of the small tables to observe the rituals in question. To see if, before Molly arrived, I could acquire a semi-informed opinion on the subject. On any subject other than my rapidly-becoming-boring state of woe.
In the five days since our phone conversation, I’d enjoyed the coach house’s quiet, at least when the hammering and wrecking crews renovating a house two doors down took their lunch break, and between the debris-blowing and lawn-mowing sessions conducted by various gardening teams vying for the title of best simulator of jet takeoff noise. I’d also indulged in some spells of meditative solitude in the flat between visits from my mother, who dropped by daily with essentials like an extra pillow and blanket, fresh flowers, or rolls of toilet paper. (I’d have to start tipping her soon, and/or make up a Do Not Disturb sign for my doorknob.) But there were only so many hours I could sit in a chair with an open book in my lap, staring out the window at tradesmen’s trucks jockeying for road space with sunglassed women in SUVs, and contemplating my inadequacy as a human, before I began to yearn for a change of scene and preoccupation.
So it was with interest that I watched the morning bustle at Bagel Haven. A grey-haired, jolly man with a British accent manned the till, a quick-handed woman in her thirties toasted and buttered, and a young guy in jeans, T-shirt, apron, and baseball cap periodically emerged from a back kitchen to unload hot bagels from a trolley into the display baskets at the front of the store.
A steady flow of people in office clothes took food to go, but those who ate in were a more mixed crowd. A man of about seventy, with a jaunty white visor on his head, chatted up the staff by name, ordered “the usual,” dropped a dollar in the tip jar when his coffee and bagel together cost less than two, and sat down to read his newspaper. Seated in a corner with an infant in a baby seat was an exhausted-looking woman of about my age, clad in sweats, who closed her eyes in ecstasy when she took her first sip of latte. At five minutes to nine, in sauntered three city maintenance workers, dressed in orange coveralls and construction boots. All three ate bagels toasted with butter, and they sat at the table in the window to eat them, where they talked loud and laughed between bites. As if they liked their lives, the coffee break part, anyway. My eavesdropping on their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Greer, who, when I addressed her as such, said I must call her Molly, urged me to try a focaccia bagel, and introduced me to the jolly shop manager, name of Arthur.
“Welcome to Bagel Haven,” he said. “What are you having today? A focaccia bagel and fresh-squeezed orange juice? That’s a wise choice, to mix the bitter and the sweet. The choice of someone who’s experienced both in life, I wager.”
I smiled uncertainly, hoped my unhappiness wasn’t so obvious that this stranger had seen it in an instant, paid for my order, followed Molly to a table, and said, “Does everyone get their breakfast order analyzed for its symbolic meaning, or was I just lucky today?”
She set down her tray. “Arthur considers himself something of a philosopher, but he’s a good guy.” In a more concerned tone, she said, “Was your divorce very hard? Are you bitter?”
To my dismay, tears welled up behind my eyes. I swallowed, said, “No, not too,” and ran off to the condiment station, ostensibly in search of napkins but really so that I could blink the tears away, admonish myself to exhibit better self-control, and return to the table with a composed face and a change of topic. “What news do you have of Hannah? Is she still taking pictures for that wire service?”
She was. Somewhere in Africa that week, Molly thought. Israel the month before. “Wherever there’s trouble.”
“Hannah and I have lost touch,” I said. “I invited her to my wedding, but she couldn’t make it.”
“She never can. I hardly remember the last time she was home.” Molly’s face went sad for a second, moved through hurt, and settled on proud. Similar to my mother’s progression when speaking about Noel and his glamorous, globetrotting life. Time for another topic change.
“So I’d love to hear about the research you want me to do,” I said.
“Yes, of course.” Molly cleared her face of Hannah-related emotions, pulled a pen and pad from her purse, and told me that for years, she’d wanted to write an illustrated history of Rose Park for children, in a picture book format, with a puzzle on each page. “The Rose Park Puzzle Book, I’d call it.” She grinned. “Catchy title, eh?” On the pad, she sketched an outline of an open book. “Every double-page spread would feature a different Rose Park landmark.” She drew a house shape inside the book frame, added a few gables and a chimney and a wide front porch. “And alongside each illustration would be text that gives a history of the site and provides a clue or marker to a hidden feature in the picture.”
I imagined her sketch come to life in full watercolour splendour, with every detail of the house realized, a path painted in, trees all around, rose bushes in bloom. I could almost hear a leaf-blower roaring. I said, “I like the concept, but are there enough picturesque landmarks with interesting stories in Rose Park to make a book?”
“When you take into account that each site will take up four pages — two to introduce the puzzle and two to reveal the answer — the nine sites I’ve picked should fill a picture book just fine. The problem is that I haven’t had a chance to study them and find a feature at each that’s hidden in plain sight. That’s where you come in.”
Next to us, the orange coverall guys stood up, scraped their chairs on the floor, tossed their garbage into the bin with basketball-type shots, made sports announcer commentary to match, and walked out. In the ensuing quiet, I said, “Could you give me an example of what a hidden in plain sight feature might be?”
She flipped the page over on the pad, started to draw on a clean sheet. “One landmark I want to use is the Field Street footbridge that spans the east ravine. Do you know it?”
“Vaguely.” I wasn’t a keen ravine-goer, never had been.
In a few quick motions, she had delineated a wooden bridge arched over a tree-lined chasm. “It could be something small.” Her pen hovered over the drawing. “Maybe a workman carved his initials in the bridge supports years ago.” Squiggles appeared on her drawing to indicate initials. “Or it could be something bigger. Like that on a clear day, you can see the harbour from a certain spot on the bridge.” More squiggles suggested a far-off lake.
I closed my mouth, which had hung open while she’d drawn and talked, while I’d moved outside myself into a world of her creation. I won’t claim a sparkle lit up my eyes, but a spot of colour might have come into my cheeks. “This sounds like it could be fun,” I said. If I could remember what fun felt like.
“But do you think you can find me the nine hidden features in two weeks? I promised my editor I’d have a complete manuscript to her, including illustrations, by September, and I don’t want to miss the deadline and give her an excuse to cancel the project, seeing as she only agreed to it in a weak moment when the first book of my twin detective series did so well. Though considering I’m behind on the new twin book, and Larry and I are leaving on Monday for a holiday in Nova Scotia, I’ll still have to work like a madwoman when I return to finish everything on time.”
“Two weeks should be fine.” The guy in the baseball cap pushed a trolley full of bagels by us, and I caught an appetizing whiff of roasted rosemary and yeast. “I might even have time to come in here every day and keep your seat warm.”
We discussed money next. I said I’d do the work for free, and she offered to pay me a high-sounding figure she said was a standard researcher’s hourly wage. When we’d both said, “No, I insist,” four or five times, I accepted her offer and we made a date to meet later that afternoon at her house
