Park near Edmonton. They have a rigorous disease-management program, and their reproduction rate is solid.”
Belle stifled a laugh. “The Sudbury Star ran a story about those vaginal transmitters for pregnant cows. Ouch.”
He tipped back in his chair with an embarrassed look. “They were supposed to help us track newborns, but the idea flopped. Small wonder.”
Then he glanced at his watch with a sigh. A serious expression came over his face, and he smoothed his goatee. “Something else you should know. You’ll meet Mutt later this week.”
“Do you have a dog, too? No problem, as long as it doesn’t dig in the gardens or scratch that pristine wood floor. Maybe we can hit the trails together. Freya can use the socializing.”
“My . . .” He paused and gave her a wink. Laugh-lines around his eyes made him a man of self-confidence, far different from the serious boy with a secret. “. . . partner.”
She should have known that he was no monk. Unlike her, he had a sex life. Being jealous of his soulmate seemed beyond silliness. “So he’s coming up? Tell me more about Mutt. That can’t be his real name.”
“Malcolm Malloy. He’s a murder-mystery author. Writes a series about Lucy Doyle, one of Canada’s first female reporters. His books are set in Toronto in the Twenties.”
“I’d love to read them, but I’m still focussed on the mutt part.”
Gary laughed, deep and rich, with a spirit she’d never heard in the old days. “Mutt likes surprises. How about an open invitation for martinis? Bombay Sapphire suit you? Like them dirty? That’s with a tablespoon of olive juice.”
Would she have dreamed all those years ago that they’d be up in Sudbury having a conversation about elks and cocktails? It was comical. It was wonderful. With the final sigh she’d ever give about the colour of his eyes, Belle said, “Smashing.”
Later that night, she pulled a worn, cracked-leather five-year diary from her bookcase. She’d kept one from the age of ten until she’d left university. A spyhole into the teenager she’d been. When was their first date? Once she’d memorized them like holy days. She leafed back through the middle entries for senior year, then stopped and smiled at the lurid lavender ink she’d chosen when she’d learned about Mary Astor’s purple diary covering her affair with John Barrymore. March 6th. “HE ASKED ME OUT, SUGAR!” Then the writing got small and blurry. She grabbed her reading glasses: “In Eng, came up + bent down, saying, ‘May I see you after class?’ Then after, he said, ‘I hope you’re not busy Fri. Would you like to see a show?’ WOULD I! I’d see a cremation with him. Doubling with Janet and John.” Who were they? She couldn’t remember their last names. And since when did she ever say “sugar”? She sounded like a deep-fried Southern . . . belle.
Later that week, she fielded a call at the office.
So far, Yoyo was working out well, except for her clothes and the occasional grammar error. She’d taken the coughing hint about the perfume, but Belle wondered how to broach the subject of those scooping necklines and clinging tops. Hot and humid summer weather would make the problem worse. Between the shrink-wrapped skirts and the décolletage lay mere inches. The spike heels beckoned and promised minimal flight. Nothing had changed since Betty Grable’s pin-up poster to raise GI morale, among other things.
A hesitant male voice said, “My name is . . . Malcolm Malloy. I’m trying to reach Gary Myers. Your card was on the table, so I hoped that you might know where he is.”
Belle shifted out of realtor mode as she introduced herself, wondering what this man might look like. How old was he? “Not since Monday, when I arranged for the house rental.”
A worried sigh came over the line. “I just drove in from Hamilton. Found the key under a rock by the door like he told me. A note on the fridge said he’d be back from field camp by ten.”
“Did you try his cell phone?”
Malcolm, or rather Mutt, gave a snort. “He always forgets to top up. Don’t know why he doesn’t get a regular plan. Just cheap, I guess.”
“Runs in my blood, too.” A dose of Northern hospitality was in order. “I’m sure he’s delayed. It is a couple of hours to Burwash. Cottage country traffic gets wicked on Fridays.” She didn’t mention that the infamous route was a killer highway with enough rock cuts to demolish two hockey teams per year. Her van sported a bumper sticker reading “Four-Lane 69”. “You probably know that Gary and I were friends in high school.”
“Oh, that Belle Palmer.”
Suddenly she felt vulnerable. What had Gary said about her? Mocked their relationship? She remained silent, chewing her lip. Meeting Mutt now didn’t seem like such a good idea.
“He said that you were the smartest girl in your class. Had him tongue-tied on every date.” Mutt gave a hearty laugh. “You literally made him sweat.”
She had waged quite a campaign. Staked out his house, followed him to the show, collected grade-school pictures from his collaborating friends. She even knew his locker combination and took an occasional peek. Now they’d call it stalking. Belle joined in the spirit, reading the unspoken undercurrent. “Guess I was a handful.”
Yoyo returned from Muirhead’s with a bag of stationery supplies and gave her a wave.
“I’m leaving early today to meet a client on the way home. How about taking a walk with me around four? I’ll point out all the good trails. If Gary’s back, all the better.” As she told him where she lived, she had second thoughts. Gary was the nature lover. Perhaps Mutt didn’t care for hiking.
Late that afternoon, Freya set up a roo-roo that heralded someone in the drive. A knock sounded at her door. When Belle opened it, elbowing the dog aside, she saw the vision of Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff, high brow, sculpted lips, flashing raven hair. His chinos and striped rugby shirt were neatly pressed, and his white sneakers immaculate. So “Mutt” was a joke, like a heavy person called Tiny.
“No car?”
“I just walked down. Got to stretch out after that drive.”
“And Gary’s not back?”
Shaking his head, he turned to stare at the glorious wraparound deck over the walkout basement, one side jutting forward in a tongue, two sets of stairs with platforms. “I like your Escher effect. What a view—180 degrees.”
The lake was glassy, and they both swiped at their necks. “Wind’s down. Bad news in early June.” She explained that the freshly hatched blackfly swarm was too ravenous on the trails back of the house. “They were kissing me last week, but by now they’ve learned their survival lessons and are going for the jugular.”
Belle flipped down the third row of seats to make room for Freya in the back of the van. Then they drove down Edgewater Road, headed north and pulled off on Station Road. In the bush were the remains of an abandoned mile of the old asphalt highway to Skead. It had served as an unofficial drag strip, with spray-painted starts and stops, but now the poplar and birch saplings encroached on the sides. “It’s less dense here,” she said. “We can hook onto a bush road and do a loop.”
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