perfectly fine, dear heart,” said Nell. “And thank you for asking. Now, let’s go up. I made us some lemonade before I went to fetch you.”
My Blue Heaven was long past needing a coat of paint, being now more silver than blue. It seemed to Jane that every year it settled more comfortably into its surroundings. The rocks, with their embroidery of lichen, nestled against its stout foundation, and the feathery pines spread their branches to draw it more closely under their shelter.
A screened-in porch extended around the front and east side of the cottage. It was more like an outdoor living room, a shady space filled with small tables, piles of ancient books and magazines, mismatched lamps and pieces of old wicker furniture with fraying cushions. It had a throat-biting, musty smell to it. On days when the wind drew cool rain up from the lake, they could close the French doors to the porch and keep the bad weather out.
Jane awoke on her first morning at Sky Lake to find sunlight flooding her upstairs room. From below came the comforting sounds of her grandmother moving about, closing windows against the chill of the new morning, lifting the lids of the cookstove. Jane snuggled deeper into the bed again, pulling the comforter up to her ears. Nell, she knew, would be making breakfast—oatmeal porridge with lots of brown sugar, a stack of golden toast, and fruit jam made right there in the kitchen of My Blue Heaven.
Downstairs, the phone was ringing. Throwing off the bed covers, Jane dragged a pair of sweat pants and a shirt out of her knapsack, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she could exchange it for shorts and a T-shirt. She pulled the brush through her thick, blonde hair and thudded down the stairs and into the kitchen. The oatmeal was erupting in little volcanoes in a battered pot on the back of the stove.
Mrs. McPherson, the egg lady, had called to remind Nell that she had three dozen brown eggs set aside for them. “I clean forgot when I went to fetch you yesterday,” Nell said, handing Jane a knife to butter the toast.
They drove around the lake to pick up the eggs before noon, and Jane left the two women chatting in the pungent warmth of the McPhersons’ back kitchen to tramp the short distance down to the marina store. The tinkle of the bell over the door announced her arrival.
She was the only customer, and the man behind the counter waited while she made her selection, then folded down the top of the small paper bag, leaving a pocket of air in the bottom with the raspberry jujubes—as though she’d bought a whole dollar’s worth instead of just nine cents, the change she got back from the can of pop.
“Here for the holidays?” the shopkeeper asked, smiling.
Jane nodded, her mouth full of gummy candy.
“You’re Mary Van Tassell’s girl, aren’t you? I haven’t seen Mary in years. What’s she up to these days?”
“My mother?” Jane’s teeth had come unstuck. “She’s selling real estate.” She wasn’t sure she should be telling this person these things. This tall, spare man with the thinning, foxy-coloured hair was not the shopkeeper she remembered from other summers.
“You say hi to your mother for me. Jackson Howard’s the name. She’ll remember.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Jane, easing the door open.
She retraced her steps up the road, past the new municipal centre which had been under construction a year ago. A teenaged boy with a bandanna tied over his hair was crouched in the long grass, painting the lower part of the fence around the new building. His bare back was tanned from the sun. He stood up when Jane drew level with him and wiped the back of his neck with a paint rag. In his leather workboots, he was about the same height as she was, although she judged him to be a couple of years older. She had towered over most of the boys her own age since sixth grade.
“Hi,” Jane said.
If he returned the greeting, Jane didn’t hear him. “There’s a library in this building, isn’t there?” she asked after a few awkward seconds.
“You can’t take drinks in there,” the boy said, a scowl spoiling his dark good looks.
“I wasn’t going in now. Just wondering if they were open.”
“At three,” he said, and hunkered down again onto the tops of his boots, pulling the grass away from the fence and reaching for his brush.
There was no sign of activity up the road at McPherson’s yet, so Jane followed the sidewalk around to the front of the building which faced the lake. Two long tables had been set up in the shade, and these were filled with old books for sale, showing various degrees of wear. She moved along one table where paperbacks had been set, spine side up, in long, ragged rows.
“Quarter apiece.” The boy had come around from the other side.
“I’m just looking,” Jane said.
“Well, I’m in charge,” the boy informed her. “You want anything, just give the money to me.”
Jane spent several minutes bent over the titles on the rows of spines in front of her. They were mostly old westerns or romances, nothing that interested her.
“What about these?” she asked, indicating some cartons underneath the table. She squatted on her heels and opened the flaps on one of the boxes.
“Hardcovers,” said the boy. “Buck a piece. You Ms. Van Tassell’s granddaughter?”
“That’s right.”
“She said you were coming this week.”
“And you are?”
“Jess Howard.”
Nell’s handyman. “Hi,” Jane said, trying the smile again. “I’m Jane Covington.”
“I figured,” the boy said.
Jane wondered if she might have red jujubes stuck to her front teeth. She drew one of the books out of the box, a small, blue volume with gold lettering on the cover. The Sea and the Jungle, by H. M. Tomlinson.
She flipped idly through it, knowing it too wasn’t anything she’d want to buy, and wondered how long it would be before Jess Howard got tired of his surveillance. Suddenly, a piece of folded paper fell out of the pages of the book and fluttered onto the grass. She picked it up and unfolded it carefully. It was a handwritten letter and Jane read it, crouched over the carton of books.
“That’s funny,” she said as she stood up, frowning. “Look what was in this book.”
Jesse’s eyes passed quickly over it before he handed it back with a shrug.
General Delivery,
Sky Lake, Ontario, Canada.
September 7, 1930
Dear Madam:
I feel a bit of a fool asking you to help us. I’m afraid I don’t even know your name. But you had such a kind face when you waited on me, and you smiled at my baby before we left your shop and got into the boat. I could think of no one else to turn
