even though Tim and Kate were apart for years, it was still a shock for Samantha to think that her father was involved with someone else. She knew her mother had friends, but no one in that way. She considered their kind friend Ben, who might be that close. Samantha had hoped that Tim was involved with someone from out of town. Something inside tugged stubbornly at her. Samantha could not imagine Mrs. Mundle mislaying anything, especially of all places, in her own store. Hordes of fishermen, farmers, and miners from Pugwash might have poured through the shop. Two hours later the manure sullied floor would gleam brighter than a mirror, and every tack and nail would be binned head to head, and point to point. The Metlin store was a universe of utter complete order. Mrs. Mundle could have denied that the compact belonged to her. Samantha would have smelled that lie, just as easily. Instead, she admitted the truth, that it was hers. For some reason Mrs. Mundle had lost it on purpose. She must have planted it in Tim’s car to be discovered. The most likely chance for the compact to be found would be by someone

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with leaf thin palms adjusting the seat for a child. Samantha assumed that any of the front seat company in Tim’s vehicle were adults. It was only in the summer time, when Natalie sat in front, that the seat had to be moved. Samantha, by sibling law, was responsible for Natalie. Mrs. Mundle had seen Sam take care of Natalie since birth. She would certainly be assigned as seat adjuster. This all seemed impossible to Samantha, Mrs. Mundle purposely hiding the compact in Tim’s car for her to find. Why was it so important for Samantha to know about Tim and Mrs. Mundle? Why did it have to be a secret? What was Mrs. Mundle hiding? No one would believe Samantha anyways, she was always accused of imagining things. Who would help her find the truth? It troubled and excited Samantha at the same time. The thoughts stung through her with the gulp of frigid ice cream, which she had swallowed too fast. She bugeyed, coughed, and waved across her icy breath. “You alright, dear?” alerted Mrs. Mundle. “Went down the wrong way,” sputtered Samantha. “Take it easy, love,” calmed Jake, rubbing her back. “I’m fine now, thanks,” assured Samantha. They assembled themselves at the door, fueling with a dab of sweet coolness, before going into the June furnace. “What flavor do you have Natalie?” asked Jake, with thirsty eyes. “Raspberry swirl,” replied Natalie, who would not share unless she was told to. Jake was her only exception. She spooned him a hilling dollop. He bowed; enveloping the melting pinkness, as his warm lips accidentally met her fingertips. She blushed, and nearly dropped her container. “Thought you and me could share this one,” spoke Sam, leaning into him, and rolling a scoop. “Only one spoon?” he smirked. “You don’t need one,” she cat-grinned, popping the ice cream into her mouth, then pouring her lips over his. The honey bubble nearly vaporized in his mouth as her wicked tongue surfed hot and wild inside him.

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“Mmm,” licked Jake, “delicious!” “You can’t get that flavor anywhere else,” teased Samantha, kissing away the last drop that pearled from his luscious lips. Mrs. Mundle nodded as they jingled goodbye, wheezing the door closed behind them. She had caught the blinking shift in Samantha’s eyes, and the curious tone in her voice. Her intuition told her that Samantha had suspected something. Would she find out, before it was too late? Mrs. Mundle had to act, not only for herself. There was too much at stake. She had feared the worst.

TEN Downtown was deserted by five. Every shop on Water Street was locked tight until Monday, except for O’Brien’s, which kept their lights on another four hours. At ten minutes past, a pin striped dressed business man, hidden beneath his straight set brim climbed the few front steps at Mundle’s. He peered around the “Closed” sign, through the glass, so clean that it felt invisible, and into the grayness growing by the minute as the hazy sun fell away elsewhere. Not a man to be refused, he wiggled the handle, insisting that it should turn. One minute later a naked forty watt bulb dimly brought life to an alcove. The shadow inside surveyed up and down the street, and seeing no one, unbolted the latches. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, dear,” smoothed Mrs. Mundle. “Patience is not my forte,” he replied dryly, handing her his fedora and blazer. He hobbled after her through the stockroom, past the spartan pantry, and then cursed at more stairs as they ascended to the loft. The paisley fawn brocade curtains were heavily lined, to block the morning sun, and inquiring evening eyes. The cozy chamber quietly whirred with air conditioning, and the welcome of a well stocked fridge. A hidden corner was illuminated by a frilly table lamp, barely suggesting the presence of an imposing maple bureau, dwarfed by the queensized French Provincial playground sumptuously pillowed with silk. “Scotch?” she assumed. “I’d rather a Tom Collins. Thanks,” he countered.

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“Fine. Whatever suits your pleasure, dear,” she replied, with a tart twist from her lips and a lemon wedge. “You seem off. Anything wrong?” he gladly sipped his nightcap after the two hour drive. “I have my doubts,” spoke Mrs. Mundle, taking a double shot without mix. “Three more months, Helen,” he tensed. “This will cost a king’s fortune,” she replied, unfolding an aerial map from a silk stuffed drawer. A graceful sandy arc separated the soft emerald blur, threaded with grey, from the Atlantic blue. “Bringing in the town sewer and water. Paving the lane. It’ll be a quarter million.” “It’s not even a half mile road past eight cottages.” “And another two hundred grand, to upgrade those shacks into resort chalets. We do want posh don’t we?” “Posh. Very posh, love.” “Assuming we accomplish all of that, there is still one issue at the end,” said Helen, pressing a dimple into the contentious mapped speck. “Won’t they sell?” “Not likely. It’s been in their family for three generations. With water frontage like that, who in their right mind would sell?” “We must buy the Nelson property. We need the right of way for our resort. I will look into it,” he mulled with a devilish darkness, knotting his thick brows together beneath his slick black widow’s peak. “Speaking of the Nelsons, young Jake was in this afternoon with Samantha and Natalie,” continued Helen, wary of the dark cloud gathering over his countenance. “Oh?” questioned Tim. “Yes. He’s taken quite a shine to your daughter.” “Are they serious?” “A pair of cuddly lovebirds. It’ll be good for Samantha,” said Helen, elaborating, “The poor girl needs to wake out of her shell.” She bit her tongue, having crossed the personal family line. “She’s a dreamer,” sighed Tim, quietly scheming.

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“We all need dreams, Tim,” reminded Helen. “Which won’t ever happen without a plan,” he sternly replied, adding, “How’s the surveying progressing?” “It’ll be done in a few weeks.” “Has it raised any eyebrows?” “My relatives own most of Pugwash, except for some crown and corporate land. A few more Mundle lines running through the woods are not unusual.” “No one else knows about this, right?” “I wouldn’t admit to this insanity to anyone else, believe me.” “Trust me, dear,” he cooled, “The money is bankrolling.” “When I see your half mill, Tim, honey.” “We’re a good team, Helen,” he replied, “Your generous assets. My capital.” His mouth fell softly from behind, upon her silver-haired sweet nape, while his palms rounded beneath her voluminous creamy spheres. She unbuttoned methodically, as he kneaded her eagerly with his lips and fingers. The faint amber bedroom glow was kind to their middle age misgivings. His gaunt pale chest sagged under her doughnut rolls folded forgotten between the satin sheets. Tim buried his face within Helen’s warm milky breasts, as she mounted him, taking his firmness gently within her, melting him like a juicy éclair. It was a rare occasion for both of them, to engage with an act of passion. Not to use someone, or to be used. The evening with Helen allowed Tim to be tender, sensual and human. She was the only one who could undress him from his business skin. She knew that, and was wise not to betray him, for her own good. She turned over, her hand reaching for his presence among the curled silken waves. Helen found only herself, some pleasurable memories, and a circle of clock dots fuzzing at something past two. Tim had obtained, as usual, what he had come for. In the morning she would once again rinse the stained emptiness from the glasses and herself. Within a few days Tim, and his scent would have dissipated into nothing.

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At times it concerned her, to be with Dr. Allen. He had enough connections and money to start his own country. She knew every snitch of gossip in Pugwash. By comparison that was a mere microcosm within his complex tentacled world. Aside from the resort project, there was little sustaining their relationship except for information. Mind sex, where she gave more than he offered. Did he trust her? Absolutely. Did she trust him? No. His life was beyond her realm. Whatever stood in his way would be ground into debris, like his family. It trailed as dust behind him. In the beginning, all she wanted was a partner to develop the summer shacks along Abercrombie Lane. They were all low rental Mundle units in dire need of maintenance. The clapboard shoeboxes were on the peninsula, near the golf course, before the gravel road forked left to the lighthouse. A decent cosmetic improvement and the colony would become a bee hive for wealthier clientele. Tim wanted it all. He gloated about the professionals that he could lure from across Canada and the New England States. Pugwash was a sleepy seaside town, typically awakened from its winter slumbers by the summer tourist tide. Otherwise, its pulse plodded along with the reflex activity of local industry. It wasn’t sensible to Helen, to make an exorbitant investment into an unpredictable seasonable venture. They were only peacock painted shanties, tossed like marbles along the dirt path. Tim pushed for the extravagant villa, citing the warmest ocean water along Nova Scotia and the panoramic Atlantic view, away from the stream of August motor homes and travel trailers. He had convinced himself to make his mark with his private resort. Tim could taste the new money of his vain empire. Wisely, Helen did not make a legal commitment with him. She agreed to some preliminary surveys and cost inquiries. It was her land, for the most part. She would not spend another cent on the ludicrous scheme, until Tim showed his share, one half million. The project could not happen without the purchase of the Nelson homestead. Helen was concerned about his black intent to obtain the land. She shuddered at the darker

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prospects of Tim’s powerful political leverage that he might exert upon the harmless rural family. It disturbed her that Tim’s greedy focus was without regard to consequence or conscious of others. She realized what Kate had lived through, at times, as a possession, to be used as a means to an end. If the private villa was successful, it would be another strike by Tim against Kate’s failure. She wondered if his spite against his estranged wife fueled him forward with the ambitious resort. Helen could not bear any harm to come to the Nelsons. They were honest hard working folk, among the backbone of the community. There was a brighter chance for the Allen family, now that Jake and Samantha were involved. Tim could easily destroy all of that by grinding the Nelsons under his heel. She was in too deep to escape from Tim’s strangling control. She had to warn the Nelsons and the Allens somehow, without Tim knowing. It was a wild shot, but Helen took the chance. By hiding her compact in Tim’s car, she hoped that Samantha would find it, and make the connection. She was a clever girl, more intelligent than her father gave her credit for. All Helen needed was a response, of knowing, between women. At seven-thirty Dr. Allen was buckled into executive class shooting through the woolen fog over the Halifax International Airport. He checked, again, inside his suit pocket for the small, square velvet lump. A Birks diamond solitaire set in platinum. Once the flight was at cruising altitude, he opened his attaché case, and unfolded the Pugwash aerials and oceanfront Kodak snapshots. He rehearsed his proposition, calculated the possible scenarios, and postulated how he might manipulate her reaction. In less than two hours he would land in Montreal to seduce Dr. Villeneuve. They had met at a physician’s conference in Toronto four years ago. Their casual friendship naturally became more intimate after her divorce. Both of them were hungry for a companion.

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Angela met him with a cappuccino at the sparsely populated Gate 4B. It steamed against her plunging black silk dress pouring like hot ink down her svelte thirty-ish figure like a second skin. Her Bambi doe eyes sugared into his as they shared a few quick formal kisses and airy hugs. She was a tiger behind closed doors. He intended to get his airfare’s worth of amusement, and hopefully loosen her purse strings. “My place first?” invited Angela. “Thanks. I need to freshen up.” “After that, you’re mine.” “Until the pumpkin hour.” “You couldn’t book any more time off?” “Sorry. I’m running like a dog. You know how it is,” apologized Tim. “Yes. I had to kill to get these hours with you today. It’s insane.” “It’s really great to see you Angela,” said Tim slipping his arm around her. “Three months without you seemed like forever, Tim. It’s wonderful to have you,” shined Angela, matching her stride with his. “You’ve been down to Quebec for the weekend?” “Actually, no. I left Toronto last night, drove six hours, and caught a few winks before you landed.” “Don’t tell me you’re straight from the Sick Children’s Hospital?” he stared incredulously. “Yeah. I’m totally dead.” “Maybe I should drive to the cottage then?” “That would be great, dear,” sighed Angela, handing him her keys to the cherry Triumph coupe. Tim zoomed North on Highway 15 for another hour through the Laurentians, and into the Valley of the Saints. He exited at St. Jerome, and made a few country dog-leg turns through the maze of mushrooming bungalows before diving down a maple shrouded lane that curved around a lake mirrored by poplar. “Almost there.”

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“Mmm,” mumbled Angela. She was limp, and lights out since they had left the airport. She was only a feather, and Tim easily cradled her across the mossy pine-needled yard, past the jungle weed flower beds, and over the split entry threshold. She felt herself hovering through the pearly morning hallway light, and then sinking completely within a cotton ocean. After laying her to rest, Tim un-noosed his tie, popped a collar button, and made himself at home by dropping dead onto the leather sofa. Sun bathed gently through the lacy sheers, illuminating the framed shard collages, a book footstool, and a plant stand cascading with a twisted mess of tawny leafless vines. Neither of them had slept more than an hour in the last twenty four. In ten minutes he passed out, snoring into oblivion. Before midday his nose flared thirsty, as the gurgle of fresh caffeine percolated from the kitchen. He rubbed daylight into his aching sockets, and sat up to a steaming mug and a lithe unfocussed presence. “Black?” was all she said, before whispering alongside him. Her scarlet kimono traced with golden cranes waterfalled gracefully over her flawless figure. The silk lapped discretely around her curves, catching upon the pert points of interest. Her porcelain toes climbed, and rubbed against his shin, while her teeth nibbled open his shirt and teased at his chest hair like kitten paws. Meanwhile her coffee was cold and neglected. “I thought you took cream?” he remarked. “I do, but not in my coffee,” she hotly drooled over his nipples, unfastening his belt, and lowering herself between his tensed unclothed thighs. Her tender touch quickly lengthened his telescope. She tingled him with stars and sultry moans behind his closed eyes. Her tepid breath burned along his shaft as she painted his tip with her moist full tongue. His hands ran feverish and light through her waves of strawberry blonde. His hips jerked, and his fuzzy plums went firm within her palm, as he erupted deep into her mouth. She drank every groan from him, then reached over for his mug, and sipped a chaser, licking her lips content.

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He pretzeled himself tightly around her, as she squealed, while his mouth sizzled wet into hers. His fingertips trickled down her spine, spidering across her lower cleavage. They rolled off the couch, knocked over a pedestal lamp, and shattered the glass end table. They rose together, deaf to the disaster, as he slowly disrobed her powder soft body. They circled each other with sweating embraces, kissed, and dislodged paintings, as they pinned each other with ferocious amour upon breasts and buttocks en route to the bathroom. They fell into the patiently waiting sudsy lake, and became very wet, slippery, and tangled with each other. They made love with adrenaline, leaving a wake of WWIII behind them. She encouraged his piston to attention again with lubricated strokes. Their heartbeats pounded loud inside their mouths, while French tongues swirled crazily around one another. He slid smooth and deep inside her, rocking together with the climaxing rhythm of their breaths. She shook like a hooked wild salmon, arching her back, as his hot pleasure coursed through her. He rolled over, as they collapsed together with an exhausted embrace. Her back smoothed into his warm chest, as he kissed her face and entwined his legs with hers. “It’s been too long, Tim.” “Twice in six months. We need a more permanent arrangement.” “Such as?” mused Angela, sucking his lower lip tenderly between hers. “When you move out East.” “And why would I do that?” she taunted. Tim reached over the bathtub rim, feeling for his soaked shirt. He withdrew the blue velvet cube from the pocket, momentarily hiding it within his closed palm. He presented the sparkling two karat crystal to Angela. “Oh, Tim!” she gasped. “I’ll take that as a yes,” as he slipped the platinum ring onto her trembling soapy finger.

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Their well pruned bodies embraced again, until they had loved enough within the bath. Finished, the pair gently toweled each other down, and then turned into the bedroom. “Wait here,” requested Tim. He returned, standing naked in the doorway with his briefcase. “Ready for business, lover,” she mused. He lay beside her, as she reclined into him, his rod riding along her derriere furrow. He kissed her shoulders twice, and snapped the double clasps on the attaché. She held it open, while his fingertips plucked the familiar file. Tim spread out the map and photographs. “Our new seaside home,” he explained, “which will be on the market very soon.” “And these other cottages?” asked Angela. “They are cheap rental units along the lane. I’m going to re-mortgage my penthouse, and purchase them. They will pay for themselves in several years. For our retirement,” asserted Tim. “And me?” “I’ll have a new job ready for you at the IWK Health Centre in September.” “How about my condo and cottage?” “Well, firstly, how often are you here at the cottage?” “Maybe eight or ten days over the summer.” “With our new seaside home, the drive will be shorter, and I will make sure that we have plenty of summer vacation together.” “It’s a serious decision to sell my cottage, and my home in three months, Tim.” “I will make this happen for us, sweetheart.” “Give me a few weeks to think about it, O.K., love?” “Sure, honey. When you’re ready here’s my bank account,” as he penned the digits inside her thigh. “Show and tell?” she giggled. “I’m investing everything for you Angela,” emphasized Tim, gazing into her soul.

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The afternoon boiled with cumulus among pure azure, and invited them to Mont Tremblant for the remaining hours, before Tim was scheduled to fly back to Halifax. The gay jazz wound its way among the throngs of tourists, through the kiosks, and vivid store-windowed lanes. Scents of laughter and pastry wafted from every other open doorway. Hand in hand they browsed and aimlessly chatted, pausing by the fountain to toss a coin and make a kiss-wish together. As a remembrance of the day, they joined the last group of sightseers to board the sky lift to the hilltop. The clouds thickened, squashing the horizon sun that splashed its final rays upon the French pastel towers below. The colors sang proudly for a moment, before fading, in the fairy tale view. It was a lovely dream for Angela, he thought to himself. Precisely that, only a fleeting dream. The darkness from the distant mountains lurched forward as the couple descended the stairs toward the amber lit village. Sixteen hours had passed since Tim arrived at Montreal. Now they were bidding adieu to one another at the terminal, with an impossible tight embrace. Their mouths tasted of red wine and each other’s tears. Angela could hold nothing back now. Tim slept very well that night, convinced that Angela’s money would soon be his. Once deposited, the funds would be transferred to his untouchable account in the Cayman Islands. Tomorrow he planned to pick up an identical diamond ring from his safety deposit box at the Royal Bank of Canada. He had booked a flight to Calgary, Alberta for the following weekend. Like Angela, Francine’s heart would also pour its riches upon him. He could have financed a large portion of the project by extending his resources. Why do that, when others were willing to pay his way, and with personal pleasure? “You’re a brilliant piece of work, Dr. Timothy Allen,” he laughed darkly to himself.

ELEVEN Dot’s ample midriff spilled with her daisy print apron over the edge of the kitchen counter, as she smiled down the driveway at the approaching dust storm. The horn barped twice, as the pick-up creaked to a halt. The barefoot Allen girls tumbled out, hanging off Jake like a pair of necklace jewels. Natalie was ready with her brand new swimsuit, while Samantha was dressed in her typical T-shirt and cut-off jeans. They barged through the screen door with hugs for Dorothy. “Hi girls. I see that you’re ready for the beach,” grinned Dot, overcome by the sweet scent of coconut lotion. “We’ve got company?” asked Jake, noting the Bonneville half parked on the lawn. “Beach company. A nice couple from Maine, up for a few weeks. They poked down our lane for a view,” replied Dot, wiping her hands, after slicing some watermelon. “Does that happen often?” inquired Natalie, opening her tiny palm for a juicy plate-size piece. “Mostly on the weekends. We get some really unusual ones,” spoke Dot, rolling her eyes. “Like what?” pestered wide-eyed Natalie, slurping over the sink beside Dot. “Well, there are the hippies with their vans covered with flowers and peace signs.” “Yeah?” said Natalie wiping ruby raindrops from her chin. “And the tourists with lobster traps tied to the roof of their car,” continued Dot, offering a succulent section to Samantha and Jake, which they shared.

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“That is weird,” commented Natalie having polished off her first piece, and looking for a second. “Not as strange as the visitor that we had about a week ago,” remembered Dot, packing some lemonade with the remaining watermelon, in a picnic basket. “How’s that?” said Samantha, slipping a wet chunk from her fingertips between Jake’s lips. “This man, at least I thought it was a man, from his fancy hat, drove part way up the lane. I guess he drove far enough in to get a view. We do have a nice view, don’t we Jake? He sat there in his car for a few minutes. Long enough to take some pictures through his car window. He didn’t even bother to wind down the window. Or get out. What’s even stranger, is that he took pictures with his sunglasses on. He didn’t even remove them while he sat there. How can you take pictures with sunglasses on? That seems stupid to me. Anyway, he turned around, and left in his big boxy car without saying anything,” huffed Dot, after going on about the mysterious episode like it was national news. “I guess that you get all kinds,” agreed Samantha, tucking the peculiar tidbit away into the back of her mind. “I suppose you’re right, dear. It’s a changing world. I wonder if it’s for the better sometimes,” sighed Dot. “Speaking of changes, did you find out about the stakes along the lane, Mom?” asked Jake, “A couple of guys from Emerson’s Surveying were working by the road last week.” “The Mundles own the rest of the cottages along Abercrombie. So I figured that if I asked Mrs. Mundle, she would know. It’s her property. She wanted to make sure of her property lines for assessment. You know, the taxes keep going up every year. And no one has done proper boundary lines for ages. I guess that stands to reason,” concluded Dot. Was it only a coincidence thought Samantha? A strange man, in a big car, taking pictures. Mrs. Mundle checking her property lines, which no one had bothered with for generations. Suppose Mrs. Mundle and her father were involved. Could the mystery man be her dad? Did that really

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make sense? It was far fetched. Her father had been friends, indirectly, with Dot and Russell ever since her parents were separated. If it was him taking the pictures, why would he pretend to be a stranger? Only if he was hiding something from the Nelsons. It didn’t seem right. What could be so important that you had to fool someone? Lots. She only had to look inside her own family. “Is there any more to it than that?” questioned Samantha. “Goodness knows. Time will tell, dear. Now you kids have a good afternoon at the shore. I’ll fix you supper, when you get back,” said Dot. “Will Mom be coming over?” peeped Natalie. “I will give her a call later. If she’s not feeling well, I’ll fix her a plate to take home tonight. Don’t you worry. It’s all taken care of sweetie,” replied Dot. “I take it Dad’s at the wharf?” interrupted Jake. “Yes, you know Russ, he likes to shoot the breeze with his buddies. You can’t take the fisherman out of the man, even on Sundays,” said Dot, with a strained laugh. “I’ll change into my trunks,” said Jake, excusing himself. “Aren’t you swimming, dear?” Dot asked Samantha. “I’ve got mine on underneath. I burn so easily,” she replied, fiddling with the bottle of lotion. “What girls wear shows too much of themselves. Some things shouldn’t see the light of day,” remarked Dot, catching Samantha’s blush. “Do you have any more cookies?” piped Natalie. “There might be one or two left,” answered Dot, handing her one from the cracked jar, “Maybe we can make some more together, later?” “O.K.!” jumped Natalie, clapping her hands. Jake emerged from his room, with a towel horsecollared around his muscular tanned neck. Samantha drooled, sculpting his handsome bronze form with her hungry eyes.

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Natalie and Sam led the way through the rustling knee-high grass on the bank. They descended the steep stairs, ahead of Jake carrying the loaded basket. The glistening sandbars tailed out into the bay for miles. Natalie couldn’t wait to scamper over the sand flats. “You go ahead Natalie. We’ll catch up,” said Sam. She swiped an orange pail and a green plastic shovel, and then bolted over the rippled powder toward the distant lapping sea foam. Jake spread out the beach blanket, weighting its breeze-flapping corners with cobbles. Samantha slowly undressed before him, letting her shorts glide from her thighs. “I’ll need lots,” as she handed Jake the lotion, lying down beside him, “Undo my top, please.” His strong tendoned mitts smoothed the cool lotion with shivers over her milky shoulders. Then falling, his fingers traced along the rise of her back, pressing with gentle circles into her supple creamy flesh. Drifting lower, his palms firmed around her tight pear bottom, stopped, then sailed with his fingertips along the curves of her womanly hips. He squirted a zigzag of cold lotion down her gazelle legs. Samantha shrieked, wiggled, and lost hold of her top for a second. Her ripe peaches popped out of the shadows. “Sorry!” exclaimed Jake, although he wasn’t, and handed her a towel. “You’re a bad boy,” reddened Sam, pulling him down on top of her, boiling a kiss into his mouth. The towel slithered free, as his breast beat raw against hers. They surfed passionately into one another, until Jake saw the Maine couple coming their way. Quickly, Samantha toweled over her chest, while Jake fastened her modesty back into place. They waved to the tourists, who turned to mount the stairs. Natalie had become bored being alone, and scuffed through the sand, sulking up the beach toward Sam and Jake. “What are you thinking about?” asked Jake, sensing the lightness of her palms riding lotion over his furry abdomen, while her eyes were glazed elsewhere.

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“Something’s not quite right.” “About?” “What Dot said. The Mundle land. The stranger.” “In what way?” “I think there is a connection,” as she explained to Jake about the ladies compact found in her father’s car. “You really think that your father is involved with Mrs. Mundle, and the land? There are lots of tourists driving around in big cars.” “I know. You’re right. I’m just imagining things. I wish I could find out for sure,” sighed Sam, dabbing a kiss upon his lips, before massaging his loins. “Mum mentioned taking pictures. Right? At the drugstore, Denise snoops at photos. I know, because whenever my folks had film developed she slips her phone number in.” “You ever call her?” “Not my type, Sam,” as he returned a wet French caress. “Well, the pictures were probably finished a few days ago. She might remember. Thanks, love,” brightened Sam, sinking full into him. “I’ve waited forever for you guys to come and play with me,” sobbed Natalie, flopping beside them. “Sorry, dear,” apologized Samantha. Natalie’s tears dried instantly into a smile, as she was piggy-backed on Jake’s shoulders down to the sandbars. They built sandcastles with moats guarded by man-eating alligators (shrimp), made sand angels, and gathered handfuls of frosty emerald sea glass. They centered their attention on Natalie, until their stomachs growled for them to go home. Dorothy had prepared a feast for an army. A pot brimmed with mashed potatoes, Sunday roast, and the table bowled with buttered garden fresh vegetables. Kate was too ill to join them. Somehow the Nelson family circle seemed complete with Samantha and Natalie.

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TWELVE Monday morning the girls went into town with Kate. Samantha asked if they could browse around Pugwash for a few hours. Jake would pick them up later for lunch, when he landed in port. On Water Street, Natalie jingled her allowance in one hand, and dragged Samantha with the other toward the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. On the lower floor of the brick building there were new comics, penny candy, jigsaw puzzles, games and dozens of toys. She could spend the day gawking among the shelves. After ten minutes of eternity inside the store, Samantha left Natalie by herself. She compromised to return there in half an hour. Samantha mentioned to Natalie and the shop owner, Burt, that she would be just two blocks away at the pharmacy. On the slow, rainy days, when the tourists had gone, and everyone else was clocking nine-to-five Samantha treated Burt and Natalie to a hot chocolate with whipped cream. The two of them sat behind the counter and played checkers, or rummy, or maybe a brand new game that no one else had ever seen. Many years ago, his wife left him for someone with more manly ambitions. Someone who rang more than spare change through her till. With the divorce, he lost his daughter Emily. It broke his heart when his little girl moved to British Columbia. Although he was welcome to visit her, Emily’s new parents knew that Burt could rarely afford the luxury. Burt became the butt of snobbish family jokes. He shrunk into his nickel-and-dime corner, making pleasure for others, when he had none. Natalie lit up his gloomy days, as he smiled through his drooping bifocals and pretended to be a

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father again, for an hour. When she had her school pictures done last September, Natalie neatly printed her name on the back of one, and gave it to Burt. He was overcome with tears, handed Natalie a special edition of Parcheesi, and closed the store for the afternoon. Samantha marched to O’Brien’s, swung open the door, and scanned for Denise. She found her at the rear, counting pills and minutes until her first coffee break. “Hi Denise.” “Hi Samantha.” “Mom, can I speak to Denise for a minute?” “Sure, honey,” replied Kate, nodding for Samantha to meet Denise outside the rear exit. “What’s up?” said Denise, crossing her arms in defense, and pitting her shadow against Sam’s. “I need a favor.” “Yeah. So.” “It’s really important,” begged Sam. “Tell me about it,” iced Denise. “I hear you check over the photos.” “Sometimes. Quality control,” said Denise, neatly biting her tongue. “Jake said that you might help. That you might remember some pictures from last week.” “Maybe,” Denise breathed coolly. “They were photos of Abercrombie Lane. You know, the look off from the Nelson’s.” “Yeah. My friends make out there on the beach all the time,” she laughed callously, flicking her golden locks. “So?” “Yeah. I do actually. But you have to do something for me,” bargained Denise. “Sure. Anything. But first, about the pictures.” “It was a rush order,” Denise began, ignoring the fact that she was paid an extra fifty to call him the moment they were ready. She continued, “Some of the pictures were strange. Scenes of the point, and the cottages, but with wiper blades at the bottom.”

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“Guess they were taken from inside a car,” deduced Samantha. “I suppose. Anyways, he came right over on Saturday, and paid for them.” “Well, who was it?” demanded Samantha. “Your dad,” she smirked, as if Samantha should have known about it, stupid girl. “Fine. Thanks. What do you want,” she steamed, ready to strangle Denise. “Jake. I want you to fix me up with Jake. For Friday. Since you are friends. Got it?” said Denise squinting daggers. “Please Denise, not that. We’re going steady,” wilted Samantha. “Deal’s a deal, sister,” mocked Denise, laughing to kill herself, locking Samantha outside, as she slammed the door shut on her pretty balling face. Samantha snailed in tears down Water Street, devastated over losing Jake. Denise was a bomb that could easily tie his heart around her finger. She gave him up, over what? Some pictures that probably meant nothing at all. She was shaking, and miserable, when a hand warmed upon her shoulder, “Hey, Samantha.” She turned around, and her bloated red eyes fell into his, “Oh, Jake! Jake.” He embraced her strongly, as she sobbed into him, quivering a torrent against his chest, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jake comforted her, holding her in his arms, toward the Ford parked on Queen. “You’re early,” Sam mumbled through tear stained lips, hugging Jake with all of her being. “Dad has terrible pain in his back. Like someone knotted over double. We couldn’t fish this morning. I’m glad that I found you. What happened, love?” She told Jake of her encounter with Denise. Sam got her answer about the pictures by promising Denise a date with Jake. It crushed her. “I won’t do it. I’ll stand her up,” defied Jake. “No. You have to. I promised,” she cried a river.

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“I love you, Samantha.” “I love you, Jake. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I don’t want to lose you.” “You won’t lose me, love. I am yours forever. I promise you,” declared Jake, enveloping her broken heart within the strength of his own, tenderly rocking the wounded child soul within his care. Samantha pulled herself together. They went to the toy store, finding Natalie and Burt engaged in Battleship. “Thanks for looking after Natalie,” she said, realizing a full hour had passed. “We always have fun, don’t we Natalie?” replied Burt, plucking out his pegs and packing away the convoy. “Awww! I almost won,” fussed Natalie, wishing they had come by later. “Maybe you can beat me next time,” said Jake, handing a crisp folded bill to Burt for the game. He waved his hand away at the change. “Thanks, Jake,” chimed the girls, one after the other. Burt tucked a few mints into Natalie’s pocket, as they said goodbye. “Samantha, could you please take Natalie to the truck,” asked Jake, “I’ve got to stop at the drugstore for Dad.” “Sure, love,” lightly painting Jake with a kiss as they parted. Samantha squeezed Natalie’s hand, as they went around the block. Inside the cab, Natalie knew that her sister was upset. Samantha told her story again, with another stream of tears. She hugged Natalie, who understood more than her age. Jake cringed in the drugstore. He hoped that he could talk with Kate first, and avoid Denise altogether. He slinked down a far aisle, and peeked around, to see who was on duty at the dispensing counter. Only Kate. Thank God. He could do it in three focused steps. He had just passed the corner, when a songbird chirped, “Hello, Jake,” nailing him dead on the spot. “Oh. Hi, Denise,” gritted Jake forcing a polite smile.

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“So, we’re on for Friday!” raced her hot blood, ready to claim him. “Is eight fine?” abbreviated Jake. “Make it six. At my place. We can stop on the way to Amherst,” insisted Denise. “Sure. O.K.,” bowed Jake, stepping back a pace. “Anything else?” she warmed her bold palm upon his withdrawn arm. “No thanks,” replied Jake, slipping away, “I’m just going to see Kate for a minute.” “See you Friday, Jake!” bubbled Denise, flowering her lips into a friendly kiss. He flinched a weak smile, and then swiveled away toward Kate. “Hi Jake. You’re early,” noted Kate. “Yes. Dad’s back is giving him hell. We couldn’t make it out to sea. Can I get a refill of these, please,” handing her the empty prescription vial. “Are the girls with you?” “They’re in the truck, ready to go,” replied Jake, avoiding the issue of Denise and Samantha. “You are the best thing in Samantha’s life, Jake. She really cares for you.” “Samantha is very special to me,” commented Jake, hoping to be out of earshot of Denise. “Samantha has changed a lot because of you Jake. She is more confident, with a sparkle in her eye.” “We have always been best buddies.” “Now she is a young woman, Jake. She is lucky to have such a wonderful man to fall in love with.” Two aisles away glass fell with a distinct showering crash. “I couldn’t imagine my life with anyone else, Kate. When she finds herself, I want us to be together.” “Samantha and you will make a beautiful family. Sam needs more time, Jake. She is delicate. You understand.” “My heart will wait for her. I want to do what is best.”

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“I know you will, Jake.” “Thanks for your support Kate.” “You have a good afternoon with Sam and Natalie. It’s a nice day for a drive. Enjoy your brunch together,” said Kate, stuffing Jake’s shirt pocket with a rolled bill. “Kate!” “I insist. Make my girls happy, Jake,” as she gave his arm an affectionate pinch. The mercury boiled over eighty degrees Fahrenheit by eleven. Before driving through the heat wave to a cool water hole, they stopped at Orrin’s Restaurant. The gleaming white elephant was settled on its haunches, along Route 6, opposite a handful of garish salt box cottages with square manicured lawns that bordered a picture view of the hazy Strait. They chose a booth at the rear, a couple of tables away from the jukebox tremolo of Roy Orbison. The roaring air conditioner iced down the necks of sweating tourists, while their bare thighs stuck to the leather seats like fly paper. It was the same as fueling up at the gas bar, prompt service with the objective of filling an empty tank. Tide charts, inflatable lobsters, canned Nova Scotia air, and sea shell key chains littered the shelves behind the front cash. Grizzly bearded fishermen perpetually snarled against a churning ocean within nicked and sun-faded wooden frames. Hot grease and salt poured from the kitchen, assaulting their nostrils. They ordered a table of onion rings, bulging burgers, battered cod and fries, with a strawberry shake and coke float to wash it all down. In the five minutes between the utensils clanging into formation upon the wobbly table, and the waitress piling the food in front of them, Samantha and Jake decided who had the most auspicious horoscope from the place mats. They poked holes with their forks on their waterringed paper maps, where they had been, and where they might venture on the lobster-shaped provincial peninsula. Natalie metronomed back and forth on her hands, anxious for the infusion of refreshing cold sugar.

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Jake nestled Sam under his wing, her cheek listening to his heartbeat. Her fingertips sailed over the articulated network of veins and tendons weaving under the hairy meadow of his hand. He followed the frayed hem of her cutoffs. She wanted to slip herself underneath the taut tent of his skin, to be safely inside him, away from the hurtful world. These in between times, after leaving somewhere, and before arriving elsewhere, lived with more poignant memory than the definitive moments. These were the spaces of tender nothingness, laid calmly aside from the things said and done. The air which held the intent of hearts, as they breathed, before words ruptured the permeating silence. Their intimate touch of skin within skin, felt the vibrations of life, before their bodies turned separate, alone and foreign unto themselves. “Will your Dad be able to go fishing tomorrow?” asked Samantha. “I doubt it. One good arm is not enough to carry the day, after throwing out his back hoisting bait and gear,” replied Jake tightly scrunching up his napkin. “You know the course, where to find and set the pots?” “With my eyes closed. My Dad and I have been doing it for years together.” “Then I’m coming aboard with you, captain.” “What?” “You pilot the Jennie Lee. I’ll haul the pots.” “You’re joking. My Dad couldn’t afford to hire you.” “I don’t care about that. All I want is to be with you, Jake. To be with you, love,” she pleaded with kisses over his disbelief. “Dad and I would have to work something out, to register you with the DFO.” “We can do it Jake, please.” “Dad won’t be right for a few weeks. And the season will be half over by then. We have to fish now.”

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“Natalie, would you mind staying with Dot?” “As long as I can sleep in, and make all the cookies I want,” kidded Natalie. “We will have to see what our parents say,” rationalized Jake, trying to fathom the situation with as much reason, as heart. “I don’t think you have much choice, Jake. You are stuck with me,” persisted Samantha. She plucked the maraschino from the twirled peak on her float, spreading her lips for its sweet glaze. “Can I have a nibble on your cherry?” spoke Jake, instantly turning a sunburn shade. “I am saving it for you, dear,” blazed Samantha, with her mouth locking firm onto his, savoring love’s flavor. They finished their meal with an orchestrated bout of burps, and continued on their way past Port Howe, sauntering west toward Amherst. Five miles outside of Linden, they pulled over at a roadside clearing among majestic elms towering along the Shiminicus River. Jake had been there earlier in the Spring casting for brook trout. Ahead of them narrow deer trails criss-crossed among the ferns and alders. A brisk southerly breeze sprinkled them with a kaleidoscope of leaf shadows, as they threaded their way through the under story. Upon reaching a secluded knoll, Jake unfurled his blanket. Natalie drooled at the sun swirled shallows below. The stream was more appealing than the Battleship box appendaged to her side. “It’s so hot,” panted Natalie. “How about a dip then?” said Jake. “But we don’t have our bathing suits,” whined Natalie. “You two go first. Whistle when you’re done and dressed. Then I’ll take my turn.” “No peeking. Promise,” winked Samantha, wagging her finger. He unfastened a kiss from her lips, as their hands slipped apart.

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Jake cloud watched between the treetop spires, listening to the sisters’ laughter splashing beyond the bushes. The two of them had always been joined at the hip. Was he selfish stealing Samantha away from her younger spirit twin? Who would take care of Natalie, if they were married? Kate appeared ghastly ill, with no time for her daughters. If God forbid, something happened to Kate, it would devastate Natalie to live with her father and rarely be with Sam. Jake’s love was a crime to come between them. He could not purge Samantha from his heart. He cared for Natalie as his own little sister. His stomach bit into itself with indecision. He had to push away that tomorrow as far as possible, until he could only breathe in the present. After drenching each other silly, the girls docked themselves by the brook edge, letting the fresh cool ripples lap around their floating vanilla nakedness. “This is like a dream,” cooed Natalie, drifting into the sunlit pinkness behind her closed eyelids. “Better than night time,” agreed Sam. “Do you still like our night hugs?” asked Natalie. “I love you, hugs and all.” “Are Natalie hugs as good as Jake hugs?” “Of course they are,” affirmed Sam, with a soft cheek kiss. “I think you are much nicer than the girl at the drugstore.” “I hope so, Princess. I really hope so,” replied Sam, gently rubbing down Natalie’s back. They clothed themselves in their underwear, allowing the oven sun to lick away the beading river drops and goose pimples. Soon they were toweled dry by the pine perfumed wind. “Are you coming?” yawned Natalie, ready to barefoot over stones and moss. “Are you tired?” “Yes. A bit.”

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“I’d like to stay here a little longer. With Jake. If that’s O.K. with you. We could let you have a cat nap. And wake you up later.” “That sounds good to me,” smiled Natalie, “And then play Battleship after?” “You bet,” said Sam. Jake snuggled with Natalie in the shade. He hung his shirt over a branch to block the trickling sunlight. His scent fogged into the air that she breathed. She held him long and deep inside her lungs. Jake brushed Natalie’s chocolate hair with the sweetness of a delicate waft, lighting a lady bug kiss on her forehead. When she was curled content, he dissolved away into the wind. The nude river nymph undressed him with her eyes before his clothes fell upon the bank. His earthly skin, undulated with power, like the current weaving around her, like the wanting wetting her from inside. He slowly lowered himself into the pool of love, as a bold raven wing eclipsed the sun. He folded his rippling stature into a crescent, cuddling alongside her. Their palms and lips became aquatic, gingerly tingling over intimate rises and hollows. His warm mouth soaked her face, pearling as a long necklace between her shoulders, then dangled over her breasts, rolling her twin pink pebbles between his lips. He wandered around her navel, and raised her waist above the surface as an altar. He kneeled, as she offered her blushing calla. His hummingbird tongue tenderly dipped and circled among her wispy petals. He unfolded her coral blossom with a whisper. His mouth pressed full upon her lower lips, and he drank her moaning nectar, as it oozed from her quivering womb. She fainted with pleasure into his enveloping embrace. She was willing for more, tightening his thighs into hers. A burst of emerald shivered beyond them, and it was not from a breeze. Jake looked up through the alder web and saw the unoccupied blanket. The sparrow had fluttered away from her nest.

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It was different, and more beautiful than Natalie had wondered. The glimpses thieved from the lust soaked pages of her mother’s John D. MacDonald and the secret touch inside herself paled to the passion melting them together. How he held her as the most precious and fragile gift. How his lips only offered and never demanded. How patient and tender, as if he had waited, wanted, and needed her more than anything. Natalie felt their circle closing without her, like an oil drop, pinched away from a mother roundness, severed, to be lost on her own. They were good to her. But their love was not the same as the love they gave her. It was a terrible lie. There were different hugs. Ones that she could not have. Natalie knotted inside, sniffing, as a tear burned down her cheek. When Sam and Jake returned to the teepee-legged Princess plucking blades along the blanket edge, the gray clouds had gathered. The sun had lost its warmth. And no one wanted to play Battleship. They drove back to Pugwash, each wanting to be closer than they could. They were all afraid that things had changed, and that more just might. Natalie smothered deep into Samantha’s chest, as her sister nuzzled home into Jake. They held each other, with this in between time. The time they would give their souls to stay the same.

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THIRTEEN Denise pulled free one of the dozen pins that bristled from her pursed ruby lips. She creased another half inch arrow from the side of her open, half-sleeve cotton blouse, drew in her waspish abdomen, and needled the fold in place. Her palms smoothed down the hourglass Barbie doll figure reflected in the full length mirror. Every alteration was critical for her intentions. The neckline had to dive enough to draw interest, without asking for anything more than a compliment. She considered showing a sliver of lace, which sphered her generous feminine proportions with orbiting perfection. Her turquoise floral print skirt rounded snugly, before flaring with enough swish to bare another two inches of tapered porcelain thigh. She raised the hem another finger length above the knee. For the hundredth time, Denise primped her Goldilocks curls rolling down her shoulders. Jake was seduced by flowing locks. She had seen his hands toying with Samantha’s at the store. She thought of dying her hair black, like Sam’s. Denise wanted Jake to know that she was different. More than different. Better. Venus powdered her cheeks and freshened her blood red lipstick, ready to make her kill, when the doorbell above the spacious oak foyer downstairs rang promptly at six. Her palm warmed over the back of his, as she accepted the yellow rose among a puff of baby’s breath at the doorway. His khaki bell bottoms were ironed as stiff as tin. He looked as comfortable as a clown in his beige corduroy sports coat, no doubt with the Gillis price tag still stitched to the collar. Cordial exchanges were made with Denise’s parents. They were a big money family managing the local Irving

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Pulp and Paper. John Parker-Jones frowned at his daughter for reeling in this starched salty flounder from the bottom of the ocean. Later he would have a firm discussion with his wife, Allison, about refining Denise’s courting tastes. At twenty-two and still unmarried, their daughter was nearly doomed as a spinster. Denise had snubbed every socially groomed candidate they had introduced to her. She was spoiled. Unreasonable. A few rough turns, like this hobo, might bring her to her senses, thought Parker-Jones. Denise was far from a daddy’s girl. She would not marry a puppet to dance for Irving. She believed in a man who proved himself, not behind a title, but through his own worth, firmly anchored in family. Through school she had watched Jake grow, yoked beside his father, at times carrying his parents. Jake was ripe for love, and she would not lose him to that airhead Samantha. With her Hollywood looks, and golden purse, Denise could have had anyone. From her bitter girlfriends, she found out early that most boys were after one thing. It worked both ways. Some women fished, and caught a man in their pregnant trap, for security. Sometimes the compromise worked. Sometimes the sacrifice didn’t. Gossip spread that Denise was too good for anyone. Not enough high society for her in this two-bit town. What façade acquaintances she had, soon collapsed to nothing. Denise would rather be alone, than buy a veneer of pretty smiles. She had her job at the pharmacy. It was a pittance. Never the less, it was a beginning, toward the day when she could stand with a real man by her side. Allison wished them a wonderful evening. Behind John’s back she was very proud of her daughter, for fighting for who she was. There were many teenage confrontations between John and Denise, about being a proper woman, and knowing your place. Even the impenetrable booked walls of the study could not contain their bouts of shouting. Denise was grounded for weeks at a time. She refused to bend to her father’s will.

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It was Allison who held her wounded daughter, who bandaged the cuts from haranguing insults and intimidation. Whatever human kindness remained from their pitiful marriage was given to Samantha. She did not want her daughter to become another Allison, a blank servant for thankless years. John was a good provider for his captives, as long as they abided by his rules. Allison had loved, and had fallen out of love, with John for the same reasons. She prayed for Samantha to choose the right ones. They had driven about thirty telephone poles beyond Pugwash, when Jake commented, “We have lots of time before the late show.” “Could we stop at Heather Beach?” “Sure,” said Jake, turning down a series of doglegged dirt lanes peppered with shoebox cottages. He parked in a cul de sac, against an ash lichen shale fence that meandered along a clover and daisy green hairline. The bank crumbled away as a forty foot sandstone escarpment to the bleached footprinted softness rippling below. He opened her door, politely holding her hand as she stepped down from the cab. She was the one to release her hand last. “My feet are aching for the beach,” announced Denise, removing her marigold sling back pumps, “Loosen up Jake, I won’t bite.” “Alright,” tensed Jake, doubting her last statement. He slipped off his jacket, and hung it on the back of the seat. Then he untied his camel oxfords, and steadying himself with a hand on her shoulder, rolled up the white socks inside his shoes, one foot after the other, “Thanks.” He escorted her down the three rickety inclined flights. The fragrance of her freshly washed blond waterfall intoxicated him. When his solid arm occasionally brushed against her forgiving silkiness, she almost fainted a sigh. Denise would be within his embrace by nightfall. They leaned against the railing at the shore, digging their souls into the sand. “I know you didn’t want to go out with me,” sulked Denise.

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“That was mean trick you played on Samantha.” “I know. I am very sorry. Please forgive me, Jake. I will apologize to Samantha.” “Why did you do that Denise?” “I’ve been asking you for a date for months. Even leaving my phone number with your photos. You keep ignoring me,” she soured. “I’m not in your class, Denise,” stated Jake, sugar coating the true reason for his prejudice. “I’m not a snotty bitch, Jake. I admit to being short with Samantha. You have to understand, that everyone asks me for favors all the time, because of my father. Help with their overdue accounts. Connections for a job. I feel used a lot, Jake,” she explained, as her shoulders deflated. “Oh, I see,” mulled Jake. “All I want is for you to know me, for who I am. I’m not asking for you to love me. I just want a chance, to be your friend, Jake,” as her aquamarine eyes jeweled into his. “Alright. No more mind games,” ruled Jake. “Promise,” sighed Denise, crossing her fingers. She hoped to erode his guard, “How is Samantha these days?” “She seems to be doing better. We’ve been fishing together this week, since my Dad is laid up.” “Kate and I have often talked about Sam and Natalie. It has been rough for her, to take care of them and hold down a job.” “I worry about the Allens. We have known them for years. They are struggling.” “Is Sam well enough to work? Part time? She was pretty shook up as a kid. Some things are tough to get over.” “I am trying to help her. Be more confident. And grounded. It will take time.” “I want to be there for her, too, Jake. As one girl to another,” she slyly suggested. “That would be nice,” warmed Jake. Denise smiled in gratitude, “Let’s go around the point,” as she teetered over the algae slick boulders.

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“Better hold on,” said Jake, extending his hand to her for balance. Ten minutes later, the cobbles sunk away to wet tope sand. The shore waves frothed about their ankles, stinging the abrasions on her virgin instep. They made small talk and took baby steps along the sandy arc. She held his hand lightly, and he did not withdraw. “We should be getting back,” said Jake. “If you want to make the show,” added Denise, subliminally seeding other thoughts. The tide rose faster than they anticipated. When they crossed over the point, they had to press themselves along the cliff. Jake blushed, having unzipped his pants, and slung them around his neck. The brine sloshed above their knees. Denise balled her skirt like a ballerina’s tutu. Forced with the inconvenience, Jake cradled her into his arms. She embraced his bull shoulders, as he ploughed through the sea. Denise drew herself firm into his chest. Her hair rivered past his cheeks puffed red with exertion, and down his straining nape. His hot laboring breath sizzled over her creamy moons, having shifted, with one polar pink crescent rising over the interstellar lace. Her mouth watered a whisper away from his tanned ear swirl, “Be careful. Go slow, Jake.” His concentration nearly faltered, between pressing the treacherous roundness under his feet, and her ample contours oceaning gently within his arms. One false step and he could easily fall into her. Denise’s fingertips floated over his leather taut skin, sensing the drumming pulse beneath his sweat blotched shirt. It would take nothing, for her mouth to open full over his. She brought her lips dangerously close, exhaling her scent over his salt kissed face. Unfortunately, they arrived safely on dry land. Denise would have loved to tumble into the surf with him. She imagined her skirt jellyfishing over his torso, their legs entwining, then pillowing him into her open blouse, and running her wet hands through his licorice locks. Winning his body would be easy. She wanted to consume his soul first.

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She slid down from his embrace, her thumping heart only skin away from his. Her thigh grazed by the tip of his bowsprit, thrusting forth valiantly from between the unbuttoned sails of his shirt. He was a deadly handsome man to love. Denise adjusted her garments, brushing away the wrinkles as best she could. Jake’s couture was not as fashionable. His animal furry legs were too damp for the trousers. From a distance, his boxer shorts didn’t appear that much different than regular swimming trunks. Jake straightened his shirt, and pulled the tails down as far as they could go. They passed only a few gawking couples on the beach, as the sun lowered toward the horizon with his pride. “It’s not that bad, Jake,” reassured Denise, sliding her palm from his shoulder, down around his waist. “I’m a bit shoddy to take out on the town,” admitted Jake sheepishly. “You are fine, Jake. I wouldn’t have anyone else for company,” consoled Denise. “It’ll be dark when we get there. And no one will notice anyway,” he shrugged. By the time they had returned to the pick-up, Jake was more than ready for his trousers. He hen scratched around in the grass to rub away the beach grit, then socked and shoed himself. Denise fussed with her sandy feet. Jake vanished for a minute, and then reappeared with a damp handkerchief. “The stream is handy for rinsing,” he commented, kneeling before her, as she sat on the passenger side, dangling her mile high legs in front of him. If his next breath was a proposal, she would have leaped into his arms with an, “I do!” Denise fought to contain herself. He cupped her angel foot in his palm, as if she was a living fairy tale, and stroked away the sand with deliberate attentive softness for each toe. Her French pedicure and nail polish were scraped, scratched and chipped like a fourteenth century Renaissance painting. She didn’t care. Denise dreamed of rolling naked in the sand, to have him moisten her clean with his affection.

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It was after eight before they were on the highway again. “Sombody’s going to yell ‘skunk’ in the theatre,” said Jake, crinkling his nose and fanning his shirt. “The girls will be all over you, if you went barechested,” she teased. “And the guys would do the same with you,” he kidded, tugging on her lapel. “Stop it!” she laughed, with a slight slap-kiss upon his hand. “Let’s swing by Lenny’s on the way through Port Howe. We can grab some drinks, and a T-shirt to wear under my jacket.” The corner grocer’s was less than an hour from closing. A few stray sugared-up brats wagging thawed Mr. Freezies chased one another down the can and cereal aisles. Nearby, a lonely cart creaked, accompanied by voices bickering whether it should be hamburger or T-bones on the weekend. Denise snatched a root beer and cherry soda from the fridge, before following Jake to the souvenir rack. Most of the T-shirts featured monster lobsters or something bordering on tartan. A plain white one was hanging at the back. A modest Nova Scotia flag was tattooed over the heart. Jake stretched it over his chest, nearly ripping the seams. He goofed around with Denise as a muscle bound menacing Hulk. On the way to the cash, he pulled a can of Right Guard down from the shelf. “We can leave the beach behind. But I want to have a man beside me. Not a perfumed doll,” argued Denise, taking the deodorant away from him, and setting it back on the shelf. “I’m afraid the sea will always be with me.” “I like you as you are, Jake. Natural,” said Denise, popping the cap off his soda for him, while she fizzed up inside.

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“How much?” he asked the goldfish bowl spectacled clerk, whose telekinetic powers failed to nudge the minute hand. “I’ve got it,” interrupted Denise, closing her palm over his billfold, “Fair is fair, for soaking your shirt.” “It’s not everyday that I carry an angel,” remarked Jake, reeling from a strike across the face of his heart, after uttering the words. A piece of Samantha just died inside him. They hopped into the cab and roared west over the tar patched grey ribbon, threading through the twilight veil. The ticket booth swallowed the end of the fish tail queue, as they ran hand in hand down Church Street to the Paramount. The summer blockbuster Jaws still packed audiences, even after three weeks running. Once inside, Denise led him by the flickering glow of the Coke commercial, to the last pair of seats on the upper left wing. Jake juggled the Mountain Dew and jumbo popcorn, while she squeezed by, inserting herself between the gums of the spring loaded cushions. Above them frigid air blasted through the vents to counter the warmth of sardine stacked bodies that were glued to the opening scene. Denise didn’t even rub her arms once, before Jake removed his jacket, and draped it around her shoulders. She was jealous of the couple in front of them, sucking face as if neither of them had eaten with passion in days. She leaned into Jake, her palm asking for his. At least he allowed her that much. When the soundtrack threatened impending carnage, she sank her blond softness further into his chest. Jake curled his arm around her shoulders, as her cheek warmed into him. His other hand was occupied with holding the soft drink. They shared the popcorn balanced upon his lap. She would scoop a few crunchy blossoms, and offer them to him. The first few times he passed, preferring the inconvenience of making a safe spot for the drink before getting his own handful. Finally, he accepted the practical intentions. Her dainty piano ivory fingers melted against his lips, as she slipped the puffs into his mouth, feeling his hot breath roll over her open palm.

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Jake silently smiled, “Thank you,” enjoying her more, than the mechanical shark swimming among the sea of gasps. Denise motioned for the Dew, and then it was his turn to cup some kernels for her. She took them one at a time, lingering her hungry tongue along the edge of his hand. Her lips engulfed a buttered finger, taking him slow and deep into her mouth. On the screen, the giant shark chomped through the stern. Her tongue massaged around him like a tropical tidal wave, nibbling with a soft tease upon the tip as he withdrew. The crew scurried to the foredeck, waiting for the next strike. “Denise!” he flushed. “A girl’s just having fun,” she whisper giggled into his ear, wetting his lobe between her lips. He cooled off after that maneuver. She apologized, and began to lift away from him. He couldn’t hurt her feelings, and relented, hugging her close again. The drink was finished except for the ice cube slurry at the bottom. The popcorn box was nearly empty. She probed for the last few kernels, dropping them between his loins. “Don’t move, I’ve got it,” she breathed over his chest, drinking his racing pulse, “We don’t want to make a mess.” Her palm fluttered down the carton, and dipped along his inner thigh. The captain cursed and made ready his harpoon for the Great White. The ocean surface rippled. The rise beneath his jeans moved, at the approach of her languid touch. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” rabidly shouted the scientist, perched atop the sinking cabin. She pressed gently, up and down, his hidden length, “I know it’s here.”

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All of the logical blood in his brain drained downward, engorging between his thighs. His sensual thoughts funneled toward the apex of pleasure. He succumbed completely to her, turning his torrid breath and searching eyes into hers. “Baby! Oh, baby!” she trembled, pinching and kneading his marvelous girth with her greedy fingertips. The loaded harpoon exploded with a bang, skewering the murderous target, flooding the sea red with a gush of blood. Jake’s thighs quivered, as he shot warm cream into his denim, shaking with a soft moan that Denise completely devoured into her mouth. Thirty-five miles away at Pugwash, beneath the cloudy velvet heavens, Natalie and Samantha were cocooned on the front veranda. They had zipped the twin sleeping bags together into one. The greater darkness had enveloped them, with no stars to wish upon, except for the soul twinkles from one another’s gaze. They filled their lungs with the cool cotton midnight air, which was already condensing droplets upon the railing, windows and other surfaces which gradually became inanimate by the hour. The midsummer fluorescence sparked notes across the still nocturne. They were bottled within circumstances, like the firefly Natalie had caught in a jar, and placed between them. Restless, she would tip it, roll it along its side, or give it a soft shake. The black drop would only gravitate immobile. The can opener had stabbed plenty of breathing holes through the tin bottle top. When she had captured the insect, it had climbed and ticked against the glass, electrocuting the air with brilliant green flashes. Quickly, it resigned lifeless in confinement. They had grown older, together, but not much had changed within their bubble of years. They had played, loved, and laughed the same, season after season. Sometimes Samantha felt the cold glass, and cried for air holes, those stars poking through the suffocating ink.

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“I can’t sleep,” mumbled Natalie, turning toward Samantha, who stared into pure emptiness. “Me, neither,” sighed her sister, snuggling beside Natalie, braiding her fingers through the Princess curls. “You thinking of Jake?” she peeped. “Yeah,” replied Sam, wondering if he had kissed Denise. Of course he had. Wondering if she had lost him. Answering again, with a tear. “What’s going to happen?” “I don’t know Princess. I don’t know,” cracked Samantha’s voice. She embraced Natalie tighter and kissed her cheek hard. Natalie circled her fairy palm over Sam’s back, soothing her heartbeat. Sam kissed her, again, more lightly, tracing her fingertips over Natalie’s baby soft skin. Natalie shifted onto her back, allowing her sister’s touch to flow warmly over her arms, chest and legs. All the while Samantha cooed “I love you Princess.” They had almost slipped away into the same dream together, when Natalie took her sister’s palm lower. She could have done it herself, but Samantha had a special gentleness. It was a closeness they both wanted and needed. A closeness that must never change. Samantha’s fingertip slowly encouraged wetness from between Natalie’s downy feminine folds, releasing her sour sweet fragrance and content infant moans. “What is kissing like?” raised Natalie. “You’ll find out when are older, honey,” lighting the final evening caress upon her rose bud lips. Samantha hugged her close, thankful for her other wing, her Natalie, that she needed to fly. Samantha unscrewed the cap, and tipped the contents onto her palm. In seconds she felt a wiggle of life. The emerald Christmas light buzzed, took flight, and blinked away as a random zigzag into forever.

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FOURTEEN Tim swirled the ice in his tumbler of scotch, while scanning the city lights necklaced around Halifax Harbour from his penthouse suite at Park Victoria. In the corner of the window opening to the breathtaking evening panorama, the reflection of his answering machine constantly blinked for attention. He ignored the Morse code of the red dot, and dialed up his next plan. “Hello, Helen, dear, I’ve received your messages.” “You’re coming down?” “I can arrange to pass through on Friday.” “Great! I’ll be ready for you, love.” “Any other news?” inquired Tim. “Samantha and Jake were in on Tuesday. You remember me telling you about the Nelson boy,” emphasized Helen. She hoped that it would stir more consideration about the Abercrombie homestead. “Summer romance. It comes and goes,” he laughed. “They make a lovely couple. Samantha has been working on the boat with Jake this week.” “Really?” remarked Tim, quite surprised. “Yes. Jake bought Samantha some new boots and all-weather clothing. She mentioned that she was wearing his gear for the first few days.” “I see.” “She hangs onto him like a dirty shirt.” “Samantha is working for the summer?” “Maybe for another week. Jake’s father should be recovered by then.” “How about Natalie?”

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“Mrs. Nelson’s looking after her while Kate is at the pharmacy.” “The Nelson’s are close friends.” “Maybe your family, someday, Tim, if Jake and Samantha get married.” “That will never happen,” said Tim, definitively. “Love can make anything possible, dear.” “I suppose so,” relented Tim. “I’ll see you at six on Friday?” “Yes, dear. Sweet dreams Helen.” “You, too, love,” she replied, finishing with a spattering smack of kisses. If Samantha became engaged to Jake, that would complicate matters. Tim had to make the Nelsons move, and preferably break up Jake and Samantha before it became ugly. He thought about the details and possible ways of altering the situation. After a few hours, he had a revelation. Tim would have to take advantage of everyone being away from the cottage. He would inquire with his informant at the drugstore, about Kate’s hours. What was her name? Denise? Yes, Denise. The snippy blond changed her tune, and cheerfully obliged for another hundred bucks under the counter. The Buick crept under the pine shadows of the Allen driveway at half past nine. The cottage appeared devoid of any signs of activity. The curtains were drawn against the summer sun. The garden hose hung coiled and dripping, on the corner. All of Natalie’s toys were gathered from the yard. Tim never told Kate about his spare cottage key. He considered it a measure of personal insurance, should a problem arise with Kate. Tim was counting on two things; Samantha clinging onto her possessions, and Kate procrastinating with disposing the garbage to the local dump. Residents were responsible for taking their own extra refuse to the landfill site. Tim noted the skunk chewed garbage lid by the back porch buzzing wild with green bottle flies. He had brought gloves and disposable coveralls in case he had to explore that option.

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Tim shuddered, nearly vomiting at the thought. He turned the key, and slipped inside, disturbing nothing on his way to the various family closets. After thoroughly searching among the jackets, jeans, blouses and dresses, he had failed. Tim needed to think like Samantha. She was infatuated with Jake, and wanted him close by. He envisioned Kate wanting to dispose of the odiferous wear. Samantha would have it hidden nearby, within reach. She would want to touch him in her dreams. Tim sat on Samantha’s bed. He noticed a corner of green rubber poking from under the bed frame. He crouched down on all fours, and pulled out the complete set of allweather gear. The fish-scaled rubber was worn away at the knees and elbows. Jake’s red and white toque lay atop the fisherman’s raincoat and trousers. Tim donned his latex gloves, and double bagged Jake’s outer wear together with his tread bare size twelve goulashes that he had found at the back of Samantha’s wardrobe. Mission accomplished, he disappeared down the gravel washboard road leaving a wake of dusty zephyrs. Samantha would have a fit, and accuse Kate of throwing out Jake’s clothes. Kate would deny it, and be too sick to argue. His daughter would fume for a few days, before the whole episode would be forgotten. Remarkably, Tim still loved his daughters, despite his otherwise admitted Machiavellian tendencies. Stealing his clothes would hurt Samantha. It was necessary for her own good, and more importantly for his project on Abercrombie lane. Particularly pleased with himself, Tim continued past Pugwash. He glanced with a devious smile at the photocopied file of Kate Allen’s medical history next to him on the passenger seat. Ben was well known around Wallace. On the pretence of delivering the urgent package, Tim only had to make a few business inquiries before locating Dr. Scott’s

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secluded private residence. Kate’s confidential medical file, obviously accessed by someone, would prey upon Scott’s conscience. Ben was aware of what could happen if the information fell into the wrong hands. “Hello?” muttered Ben, dead upon returning home after an eleven p.m. emergency house call. “Hello, Dr. Scott. I assume you read the Friday afternoon mail on your doorstep.” Silence. “I didn’t realize that Kate was so ill, until I read the file myself,” he remarked, twisting the knife deeper. Nothing. “I don’t understand why you would continue to heavily medicate my wife, after the warning from the CMA.” “That’s none of your business, Allen,” snapped Ben. “It is, if I report you to the board. If you lose your license, who would look after dear Kate?” sneered Tim. “What do you want, Allen?” gritted Ben. “Fifty grand,” threatened Tim. “What?” Ben blew up hysterically. “I know that you’re good for it Ben. I had my sources check you out,” cooled Tim, adding, “I own you, Scott!” “Go to Hell, you bastard!” shouted Ben, slamming down the phone receiver. The dial tone hung speechless in the air. “We’ll talk again soon, Scott,” laughed Tim, squeezing the country mouse between his paws. Ben knew that Tim was serious. It would consume his life savings and force him to sell his property. He would be destroyed. How much time until the next call? Hours? Days? Maybe a week of grace. Could he stall, and pay him off with thirty grand cash now, and the balance later? Ben suspected that money meant nothing to the scum, Dr. Allen, in his lucrative professional position. More than likely it was a means of severing his personal involvement with Kate. It was no secret around town that Ben cared for her, although

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there was no formal relationship. Ben wanted to avoid conflict of interest issues, among other things. Ben phoned Kate the following evening. Her shift was over at nine. Kate informed Samantha that she would be home late, and not to wait up for her. The last ember from the sunset clouds had died into the steel gray twilight soot, when the Corolla’s lights winked through the spruce gauntlet down Ben’s lane. He opened the door for Kate, as she stepped out of her Toyota, and embraced her with warm concern. They held each other, arresting the moment, among the din of chirping crickets, and other less comforting thought voices rambling inside them. With arms around each other, they glided onto the screened veranda that smiled with a string of Chinese lanterns. Hazelnut tea honeyed the humid night, as they leaned together, in pendulous silence, upon the swing chair. She curled deep into him, as he sailed fingertip caresses over her lined haggard face. Her scent seemed less sweet to him now, than it had been a few weeks ago. She was trying to purge her system of the opiate drugs. He wrote kisses with the moonlight across her forehead. Ben could only guess at the storm throbbing between her temples. Kate raised her lips to Ben’s, needing the balm of his love to soften her struggle. Their mouths folded strongly into each other, wanting the impossible. “I am more than a summer fling,” joked Ben. “I bet you say that to all of the girls,” responded Kate. “I’m not as easy as I look,” he chided. “We’ll see about that,” as she undid his shirt, and poured her lips over his wooly chest. His heart knelled dull. Her caresses failed to release the cord of worry binding his muscles. “If only,” Ben sighed. “It’s Tim, isn’t it?” “He’s got your file.” “Oh God!” “I have to pay him off. Or lose my license.”

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Kate balled on his shoulder. “I don’t want your name dragged through the mud.” “You can’t give into him,” she sobbed. “If I don’t pay him fifty grand, my life here is finished.” “Then start over. Somewhere else, Ben.” “Will you come with me Kate? The four of us. Samantha. Natalie.” “You know I can’t, Ben,” shook Kate, as tears rained down her cheeks, and over his. “I don’t care what happens. I want to be with you, Kate,” cried Ben. “Hold me, Ben. Hold me, and don’t let go.” She nestled as a cloud in his arms, toward the candlelit bed chamber. Ben kneeled, to withdraw a syringe and a vial of morphine from his medical bag. Kate pushed it away. “Your love is the only drug I need, sweetheart,” swooned Kate, as she took him hard and tight. The hot wax and undone clothes both dripped away. Night revealed their vulnerable forms, traced by feverish hungry fingertips. They were like rivers of mercury; coalescing, shimmering, weaving, becoming inseparable. Their tangled bodies swayed in rhythm to the soft tumble of distant surf. She wanted as much as he could give. He flowed entirely into her. Their mouths seared tight and full, until they could only breathe with a common soul. The flame flickered and died into smoke. The pleasure of their beings groaned complete, as they fell love spent into one another. Ben held her, his lips only a kiss away from hers, as she fell asleep, lost in a dream waiting for him. He lay awake; drinking her breath over his face, being warmed and loved by her skin rising and falling within his touch, caressing every subtle feature with his eyes until tomorrow had begun. She was the first to rise, during the smallest hours, when yesterday was still painted among the shadows, and tomorrow was merely a few sketched lines. His watery gaze flowed over her opal profile, illuminated by the stars, and the

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moon, and by his simple yet profound love for Kate. She willowed as an elegant ikebana, poised and yielding to the ocean waft passing through the window. Her fingers whispered in communion with the bobbing antennae of a chocolate gypsy moth that gently hung on the other side of the screen. They both understood darkness, and being alone. He encircled her with his arms, as a vase having enveloped a delicate stem; crowned by a precious fragile bud. His hands gingerly crossed with hers, over her navel, while his angora chest warmed against her back. His mouth moistened the curve of her nape, as Ben buried himself in the scent of her mane cast wildly over his face. The cool breeze kissed her skin alive as she dissolved into his embrace. Kate spread herself as a starfish, knotting her palms into the curtain folds, her candle silk legs astride, as he brought her melon hips into the heat of his own. His tepid breath rolled over her shoulders. Her breasts swayed with his gentle motion, rocking a lullaby within her womb. Her eyes penetrated as far as she could toward the faint horizon. She felt as deeply as she might within her lost self. She wanted to sense the perpetual waves beyond, to capture them within her, as Ben’s passionate tide swelled inside her body and soul. She cried for just one sweet taste of forever. “I have to go,” she quivered, as his love fountained full within her. “We are good together, Kate,” begged Ben. She wanted to tell him, “Yes,” with everything in her heart, but she was afraid. Would it be another promise snatched away from her lips, and her life? How could she give her love to him, when everything about her was disintegrating? “I love you, Ben,” she gulped, knowing all too well that their intimate touch was as fleeting as the moth wings, which evaporated into the death of the night. She held those words, and Ben, impossibly tight. “I love you, Kate,” pledged Ben with every fiber of his being.

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Time ultimately loosened their embrace. Ben slowly slipped her paisley print dress over Kate’s naked warmth. He clothed himself only with her fragrance of love, not wanting anything but the essence of Kate enveloping him. They held each other briefly again, drenching the cotton skin between them with passionate desire. “Samantha will be worried,” said Kate, finally letting all of him go. He puppy dogged barefoot after her, out of the door, and across the yard, his palm desperately dangling within hers. They shared one last deep French caress, before Kate backed away in her Toyota. The high beams burned Ben’s stark white flesh against the last cinders of night. She left him, dwindling away as a lonesome splinter in her rear view mirror, in the middle of nothingness.

FIFTEEN At quarter past three Samantha heard the suction of air compress from the back door, as it opened and closed. The bathroom light blinked for a second, and tap water gurgled down the sink drain. She listened for her mother’s shoes to lightly prance over linoleum. Shoes that were left behind, with her undergarments, in Wallace. Her nostrils waited for the whiff of sterilizing alcohol, followed by the tear of fresh gauze and rattled vials. When none of these noises occurred, Samantha’s curiosity carefully peeled away from Natalie, and she tiptoed across the hall. Samantha’s fingertips met Kate’s, as she turned around, and unbuttoned between her shoulders for her mother. The wrinkled dress fell away, crumpling around Kate’s grass dewed feet. Samantha sat beside her, as Kate collapsed exhausted onto the bed. She recognized the heady, musky, moist passion that perspired about Kate. “You love him, don’t you mom?” “If only I could, dear.” “Then why don’t you?” “There isn’t time,” sank her voice with regret. “There was, when we were kids.” “Things were different then.” “Ben can make you very happy.” “You and Natalie?” “A real family would be nice, mom. Ben’s a great guy.” “He has so little time at home. How could he look after you, when I’m gone?” stated Kate. A frigid damp breath dropped through the window. “Don’t talk like that mom, please!” wept Samantha.

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Kate hugged her more deeply than ever. Her tears trickled with Samantha’s until she found peace, knowing that she was loved. When Kate finally found rest, Samantha returned to Natalie. The days blended together, one throbbing headache after another. Kate could barely focus into the next hour. She wondered how she could survive the summer. Ten years ago, Kate was a sharp looker at O’Brien’s. Pert and clever just like Denise. Her record at the pharmacy was unblemished. She had established herself as a valuable liaison between the physicians and the community. She dispensed medication with care and responsibility toward her extended family of Pugwash. Having gained trust and kindness from the townspeople, she knew almost as much gossip as Mrs. Mundle. She chuckled at the smorgasbord of bachelors heaped upon her by relatives and friends of patients. When rumors blazed about Kate and Ben, you could swear bets were wagered on a marriage date. Kate kept them guessing. Perhaps it might have been a beautiful relationship. Ben would have given heaven and earth to be with Kate, and her children. Now, with her terminal illness, she realized her error with burning regret. Kate could only love him madly for a few more months; the years between them were lost forever. She couldn’t saddle Ben alone with the care of Natalie and Samantha. Her children deserved a stable home, with two parents. Her girls would be well loved by the Nelsons. Kate was thankful for working the last evening shift; not only because of her amorous rendezvous with Ben, but also for the opportunity to top off her cache of drugs. Several weeks ago, when Ben had mentioned the letter from the CMA, Kate knew that she had to take matters into her own hands. She could have asked him to give her painkillers, without anyone else knowing. Sooner or later, the misappropriated medication would have jeopardized his career. Even if Kate had not been in love with Ben, her principles would not allow that breech of conduct against someone else.

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Ben had too much to lose. Kate on the other hand, might not. If she stole drugs, Kate would be convicted, and be forced to forfeit the custody of her children to Tim. However, it was not that clear cut. There was a long and convoluted paper trail for prescriptions. If she was very careful, Kate could alter a digit here or a date there. She could easily change the number of refills or the dosage of codeine for herself. She might even be bold enough to alter the inventory. If Kate was lucky, she could evade persecution for two, maybe three months. That would be enough time. Her only chance was for Kate to die, before she was charged for the crime. The testamentary will ensured that Samantha and Natalie would be cared for by the Nelsons. It was a terrible black plot to consider; to plan life for others according to her own death. The oppressive cloud often hung in her mind. In her darkest solitary corner Kate even contemplated suicide. It would be a clean break, allowing her to avoid the excruciating pain in the coming weeks. Was Kate selfish, to keep herself alive, for the sake of being with her children, and Ben? At times it seemed that it was easy to end it all. She had to tell herself that her dribble of days left was for them. While Kate was alone at the counter filling a prescription, she reached for a bottle of Darvon from the locked cabinet. The customer’s pills were tallied and labeled into a plastic vial. Discretely, she popped a few narcotic capsules into an older prescription vial of hers from Ben. She quickly pocketed it into her lab coat; and later transferred the drugs to her purse. By August the anguish would be unbearable. Next week she would begin syringing a few cc’s of Demerol aside for herself. Kate realized the addictive nature of these drugs. She tried to withstand as much agony as possible. Kate risked stealing medication as a last resort. She was a desperate dying woman. When the drugstore closed, Kate made a silent prayer for herself having survived another day. On Wednesday morning, when Denise dispensed some codeine, she was surprised to discover that the stock

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was nearly depleted. She was positive that a fresh inventory of common painkillers had arrived last month. On her coffee break Denise leafed through the records. At first glance everything seemed to be accounted for. She distinctly remembered handling the codeine. Without attracting undue attention to herself, Denise photocopied the pertinent files, a few at a time, and folded them away into her jacket. By the following weekend she had finished gathering sufficient information. Late Saturday night, when the Parker-Jones mansion was snoring in reverie, Denise turned her tri-light on dim, and examined the records. It was a larger collection of files than she had anticipated. Denise would need two or three tedious hours to comb through the hefty stack. She had also begun a separate dossier on Kate. Denise needed an upper hand over Samantha, if she was going to win Jake. She observed that Kate was pale, weak and exhausted to the extant of struggling to work through a long night. Denise checked through the records of Kate’s prescriptions since last March. She was shocked to find that Kate was medicated to human capacity. For some strange reason the prescriptions from Dr. Scott had tapered off to nearly nothing by mid June. Why would the medications cease when Kate appeared to be increasingly ill? Denise could understand that if Kate was very sick, she could possibly make errors in the records. She knew that Kate had been at the drugstore for years, without any complaints from management. She was determined to decipher the mystery. At four o’clock, with bloodshot eyes, and the last yawn of concentration, Denise stumbled upon two prescriptions of codeine for Mrs. Allen. The dates were about a month apart, and one was a consecutive refill of the other. Logically, the refill count should have decreased from the older prescription, at the time the new one was filled. They both read, “Three Refills.” That was impossible. Apparently, Kate had given herself an extra refill of codeine.

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Denise had physically counted out the entire codeine stock at the counter by herself, three times, to be absolutely sure. When she compiled the number of capsules dispensed over the month, there was a discrepancy. Either there was a mistake in the records, or drugs were being stolen. The quantity of missing pills was significant, but not outrageous. The thief knew the system well enough to avoid suspicion. It came together. Kate must be pilfering medication for her severe illness. A mother in her state would barely be able to cope with her children, let alone keep her wits about herself at the pharmacy. Denise continued to photocopy the incoming inventory, and Mrs. Allen’s dubious prescriptions. She had her own file on Kate’s favorites – codeine, Darvon and Demerol. Denise reasoned that after two months of gathering evidence, she could destroy Kate. Or would she? Denise wondered if there might be a devious connection. Dr. Allen paid her to know about his wife’s shift hours. Kate paid her to creatively lie when Tim appeared at the pharmacy asking for her. Denise was sure that it went beyond Kate’s hours. There was likely more at stake with the Allen family than she could realize. Denise could dig deeper into the affair, but being caught in the crossfire might prove disastrous. She would become a closer friend with Samantha, and find out more about Kate through her. Denise would not tangle with Tim, who threw around money to buy anyone. Denise had several options to consider. At the end of August the incriminating evidence could be given to O’Brien’s. The RCMP would immediately arraign Kate. If Denise did not report Kate, she might continue stealing until September before being caught. Surely Kate knew the chances that she was taking. Why would Kate do it? She could lose her children, her home, and everything. Denise could sell the information to Dr. Allen. He would be most interested, and pay her handsomely. Denise froze inside, at Tim’s merciless cruel streak. Her instinct told her not to trust him.

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Denise might threaten Samantha, if she was losing the battle of love. Denise could tell Samantha about the evidence against her mother. If Samantha did not break up with Jake, then she would report Kate. The drastic measure might work. But what if Jake later found out why Samantha had ditched him? If Denise blew the whistle on Kate, she would likely be rewarded and despised. Denise might be branded as a back stabber, losing the respect and friendship of other staff and villagers who were under Kate’s wing. She would ruin Kate’s established career to advance her own. It would be lonely and cold, if she cried foul, and moved to a higher rung of management. Perhaps the worst blow would be to lose Jake altogether. How could he ever love her, or even like her, if Denise threw away the jail key for Samantha’s mother? It was a complex and potentially divisive powder keg that could explode in a hundred directions. Denise would have to know more about Kate and her family before making any accusations. Denise was clever enough to turn a situation to her advantage, but she was not a vindictive person. At least she had a conscience. Early Sunday morning Denise told her mother that she was going for a short drive to clear her head. She borrowed Allison’s gleaming white Plymouth Fury and powered into town. At the corner, by the Red and White, Denise nipped into the phone booth and placed a call to Halifax. She gave the operator the unlisted phone number. After six rings a stern male voice answered, “Hello!” “Collect call from Denise Parker-Jones. Do you accept the charges?” monotoned the operator. “Yes. Hello. Denise?” “Hi,Tim. Sorry about the early call.” “I’m on my fourth cup of coffee. What’s up?” “There’s something going on at the pharmacy with Kate.” “Excellent!” “I don’t have enough information yet.” “When?”

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“Maybe September. There are lots of records to sift through.” “Keep on it Denise. Good work!” “I’m trying to find out more.” “Anything I can do?” “I thought if I was closer to Samantha, as a friend, she might tell me more about her mother.” “Yes.” “Maybe a day in town would open her up. Girls love to shop.” “Alright.” “Thanks, Tim.” “My pleasure. Bye Denise.” Tim knew that Denise was after money even before she asked for it. However, the funds would be well spent on his two daughters, and he did not regret that one iota. Denise was a valuable inside source, even if it did cost him a pretty penny. The Parker-Jones were a rich family. Maybe Denise was too loose with the old man’s money to have a silver spoon bank account. Denise blushed as she remembered that Friday evening with Jake. She played with him, first a love tug, pulling upon his affections, then she slackened, and turned away cold, letting her barb twist deeper into his heart. On the way back to Pugwash they purred down an abandoned farm lane. The Ford rocked and grunted over the minefield of potholes and ruts. Alder branches parted, screeching their fingernails along the rust and dents. They stopped short at the dead end which broke away to the rumbling Atlantic abyss below. The starless view was soon obscured, as the windows became fogged by more than conversation. Their mouths boiled madly together, as Jake pushed back the seat to its limit. Denise slipped off her panties, and straddled over his lap. She unsheathed his loins with a minor protest of moans and fumbling fingers. She unbuttoned her blouse, and then released the front clasp springing free her overflowing lacy cups. She smothered his sweating face into

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her cumulous puffs, and ran her hands as a shivering breeze through his curly raven heather. Jake’s fingers sunk deep into her peach ripe bottom. He lost all sense of navigation, as her channel swallowed him full. His mast spired tall into her moist heavenly womb. His eyes drowned in a confusion of love, crying for salvation into hers. She swooped down upon him, like a clap of thunder, smacking her lips around his, tying her tongue around his words. She drank his pounding breath until he convulsed uncontrollably and magnificently within her, before they fell into a long dreamy embrace. “I know you can’t love me, Jake,” sulked Denise. She kissed away any words from his lips. “But I can love you. Will you let me love you, Jake?” His eyes jiggled lost. His mouth quivered, tortured by pins and needles of syllables. “This one night. For us. I won’t ever ask again.” He nodded weakly. “Swear that you won’t tell Samantha.” That name extinguished the raging wildfire. He had betrayed his true love. His skin dripped with clammy guilt. They separated, and dressed themselves somehow as tainted friends or forbidden lovers. At two a.m. her lips stung one final caress upon his, as they pigeoned together by the Parker-Jones threshold. She turned away, her feathery fingertips slipped away from his, as she disappeared into a hollow darkness beyond his touch. “Good night, Jake.” “Good night Denise.” He could not say goodbye, because he knew that it wasn’t. Jake idled in the Ford, watching her silhouette in the bedroom window, until the light was snuffed out. He grinded the gears into forward, and began to forget something that should never have happened. Denise savored the fragrant trace of Jake that tickled down her inner thigh, as his taillights floated away as sparks

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into the night. He was tucked away secretly, until she needed him again. Tomorrow, Denise would see Samantha, and express her sincerest lies. How Jake talked the night away about Samantha; their lobster fishing days, times together as kids, and their friendship that blossomed into love. He was a true gentleman, offering polite company on a harmless date. She apologized over and over, for the trouble she stirred. Denise begged for Samantha to forgive her. Reluctantly, Samantha accepted sisterly hugs from Denise. Denise hoped that enough days had passed to dilute the bitterness. She phoned Kate first, and asked if Samantha and Natalie could come into the city with her. She didn’t want to go by herself. When Natalie heard of the invitation, she jumped up and down with one hundred, “Pleases.” Samantha brooded, and eventually relented for Natalie. On the last weekend of June, Denise and the Allen girls hit the town. Samantha and Natalie had not been in Halifax since the Christmas holidays. Those raw grey muffled memories were left far behind, as they now drove beneath the lush maple canopy along Connaught. A few turns and streetlights later, the Plymouth was parked in the South End, off Birmingham, about two blocks away from the Spring Garden Road shopping district. The brilliant sultry sunshine had enlivened the streets with a bustling crowd of overdressed American tourists, brightly starched sailors and trendy black leather youths. Everyone milled around the eateries, gift shops and corner greens like a mass of bewildered ants streaming in opposite directions. After the draining drive from Pugwash, the three ladies were relieved to release the rigor mortis of their seat belted bodies. Denise had frequented the city often, and led them toward the Public Gardens to limber their stiff muscles. Natalie played with her shadow that skipped over the grass on the other side of the black speared iron railing which bordered the Victorian park. Their eyes and steps slowed, as they passed by the vendors displaying their idyllic Peggy’s

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Cove oils, sea glass bracelets and necklaces, and a sketches penciled in progress. After entering the towering scrolled gate, they headed for the canteen and refreshed themselves with a guzzle of soft drinks and ketchup splattered fries from the canteen. The paths wound through tangerine, gold and pink azaleas, all in peak bloom. Samantha paused to drink the sweet fragrance of the rose beds which were beginning to flower. Natalie was intimidated at first by the mute swan, which was almost as tall as she was. Denise had brought along her Polaroid camera for the day. She showed Natalie how to focus, and squint through the peephole viewfinder. Samantha timed, peeled and piled the drying square snapshots. Natalie was thrilled to be appointed the trip photographer. Two dozen mallards instantly airplaned in from all points of the central pond toward Natalie. She flicked a fountain of bread tidbits into the deafening ocean of quacking feathers that pecked around her shins. Samantha clicked a picture of her sister’s laughter, while she sat with Denise underneath the dappled shade of a rustling old chestnut. “You have made her day,” spoke Samantha. She smiled, pleased at the picture of Natalie floating upon the winged blur. “That’s what friends are for,” replied Denise. “She’s a happy kid. Even at home.” “It must be hard. With your mother...” trailed Denise, fishing into Samantha’s mind. “You know?” “Dr. Scott phones in prescriptions to the pharmacy. I have filled out a few of Kate’s,” lied Denise. “We’ll have the summer together.” “Does Natalie know?” “No. Please don’t tell her. If she found out about mom’s cancer...” “I’m sorry,” consoled Denise, squeezing Samantha’s hand. Denise’s heart lumped in her throat, as she realized the Allens predicament. She understood why Kate

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stole a few pills to survive her last crippling months. By autumn, when it might be all over, the pharmacy would be in the red by a couple of thousand dollars. That was a small price to pay for a few final family months. Denise felt guilty for opening the Pandora’s Box with Tim. She would have to curtail his curiosity, and keep Kate’s secret. Denise cried an inside tear, for Samantha, too. She imagined a broken Samantha having lost both her mother and Jake. Still, it was not easy to carve Jake out of her chest. She had to keep a piece of him locked away within her. After a merry-go-round the Gardens and half a pack of Polaroid film later, they spilled out of the gate onto South Park, and crossed the intersection over to the Citadel. The three of them sprinted to the top of the verdant buttercupped slopes. Natalie’s arms spun as fast as her egg beater legs. Samantha leaped as a gazelle. Denise chased after them a close third, nearly pumping her twin guns loose. They perched, panting against the steel guard rail, which ribboned around the granite cubed fortress. Below them the town clock knelled on the hour with the explosive, gut shuddering noon salute. The canon roared, spewing acrid plumes of blue smoke, ringing their ears for minutes. The blast and bells reverberated past the cluttered toy traffic, over the sooty brick and sandstone city skyline, and then echoed among the wrinkled azure engulfing George’s Island; which clotted the Harbour gullet. The sound finally spun lost with the gulls wheeling above the lighthouse tip on McNab’s that shimmered as a mirage at the hazy edge of summer. The fresh briny breeze tousled their hair, snapped the hilltop flags to attention, and paraded the ocean sails around the distant puddle; from the Basin, through the Narrows, out to the Approaches and back. The puff of harbor feathers circled, passed, but never touched one another. They knived paths, stole wind, chased, and nodded masts; like playground friends. It was the ocean, the wind and the ring of common land encircling them, which filled the fate of their sails, as

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sisters. They knew that their course was set within this horizon, with their eyes and arms shouldered together. After catching their breath, they rolled down the green, and window shopped along Barrington and the waterfront, before walking back up Spring Garden. Denise insisted that they pick up a few small things at Mills Brothers; a lemon and raspberry shirred blouse with puffed sleeves for Natalie, a teal pastel flower and dot print shirtdress for Samantha, a double-knit denim print jacket dress for Kate, and an apricot tie-on blouse for herself. A pair of suede Wallabees for Jake and Little Miss Mary Jane shoes for Natalie completed the ensemble. Denise didn’t allow Samantha to open her purse for anything. Samantha’s friendship was not for sale. The evening of losing Jake to Denise couldn’t be forgiven with money. They asked the clerk to reserve their cache of bags and boxes, while they went to have their ladies tea at the Lord Nelson. Denise glanced from the window booth, and checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. They ordered drinks to quench their thirst before the appetizers arrived. The extra water evaporated almost as quickly as it was poured. Samantha and Denise shared sips of their virgin Singapore Sling and Marguerita with Natalie. They were about to begin their poached salmon, lobster and steamed greens, when a familiar click tapped across the marble tiles. A shadow strode by the shipyard beams, captains wheel, and portraits of the glorified British Admiral. “Hello ladies. May I join you?” asked Dr. Allen. Natalie and Samantha popped out of their seats with hugs for their father. Denise offered a limp fishtail handshake, and moved over for Tim. “Can you spend the afternoon with us Daddy?” begged Natalie. “I’m sorry, but I have a business appointment. Next time you’re in town we’ll make it a date,” promised Tim with a vacuous smile. He asked the passing waitress for a martini, and loosened his tie.

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“Look, Daddy!” flowered Natalie, handing him the Polaroids. “These are lovely sweetheart,” remarked Tim, as he shuffled through the park scenes, “Did you take them all yourself?” “Every one!” trilled Natalie, being especially proud of the picture with the swan paddling by the tangerine azalea. “Except for this one,” interrupted Denise, fanning the photos, and showing one of the Allen sisters beaming in front of a sparkling Venus and cherub ringed fountain. The photo slipped free from between her fingers, and glided with a jittery spin beneath the table. Before Denise said “Oops!” Samantha ducked under the corner to scoop it up. Rustling cotton detoured her view toward Denise’s goddess marble knees. A clothed mouse which had squirmed down her lap nervously retreated, as Tim’s hand withdrew in a flash. She heard the soft snap of her under garment elastic that spilled a feminine waft. There was no doubt. Tim had the pleasure he had paid for, as he deposited the bills with Denise. Denise allowed his momentary intrusion, rather than lose her meal ticket. She dropped the photo to make Samantha think she had other interests, and not Jake. She soiled Samantha’s opinion of her father, a man almost twice Denise’s age. “You’ve snapped nice vacation photos when we were small,” said Samantha to Tim, as she returned the picture to Denise with a poker face. “It’s been years since I’ve taken any snapshots. Natalie has the flair for family photos,” replied Tim. Everyone around the table tasted the lie, even Natalie. Interest piqued about the recent Abercrombie Lane photos. What was Tim’s secret? No one dared to ask. They finished their impromptu luncheon with insipid conversation, took a few more family snaps in the lobby, and went their separate ways.

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SIXTEEN Three blood smeared faces hung near the six wooden flats stacked upon the Nelson porch. The Allen girls had joined them for their annual strawberry u-pick at Knol Farms in Collingwood. They had eaten as many berries as they had plucked, from eight a.m. until two in the sweltering afternoon. Jake paid the farmer for their bloated bellies. Their hands matched the tomato shade of their cheeks. Dot suggested for the kids to go for a splash, to ease their creased back muscles, and to have some fun before supper. Russ poured himself a stiff double whiskey to loosen up. He sank into his navy lazy boy in the living room, with the Seagrams at his side. Four drinks later Russ’ bull head rolled back, snoring at the bottom of the fifth in the Blue Jays game. The spare swim suits that Samantha and Natalie left at the Nelsons were used more often than their new ones at home. They had changed in a flash, and raced down to the beach, flapping their towel capes wildly behind them. Samantha and Jake paired off after half an hour. Natalie excused herself, saying that she had to return to the house. Those berries were ready to burst through her bowels, if she did not run. Or so she claimed. In truth, Natalie had other plans. Usually, when parents shoo away the children, the adults want to talk among themselves. It might be an important discussion. She had noticed it before, when Dot and Kate were alone. The mothers’ mood seemed different after they had a private chat. Natalie ascended the stairs, and bunnied into the woods, away from the ocean view of the veranda. She stretched with the shadows, through the backyard, painting herself thinly from one corner around to the next. Natalie

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heard the TV through the window, and the other two voices which hulled and sliced strawberries. She huddled into position by the downspout, and listened for the trickle of secrets. “The kids will sleep dead to the world tonight,” said Kate. “Jake is going to set up the tent later. The girls can stay over.” “Thanks, but you don’t have to.” “They’ll have a great time. A full home is a happy home. It’ll give you a chance to be with Ben, too.” “You’re a darling, Dot.” “How are things, between Ben and you?” “It’s difficult for both of us,” answered Kate, avoiding the issue of blackmail. “I wish that you had been together, years ago, before all this happened,” sighed Dot, “You should have followed love, Kate.” She split another berry heart in half. “Love has been my curse,” drained Kate. In the past twenty years of struggle, Kate’s heart was only faithful to her once. The flame between Tim and her ghosted into smoke during the first year of marriage. It was a miracle Samantha was conceived. Kate was as cold as an attic candle, with frozen wax tears, and the smell of lifelessness upon her breath. Inside, she was dying as a woman. Kate became a hollow trophy, tarnished on a forgotten shelf, behind a glass family case. The car accident was the pivotal point of change. In Pugwash, Kate stoked her last traces of hope, for herself, and her daughter Samantha. Tim was glad to have sloughed them off his back. The Allens had known the Nelsons for ages. When Kate and Tim separated, Dot was the first friend to rally around her. She looked after Samantha when Kate worked at O’Brien’s. It was weeks later, when Russ helped her winterize the cottage that the innocent camaraderie changed. They

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worked closely, and very well as a team. Russ kidded her as the cutest carpenter in Pugwash. She still cut a sharp figure, and his attention smiled diamonds in her eyes. Kate admired his bison shoulders, and the tender precise touch of his bear paws that drew perfect straight lines. Kate caught herself measuring his fluid strength, which moved with deliberate graceful purpose. She wondered how Dot could possibly keep her hands off him. When the hours drew long, Kate had a few Molsons set aside for Russ, behind the lemonade. His musk ox sweat filled the cottage, as they trimmed and nailed the panels over the fiberglass insulation, and tacked the mitered quarter round in place. She held the strips, while he hammered away. Her fragrance aroused him, with the few times his arm brushed over her thinly cottoned chest. Her warm breath melted the hair on his neck, as he pounded beside her. When his mouth turned toward hers for a screw, level, or the T-square, she swore his lips were asking otherwise. After a fortnight, Kate automatically knew what he wanted. Instead of handing him nails, she placed them gently between his lips. Then she would have a dozen ready between her lips, and passed them into his. Their game turned serious when they stopped with the nails, and shared soft mouths. At the end of the day, they looked over their accomplishments; above the sawdust, drop sheets, and wood scraps. Russ held her like a fairy tale babe in his arms, saying “We are good together, Kate.” Those very same words haunted her again and again. One evening, when Dot was at church playing bridge with her lady friends, Jake had asked Russ if Samantha could come over. Kate was glad to escape the war zone of renovations for a few hours. Samantha stuffed a couple of dolls into her windbreaker, and opened the doors for Kate, who carried a steaming wrapped crock of beans and molasses to the car. Dot would appreciate the lunch prepared for tomorrow. Knowing Russ, with his mammoth furnace, the bowl might be polished clean by bedtime.

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The boys waited for the Allen girls on the back porch. Jake’s crosscut saw flew from his lap when the Toyota parked in their driveway at seven. He took Samantha’s hand, and dragged her toward the forest with bold plans to make a pair of killer slingshots. He bubbled over; stammering about the bicycle inner tube, thick elastics, and how they might fasten it all together. After they had cut the forked branches, the rest could be finished in the shed. They needed to work fast, to have the slingshots ready for the shooting contest before dark. Russ escorted Kate inside, being tempted by more than the aroma cradled in her arms. “Those two are terrific pals,” smiled Kate. “And so are we,” winked Russ. He set the hot crock on top of the stove, and stole a whiff from under the lid. “Now don’t you start!” said Kate. She swatted him with a dish towel, as she slipped on an apron, “Can you help me with these?” She started to wash the dishes and tidy up from the rushed supper hour. “The kids will be awhile,” spoke Russ. He untied her apron bow from behind, and let his palms drift slowly around her hourglass waist. “Russ, you’re asking for trouble!” she giggled, dabbing a puff of soap suds onto his nose. He hugged her boa tight, kissed her mouth hard, and smeared the foam over her cheeks. His mouth dripped with the tepid water, down her neck, while his fingertips freed the top buttons of her fawn paisley print summer dress. “I can’t Russ. I can’t.” His hands filtered through her hazel hair like a restless flock of doves, flitting from branch to branch. He whirled her around, their tongues and eyes flowing dizzy into each other. He lifted her gently onto the dining room table, dressed with linen and frilled French crocheting. She swallowed, as she heard his belt buckle unfasten, and drop. Her skirt rose on its own, baring her trembling swan soft legs.

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His loins tensed between her thighs, as his mouth panted upon her exposed taut nipples. “Russ. Please. No. Russ,” willowed Kate. She died within the beautiful muscles rippling, perspiring, and hardening around her. Kate’s arms swung, and knocked forks and spoons onto the floor, as her hands desperately reached and grasped onto the maple edge. In the shed, Samantha held the broken branch tightly, and closed her eyes. Jake’s tool glinted under the incandescent buzz. The kitchen table groaned back and forth, as his love pounded inside her. His massive, iron veined locomotive throbbed deep and wide through her tight burning tunnel. Jake sawed to and fro, pushing and pulling, with young virile ambition. His forehead beaded, while his tongue licked across his lips at the prize between his knees. The saw slipped and nicked Sam’s thumb. “Ouch!” “Sorry!” “It’s O.K. I’ll go inside and get a bandage.” “Russ! Oh! Russ!” screamed Kate. Samantha sucked the bleeding wound, on the way to the house. Her spine arched, and her mouth moaned agape with molten intense pleasure, as he ruptured his total love within her. His volcanic stream exploded through her. She could taste his passion warming the back of her throat. Kate twisted and pulled the table cloth in contortions, as they climaxed together, crashing the ceramic cookie jar to the floor. Russ’ face bled white, when he glimpsed at the shadow beyond the drawn tope curtains. Kate saw his shocked expression scrawled across his face. What had she done? In a lash of tears and temper she jumped up, and bolted out the door. Without looking back, Kate stampeded down the porch stairs, and over the yard. Her eyes needled into Samantha’s, who was yanked off the lawn like a wilting weed, and shoved into the car. Kate whipped her finger into a

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lightning bolt in front of Samantha’s face, pursing her lips so tight they bleached white. Samantha was too scared to even whimper. They sped away in tears. Russ stumbled after her, clutching his drawers, and tripped on the last step, crumpling into a heap on the gravel. Jake, having heard the commotion, burst from the shed, and ran to his father, who clenched his jaw in agony. Russ only confessed, “It was an accident.” They cleaned up the kitchen chaos in silence. Later, Dot drove him to the Memorial Hospital. His broken arm was set in a cast for several weeks, which was better than his splintered heart. Days passed before anyone spoke. Russ couldn’t face Dot with any credible excuse. He claimed that it was an argument that ended terribly. He was to blame for the incident, and apologized to both Dot and Kate. That was nearly ten ago, and the events were as clear and bittersweet as yesterday. Kate wiped her headache upon her juice spotted cotton sleeve, “I’m falling apart, Dot.” “We’re here for you.” “I’m worried about Sam and Natalie.” “Russ and I will take care of them.” “Does Russ know? About my will?” “No. The less said, the better. When the time comes, dear.” “Natalie belongs with you, by rights, after I’m gone.” Dot slumped, “It’s not your fault, Kate. You have to let that go.” “How can I? Russ knows he’s Natalie’s father,” cried Kate. “He’s suspected it,” boiled Dot. That long dead, drunken Friday night resurfaced, when Russ broke down, blubbering half nonsense, half guilt, to the woman who held his marriage and his life together. “But you’ve always told him the baby was Tim’s?” “Of course,” trembled Dot. Her paring knife fell, barely missing her toes, and stabbed upright into the porch.

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“If our families ever found out,” shrunk Kate. Despite the strained relationship, Kate had cared for Tim while he convalesced from the car accident. Kate spoke privately with his doctor, when he was imprisoned in bed with plaster and bandages. Tim had sustained significant internal organ damage. She was also told that Tim was rendered impotent. When Natalie was born, Kate was adamant that the baby was conceived before Tim’s injuries. Kate and Tim had copulated three weeks before the accident, and Natalie was about one month premature (after the affair with Russ). The wailing child’s tawny curls and caramel eyes were Kate’s. The only Nelson traces were the wing crested lower lip and a marble dimpled chin, when she threw a tantrum. Even without the paternal seed from Tim, she was becoming him inside. Those memories shook Kate as she cried to Dot. “Never,” paled Dot. She squeezed Kate’s hand with a firm, reassuring promise. Nearby, Natalie froze, dumbfounded. Her head throbbed and swirled in muddy confusion. She was torn among families, lies and doubts. Natalie hugged herself into a fetal ball and prayed that Samantha knew something. She had heard enough. Natalie rocked in her corner, covered her ears deaf tight, and wept into her pounding chest. “I’m sorry for bringing all this up, again. I’m scared,” sobbed Kate. “I know, dear. Things will turn out fine, you’ll see,” answered Dot, soaked with wet fear in her eyes. She remembered being close with Russ throughout Grade School. It’s not that they had fallen in love and marched down the aisle after graduation like their classmates. They were comfortable, well suited friends, which fit together as weathered gloves upon seasoned hands. Russ was a third generation lobster fisherman, from cradle to grave, simply and surely. A fact which he bore with honor and servitude. Before he met Kate, life was a job to be done, with responsibility, and sadly, without passion. Dorothy was a good, honest country-bred soul. She made his

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home, fathered his child, and offered him companionship. It was as clear as that, cut right down the middle. A man was a man. And a woman was a woman. Dorothy might have done better, or worse. She was almost as broad across the beam as Russ. Her banana fingers and elephant trunk arms rolled through any task in short order. Her heart matched her other proportions, and she was generously involved with church and community affairs. For Dot, marriage was an inevitable practical event, with little more expectation or excitement than passing through puberty. Russ was her reliable provider, for the rest of her days. And that was sufficient. They had checked each other off, like items on a grocery list. The matrimonial date was set. Their days began shortly thereafter with a clockwork routine. Amid snores and blaring television, Russ fermented about the faded affair with Kate. Russ had drowned his lust with liquor. Even though her breast was softened for him, Russ took the fall for that fateful evening. If Dot knew that Russ and Kate had cared for each other, he risked never seeing Kate again. He reasoned that Dot would rather endure a barren marriage than starve on welfare. Russ drank himself senseless at times, wanting to obliterate his aching love for Kate. He would rather die an alcoholic, than lose the trust and companionship of Dot. He killed his own heart, not to break his wife’s. He wore his crown of thorns for years, before his lips bled with guilt. Dot reflected again. More was broken between Russ and Kate than the heirloom cookie jar. Her insistent probing drove Kate to tears, and Russ deeper into his booze. Dot couldn’t pry any sliver of truth from their mouths. The image of Kate showing with child came to mind. The town gossip was ripe with speculation. Kate claimed the baby was Tim’s. Dot didn’t believe it, but kept her mouth shut all the same. Fingers pointed at Dr. Scott as the father. She knew that Kate and Ben were good friends. It didn’t go any further. No. It had to be Russ. Those weeks when her husband and Kate

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worked on the cottage, he had returned with a more summery smile, and slips of affection toward Dot. Kate had stirred a happier man inside Russ, a man which Dot had rarely seen during their marriage. To see Russ alive meant the world to Dot. She was willing to give up a place in his heart for Kate, if that is what made him happy. Dot needed a man to take care of her. Only Russ. They had grown to love each other over fifteen years, in their own unexpressive ways. She made herself come to terms with losing some of Russ. Whatever happened that evening ended everything between Kate and Russ. She wore a mask of tragedy. And he became as cold as the winter sea. Dot came to her own conclusions, as Kate swelled pregnant. Kate had been a sister to her for years. To sever their friendship would be losing family. She pictured her burly husband overpowering willowy, fragile Kate. Defeated by separation from Tim, exhausted by endless hours at work, and frayed nerves from starting all over again by herself, made Kate weak and vulnerable. As distasteful as it was, she did not blame Kate. The two of them bonded together, and found a measure of solace in each other, having lost their husbands. Tim only cursed Kate in disbelief, when she told him that she was bearing child. When Kate’s circumstances became unmanageable during her last term, in December, Dot demanded that Russ open their home to the Allens. The Nelson quarters were cramped for a few months, with a newborn and two youngsters hollering, carousing and teasing each other. The laughter freshened up their home, and their lives. Dot glowed ecstatic at being a nanny. Kate was infinitely grateful. Russ, although condemned, felt that better days ahead were possible, after all. Natalie grew into a rose between the two families. Her beguiling impish charm softened Russ, and bonded Kate with the Nelsons. Natalie thumbsucked into a deep dream in her crib, as Dot emptied the ceramic shards from the pillow case onto

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the kitchen table. Samantha and Jake helped her fit the jigsaw puzzle together. Piece by piece, with the glue of love, the cookie jar was resurrected. Once again, sweetness could be found within a mosaic of pain. She wondered if the children even remembered that afternoon. It was so long ago. The tired today eased with a lighter sigh, and allowed the prickling mosquito whine to thicken around Dot and Kate. After swatting welts with pink splashes over their necks, arms and legs, the women carried their bowls of berries indoors. A few minutes later ghostly white Natalie shuffled through the screen door. “Are you O.K., honey?” spoke Kate. “I don’t feel very good, mom,” she answered, wobbling like a top. “It’s been a big day for you. Maybe after a nap you’ll feel better,” said Dot, taking her by the hand to bed. They kissed Natalie. The whir from the oscillating fan turned from side to side with their unsettled thoughts. The sulphurous melee of hard boiled eggs, vinegary baby beets, corned beef and cabbage curdled within Natalie. She wanted to wretch up the bitter words, wishing she had never heard them. The cross breeze of supper conversation by the family around the table seemed in another world. She drowned with discomfort. When the clink of knives and forks was finished, Samantha and a strawberry shortcake peaked tall with cream sat on the edge of the bed. She coaxed a few bird mouthfuls into Natalie, which bounced from her stomach, and splashed all over her sister’s lap. Vomit dribbled from her pout, “I want to go home.” They were all mistaken, having claimed Natalie suffered from too many hours cooking under the sun in the strawberry fields. She nodded in agreement, with her arms around Jake’s neck, as he carried her out to the car.

SEVENTEEN At quarter past eleven, Kate announced “I’m going to town early tomorrow,” which implied that Natalie was in Samantha’s care for the day. “Say hello to Denise for me,” asked Sam. She sourly pulled on the thread between that shifty blond and her family. “So you are friends?” questioned Kate, honestly surprised that Samantha had anyone beyond Jake, even after the Halifax extravaganza. “We get along, fine,” said Samantha, fighting to push the last word through her lips. “Anything I can get for you? I should be home by seven.” “Maybe some banana custard for Natalie, please. It’s her favorite.” “Sure. Give me a hug,” finished Kate, opening her arms to Samantha, before closing her evening within a raunchy paperback, “Don’t stay up too late.” “I’ll be done in half an hour.” “Good night, dear.” “Good night, Mom.” The milk soaked scroll was dry by now. She carefully unrolled it, tore the edges, and then toasted it brown in spots over a candle flame. Sam inspected the markings and symbols. They appeared clear enough. Next, she finished Natalie’s vest and hat. Sam’s costume was very simple. A few more shells glued in place, and it was done. Before she went to bed, Samantha squeaked open the screen door, and touched the dented squat teapot with her index finger. She left a few prints on the lid. The gold spray paint was still tacky.

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After their mother’s bedroom light blinked dead into the stifling inky hour, Natalie slippered across the hallway to join her sister. Samantha had the covers peeled back, with an extra pillow waiting for her Princess. In spite of the heat, Natalie curled into Samantha like the sweat on her skin. Her tragic eyes thirsted for kisses and “I love you’s.” Natalie wanted to be held tighter than ever. “I’m not stomach sick. I’m heart sick.” “We can talk about it tomorrow,” calmed Sam, stroking through her lamb curls, with light cheek caresses. “O.K.” “I’ve got a pretend time ready for us.” Natalie twinkled with a smile, and soon fell asleep with her heart beating tenderly in rhythm with Samantha’s. The stale taste of Kate’s cold black coffee had completely dissipated through the breeze rolled curtains when the Allen girls squinted into the bright robin chirping light. They yawned and stretched themselves into some underwear, and padded barefoot to the fridge for breakfast. Natalie glugged some Beep into a pair of glasses, while Samantha sawed open the mini cereal boxes across the dotted “H” with a knife. She folded back the waxed flaps and splashed in some milk, licking her finger afterwards. Natalie asked for a spoonful of blueberries with her Sugar Puffs. Sam waited for her Fruit Loops to be just soggy enough. “Ready?” asked Samantha, as Natalie slurped down her last mouthful, and wiped the back of her arm across her milk moustached lips. “Yes!” bounced Natalie. “I’ll help you get dressed,” grinned Sam, leading her sister by the hand to her mother’s bedroom. After she donned her shorts and T-shirt, Sam held the black vest for Natalie. The cufflinks and buttons were gold coins. (Samantha had carefully removed the foil from the chocolates, inserted cardboard wafers, and then sewed them in place). From leftover black suede, she fashioned a sturdy bold captain’s hat with a skull and chicken crossbones. The shoelace was tied firmly behind Natalie’s head, as she

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adjusted the pirate patch. She admired herself in Kate’s tarnished mirror, as Samantha pinned the parrot onto her shoulder. “That’s cute!” chuckled Natalie, as she poked at her feathered friend. It was a ragged flea market Christmas finch with twisted wire legs. Sam had repainted it with rainbow plumage, and made a tiny patch for its left eye, and a cap to match the Captain’s. “Count to one hundred,” spoke Samantha, as she gave Natalie the treasure map and closed the door behind her. Natalie heard a mad rustle of fabric, and then a thundering slam from the screen door, by the time she reached twenty. The sandcastling children on the beach dropped their pails and shovels, as a wild dervish ruffled in black sped by them faster than the wind. She had only another minute or two to fly to the point. Natalie flipped up her patch and unscrolled the map. Among the monster octopus with mile long suckered legs, geysering whales, half sunken galleons with shredded sails, and starred compass bearings centered on an evil eye, wound a serpentine trail that led to a bloody Maltese cross. The landmarks of their cottage, the gully, and the rocky headlands cornering the sandy smile made the location of the treasure obvious. Natalie rolled up the map, and shot out of the door at the count of eighty-five. Out of breath by the time she hit the beach, Natalie checked her scroll one last time. She walked, and then slowed to a hesitant crawl when she began her way around the slick boulders toward the pyramiding slabs of sandstone beveled by the cliff. Natalie shimmied on her belly, like a snake, over the briny pebbles, and into the grotto. It was darker than she had remembered. She crouched like a gargoyle beneath the stone overhang. Her lungs filled with the pungent ocean fragrance as the surf lapped in gentle echoes outside. The pirate looked up into the blackness above, punctured by stars and a crescent smile. She groped in the shadows around her,

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and fumbled upon a metal container. It was a teapot. Curiosity removed its lid. Her fingertips felt a candle, and a box of wooden matches inside. On the third strike, she crackled a flame to life. “Master,” hushed a grey voice lost in the farthest corner. “Who’s there?” growled the captain. “Mercuria, the Genie,” breathed the gossamer spirit, swishing by the rogue with her peacock blossom of swirling veils. She spun around the pirate with a graceful churning of her butterfly limbs. “Where’s my treasure?” rasped the intruder. “In the depth of depths,” laughed the apparition. “If you don’t give me my gold, I’ll blow out the candle.” “Oh! No! Please don’t Master. If you do that, I’ll die into darkness for another hundred centuries. Please let me live!” pleaded the Genie, embracing her with iridescent wings and warm caresses. “Make me rich! Now!” snarled the little thief. “Very well!” granted the enchantress. She pulled down the evening sky. It rained a thousand pieces of pure gold. Natalie’s laughter shook the cave, as the doubloon candies poured over her. The cave was filled with fresh skylight. Natalie counted her horde, and stashed it inside the magic lantern. They sat for awhile, and peeled some chocolate together, like squirrels nibbling spruce cones. “I love our pretend times,” grinned Natalie, hugging her sister. “Me too,” said Sam, with a soft temple kiss. “I wish we could always.” “I know. But things change.” “Some things I wish that weren’t.” “What do you mean?” asked Samantha, snuggling closer. “Yesterday I found out that I’m not your real sister,” sniffed Natalie, beginning to break into tears.

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“That’s nonsense. You will always be my Princess.” Natalie explained how she eavesdropped on Kate and Dot. “Oh, honey,” cried Sam, embracing her full to her breast. “Mom said she would be gone. Does that mean that she is going to …” blubbered Natalie, not able to finish the horrifying thought. “Mom is very sick. She will be with us for awhile. We have to make every day with her the best day,” comforted Samantha, stroking her sister with downy touches. “How come there are secrets with Mom and Dot?” “They’ve known each other a long time. And they care about each other, like us. They want the best for us, I am sure. Even though they don’t tell us everything.” “I don’t think it’s fair for Mom not to tell us.” “You and I have our secrets. They have theirs.” “Will you promise not to keep any secrets from me?” shivered Natalie, shouldering against the mute cold stone. “Yes, my pirate Princess. I’ll share everything with you,” agreed Samantha, wrapping them together in a warm carousel of veils. “Sometimes I think about Dad. We hardly ever see him,” drooped Natalie, ricocheting stone marbles off the faceless wall. “I wonder about him, too. We are like half a family sometimes. Even though Mom tries hard.” “He’s like a stranger.” “Yes. And I have had a bad feeling lately.” “Really?” “You remember, when we were at the Lord Nelson. He said he hadn’t taken pictures for years.” “Yeah.” “And before that I asked Denise about the photos of Abercrombie Lane. And it was Dad who took the pictures.” “He lied.”

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“I am worried that it has something to do with the Nelsons.” “How?” “Dot talked about the weird man with sunglasses that took pictures from a big car. Denise said that some of the pictures had windshield wipers. It was Dad who took those pictures from inside his car. But why did he hide himself from Dot like that?” Natalie looked puzzled. “There is something else, too.” “What?” “You know that make-up case I gave to Mrs. Mundle, when we were at the store.” “Yeah.” “Well, I found that under the seat in Dad’s car, when we went fishing.” “You mean…” “Yes, Mrs. Mundle and Dad are up to something.” “Dot said that it was Mrs. Mundle’s land being surveyed.” “I think that Dad and Mrs. Mundle have a secret. And that it has to do with Abercrombie Lane.” “Something to do with the Nelsons?” “Maybe. I’m not sure. We have to find out.” “How?” asked Natalie. “We need proof it was Dad. Denise gave you the Polaroid camera. We need a picture of Dad with his sunglasses and the Buick.” “Then Dot might recognize the car and Dad.” “Exactly! We have to know when Dad is coming to Pugwash.” “We have our family time on Natal Day weekend.” “I’ll talk to Mrs. Mundle.” “Can Jake help?” “I’m not sure that I trust him anymore,” sighed Samantha, “He’s not the same after being with Denise.” “I don’t like Denise.” “Me neither,” concurred Samantha.

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For awhile they swam in the soft silence and held each other’s eyes, as the only truth left in the world. Their family and friends were tangled with lies and secrets. The approaching surf rose and rattled over the cobbles by the mouth of the cave. Quickly, Samantha and Natalie undressed from their make believe skins, and rolled them into a ball. They wiggled between the wet boulder lips, and emerged into the fresh brightness like a pair of juicy grubs spit free from garden earth. The rank, gritty, worrisome air of the grotto was left behind, as they frolicked in the scintillating ocean shallows. A few days later, Samantha had her chance. It was late Thursday afternoon. They were down at the harbor, fishing for whatever might nibble. Natalie was nestled into Jake’s lap. He showed her how to sling a lure, and tease the line between her fingertips, flashing the spinner beneath the surface. Meanwhile, Russ was thrashing among lines, hoses and tools scattered aboard the Jennie Lee tied alongside the Fisherman’s Wharf. Russ belched and cursed over his flat beer, fingerprinted with hydraulic oil. “Can I help?” offered Samantha, perched on the edge, dangling her ribbon legs. He pulled back the ragged plaid sleeve of his unbuttoned greasy shirt, and frowned at his cracked watch crystal, “It’s nearly closing. I need some fittings.” “I’ll get them for you, while you finish working.” “You sure? Jake can drive you.” “No, that’s alright. Natalie wants to fish with him.” “Get me half a dozen pipe clamps, some carriage bolts, and a roll of Teflon tape,” ordered Russ, not realizing his commanding tone. “What size? He tossed her a few loose, worm-bent ones kicking on deck, “Thanks, Samantha.” “I’ll be back in half an hour, or so.” She sent airy palm caresses over Jake and Natalie in passing. Their rod twitched to attention.

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At four forty-five Samantha pushed through the wheezing door, gasping from having ran the last three blocks. She chimed “Hello?” into the fanned air, devoid of any presence except her own. “Coming!” echoed Mrs. Mundle’s voice, vibrating from somewhere in the stockroom. The arduous day had pulled her face long and pale. She waddled into view with a forced smile and an armload of assorted boxes. “Sorry to trouble you,” said Sam, as she piled the cartons onto the counter with Mrs. Mundle. “Can I please get a few of these for Russ. He’s busy down at the wharf.” “Sure, dear,” sighed Helen. She gathered the required items and automatically wrote them on the Nelson tab. “Anything else?” she added, turning over the door sign to “Closed.” “Yes,” deepened Samantha’s blazing eyes, searching into Helen’s. She whispered “About you and Dad.” Helen flushed and fumbled with her eyeglass chain, nearly choking on her own words, “You know?” “Your make-up compact in Dad’s car. You put it there on purpose,” stated Sam, without a trace of doubt. Helen nodded, and slipped Samantha’s palm into hers. The color drained from her face, as she leaned toward Sam, motioning her to steal into the private shadows of her pantry. “Be very careful Samantha, dear. Your father…” trembled Helen. Samantha felt a frigid wave of fear wash over her. Even the stagnant musty darkness enveloping them listened with suspicious ears. “The Nelsons are in trouble,” breathed Helen, crossing her chest with a prayer. “How?” gulped Samantha. Helen was mortified, afraid that she had said too much. She shook her head in negation, with heavy eyes ready to pool into tears. Samantha resonated with the palpable dread, and turned to leave the store, “When is Dad coming?”

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“Next Sunday,” blipped Helen, sagging with dismay. They hugged each other as a pair of waterlogged souls about to perish into a deadly tormenting sea. Samantha nearly forgot the hardware as she dripped through the door. Helen handed her the bulging paper bag, and squeezed her hand with understanding.

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EIGHTEEN The suffocating humidity broke on the third week of July with a cinder sky that boomed and flashed and drowned everything that couldn’t swim. After three days of pure elemental fury, the wind withered east, and the heavens broke into summer blue. In town, shingles were replaced, crushed traps and torn nets mended, and washed out roads were made passable again. The ocean currents brought the silversides dancing along the shore, boiling the surface like thrown chandelier glass. The bigger fish, terns, kingfishers and dories followed after them. It was a time of rabid gluttony upon the high seas, and at home. Wednesday evening she braced herself with a bitter heart. “Hello? This is Samantha.” “Hello, dear,” brightly answered Allison, warmed by Denise’s new friend. “Could I speak with Denise, please?” “She’s on her way to the phone now.” “Hi Sam, what’s up?” “We’re having a barbecue Saturday.” “That’s nice,” replied Denise, barely catching the yawn of disinterest escaping from her mouth. “Everyone’s coming. Jake will be there,” she gritted, steaming inside. She hated saying it. She would kill Denise if she tried anything with Jake. Still, Tim would be more likely to come, if Denise was there. “Jake and I are fishing on Saturday morning. If you need a ride, Mom can pick you up.”

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“My parents will be away. Your Mom will be busy getting ready. How about if I call your father? I don’t think he would mind swinging by our place.” “Sure. That’s even better. I’ll give you his number.” “Thanks!” Their conversation ended succinctly and courteously, with both parties being pleased. Natalie also chirped with her sweet lilt on Tim’s answering machine earlier in the week. She mentioned that everyone was coming, including the Nelsons and their new friend Denise. Saturday evening, Jake and Russ made the run for steaks, hamburger, wieners, plus assorted vegetables and condiments. Dot and Kate whipped together the potato salad and burgers. When darkness diluted into somber fog on Saturday morning, Jake picked up Sam. At the wharf they slid into their rubber slickers, and loaded their poles, buckets and bait into the skiff. With a single rip on the engine cord, Jake jolted the outboard alive with a cough of inky smoke. In minutes, the motor roar was dulled deaf, as they were swallowed into the harbor soup. They kept within hazy sight of the shoreline to avoid getting lost. The leather tongue bristling with dewy grass jutted out into the milky emptiness. It was their only tangible anchor. “Are we going to be lucky?” spoke Jake, passing a rod loaded with thorny jigs and twirling silver over to Sam. “With you,” hesitated Sam, “I always hope so.” “I know that I haven’t been myself,” he shrugged, watching his line hang listless in the blank grey. “Is it us, Jake?” she sniffed, wiping her sorry dripping nose. “I love you, Samantha. And that won’t ever change,” he lied, because it already had. His eyes fell through her, as if she was as transparent as the drizzling air. His heart had shrunk away from the grasp of her love, which had faded ephemeral and distant.

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By the way he held her, and talked to her on the beach when they were alone, and after picking strawberries, she knew. Her embrace didn’t drum inside his chest. His skin no longer desired to know the warmth of hers. His mouth rounded kisses from obligation, not hunger. Her eyes failed to light a fire within his. Jake spoke more of touchable yesterday things, and less of dreams and wishful pleasures. She thought about Dot. How horrible it must have been to lose Russ from an affair. The foundation years of building a relationship gnawed away to the bone. Even with trust destroyed, they still managed to move through their days. It must strain on the sinews of their hearts. Samantha was not married to Jake. Although it felt like true togetherness from the beginning. Since childhood they had grown into each other as true friends, inseparable like vines of twisted ivy. Was it the risk of losing their closeness, of parting ways in the adult world, which triggered the impulse of love? Was the dormant seed always present, waiting for their hearts to ripen with passion? She wanted to believe, that even if they had not known one another as youngsters that the spark would still have ignited between them. Samantha had faith in stars, souls and an imperceptible lightness; which all shared a common thread of fate. She tingled with a peculiar sensitivity, while others scoffed at her delusions. The make-believe that she shared with Natalie seemed to be crumbling away as she emerged from her chrysalis as a young woman. Samantha gave everything of herself, wagering her feelings for Jake were more than an infatuated dream. She prayed that the fog between them brewed because of Jake’s confused heart, of being torn by two lovers. “Denise is a beautiful woman,” stated Samantha, “not a plain skinny tomboy,” she pouted, wringing her jacket tighter around her flat chest against the morning chill. “Love is more than being pretty,” he replied, taking the reel from her hands, and warming her clammy blue palms within his hairy mitts. “She comes from a good family,” added Sam.

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“It’s what’s inside,” weakened Jake. “She has everything,” teared Sam, “I have nothing to give you. Only myself,” she wilted. “You know who you are,” said Jake, moving beside her, with a warm encircling arm, “I’m not sure about myself, anymore.” “Because of what happened?” hinted Samantha. He nodded, as his head fell like lead. He shook with shame onto her shoulder. Her thoughts completed any other questions. She didn’t need to ask any more. Sam could have reminded him of Denise’s tricks, and told him how she tried to buy friendship, or Tim’s fondling at the Lord Nelson. Sam would not glorify herself as an angel by tarnishing someone else. Jake had to open his eyes, and see those things for himself. She hoped that Jake would find her again. She wanted to be the woman ready to love him, unconditionally. “You deserve better than me,” whimpered Jake, doubting whether he was worth forgiveness. “That is how I feel,” consoled Sam, holding him firm to her breast. “Denise means nothing. I don’t want to ever see her again,” he fumed. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to be in her company one more time.” “You mean she’s coming to the barbecue?” said Jake with agonizing disbelief, “But, why?” She explained how Denise was the bait, to get a photo of Tim. “You still think there is something to this? That your father and Mrs. Mundle are going to change Abercrombie Lane?” “I am positive, Jake,” warned Samantha, “Mrs. Mundle looked like she saw death itself. I’m scared, Jake, for all of us.” “Does Denise know about it?” “I’m not sure.”

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“If your father and Denise were alone, they might talk.” “That’s what I’m hoping for. Natalie will be my secret ears.” “Watch out Samantha,” worried Jake, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The sun gained color in its cheeks, blew away the mist, and scattered its diamond breath over the blue expanse. Suddenly, their lines zinged through the water, nearly yanking the forgotten rods overboard. They made a wild fumbled grab for the reels, which lost line in a blur. The boat pitched and splashed, as Jake and Samantha hauled in their lines. Their quivering poles flexed into strained arcs. “Hold on!” shouted Jake. He grunted and pulled until he flung three jigged mackerel aboard. They slapped and jumped like hot oil in a frying pan. He pinned them one by one, with his rubber boot, or a free hand, then unhooked them, and tossed them into a covered bucket. Samantha squealed with excitement as Jake manhandled her frisky rod. It felt good to be in his arms again. She turned and kissed him hard in a heartbeat. Her line snapped free. Between them, they filled two pails with another thirty. Meanwhile, Natalie tossed and turned alone in bed, missing her snuggling companion. She dreaded the solitary nights. It was like being one of her dead squished dragonflies coffined inside a cotton pill box. More loneliness would come. Hours suspended in singular darkness would grow into weeks and finally years. It would be hard to let Samantha go. She was frightened of becoming a creature like her mother, preferring the ebony void with a hermetic heartbeat. Natalie wondered which was worse, the torture of being alone, or the pain of lost love. She needed to be loved, to be clothed by the embrace of another. Soon Jake would take her away. Natalie wanted to grow up in a blink, to have a lover, and never know another empty hour again. She rattled those pinball thoughts free from her mind, got up, poured herself a bowl of Captain Crunch, and turned on the TV cartoons with the volume on mute. By ten,

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Natalie was bored stiff. She stepped outside in her pajamas, and sprinkled some cereal on the veranda. She patiently waited, peeking over the sill of the picture window like a wary cat. A bawdy blue jay landed and bullied away the few sparrow flits. Then chattering threats from a squirrel claimed the last morsels. She tried a few shots with the Polaroid, being disappointed at the fuzzy images. Natalie set aside some film for the afternoon. The animal banter on the front porch stirred Kate. Eventually she resurrected from the curtained cave, and started her day with Natalie. In a few hours they had the cottage presentable for company. They wheeled the barbecue into position, pulled the picnic table into the coniferous scented shade, and pried open several crippled aluminum lawn chairs with sun-frayed webbing. Natalie swished a second pitcher of pink lemonade, while Kate crammed the fridge with Oland’s and enough ice trays to freeze the Northumberland Strait. “Will Daddy come?” asked Natalie, as she jabbed a croquet hoop into the front lawn. “I’m sure he will, for you, dear,” replied Kate. The afternoon would crawl with enough friends to avoid any bloodletting between Tim and her. She was counting upon a brief appearance, en route to wherever the foul winds might blow him. Kate smiled wryly to herself; it was probably the last time she had to face him. “I have lots of new pictures to show Daddy.” “Denise was very kind to give you the camera.” “She’s a special friend,” fibbed Natalie. “When I was young like Denise, we fought over the good looking boys.” “Don’t worry Mom, I don’t have any boyfriends, yet.” “The other girls won’t stand a chance,” beamed Kate. She absently wove her palm through her curls, missing her own youth. For the moment, she painfully blotted out the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings and the many grandchildren she would never know.

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“I want to grow up pretty and nice, like Samantha.” “I’m sure you will, darling.” Shortly after three o’clock the Nelson pick-up rumbled with dust clouds down the lane. Russ and Dot had squeezed themselves sardine tight into the cab, while Sam and Jake bounced in back. Jake and Russ unloaded the coolers of fish, meat and potato salad from the truck, while Sam and Kate took the orders for the first round of drinks. Dot stationed herself in the kitchen to orchestrate the activity. Natalie brought out some cushions for the Adirondack chairs. Then she spidered playfully in the canvas hammock, impatient for someone to play croquet or go to the beach with her. The younger generation scampered to the ocean while the parents lounged and chatted the hour away. The small talk made the usual circles; touching upon the lobster season, business downtown, summer times, and how fast their children had grown. They must have known one another for a hundred years. Russ bragged about Jake, being almost as good a fisherman as he was at half his age. Kate thanked him for the opportunity for Sam to work with Jake. Both families hoped for marriage. They were just kids, with the world ahead of them. At the shore Jake was the centre of attention. He loved it; being kissed and stroked by Samantha or tickled and teased by Natalie. The sirens drove him deliriously happy. The name Denise did not come to mind once. The threesome was bonded together for life, like their parents at the cottage. It seemed decreed, among the cycles of seasons and generations. Russ was well plastered by beer and rum by fourthirty. Jake fired up the barbecue with a fresh bed of coals and a liberal dousing of lighter fluid. Everyone was starving. The Plymouth finally sailed into the driveway by the time the flames had simmered, and the coals flared red hot; ready for the first searing of bloody flesh. Cordial greetings were made to the late guests. Tim insisted on taking charge of the barbecue. Jake handed him the apron honors. He apologized

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for the office delay which threw his schedule off. Other eyes drew a different conclusion as Denise fastened a button on her overly exposed cleavage. Jake told Tim about the mackerel. They needed last minute preparations. Tim attended to that while the first Tbones were smoking. He lopped off their heads, de-scaled them, added a hint of salt, pepper, thyme, a squeeze of lemon, then wrapped the fillets in foil for the top rack. Denise had mentioned that Jake and Sam went fishing. It was Tim’s chance to show off his deer antler hunting knife which belonged to his father. He touted its keen razor blade, and perfect balance. Tim claimed that meat would slice itself into slivers by merely waving the scalpel edge in the air. Tim was insanely possessive of the bone knife, and made it clear that no one else but him should use it. The knife was deadly sharp, and he didn’t want anyone getting cut. “How much longer to supper?” whined Natalie, having already filled herself up to the eyeballs with lemonade and root beer. “Twenty minutes, dear,” answered Dot, weighing down the flapping tablecloth corners with stones. She arranged the utensils, and decided where everyone was going to sit. “Let’s play croquet!” she demanded, tugging a sagging, sweaty Jake from his comfortable lawn chair. “There’s not enough time for a game,” he said, stumbling after Natalie over the postage stamp lawn. “A few practice shots. I made a really neat course,” she proudly commented. Denise, Sam and Jake were prodded from the cooler shade to bear their mallets. Natalie went first, to show them the slalom course; around pine trees, over a contortion of roots, and through a light thicket of alders. It started at one corner of the cottage, angled sharply by the woods, then along a mossy fairway under the back porch, before finishing with a run up a plank, and ker-plunk into a tub of water.

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It was a dead heat of vicious ball whacking until they reached the shadowed north side. Samantha took skillful aim, and tapped Natalie’s ball nestled by a maple trunk. She took her ball, placed it beside Natalie’s, and with an ear shattering crack sent it careening deep under the cottage foundation. According to the rules, it was fair play, to send an opponent’s ball into nether land. “If I’m not back in five minutes, get me a flashlight,” sighed Natalie, as she ducked into the darkness, around the cement pillars. The move was part of their plan. Natalie crab crawled through to the other side, and popped out into daylight by the rear porch. She spied underneath, through the lattice, at everyone’s legs, except for the croquet players, which were gathered by the picnic table or the barbecue. She slithered without a sound through the back door and crammed herself under the kitchen sink. Samantha purposely hung onto Jake, waiting for her sister. Since Denise was odd man out she left, “I’m going to freshen my cola.” Denise caught Tim’s wink, when she rattled the ice in her glass, and sauntered up the veranda softly closing the door behind her. Tim made for the last call for refills before serving supper. Kate and Dot started dishing out the salad, as Tim hopped inside to replenish the tray full of empty tumblers. From the kitchen window, Tim and Denise had a clear view of the yard, and both doors; to their left and right. It was the safest vantage point to have a private conversation. Tim uncorked and raised a bottle of Drambuie, while Denise waved to the crowd outside. “They are having fun,” remarked Denise, watching Samantha take a few snapshots. “Natalie’s gone right to town with your Polaroid camera,” said Tim, noting the cluster of a dozen fanned photos thumbtacked by the telephone.

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“Speaking of pictures, can I ask why you took all of those photos of Abercrombie Lane?” inquired Denise with a sultry whisper, tracing a fingertip below his belt. “Between us, I’m involved with a land development. Everything on the lane will go.” “Even the Nelsons? Their old rickety homestead was torn down after Russ had just finished building their new home last autumn. He won’t budge, with a new mortgage and the best view across the Strait from Pugwash.” “Everyone has a price.” Denise felt a chill and withdrew her advance. “Fill me in on anything about the Nelsons. Problems. That sort of thing. Give me a call by the end of next week,” said Tim slyly through the slit of his razor thin lips. His palm snaked under her skirt and deposited three hundred dollar notes by her moist golden curls. Dot marched up the front porch and poked inside, “We’re all set!” “On our way!” rang Denise and Tim. Natalie snuck out soon after, her mouse ears twitching with shock. They drank and ate until everyone was stuffed like turkeys. There were a few licks of lemon, cherry and apple pie left for tomorrow. The ice cream tubs were scooped clean to the bottom. “I’ve got to run,” announced Tim, when the hour straightened toward six o’clock. He glanced at Denise. Obviously Jake belonged to Samantha today. Aside from the cash in her crotch; it had been a wasted afternoon. There was no more to be gained by dragging time with the Nelsons and Allens. She would cut her losses, “Yeah, me too.” “I’ll grab my knife, then we’ll hit the road,” said Tim. He hobbled up the steps one last time, and shuffled through the heaps of pots and dishes and greasy lukewarm sink water. “Did anyone see my knife? Can you check by the table, please,” shouted Tim through the living room window screen.

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It was nowhere to be found. Tim was itching with agitation, but he refused to lose face, “It’ll turn up. You’ll send it to me, when you find it Kate?” “Sure,” she agreed. Tim and Denise said goodbye. He hugged his daughters and shook the other hands with a meaningless, “We’ll get together again soon.” The Fury was ready to pull away, when Natalie waved her arms with the Polaroid, “One more snapshot, Daddy, with your sunglasses and fancy hat, like the movie gangster.” She adored his Cagney impression. Tim avoided driving the Buick, but in a last second rush, his mind lapsed with one detail. He snatched his fedora from the back seat, whipped on his dark glasses, and fingered a pretend pistol at Natalie. A blinding flash followed her press of the shutter. Dot instantly recognized him as the stranger at Abercrombie Lane; Buick or not. Samantha saw her owl-eye surprise and drained face. Dot kept it to herself, excusing it as a burn of indigestion.

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NINETEEN The bank book smashed like a startled pigeon, with a crumpling thud against the penthouse suite window. Tim glared with a gale of outrage from his aloof tower. Only fifty thousand had been deposited since July. The printed entry listed from Toronto was a paltry ten grand. Two weeks ago Angela had phoned, confirming the sale of her Laurentian cottage. Against the advice of her lawyer, she gambled that small change on good faith toward his account. The Alberta deal garnered slightly more. It was enough to make him doubt his amorous prowess. In the back of his mind he had contemplated creating his own property deeds to make his proposals appear more credible. He likely could have leveraged more funds. The trail of fraudulent paperwork would have eventually caught up with him. Tim decided that his reputation was worth more than risking legal harassment. The direct fund transfers were less than he anticipated, but at least the women had no legal recourse once the money was deposited into his Caribbean account. Tim had to apply pressure. First he would tighten the tourniquet around Dr. Scott. He would slowly strangle Ben’s resources, much the same way that the doctor had sapped Kate’s life away with poison. It had been almost a month since Tim had made his monetary demands known. Ben had it too easy. Now was the time to suck some life from him. He wringed the blue blood dribbling coldly through the tensed web of veins that throbbed on the back of his hands. Then he propped his thoughts, and chin upon his chalk knuckles, while shifting the strategic pieces into play. In Pugwash, Denise had been very thorough with her research. Russ was well liked by the community, and it was

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challenging to unearth any bones of past contention. A few years ago, she remembered that Mr. Nelson had a different mate fishing with him, because Jake was too young at the time. Strangely, the older lad lasted just one season. Nasty rumors floated around town about Mr. Nelson and the youth; wild combative yelling, fisticuffs on board, and Mr. Nelson being so drunk as to run aground on Ram’s shoal. Rumors, that’s all she had to go on. Even Mrs. Mundle, the queen of gossip, had zippered her lips tight when Mr. Nelson’s name was discussed. Denise delved into the Department of Fisheries records, or rather; she greased the palm of one of the local officers to sniff through the legal legers for any red ink about Mr. Nelson and company. The payoff had been worthwhile. Word was returned that four years ago Mr. Nelson was fined for having berried female lobsters in his catch. It must have been covered up very well, since she didn’t recollect that offense being whispered around town. It was likely the only black strike against him during his decades of fishing. Charles Langille was registered as his first mate when it happened. His son Jake, replaced Chuck after that incident in 1971. For months the sour taste followed Chuck. None of the other fishermen of Pugwash, or the Wallace fish plant would hire him. He tossed bales during the hay season in a pinch. The rest of the year he was stuck as a toad in a hole, pumping gas at the station. Little changed for him, as most things do, with the convenient stagnation of a small town mind. Chuck grew accustomed to his greased stained coveralls as a comfortable second skin after several years at Langille’s Esso. His father, Murray, had browbeaten him into getting a mechanics license, seeing as he was only idling at the shop. When the flocks of motorcycles rumbled with reverberation through the Pugwash streets in summer, he wanted to drop it all, and be as free as those leathered birds. For graduation Murray bought him a second hand Mustang Mach I. Technically, it had both doors, all four wheels, enough fiberglassed body to keep out the rain, with a

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dead excuse for an engine. It was meant to be a project, an accomplishment. Chuck saw it as an impossible feat to earn an escape. On occasion, he would barter for a used header, some gaskets, valves or other cannibalized parts from the local auto graveyard. It was pocket change and time that he would rather spend elsewhere. Chuck labored for weeks fine tuning a transmission assembly, which any other keen lad could have completed within a few evenings. He served enough penance on the Ford. It was the joke of the town; as to whether the Mustang would ever rumble away from its oil puddle on the back lot. His parents had asked him to move into the basement. It was an incentive to push the twenty year old out on his own, and also as a practical sound barrier to the super sonic ear piercing squeals and stomach pounding drone from his fetish Gibson guitar. Murray and Grace only tolerated one midnight of wailing white noise before his amplifier was curtailed into a pair of earphones. His mother demanded him to attend confessional when Chuck pulled down the Catholic cross from his bedroom wall, and taped a poster of his savior Alice Cooper over the nail holes. Murray tried to keep a straight face, but his tongue failed to wag with hell fire and brimstone like Grace’s. The woman’s fury was part of her charm, which Murray came to relish, like Tabasco sauce, over the years. He saw the same rebellious spark in Chuck, which came to a head over the issue of shoulder length hair. “While you’re sitting at this table, you’ll have to act like a man,” narrowed her already beady poker hot glare. She had threatened numerous times to shear the black sheep while he was sleeping downstairs. One evening he pinned it up into a beehive bun, and Murray’s portly belly rolled off the chair onto the floor in laughter. When the hell furnace weather torched everything skeleton dry, Chuck was rarely at home after work. “He’s out with those devil worshippers,” taunted Murray, just to get a rise out of bible thumping Grace. He had enough fat from shoulder to rump to cushion any sharp slaps and irritating jabs of reprisal. His band buddies knew better

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than to knock on the Langille’s front door and be branded by a scathing hex from the Hail Mother Grace. Chuck waited for his motley crew of mophead comrades inside the station. He sucked back on his coke, sweat smudged the print on the pages of last month’s Cycle World, and hummed a few bars of the Doobie Brothers; trigger ready to jet to Amherst. Craig’s Chevrolet rumbled into the gas bar about eight. The lanky bearded rogue jumped out, slammed the door and tanked up his sleek cobalt blue hotrod. Inside the office, Chuck stripped off the grunge from his day, and changed into a wrinkled mess of denim and black cotton from his backpack, which was stuffed under the counter among the mildewed library of automotive manuals. He threw ten bucks into the till for the fill up, grabbed his guitar, and shouted goodnight to Murray. His father waved back from the weakly lit grease pit grave under a chassis dripping pipe and wire. The 1974 Camaro laid rubber and belched smoke down Durham, turning west to rock and roll nirvana. The tape deck was juiced to the max with Black Sabbath shaking the twin custom speakers at bone vibrating decibels. Chuck bobbed his head in syncopated rhythm to Craig’s. His mind was somewhere else though, driving a new set of wheels that would be his in a fortnight. It was a ton of money, and he needed to figure out how to keep it under wraps. Chuck finally had his chance to even an old score. He couldn’t believe how it happened all so quickly. He replayed the details, while he leaned out the window into the sixty mile an hour breeze that twisted tangled vipers of auburn mane over his frowning pockmarked face. The stranger who drifted into the Esso at eleven o’clock closing last Monday pricked Chuck’s attention. He was dressed completely by the blackness of night, except for his perfect ivory hands that slid a crisp twenty across the tool scored, coffee stained counter. “You know the Nelsons,” he stated stiffly. Whatever ate his gut must have been cruel, from the frothy rasp of “Nelsons” that trespassed his thread thin lips.

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“Yeah,” mumbled Chuck. “I know they did you wrong,” he seethed. Chuck’s face fell grey. How did the mysterious man suspect his gnawing grudge that had festered raw inside his intestines for years? “Let’s make it right,” his icy black eyes bore straight through his jelly-scared brain. The way the stranger focused the shadows around him into pure malice froze Chuck’s tongue. “Nobody’s going to get hurt,” he whispered in a shifty tone that sounded like bones being slowly ground into powder. A minute of nothing ticked around the clock face as slow as an hour. “Deal?” hissed the nameless one. “Yeah,” agreed Chuck. He offered a pale cold handshake that was promptly refused. “Dr.Scott’s office. Tomorrow at ten,” snapped the figure knotting his trench coat. He slipped him a typed note, “Welcome to the Goldwing club,” with a Springhill address, then turned up his collar against any further words, and dripped away into the drizzly foreign night. He didn’t say what had to be done. It was deadly enough, and tingled Chuck’s nerves raw. He had never done anything criminal. A few stupid tricks; like setting the park bleachers on fire at Halloween, trashing Mr. Withrow’s school room after he had failed, and hot wiring a couple of jalopies for joy rides out of town. Nothing crazier than any other teenage kid might do. This stunt hit his stomach like a sledgehammer. He couldn’t picture himself as a deadbeat grease monkey for another year. Besides, the Nelsons had it coming. Chuck was scheduled as the last appointment for the day, at 9:45 p.m. He was surprised not to see the wizened bird-faced Thelma on the other side of the reception wicket at the North Cumberland Memorial Hospital.

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“You’re a new face,” remarked the leather clad youth, remembering the old hen’s scowl on his monthly visit to stitch up a slash or a tear from a tavern brawl. “I’m Margot, Thelma’s on vacation,” smiled the pert doe-eyed toothy brunette, as she had been told to reply. An extended leave was closer to the truth; after the incident of eavesdropping on Dr. Scott. She added, “You’re Charles Langille,” checking him off the registry, “Go on in, Dr. Scott’s been expecting you.” “Allen sent you?” boiled Ben, X-raying Chuck’s brain with his acid glare for any intent or indication of a liaison with that despicable excuse for a man. “Don’t know the name. I’m here for the pick-up. Period,” he maintained, with a cross-armed, determined stance, three paces away from Ben. “Tell him, if I see him, I’ll kill him,” barked Ben, hurling the envelope across the room at Chuck. The good doctor had no choice. It would buy Kate a little more time, he hoped, until the next call from Tim. Ben promised to keep a lid on it for Kate, even if it meant ruination for him. Langille was a sharp shady smart-ass. He would keep an eye on him. Chuck jammed the manila wad into his biker jacket, spun around without a change of expression, and strutted out closing the door behind him. He winked goodnight to Margot, exited the hospital, and drove back to the Esso. “Thanks for covering for me Roy,” he said, returning his Datsun keys and folding a twenty into his oily shirt pocket. They closed up together at quarter past eleven. Roy dropped Chuck off at home on the way to Port Philip. Chuck pried off his scuffed boots in the hallway, and slinked downstairs with the cool draft, into his concrete cave. He locked his door, flicked his lamp on low, and tossed the envelope onto the swirl of wrinkled sheets mounded upon his bed. His unbathed skin was drenched with perspiration, as his thumb made a ragged rip through the seal. He counted five thousand, twice to be sure, in crisp hundred dollar bills. His cheeks ripened rouge as the money shivered in his nervous hands. For now, he stuffed some bills into his wallet, and then

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shoved the rest into a Kiss album, wedged deep under his mattress. When Chuck had returned to Pugwash with Craig later that weekend, his plan was formulated. A portion of the funds were deposited. He didn’t want to be cornered trying to explain a sudden windfall of wealth. He asked Murray to cosign a modest loan for him at the Bank of Nova Scotia. It took some convincing for his father to agree to the loan, for purchasing a motorcycle. He would gradually pay off the loan, to avoid arousing suspicion. Chuck promised to drive safe, and to get his Mustang rolling before winter. The men kept it to themselves, knowing full well that Grace would be as livid as hell. Early Wednesday morning Chuck and Murray left Roy in charge of Langille’s Esso, while the two of them drove to Springhill. They had phoned ahead for directions to R and D Enterprises, which was a few blocks away off Main Street. They pulled into the lot, parked full with a gleaming chrome army of Hondas. The proprietor, Rob Fraser, a stocky mid-forties fellow, greeted them with jovial palm crushing handshakes. He was ready to pitch the candy red Honda scooter. It was the most popular bike around; reliable, cheap and it ran forever on a tank of gas. Chuck lusted for power and style, and already had his heart set on a fantasy machine. He asked about the Honda Goldwing. It was a magnificent six hundred pound beast. 1000cc’s of pure power purring from an opposed-four cylinder engine block. The one piece silencer box under the swing arm made the ride incredibly quiet. They were pricy, nearly three grand apiece. Chuck didn’t blink once. Rob said that he expected his first dozen to be shipped in by next week. They went into the office, and filled out the paperwork. Timing could not have been better. During the band practices in Amherst over the weekends since last May, Chuck had earned his motorcycle license by driving Victor’s Kawasaki. For months he had squirreled away his paycheck, ready to buy his own bike before September.

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Grace flipped out like an asylum inmate gone native, when the Honda sailed into the driveway the following Thursday evening. Chuck had expected the demon faced hollering episode from his mother. It didn’t phase him in the slightest. Chuck had developed a sort of immunity to her threats and strained gesticulations since his early prepubescent trouble making days. He stood there in silence, with his black helmet hooked in his right arm, and let Grace blow her lungs empty until she didn’t have any breath left. When she was at the point of collapsing in tears, Chuck strode over and gave her an honest hug, saying, “It’ll be fine, Mom.” Murray arrived later, and received a second, less intense storm of concern from his wife. Eventually she simmered to a whimper, and they exchanged more reasonable opinions. Murray sighed, “He’s a man, with his own choices, for better or worse Gracie.” The new Goldwing at Langille’s Esso was a neighborhood magnet for the teenagers and curious aficionado bikers who happened to pass through Pugwash. Chuck had polished the chrome brighter than his mother’s best silverware. The kids pestered him for rides around the block. Chuck bought some decent threads and cleaned himself up like a baptized prophet with his own golden calf. One afternoon Roy was busy tinkering on a Pontiac Grand Am with Murray when the pump bell rang for a service fill. Chuck wiped the grease from his hands with a filthy rag, and stepped outside, squinting into the dry August heat toward the patiently waiting Plymouth. The driver’s window rolled down, and his smile beamed from ear to ear. “Hi Denise. You’re looking great.” “Not bad yourself, cowboy.” “Yeah, but I’ve got the prettier ponytail,” he said swishing his chestnut locks back with a tease. “See your new ride.” “Yeah. She’s a beaut. No offence to present company.” “Take me for a spin sometime?”

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“I thought you and Jake were steady?” “Jake who?” she rolled her eyes with a frown. “You free Saturday night?” pounced Chuck. “Sure. Seven?” “You bet.” Denise palmed a twenty tenderly into his longfingered hand for the fuel. His hazel eyes roamed unsettled, and defied her curious sapphire glance. He was a wild stallion, worth the chase, and the pleasure of taming. It was clear from the barbecue that Jake had dumped Denise. That welt on her heart still stung from the months of pursuing him, which had ended in a damp fizzle after one selfish torrid night. He was just a fisherman’s son. If she had tied herself to him, Denise would likely have been trapped for the rest of her days in Pugwash. She had had enough of the Nelsons and Allens. Chuck hung out with a different crowd. She sensed his edge, like her own. Maybe that was what she needed to cut loose from Nowhereville. Chuck got off a few hours early and landed at the Parker-Jones estate sharply at seven o’clock. He didn’t even have a chance to turn off the ignition before being assaulted by a thundering tirade bursting through the front door. Her father’s beet red jowls shook with the cacophony of obscenities raining upon Denise. Chuck assumed that his reputation had preceded him. This wasn’t the first time that he was welcomed by a banter of fist shaking from a parent who was afraid of losing his daughter to a drug dealing hippie. Denise threw up her hands and turned her back flatly to her father, deflecting his hurricane wrath. “Get me out of here,” asserted Denise, without a shade of submission from her throaty voice. She zipped up her camel windbreaker, strapped on the helmet, and straddled over the seat behind Chuck, encircling her arms firmly around his lean waist with natural ease. He grinned over his shoulder, and gave her hands a squeeze through his leather grip. He instantly knew that Denise was born to be a biker. Within the hour they swerved by the outskirts of sleepy Amherst, and then drove down a couple of side roads

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that arrowed through some blueberry fields. About a half mile away from their countryside destination, “Testing, testing, one…two…three,” boomed through the dead evening air. It echoed nearly audible above the roar of their ride. They motored slowly through a gauntlet of sports cars and choppers parked bumper to bumper in a stream along either side of a paved lane that terminated at a voluminous windowed white ranch house. A pair of Frisbees circled among a handful of tie-dyed flower children on the mowed two acre meadow. Most of the crowd swarmed around the cavernous two door garage that was bordered by a Babel tower of assorted woofers and tweeters. The Goldwing parted through the sea of black leather, as Chuck coasted into his reserved spot behind the amplifiers. “Hi Denise,” said Craig. He was ready with two tall iced cokes, after she had fluffed her blond waves free from the helmet. “Thanks, Craig,” said Chuck, taking a sip, “This is our lead man.” They weaved around the microphones, and over the cables to meet the other Lost Disciples; Victor on bass, Fuzz on keyboards, and Otis on drums. Beyond them, at a less deafening distance from the speakers, flowed a rainbow ocean of tents, blankets and chairs. The camp was peppered with pathways of torches that burned deep into the night. Before starting the first set, Chuck introduced Denise to the rest of the rock and roll family; the band’s girlfriends, groupies and other regular guests. Craig’s main squeeze, Stacy, a rail thin redhead buckled tortuously tight in leather, looked after Denise while the boys belted out Uriah Heep. “You been with Chuck long?” asked Stacy. “We’re from the same town. Different side of the tracks. Thought I’d take a chance.” “Chuck’s a good head. Be straight with him,” she warned, picking at her cheap black polish that flaked off her nails. “You telling me he’s trouble?” “Nothing you can’t handle,” smirked Stacy.

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It was well past eleven when the band took a break. They played their own improvisations, along with the staple diet of the Eagles, and renditions of some tracks from the Cheap Thrills album by Janis Joplin. Denise was impressed. The crowd was loud, but clean. No drugs. No ambulances called for passed out drunks or switchblade duels. No cherry flashing sirens from disturbing the peace. Craig invited Denise, Stacy and Chuck inside during halftime. “My parent’s pad. They’re out for the weekend. As long as the four walls and roof are still standing, everything’s cool. Only the band’s allowed indoors. Those are the house rules. Less headaches,” explained Craig. “Hardly a whiff of pot,” remarked Denise. “His dad’s chief of the RCMP detachment in town. He sends a cruiser by to keep it legit,” mentioned Stacy. “I’m having a good time,” glowed Denise from the buzz of beer and Springsteen still quivering her eardrums. They screamed and strummed their final set, finishing at one a.m. to a rowdy chorus of intoxicated cheers and hoots from the field. “Wanna crash inside?” yawned Craig, with his arm around Stacy. Her head hung limp. Tired, she nested upon his shoulder. “Sure. Thanks,” replied Denise. “Guest bedroom’s at the top of the stairs, last one on the right,” he said to Denise, with a hoarse cough of exhaustion, “Catch you two in the morning.” “Thanks. Goodnight,” they answered together. Craig and Stacy softly closed the master bedroom door. Chuck flopped down on the bed with a groan, “Man, that was a wicked night.” “You’re great on guitar, Chuck,” she said, watching the last torch flicker into smoke. “Thanks. I’m glad that you came, and met my friends,” he said, shifting onto his side to admire the faint moon shimmer lingering over her porcelain features.

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“You should play full time,” encouraged Denise, popping loose the top button of her blouse. “That’s a dream.” “Then do it,” said Denise intently, as the silk peeled away from her near nakedness. “If you believe in me,” he replied, venturing a fingertip melody through her golden locks. “Stay with me, Chuck,” she whispered, pulling his full hot lips into the moist folds of her mouth. What he lacked in experience, he won with sincere tenderness. He slowly poured breath light caresses over her entire milky body. She felt as if she were suspended in mid air as an instrument held within his love. He listened to her sighs, rise and fall, and tuned her heartbeat closer to ecstasy. Finally, he found the rhythm of her soul and moaned his strength long and deep, completely inside her. They coupled over and over with passion until dawn. While he was curled asleep into her chest, Denise ran her finger along the scar under his jaw. It was one of many. She vowed that no one would ever hurt him again. Chuck was the best ride in town. Denise would keep him.

TWENTY Chuck paced and squirmed like a pigeon trapped behind the counter at Langille’s Esso. His memory was chilled again by the mechanical voice that called exactly one week ago. “You’re closing, next Monday night?” “Yes. At eleven o’clock,” replied Chuck with an agitated swallow. He recognized the sinister tone. “Good. Make sure you’re alone. Got it,” he demanded. There was an abrupt click, as the line went dead. This was the very last stunt Charles would do. He should have pushed aside that old grudge. The fights on deck with Russ were stupid, when he looked back on them. It was his own fault for showing up late for work at the wharf, with a hangover, and then puking over the side of the Jennie Lee all morning. It was the captain’s decision, and not his, whether to fish through choppy swells. He ridiculed Russ for poor judgment. Finally, Chuck lost it, and hid seven egg bearing lobsters in Russ’ catch the next day. A substantial fine was levied against Mr. Nelson. Chuck was duly fired. Around town, more men supported Russ than him. The blame was thickly painted on Chuck, and it stuck to him for years. Now he was involved in trouble over his head. A new bike and a couple of grand set him ahead. For what? To be marked as a criminal accomplice. He didn’t care about his dead end job. Work came and went. He couldn’t lose Denise. She was the only one who really understood him. The thought of her dropping him cold tore at his chest like a jagged knife. He stewed in his thoughts, while a pair of headlights flashed by the pumps outside and turned alongside the garage. It was barely 10:55 p.m. Too early.

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“Hey, lover!” spoke Denise as she sprung through the door, wanting him tonight. “Oh my God, Denise,” stammered Chuck. Every ounce of color bled away from his face. This was no time for surprises. “What’s wrong?” “A deal’s going down.” “What?” whitened Denise. “Not now!” Chuck cut her off, and clenched Denise by the arm, pulling her into the car bay. He opened the Firebird door, “Inside. Quick!” He apologized with a shaking kiss from his lips, motioned for her to keep low, and then jackrabitted back to the counter. Denise wound down the window and twisted the rear view mirror sideways toward the office. Chuck was in serious trouble. More than he bargained for. She had never seen his bravado so broken. Precisely at eleven o’clock the darkness molded into a man who pushed through the doorway like a winter draft. “Ready to do this?” announced the looming figure, with words that were coated by abrasive grit. His thin leather driving gloves pushed a putrid cardboard box in front of Chuck. “When?” “Soon. Here’s the instructions. Five grand, when you do the job.” “And if I don’t?” “It would be a terrible shame for you and blondie to have a bike accident.” He laughed a deadly cackle in Chuck’s petrified face, as he tipped his fedora down over his beady, deep socketed eyes on the way out, into the inky shroud of the evening. Chuck froze stiff, until the devil departed in his Buick that was briefly illuminated by the jaundice halogen buzz of the gas bar.

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“Tim,” said Denise to herself. Five thousand dollars. That was more money than he ever threw at her for favors. Her chest filled with dread when she realized the trap she had set for Chuck. She had put him in peril. Tim was using Chuck, likely stirring up a problem from his past, for his own means. No doubt it had to do with Russ Nelson. That was years ago. Could she stop Tim? If she confessed to Chuck about knowing his turbulent past, and her payoffs from Tim, their relationship would be decimated. She couldn’t tell Chuck, without destroying everything they had. If she said nothing, Denise might lose him to the hands of the law. There seemed to be no way out. Love always powdered to dust at her touch. After walking death departed, Chuck slunk over to the Pontiac, and tapped lightly on the door. “He’s gone.” “I heard,” sniffed Denise, rising slowly with teary cheeks. “I have to do it,” exclaimed Chuck, draping his sorry weight on the frame. “Why, Chuck?” she stared hard into him like raw blue steel. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he whimpered. His fingers tried to kiss away the sad wetness trickling past her lips. “My Dad has connections. He’ll keep us safe.” “Maybe you, Denise. He doesn’t give a damn about me.” “Dad knows that I love you, Chuck. That counts, you’ll see.” “The guy asking the favor, can bend people. He can probably buy anyone.” “I don’t want you to go through with this Chuck. Think of us for God’s sake. What if you get caught?” “He said nobody’s going to get killed. It’s an old score to settle. If I don’t do it, he’ll be on my back. I would rather have the cops after me. If I get arrested, I’ll serve my time. Will you wait for me Denise?”

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“No, Chuck. I won’t let my life pass away for your mistake. You have to choose between him and me. You have to cut free from all of this Chuck.” “This one last time Denise. I promise. For us. It’ll work out.” “I’m sorry, Chuck.” Denise pushed open the Firebird door. She fell forward with her fractured heart, teetering on her navy pumps. He dove for Denise and lifted her in his arms. She turned away from his drowning apologetic eyes, and broke free from his gentle embrace. The air between them solidified frigid, as her head dropped off her shoulders, and her footsteps died into the black irreproachable fog. Chuck howled a venomous curse and kicked a stack of worn tires. He hurled whatever loose metal scrap was closest at hand clear across to the other side of the garage with a resounding clang, toppling a wall full of hung tools to the floor. Beaten, he pounded his fist against the concrete wall, and crumpled into a sobbing ball. His stomach flipped and groaned with ulcerated somersaults all week, until Sunday arrived. It was past midnight, and Born to Run had snapped the final tight wire nerve burning like a poker through his headphoned brain. At 2:15 a.m. Chuck wormed himself through the basement window. He left the latches open and crawled over the drop sheet unfurled ahead of him, disturbing the earth as little as possible. For two decades, the glass had been rimmed by cobwebs, rust and rain splashed dirt. To escape from his caged mind, he volunteered to fix all of the basement windows encircling the house foundation. He scraped off the blisters, oiled the hinges, re-puttied the panes, and dabbed on a few licks of fresh whitewash. Grace’s pansies had finished flowering out front, so he dug up the last spindly stems while he was at it. He promised to brighten the bare patch with a flat of tangerine marigolds tomorrow. She was glad to see him taking a hint of interest at home. “It’s as dark as a grave downstairs,” commented Chuck. The cleaned windows spilled a fresh soft golden

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morning light into the stale lower realm. Things were changing from the ground up, smiled Grace. Murray was more doubtful, but he didn’t want to pry it out of him. He had needed the balm of manual diversions from time to time to sort himself out, like his son. Sometimes a man needed his own peace, which became more elusive as he aged in marriage. Chuck melded into the shadows and slipped around the corner to the back of the house to start the Honda engine. It turned over with a purr, and slinked down the wooded drive like a black leopard stalking its prey. He kept the lights off, until the tires hit Route 6, inbound to Pugwash. The two miles from his home to Brickyard Road seemed more like twenty. The minutes were stealing away from him. The road was a half mile of mud cutting through the brush toward the shore. Saturday’s rain had made the lane a greasy slow wavering ride for his touring bike that was designed for a paved ribbon. He had to risk it with his headlights on, to maneuver through the quagmire, and make it to Murphy’s Point on time. 2:20 a.m. stared at him as glowing green slivers and punctuations from his wrist watch. No time to spare. Chuck parked his bike near the edge of the grass bank bordering the sea of cobbles that spilled down to the high tide mark. He was already drenched to the bone with sweating worry, before starting his fifteen minute sprint back along the lane, and through the scrub to Fisherman’s Wharf. The Nelson phone rang eight times while Jake groped around the kitchen to pick up the receiver, “Hello?” Click. Who dared to call at this ungodly hour? There were no elderly relatives in dire health that he knew of. He swore at the prankster, and staggered back to bed. Chuck ripped the backpack off his shoulders, pulled out the sea-scented all-weather gear, and stuffed his black leather jacket inside. He dressed himself in the rain wear, as he snapped a bathing cap over his shorn scalp. He remembered teasing Denise at the gas bar about his mane. Prisoners were sheared like sheep. It was important that no

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trace of his hair or fingerprints become evidence. He put on the woolen toque and rubber boots, moving fast and methodically with his skin thin gloves. He rolled back his rubber sleeve, noting it was 2:35 a.m. Less than five minutes until the second fateful call would be made. He charged through the alders, and ducked between the break in the wharf pilings. Chuck was relieved that it was still there. He tore off the clumps of seaweed to retrieve the jerry can from its plastic sheath. Then he made his presence known, as he briskly paced down the shore to the Nelson skiff. Two hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the narrow harbor, at the Government Wharf, the security guard on patrol spotted the punt launching from the beach. The halogen beacons posted on the wharf around him burned with a soft penetration through the faint mist. There was enough light to discern a figure on board. He switched on the high beam of his football sized flashlight, and picked up a dot of color. It was most peculiar for anyone to be out on the water. His beam caught the red and white cap. Jake Nelson! The rip tide boiled the harbor with swirls of vortices, as the ocean emptied away from Pugwash, straining on the ropes tethering the moored Cape Islanders. The guard watched Jake. What was he doing? Chuck sloshed gas all over the deck like a drunken madman. Then he jumped back into the skiff, pushed off, and cut the lines. At 2:40 a.m. the Nelson phone rang twelve times. “Hello! Who is this!” muttered the groggy teenager. “Your boat’s on fire.” The Halifax pay phone line went dead, as Jake clicked the receiver hook in frustration. It was the same joker. Damn him. He poured his wretched sleepless form into some clothes, grabbed the Ford keys with a curse, and thundered down the lane at hell speed. The prow of the Nelson boat swung into the channel. Slowly it gained momentum with the current, drifting away faster from view.

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Chuck followed it on a parallel course. He shifted the sputtering guttural engine into neutral, grabbed the whiskey bottle that was crammed with a gas soaked rag, lit the Molotov cocktail, and pitched it onto the Jenny Lee. Within seconds the boat burst into a raging fireball. Chuck throttled into high gear, away from the thirty foot flames and billowing black smoke. He sped toward Murphy’s Point, winding the engine full out, skipping the punt over the choppy brine. The stunned wharf guard dropped his flashlight. He ran to his booth and radioed the RCMP at 2:45 a.m. A police siren screeched immediately to the pier. Another constable called the Nelson home, and was told that Jake had left earlier without explanation. Meanwhile, Chuck had scuttled the punt at the point, stripped off the rain gear, and shot home like black lightning in less than four minutes. The Goldwing was bathed in muck when he returned silently into the driveway. He would clean her up at morning’s first light. His adrenaline still shook him, as he smoothed over the impressions in the flower bed, and slithered through the basement window. Downtown, the cops had nailed a Ford pick up that roared through four stop signs at eighty miles an hour.

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TWENTY-ONE By dawn the police were scouring the shoreline up and down the coast like rabid hounds panting with hot tongues on a fresh bloody trail. The tide was dead low, and the rippling sandbars curved for miles from either lip of the harbor. The vicious current had swept most of the charred wreckage toward the horizon. A few ash stained boards were found among twisted kelp, but little of any apparent significance. Later in the day the RCMP diving team would attempt a reconnaissance with the engine sunken ten fathoms down. Brickyard Road was the nearest lane to Fisherman’s Wharf, connecting Route 6 and Murphy’s Point. The police deduced that it was one possible site for the suspect to land, and make a clear getaway. Two constables were assigned to sniff along the lane for any clues. Shortly after seven they found the bundled rain gear and toque lodged in the bushes. The hat matched the description from the security guard. Fifty yards away among the seaweed clad boulders were the contorted remains of a crushed and folded aluminum skiff and dangling battered Mercury outboard scratched silver by the blazing sunshine. The evidence had Nelson written all over it. On top of that, Jake was caught in town at the time of the crime. That afternoon the RCMP made a call down Abercrombie Lane, and arrested Jake Nelson for arson. The preliminary hearing was set in three weeks, early in September. The news spread like fire upon everyone’s lips, and made the evening news three days running. The townsfolk were abuzz as to why the young man burned the family boat.

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It meant immediate hardship for the Nelsons, with no income to sustain them, or to pay their mortgage on their new home. The Nelsons would lose everything if the situation was not remedied. The crime received plenty of attention from the press. There was an ongoing internal inquiry by the RCMP. Detective Robert MacKenzie was called in from Halifax to pour over the facts. A hubcap-less rust bucket Volkswagen Rabbit putted into the Pugwash detachment about one o’clock, Tuesday. The car rocked on its suspension, and the door creaked open with anguish, as a square shouldered moose of a man oozed his frame from the confines of the driver’s side. His size twelve Eatons loafers touched down on the egg-frying pavement, as the rest of him towered and uncreased into a human form. He perpetually wore a half-buttoned tan shirt over his bloated torso to coordinate with the daily coffee stains and melted Mars bars. Plain wrinkled black pants blended with the amorphous palette of grime and grit from, “digging into nobody’s business,” as he put it. He swaggered into the austere brick building, and gruffly introduced himself as “Mac.” The boys tanked up his haggard bulldog chops with more coffee, shared the usual small town pleasantries, and then debriefed him about the Nelson case. He scrutinized the file amid the crossfire of facts and assumptions that shot around the room from the other officers. Mac sucked on the salt and pepper hairs of his goatee that crept over his lower lip, “The security guard made a positive ID?” “He claimed it was Jake Nelson, by his build, and cap,” spoke Officer Cunningham, who was pulled like soft toffee over a leaned back chair, with his palms knitted behind a full shock of licorice hair. “The report says fog. So, the guard had binoculars and a blinding search light in his back pocket?” grumbled Mac. “He’s the only witness we’ve got.”

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“Without a conclusive face, I have my doubts,” snorted Mac. “Jake’s a good kid. No priors.” “Let’s see what I can drag out of the horse’s mouth,” burped Mac, as a swallow of black coffee scalded the back of his throat. Mac saw a broken youth on the other side of the steel cage. Jake was not much younger than his own scraggly cub, who was studying for a Bachelor of Commerce at Acadia University. It struck him, how a spunky lad could be trashed by unfortunate events. The sullen man hung at the edge of the vomit splotched mattress, with his head deep in his arms, muttering unintelligibly. Jake looked up, as an officer rattled his ring of brass keys, and opened the cell for MacKenzie, “You got a visitor, kid.” Both pairs of bloodshot eyes scanned the other through the rank soup air. “Detective Robert MacKenzie,” he cracked, with a trace of a courteous smile over his blubbery cod mouth, “Everybody calls me Mac.” Jake mustered a weak nod, and cowered against the concrete wall. His brain was a blank slate from hours of interrogation. At this point he would agree to sign any affidavit, just to get out of this hell hole. “I looked at your file.” “I’ve got nothing else to say.” “From what they tell me, you come from a decent family. My son, Harry’s like you. Hard working. Honest. Trying to make his own way. I think somebody’s stuck you with a bum rap.” “Yeah.” “Listen. I want to make this easy. For you. And for me. A few leads. That’s all. You’ll be back home before you can say John Collins.” Jake sloughed off the remarks.

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“For starters, the boys pulled you over when you flew through town. The way I see it, after torching the boat, an arsonist would have driven away from town ASAP.” “Your file tell you about the calls?” “Yeah. They were from a Halifax pay phone. What’s your city connection?” “Got none. I’ve already been over this.” MacKenzie scribbled a few notes, and took a different tack, “Your clothes and cap were found at Murphy’s Point.” “I can’t explain that.” “Meaning?” “A month ago my dad was laid up. My girlfriend signed on to fish with me for two weeks. I gave her my extra gear for a few days, until we outfitted her proper. Thing is, my rain gear got lost after she took it home.” “Lost, or stolen?” “I don’t know. I thought that was your job?” “Let’s say stolen. Is there anybody with a grudge against you or your family that would frame you?” “No.” “I didn’t catch your girlfriend’s name.” “I didn’t give it.” “Suit yourself.” “Samantha Allen. Her mother, Kate, is the pharmacist at O’Brien’s.” “Thanks.” MacKenzie left with a grunt. Maybe the girlfriend could open up an avenue. He hoped that she wasn’t a ditzy sixteen year old. The last thing he needed was an airhead to waste his time. His spheroid physique was in constant requirement of food for ambulation. He succumbed to his routine mid afternoon chocolate craving, and waddled around the block to O’Brien’s. He unconsciously grabbed a couple of bars from the front counter, and paid the clerk. The empty Aero wrapper was balled into his hip pocket, as the last mouthful of

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melted sugar descended into his gullet by the time he reached the pharmacy at the back. He figured walking to the station would burn off the calories, anyhow. Kate was on shift. “Mrs. Allen? Detective Robert MacKenzie,” flashing his grim cop smile quicker than his badge. “I’ve been down to the station.” “A few more questions. Please.” She motioned for Denise to cover for her while they went into the stockroom. “I understand that Jake is close with your daughter, Samantha.” “Yes, he’s the world to her.” “She must be pretty shaken up.” “She’s fallen to pieces. Samantha’s staying with friends.” “Who?” “The Nelsons.” Mac’s pupils flared wide with surprise. “They’re my angels. I’m sure your people have done the background checks.” “Yes, Ma’am.” “Now if you’d excuse me.” “Certainly. We’ll be in touch.” Kate’s jaw replied with a silent grind. He saw her teeth clench beneath her sallow cheek muscles and puffy slit eyes. Mrs. Allen was beaten raw. On the way out, he quietly inquired for directions to the Nelsons. With the local notoriety, they were likely one of the top tourist destinations. His mouth twitched sourly at that sarcastic thought. The bungalow nestled among spruce with the ocean view at the end of Abercrombie Lane was the retirement home he always dreamed of. He glanced at the pasty mug in his rearview mirror that drooped exhausted from twenty long years with the force. His gut cringed at the prospect of enduring another twenty.

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After a moment of futile introspection, MacKenzie killed the engine, squeezed out of his Rabbit, and approached the veranda. Dot opened the screen door before he had a chance to knock. “Mrs. Nelson.” “The private beach is closed,” she sighed. The past few days had bleached her hopeless. “Detective Robert MacKenzie. I’m sorry to hear about your family.” “The police have our statement.” “May I come inside?” They smelled Russ through the entrance, slumped at the kitchen table, drowning in Lamb’s Navy rum. She closed the door, barricading him on the steps, “What do you want?” “Your story.” Dot stiffened, and pulled at the pain of her heart string, like a wind-up doll. The spiel was regurgitated verbatim to Mackenzie, as it had been rehearsed dozens of times, to friends, neighbors and the media. She stopped short at spilling her conclusions about Tim being the supicious stranger wearing sunglasses. She prayed that the secretive development between Tim and Mrs. Mundle had no connection to the arson. It did not make sense for Tim to turn on their family after all of these years. Dot knew that that her son was not guilty. She held her family together the best that she could under the circumstances. With stone wall determination they would get through this. At night, when the ceiling pressed down upon her, she wondered if the trial years ago from Russ’ infidelity was meant to prepare her for now. “I met Mrs. Allen. You are looking after her children.” “We’ve always been there for each other.” “I was hoping to speak with Samantha. There is a chance that she might know something.” “She’s a delicate soul, detective. This has truly broken her. If you do anything to hurt her…” warned Dot, with a blackening glare.

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“You have my word. I want Jake cleared as much as you do. He’s a fine boy, like my own,” replied MacKenzie, to cool her off. “They’re down at the beach.” “We’ll find out who did this.” “God speed Mr. Mackenzie,” her tomato eyes welled up, again. “Thanks.” More walking. And another, what, fifty steps down to the shore? He owed himself a second dessert tonight after this marathon. Huffing and wheezing worse than a cracked leather bellows, MacKenzie wallowed through the sand as if he had crawled over thirty miles of Sahara. “Hi girls. Nice day,” he said, wiping away the ocean of sweat pouring from his armpits, wooly back and ballooned cheeks. Natalie smiled and waved her red plastic scoop. She was hunched like a vulture over the sandy tomb that had consumed her sister’s body. Samantha’s head rolled toward him with pale amusement. “Mind if I?” asked Mac, navigating his eclipsing immenseness with an extended groan onto the bone white log nearby. Natalie snapped a branch in two, “Hold this please, mister,” placing one perpendicular to the other. “Call me Mac. My friends do.” “Dot’s asked visitors to stay away,” remarked Samantha, with a curious furrowed brow. “Hold still,” said Natalie, tying the pieces together with a frayed lick of sun beaten rope. “I’m Detective Robert MacKenzie. Jake sends his love.” “How is he?” shivered Samantha’s lips, ready to break out in a flood of tears. “Shaken up, but he’s a strong lad. I’ll look in on him for you, when I can.”

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“Done!” exclaimed Natalie. She took the grave cross, and promptly stabbed it deep into the ground by Samantha’s crown. “Jake didn’t do it,” gulped Samantha with her eyes closed. “I know, but we have to prove it.” “You’re a real policeman?” asked Natalie, more convinced that he was a freak lost from a circus. “A special policeman. I figure out puzzles. We help people like Jake who are in trouble,” explained Mac, flipping out his badge at the end of his stubby fingertips. “Let’s see!” said Natalie, sliding closer. “Maybe you can be a policewoman, and help me, too?” suggested Mac. He leaned over, and pinned the badge onto her swimsuit’s shoulder strap with his ten bulbous thumbs. “Dot told you about the stranger taking pictures?” led Natalie. “A lot of good people can be hurt,” cautioned Samantha, wriggling a palm free, and squeezing her sister’s hand. “It will only get worse if the bad person isn’t stopped,” pushed Mac. Samantha knew this was coming. She had felt it for days. The days that had blended into one long nightmarish hour with various shades of grey. Mrs. Mundle had warned her to be careful. The unspeakable had happened. How could her father be involved with the Nelson disaster? Her heart was smashed into shards. She refused to let her thoughts step over that threshold. Tim, Mrs. Mundle, and the Nelsons were bound together into a strangling knot. “You’ve talked to Mrs. Mundle?” asked Samantha. “Yes. She’s building new cottages. That’s all,” said Mac. “Did Mrs. Mundle mention my Dad?” “No.” “Dad has something to do with Abercrombie Lane.”

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Samantha told MacKenzie about the photos Denise saw, and Dot’s expression when Tim left the barbecue wearing the fedora. It was completely circumstantial. MacKenzie could have prodded Samantha if she thought that her father was capable of arranging the arson. She had lost her lover. To amplify the tragedy by incriminating Dr. Allen was beyond devastation. Even his lizard thick hide was not that insensitive. Samantha was a fragile thread. He needed her to sew this case shut. “Thanks, Samantha.” “Bring Jake home.” Mac answered with a solemn bow, and opened his ashtray palm for the return of his grit scratched badge. He struggled like a pregnant cow to get up from his hind quarters, said goodbye, and plodded with disgust toward the sky high staircase. As he left, Natalie rattled the contents of her pail onto Samantha’s sand heaped chest. With patient precision, she spelled R.I.P. with pearly quartz pebbles, and then folded her hands and eyelids tightly in supplication. A singular eye jewel beaded to the earth with Samantha’s sigh. Soon the storm littered tide would rise and swallow away all of their sins.

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TWENTY-TWO A lion chewed inside Mackenzie’s belly, salivating for slabs of bloody roast beef and mashed potato isles swimming in a turbid sea of gravy. The grumbling beast was ignored, as he left the engine running, trotted into the station, and nabbed Cunningham for a review of the crime scene. The police cruiser pulled off to the side at Fisherman’s Wharf. Together they walked down the cracked mud, and dodged the drying opalescent puddles on Brickyard Road. Some of the tracks traversing the lane’s weedy spine had already blown away to dust over the past forty-eight hours. Once they were past the turn off to the wharf, the jumble of vehicular tracks had diminished to a handful of trails winding toward Murphy’s Point. “No tire match?” conjectured MacKenzie, observing that most of the tracks traveled unpaired down the road. “The Nelson’s Ford must have been parked near the beginning of the lane.” “The security guard said the skiff motored out to the harbor, when the boat was burning. We’re assuming that Jake ditched the boat at the Point. Then he ran to the truck, and sped through town.” “The boot prints are over three feet apart. He was hoofing at a good clip.” “It’s almost a mile to the point. He ran with rubber boots, in slippery muck, in pitch black. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.” “You’re saying it’s tight.”

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“The wharf guard said the boat was in flames around 2:30 a.m. The RCMP stopped Jake at 2:53 a.m. Yeah. Too tight.” “The second phone call to the Nelson’s from Halifax was at 2:40 a.m. Jake said he left home then.” “His alibi. If that was the case, he didn’t have enough time to torch the boat, run the lane and take off in his truck.” “Unless Jake lied, and left earlier, while someone else had answered the call.” “What if the arsonist rode a motorcycle?” said MacKenzie, pointing his stick at a weaving single track. “The suspect would first drive the bike to Murphy’s Point, then run back to the wharf, burn the boat, maroon the skiff, and finally beat it to the highway.” “While Jake was being baited into town at the time of the crime.” “Every kid and his dog on the block ride a dirt bike. There is no way we could track him down.” “Off road bikes and street bikes have different treads. This one was made by a trail bike,” as MacKenzie indicated a coarse tread that bit deep into the mud. “And this one is from a touring cycle,” as he ran the shadow of his rod over a shallow smudged wobbling track. “Dirt bikes make a hell of a racket.” “Exactly. No one in the neighborhood reported seeing or hearing anything at 2:30 a.m.” “There is only one street cycle track going to the point, and back.” “Why would someone drive a touring bike through mud? Less traction. A devilish treacherous ride,” puzzled MacKenzie. “Unless it was a quiet running motorcycle.” “Possible. The arsonist theoretically would be about the same size as Jake. The boots and clothes needed to fit; for the run, and to fool the wharf guard.” “The arsonist had a fisherman’s experience. He operated a punt, and was familiar with the local tides and

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currents. If the tide was coming in, then the other boats and the wharf could have gone up in flames.” “A biker, about the same build as Jake, who’s been around the water.” “That narrows our second suspect down to a male from the Northumberland Strait.” “There’s still no explanation how your arsonist obtained Jake’s clothes.” “You’re right. The boots haven’t shown up either.” “When are the prints on the rain gear coming back from the lab?” asked MacKenzie. “With the hair sample report, on Thursday” replied Cunningham. The Laurel and Hardy duo marched back to Fisherman’s Wharf, with enlightened considerations. On Wednesday morning Officer Cunningham took a call. The Department of Fisheries and Oceans had confirmed a fine against Russ Nelson in 1971. Charles Langille was registered as his mate during that time. “You might have something,” lit up Mackenzie, already on his third coffee by ten a.m. “Russ Nelson has a clean record otherwise. I asked around. Langille and Nelson fought on board.” “Anything else on Langille?” “He’s a regular James Dean. A list of misdemeanors as long as your arm. No offenses over the past two years.” “Could be our trouble maker.” “He fits our description. Should we bring him in for questioning?” “Not yet. If he’s the arsonist, my bet there’s been too much heat for a payoff.” “You think he has an accomplice?” “If Langille had a serious grudge against Nelson, he could have torched his boat back in 1971. There must be some other reason why he did it now, four years later.” “Any ideas?” “Abercrombie Lane.” “We’ve talked to Mundle. She’s rebuilding.”

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“I’ve got a lead that Mundle and Dr. Timothy Allen have a mutual interest at Abercrombie.” “Allen’s a cardiologist from Halifax. Well known and respected. Separated from his wife about ten years ago.” “I met Kate yesterday. A real shame.” “You were saying.” “The predicament that the Nelsons are in now, they could lose their home. Maybe the development along Abercrombie is more than renovating cottages?” “That’s a long shot. Mrs. Mundle and Dr. Allen have impeccable reputations.” “We should keep tabs on Langille. In the meantime I’ll contact the Registry of Motor Vehicles for any other local motorcycles on record.” “I’m a familiar face to Chuck. I’ll do the surveillance on his activities.” “My guess is, that if he’s the arsonist, he will keep a low profile. Your thoughts Cunningham?” “He is a Person of Interest. Out of nowhere the kid’s been driving a three thousand dollar touring motorcycle.” “You have anything else on Langille?” “His parents, Grace and Murray go to church. I’ll try to catch them on Sunday. Off duty.” “I’ll poke around for any other gossip. In this matchbox town everybody lives inside everyone’s head.” “Try Mundle again.” “Yeah. Applying a little more pressure should squeeze something out.” It was not only the RCMP that wanted answers. The police would eventually sort out the truth, but by then it might be too late. Samantha knew that time was against her mother. Kate was only able to work short shifts now. She made the excuse of wanting more summer hours with her darlings. She dripped like a ghost under the fluorescent hum at the pharmacy. Her pupils were as wide and black as death. The whispers behind her back grew nearly audible, until O’Brien’s management urged her to take a vacation. Denise

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kept quiet about Kate suffering from more than burnout. She had played and lost enough from her own games with the Allens and Nelsons. Samantha was determined to redeem Jake. He was her future, and the life of her soul. More than her father was, or ever could be. She rose from her sorrowful grave, and drank from the bitter cup of revenge. If her father was responsible for destroying the Nelsons, she would personally hunt him down. Samantha told Kate everything. Dot’s story about the disguised stranger, the property being surveyed, the drugstore photos seen by Denise, Natalie eavesdropping from under the sink, the warning from Mrs. Mundle, and how it all pieced together to prove that Tim and Mrs. Mundle were developing Abercrombie Lane. Fire breathed from her mouth and eyes, as Samantha accused her father of ruining the Nelsons. The smoke of arson filled the air of Kate’s bedroom. She wept on her mother’s shoulders with bitter sulphurous tears, “Help me, Mom.” The Corolla snugged into the curb on Water Street outside Mundle’s Hardware at five. Kate marched up the steps and pulled most of the wrinkles out of her pancake powdered face and the navy print dress that she wore. She curled some frizzled grey strands behind her ringing ears, and soundly rapped on the glass door. She didn’t recognize the reflection of the wretched old woman staring back at her. Trembling fingers turned the latches with hesitant expectation, “Come in, dear.” “Thanks, Helen.” “How are you and the girls?” “Samantha’s taking it hard.” Helen locked up again, and then warmed Kate’s fallen frame with a firm hug. “The Nelsons are family, to all of us.” “My heart goes out to them.” “We have to do something, Helen.” “We can’t interfere with the police.”

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“We both know who is behind this,” focused Kate with a desperate choking warble. “Tim can destroy anyone.” “Are you that deep with him?” “There are no legal ties between us. I didn’t have any idea that he would go that far.” “Do the police know about Tim?” “I told them that I was privately rebuilding on Abercrombie Lane.” Helen didn’t want to aggravate the issue by mentioning that detective MacKenzie visited earlier this afternoon. He had tried to intimidate her with snide remarks about obscuring justice and withholding evidence. Helen admitted to discussing development on Abercrombie Lane with Dr. Allen, but there was no business relationship. Not a single penny had passed between them. She was adamant the renovations were her project alone, strictly within Mundle property lines. “I need to trap Tim at his own game. Don’t worry about me, Helen. I have nothing to lose.” “Samantha and Natalie?” “I’ve made arrangements. They will be taken care of. You have to trust me Helen.” “What if Tim finds out?” “He won’t know what hit him when I get through with him.” “Whatever you have in mind has to be done soon.” “Oh?” “Tim’s coming here, late Saturday. Then he’s flying out Sunday to the Caribbean for a few weeks.” “Before the RCMP question him.” “Yes, I suspect so. He will get what he wants.” “And then leave you cold.” “Wait here.” The evening light filtered like melted butter through the kitchen window lace, and traced softly over Kate’s grey features that had long forgotten affection. The honey gingered tea steeped with the fragrance of loyal friendship through the glowing parlor. It was a rare warmth, like the Nelsons’, which

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miraculously carried her through one day and into the next. Kate listened to Helen’s heels clicking in a semicircle on the oak floorboards overhead, then a squeak and slap from a bureau drawer, followed by a hobbling creak down the stairs to the main floor. “You didn’t get this from me,” said Helen, nervously slipping her an unsealed envelope. Kate slowly unfolded the monthly statement from the Royal Bank of Canada. She scanned the deposit transactions totaling in the thousands of dollars. Her cheeks flared with rage when she read near the bottom of the list. There was a branch to branch transfer of ten grand from Dr. Benjamin Scott into Tim’s account. The leech was sucking him dry. “Tim and I talked about Abercrombie Lane. He had crazy ideas about a resort in Pugwash. I only wanted to fix up some shacks. I went ahead and did my property surveying. The costs for his project were astronomical. He wanted the Nelsons out. I tried to discourage him. I threatened to end it between us. I called his bluff that he didn’t have enough money. He gave me this to prove his intentions.” “The police would love to investigate these deposits into his private account.” “I see that Ben is caught up in this mess, too,” sunk Helen, rattling her cup and spilling tea. “It’s not fair,” sobbed Kate. “He’s tearing this town apart.” She embraced her village sister with her tormented heart, “No more, Helen. No more!” “God help us all,” cried Helen, failing to comfort the puppet skeleton enveloped by her ample pillowing bosom. She released Kate with a final squeeze of hope. Helen closed the door on her, and watched Kate descend with the heavy shadows of inevitable night. If Kate could stop Tim, it might cost her everything. Yes, everything. Kate realized that the only peace she might ever have was not for herself, but for her children, and maybe, if she was lucky, for the other friends she had loved. It was

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pointless to rebuild what she had already lost for herself. That was as clear as noon. The future for her daughters flickered like weak candlelight. Another harsh blow to the Nelsons, and their chance for happiness would be completely extinguished. For the next few days the Allens stayed with the Nelsons, as one big family. They found a measure of comfort; sharing what little they had, remembering the sweeter summers, and promising themselves that this would all change into brighter times. Together they visited Jake as often as the authorities permitted. The love between Jake and Samantha was their catalyst for optimism. On Saturday Kate plucked a discord, saying that she had some personal business to finish with Tim. She needed to make a few calls, and would return early Sunday. Dot bribed Natalie to spend the night with them. She knew that Kate was about to wage war with Tim. Samantha, seeing the frail condition of her mother, insisted on being with Kate. Little was said between them on the way home. Samantha tightened with a chill at the burning frown carved upon Kate’s sunken face. “What’s going on, Mom?” she asked, clenching her claws into the seat. “Your father,” hissed Kate. “I know, Mom. But what can we do?” “Make him pay with the truth.” “How?” “You’ll see, honey. Will you promise to stand by me, no matter what happens,” quivered Kate’s voice. She pulled into the driveway and killed the lights into the dead weighted darkness. Arm in arm, Samantha steadied her mother up the porch stairs that were lost within the molasses thick hour. “Can I get you anything?” squinted Samantha, as she clicked on the kitchen light, and poured herself a glass of ice water from the tap. “No thanks, dear,” replied Kate, falling as another lump onto the sofa. She switched on the lava lamp, and lost

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herself in the bubbling peach balloons. Samantha eased under her mother’s wing. “I have to call Tim,” resolved Kate. “You’ll probably only get his answering machine.” “He likely has a private number.” “Denise would know,” spoke Samantha, “From what I saw under the table in Halifax, they are very close.” “They suit each other,” snarled Kate. She rose to make a call. It was almost eleven. The phone rang forever, until it was answered by a yawn, “Hello?” “Denise?” “Kate?” “Can you give me Tim’s number?” “I thought you had his home number,” stung Denise. Stupidity must run in their family. Her space cadet daughter, Samantha, flashed into her mind. “I want his private number.” Pause. “What are you talking about?” snarled Denise. “I have proof that Tim was behind the arson. He must pay you well. Tell me his number, or else you’re going down with him.” Denise slid to the floor whimpering, “Please don’t.” Kate penciled the digits hard into the wall, crisply adding, “See you in court, bitch.” She slammed down the receiver with a deafening bang. “Now?” shrunk Samantha, hugging a cushion. “We wait. Don’t answer the phone when it rings, O.K., dear,” said Kate, apologizing for her outburst, “Let’s try to get some sleep.” A dark nervous shadow knocked on the back door of Mundle’s Hardware. It was answered by a labored sigh, and a momentary pause from the other side. Tim slithered inside, concerned, “Helen?” “It’s been a hard week,” she replied, peeling off his jacket for him. “I heard about the arson on the news.”

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“It’s not right for that to happen to the Nelsons,” spoke Helen, distancing herself from him. “I know what you’re thinking Helen. I wanted the Nelsons out of Abercrombie lane. But not this way,” bowed Tim, avoiding her inquiring eyes. “The police have been asking around about us and our business on the lane.” “You’ve kept my name out of it?” “Yes.” That’s what Tim wanted to hear. It was worth his trip to Pugwash. “I’ll be glad to get away from this until it cools off.” Her clammy fingers trickled down the necklace, and warmed the silver crucifix pricking into the crest of her alabaster breasts. She made a wish under her breath for the devil to vanish from her parlor. She followed the stumbling clamber of his hooves upstairs, and undressed him with void affection. She poured him a Bloody Mary with a sour slice of lemon cut with a grimace from her lips. His mouth descended ravenously upon her naked flesh, and completely shivered her with goose pimples. She lay there as his slaughtered prey, dry, and frigid, while he pounded groans within her. He rolled over after his appetite was satiated. Helen swallowed her soiled pride with two sleeping pills. Kate stared into nothing, frozen in her thoughts, embalmed within her cotton casket. She jolted when the phone rang. Eight times. Two long. One short. Then silence. Helen had signaled that Tim had left her flat. She focused her blurry eyes again upon the Westinghouse clock hands that she had patiently been watching doing semaphore for hours. It was just past 4 a.m. She slowly rose from bed, and floated across the hall. She stopped at Samantha’s doorway, and listened. Her breathing was light and regular, like a leaf carried upon a dreamy waft. Kate smiled, and continued around the corner, being careful not to press any mouse squeaks from the linoleum. She turned the knob, and pried the

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back door open enough to slide through. Kate felt her way down the steps, and over to the Corolla. The sleepy dew licked at her toes with cold mischievous kisses. Kate popped open the compartment and put on her driving gloves. There were two hunting knives inside. Without disturbing the fingerprints, she tossed Tim’s knife into the tall grass, near the thicket, at the border of their property. Then she grabbed the second one, and crouched by the rear tire on the passenger side. The first few stabs glanced off the rubber like cat scratches. The third jab went deeper. The inner tube bubbled through the laceration like a puff of candy gum. Kate put her gloves and knife back, and then returned to the cottage, this time with her flashlight on. The kitchen lit up as she stepped onto the porch. “Mom?” mumbled Samantha. She was startled to see her mother prancing around outdoors in her nightgown. “I heard a noise from my bedroom. It wasn’t the raccoons. I looked out and saw a man. Whoever it was took off,” explained Kate, “I’m sorry for waking you.” “You shouldn’t take chances like that, Mom, you could get hurt.” “I’m a big girl,” joked Kate. By 6:30 a.m. Tim would be back in the city. She held her tongue until seven, before releasing her wrath. Kate gritted her jaws until they nearly broke from throbbing pressure. She barely withheld the inferno of curses ready to explode from her lungs, as her fingers dialed revenge. His phone rang twenty times. He picked up, but only breathed anger. “I know you did it Tim.” “Go to hell, Kate.” “You blackmailed Ben, and swindled your other whores in Toronto and Calgary. The cops will make Denise talk. I’ve got names and accounts. It’s going to be a party. Expecting you to join us, honey.” “What do you want?”

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“Be here by ten. Or I’m going to the police,” boiled Kate. She smashed down the receiver. Tim reasoned that only Helen had the information. They had knifed him squarely in the back. There was no way to turn this around. He had to surrender to Kate’s ultimatum, or lose his empire. The cancer had likely weakened her physically into a limp rag. He would meet with her, and improvise somehow to eliminate Kate. The two hours of driving back to Pugwash should give him enough time to consider some creative possibilities. Helen would be a more challenging victim. He looked at his suitcases packed for the Cayman Islands, and swore enough to curl the Asian wallpaper. He would have to cancel his flight. Kate was dressed in funeral black silk up to her neck. She was armed with stiletto heels, and blood red lipstick, the color of her seething fury. The pill bottles from the bathroom cabinet were slung in a bag at her side. “Mom?” “I’m going after Tim, before he slips away.” “The police…” “There is no time, sweetheart.” “Mom! Please don’t go!” “I have to, dear. If anything goes wrong, give this to the RCMP,” Kate handed her the envelope containing Tim’s bank statement, and then hugged the wind out of her daughter’s chest, “I love you Samantha!” “I love you, Mom.”

TWENTY-THREE For months Kate had replayed the movie through her mind, knowing how it must happen. She always saw her journey as a terminal conclusion at night, rather than a trip beginning at dawn. She had a content glow inside now, and considered this as a mission of hope, for her daughters. She was a decaying shriveled shell ready to disintegrate, and make passage for the next generation. Her car hummed along the hilly double lane, curving past the sugar cube houses, and spruce saturated with ocean scent. She was inside her own surreal diorama, moved by the invisible hand of her own will. She counted the telephone poles into town, one last time, by herself. When Kate clattered over the bridge, she wound down her window, and threw the second knife into the air. It cart wheeled, tumbling like a tern wing, and then plunged into the murky harbor depths. There was a sentimental tug that enticed her to drive just once around the town block. But Kate knew if she did that, her decision would change. She must not fail. Not now. The stores and businesses were like picture books. Her eyes read through their windows and doors, where a mélange of conversations, gossip and personalities came alive from memory. Kate snipped those threads one at a time, as she pulled away, out of town. She made a rumbling detour down the dirt road to the dump. The seagull angels circled above in the crystal blue as she lobbed her bag of drugs over the disemboweled heaps of garbage bags and auto bones, and into the rotting heart of the landfill. By eight a.m. Kate was roaring south along Route 368. The speedometer needle pushed higher, and the engine revved louder, yet time seemed to blur with a peculiar

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stillness. She could feel the second hand tick on her wrist, and the pulse in her jugular arteries stretching with the rhythm of her breath. The hues of life washed away, like a watercolor left out in a rainstorm. Only Samantha and Natalie were left at the core of her thoughts. She prayed that they would eventually understand, and maybe, someday forgive her. Kate was thankful for the nightmarish pain that blotted out almost every other sensation. It was a numbing anesthetic, in its own cruel way. She remembered the stomach dropping descent snaking wildly through the Cobequid Mountains. It was the same fateful place as ten years ago. The full stop intersection with Route 307 would be upon her in seconds. She checked, and found the crossroad clear, then rammed the gas pedal through the floor. Kate shot with a reckless swerve at ninety miles an hour blowing out the rear tire. The Corolla flew through the guard rail, and wrapped around the telephone pole like a twist of candy foil. The Toyota horn droned until nine, before an ambulance and the RCMP arrived. Traffic crawled past the grisly scene of steel and glass shrapnel. The team labored with pneumatic jaws to cut her mangled ragdoll body free. The horrific tragedy was relayed from the Pugwash detachment to Detective Mackenzie at the Hillcrest Motel and Restaurant. He had stuffed his chipmunk cheeks with a second round of sunny side up eggs, bacon and hash browns. His face was buried in the obituaries of Saturday’s Chronicle Herald. MacKenzie called his partner with the news. “What about the Langilles?” asked Cunningham. “We need that information. I’ll take Constable Bowers with me to inform the next of kin ASAP,” replied MacKenzie. “You can handle this?” “I’ll call you from the Allens, if we need back up. Thanks,” click. There was no answer at Dr. Timothy Allen’s Halifax residence. He phoned the Nelsons next, having assumed that

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Samantha and Natalie were there. MacKenzie was surprised to learn that Samantha was alone at the Allen cottage. Without divulging further details, he urgently asked Mr. Nelson to meet with him at the Allen’s home. MacKenzie and Bowers rumbled into the Allen driveway at 9:20 a.m. Samantha braced herself for the worst, as the messengers of doom shadowed toward the veranda. Her whole body quivered with pain and tears. She read death hanging from MacKenzie’s grey eyes and fallen shoulders. They comforted her inside. “I called Mr. Nelson. He’ll be here in a few minutes. We couldn’t contact your father,” spoke Mackenzie. “Dad is probably on his way,” trembled Samantha between sniffles. “Oh?” “I don’t want to stay with him!” tensed Samantha. “I know this is hard, right now, but can you tell us what happened.” “Mom saw someone prowling around last night. She went after him, outside. He disappeared before she found out who it was.” “When was that?” “Around 4:30 a.m.” “Mom said she had to call Dad about something.” “I see.” “They had a big fight on the phone at seven. Mom told him to come here or else.” “What was the argument over.” “Money. She told me to give you this,” said Samantha, handing him the envelope. The Nelson Ford chugged to a halt behind the Rabbit. “We’ll have a talk with your father, when he arrives,” said MacKenzie. They stood on the porch as Samantha locked up the cottage. “One more question, Samantha,” asked MacKenzie, “Does anyone else have a key to your home?”

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“No. This is Mom’s house. Only her and I have keys.” “Thanks,” smiled MacKenzie. When they walked her over to Russ, there was a silver flash from the shin high weeds. MacKenzie spotted the knife, and requested Bowers to grab a plastic bag from the dash. He gingerly slid the evidence into the pouch. “Do you recognize this?” spoke MacKenzie. “That’s Dad’s hunting knife. It was lost the night we had a family barbecue. Mom said that she found it the next day, and mailed it to him.” “How did it land over there?” “I don’t know. Dad hasn’t been here since the barbecue. That was weeks ago.” “You’ve been a great help Samantha. Please call me if you think of anything else.” “Sure.” MacKenzie opened the pick-up door for her. After a few softer exchanges, they departed, leaving the investigators in charge. MacKenzie drove the Volkswagen further down the lane, away from view. Then they returned to stake out the cottage. “Do we have enough on Dr. Allen to make this stick?” “It’s mostly circumstantial. This,” proclaimed MacKenzie, marveling at the antler trophy, “and the bank account entries, should box him in.” “The knife?” “It appears that Mrs. Allen lost control when her rear tire blew. There were signs of a superficial puncture.” “If it was Dr. Allen who sabotaged Mrs. Allen’s car, we must establish that he was in Pugwash last night.” “I have a witness in mind to verify that.” “What was the business about the cottage key?” “If Dr. Allen has a key to the cottage, then he stole Jake’s raingear.” “The all-weather suit which the arsonist wore.”

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“There were only two sets of prints on the clothes; Jake Nelson’s and Samantha Allen’s.” “Our mouse has arrived,” noted Bowers, as the LeSabre slinked into the Allens at 9:45 a.m. “Let’s see if he goes for the cheese,” said MacKenzie, wishfully whispering, “Come on. Come on.” Tim tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, as he questioned the absence of the Toyota. Where was the bitch? She said ten. He was usually the one who called the shots. Not this time. Tim made a wry pinched grin at how Kate had beaten him. She would be here soon, with her petulant demands. He would watch for his chance, and then overpower her. He had ample narcotics in his medicine bag to make it look like a fatal overdose. Simple, and efficient. Tim had fifteen minutes to search for his account statement, plus any other items which might prove useful. The hours of driving had flared his hip pain. Tim wobbled with strain up the stairs with his cane. It was unusually clean indoors. He was startled simultaneously by the empty bathroom medicine cabinet, and the impatient rap on the front door. “Yes?” said Tim curtly, without a blink of guilt. “Hello, Dr. Allen. I’m Detective Robert MacKenzie. This is Constable Danny Bowers.” “Come in.” “We regret to inform you that your wife died in a car accident this morning.” “My God!” exclaimed Tim, as he dropped onto the sofa, hiding his pleasure behind a mask of cold shivering fingers. His eyes sparkled with interest. MacKenzie summarized the matter of fact details about the tragedy on Route 307. “Where were you last night Dr. Allen?” probed MacKenzie. Tim was alert to where these suspicions were leading, “I have nothing further to say without my lawyer.” “We suggest you keep yourself available, Dr. Allen.” Before they crammed into the Rabbit, Tim shouted, “Where are my children.”

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“Staying with the Nelsons,” snapped MacKenzie. Tim had reviewed every action done and word uttered. There were no tangible facts to prosecute him. Denise and Chuck were very well paid to keep their mouths shut. Helen was the only smudge to be wiped from his slate. Tim slammed the cottage door, cracking the glass, and then stormed off in his Buick to Abercrombie Lane. The bruised sky had pressed dark and low as Dr. Allen swung into the Nelsons. Tim swallowed hard, and sucked in his cheeks, as he mustered commanding anger from his churning gut. He loved Natalie and Samantha dearly. There would be necessary complications and adjustments in his personal life. He had always favored Natalie, the more sensible one. His daughters had associated too closely with the Nelsons. With the family in ruin, and Samantha’s boyfriend in jail, Tim prepared himself for a stormy reception. From the argument this morning, Kate clearly blamed him for the arson. She likely poisoned his children against him, and the Nelsons, too. It was all hearsay and rumors. Once Tim had them safely under his wing, he’d ask Samantha about the bank statement. Then he planned to visit Helen. A well placed blow, with an accidental fall down her steep stairs would conveniently terminate their relationship. Tim stiffened from the car with one resolute breath, and strutted off kilter with his cane toward the veranda. Two ton Dot plowed ahead like a tank through the screen door, ready to squash the skinny worm flat into the mud. Samantha and Natalie stood behind, frowning pale with fear, hatred and injured love. Russ had his plaid sleeves rolled up past his canon elbows. His alcohol fueled fury was triggered to pulverize Tim at the slightest provocation. “Samantha and Natalie are coming with me, now,” demanded Tim. His knuckles welded white around the cane, while his eyes speared with lethal intent into the adversary’s. “They girls are in our custody now,” countered Dot. “Let them speak for themselves,” cut Tim. The pawns stood firm, glaring hard as flint at their father.

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Russ loomed forward, smoking like Hades, “Leave now, Dr. Allen, while you can still walk.” “This is not over,” frothed Tim. He sensibly retreated, and growled to himself, vowing to annihilate the Nelsons once and for all. At noon, downtown, the polished halos of the Saint Thomas Moore parishioners filed past an ashen robed Father, and dribbled onto Black Street. Officer Edward Cunningham warbled a broken, half forgotten sea shanty, and toyed with the keys in his wrinkled hip pocket while he waited in the grassy shade. When the Langilles walked by, he hooked them with a handshake and a smile. “Good morning Eddie,” greeted Murray. “What’s new with you and Grace?” “Not much. How are you and Nancy?” “We’re well. And Chuck?” “Gracie’s ready to make him a Catholic,” he elbowed him, with a chuckle. “Murray! Chuck’s turned around. He’s helping at home,” sounded Grace with pride. “With a proper haircut, we don’t get him mixed up with his girlfriend,” chided Murray. “That Parker-Jones girl has been good for him, Murray,” said Grace. “The woman comes with the bike,” snorted Murray. “So help me, Murray,” steamed Grace, focusing fire into his eyes. “He loves his new Honda. Shines it brighter than St. Peter’s chariot. The only time mud touched that chrome was about a week ago.” “Last Monday?” asked Cunningham. “He was up with the birds, washing it down.” “Where was he Sunday night?” “Truth is, I can’t say. He must have slipped out real early Monday morning.” “Not a creak from the stairs or door,” she admitted. “Kids are like cats. Out at all hours.”

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“We’d love to have you and Nancy over,” spoke Grace. “Sure. We’ll give you a ring later,” he replied. Officer Cunningham reported back to MacKenzie. On Monday morning they hauled Charles Langille into the station for questioning. The confrontation was centered around two winding reels of magnetic tape, recording the tension within the painfully bright eight by ten concrete hole. His cowhide boots were tightly wrapped around the warped steel legs of the solitary cracked plywood chair, while his fingers fidgeting with the chipped ash tray craved for a cigarette. Cunningham and Bowers observed them with stiffly folded arms from behind a two-way mirror. “Where were you on August eighteenth at 4:30 a.m.?” demanded MacKenzie. “Around,” slouched Chuck. “Your folks said you were out.” “So?” “Took a spin through mud, I hear.” “Maybe. I ride everywhere, man.” “Down Brickyard Road torching a boat,” growled MacKenzie, ramming his two hundred and fifty pounds forward. The hardwood table skidded, and knifed under Chuck’s diaphragm. “You’ve got nothing on me,” he choked, sucking wind into his bruised chest. “Your prints aren’t on Jake’s rain gear. But when we make a match with your hair sample, kiss you ass goodbye, kid.” Chuck rifled at MacKenzie with a glare to kill. A hair sample? His mind flashed back to that night. He rubbed his bristly scalp, and remembered peeling off the cap. The cop was bluffing. “You know him?” deadpanned MacKenzie. He played the photo of Dr. Timothy Allen like a blackjack card. “Seen him around,” admitted Chuck, spinning it back to the grey hulk who sweated twice as much as he did.

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“If you don’t talk, I’m sure your Parker-Jones girl will.” “I don’t know his name. He’s been by the gas station a few times,” stalled Chuck. He heard that Cunningham asked questions. He phoned Denise last night, and hoped that there was still a glimmer of love between them. Chuck needed a Parker-Jones lawyer to pull him clear of this crap. “You’re looking at ten to fifteen for arson, Langille. Your track record isn’t exactly pretty. This town won’t want to ever see your face again.” MacKenzie roughed him up, viciously shouting and needling him with the same questions, over and over from every conceivable psychological angle. The relentless battering interrogation frayed Chuck’s tightrope nerves. He finally succumbed after eight grueling hours and died into a sobbing leather heap. Chuck agreed to plea bargain for a reduced sentence in exchange for names and details. Monday night Tim answered the firm knock on his penthouse suite door. His jaw gaped speechless when the officers unbuckled a set of handcuffs. “Dr. Timothy Allen, you are charged with the murder of your wife, Katherine Allen, and as an accessory to arson,” rolled the Constable without a skip in his breath. They read Dr. Allen his rights, and booked him downtown. Before the weekend, Jake was released, free of any charges. Samantha balled with joy into his eager arms, promising to never ever let him out of her sight again. They were truly inseparable now.

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EPILOGUE She waited alone, in the veranda shade, as her old bones and the rocking chair creaked in rhythm to the tumbling faraway surf. Dot sighed with the ocean, aching for her children's laughter. She sipped again from her tea, and her wandering thoughts, both having steeped with a comfortable bitterness through the dull restless morning. For nearly three decades, Dot had patiently watched the dust whirl down Abercrombie Lane. Her heart squeezed, knowing that the circling zephyr no longer carried Russ' rumbling Ford. The sea of rum had consumed his tormented mind, and taken away half of her soul. At times, when Dot closed her eyes, she almost tasted his presence upon the briny waft stirring past the sun stained curtains. She plucked the coconut tree card from the corner of the wicker table with her worried palm, held it to her breast, and wished again upon the distant cloud coughing over the winding gravel ribbon. It was posted from the Maldives, six months ago, on February 1985. The few gay curling lines penned by Samantha said they would be home by summer. Jake had promised Dot a house full of grandchildren after they returned from the world cruise with Ben. The court trial had exposed his medical breach, and Ben's license was summarily revoked. He sold everything, bundled up his marine maps, and flew south to the Florida Keys. He soon prospered with his private yacht charter service. Every single letter or phone call from Ben during the past ten years cried for Kate. He never forgot those imaginary sailing evenings with the Allens. One of the last requests by Kate was to travel together posthumously, to the isles of their dreams. She had

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faith in her visions, even beyond death. Over the past year Dot had filled an entire photo album with their Pacific journey. Postcards poured in from Fiji, Ceylon, and Madagascar. At every island they anchored a prayer for Kate, and sprinkled her ashes among the tropical waves. The silver Malibu sliced through the dusty puff. She hoped that Natalie was with Peter. She had barely turned eighteen, and married the ambitious architect. His freckled boyish grin hid a razor sharp intelligence. He quickly formed a business partnership with Helen to finally develop her Abercrombie property. Although most of his contracts were based in Halifax, his love was Natalie, at the Allen cottage. Was it a coincidence, when Dr. Timothy Allen and Chuck Langille served their sentences at the Springhill Penitentiary? A month after they were convicted Tim was found in his cell, with a shiv sticking from his left side, dead in a pool of blood. The homicide remained unsolved. The entire proceeds of his will, including the Cayman Island trust account, were bequeathed to Natalie, when she became of legal age. Dot remembered it would be another week before her daughter returned from the Caribbean. Peter parked in the Nelson driveway and unloaded two armloads of groceries from the trunk. Dot opened the door for him, as he smiled a hello en route to the kitchen. He helped her pack away the dry goods and perishables amid the usual small conversation. Peter made sure that Dot followed her diabetes prescriptions. She asked about Denise, who shined as O'Brien's manager. She had mentioned Chuck in passing. Five years after his release, he still called her from his custom bike shop, begging her to drop Dullsville, and live with him in California. Maybe in thirty years, when she retired, laughed Denise. The tides of Pugwash had rippled to the ends of the earth. Before July it drew them all together again, as one true family, with a hundred thousand welcomes, "ciad mile failte."

Love Me Knot

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