herself and presented the file, which he scanned with interest. His hands were immaculately manicured, and a light scent of bay rum reminded her of Uncle Harold.
“I’ve retired,” he added, “and always dreamed of living on a quiet lake. If there are a few problems to fix, all the better. I’m pretty handy with a hammer and saw, and I like to keep busy.”
Belle found his courtly manner refreshingly old-fashioned. He listened with an intelligence signalling a profession. Doctor? Lawyer? Clergyman? It seemed presumptuous to ask. Not a patrician eyebrow rose at the price, and when she suggested a visit, he followed her from town in his white Ford Taurus, fresh from a car wash.
Half an hour later, at the junction of Edgewater Road, Belle signalled for a stop at the assembly of Canada Post mailboxes. After getting out of the van, she called over her shoulder as she opened her pigeonnier. “Believe it or not, we lobbied long and hard for this small privilege. The alternative was to collect our mail in Garson, the little suburb we passed through.” As she sifted the letters, she discovered one for Anni, 1703 instead of her 1903, and placed it on the dashboard.
With Creedence Clearwater Revival banging out “Down on the Corner,” Belle drove past the swamp where moose crossed the road for a dawn slurp and three deer, a rarer sight, had danced a midnight ballet one moonlit night. Dreaming of her flaming youth over the words “Look at all the happy creatures dancing on the lawn,” she swerved to avoid an oncoming green Escort gobbling more than its share of gravel. Patsy Sommers, one neighbour short on manners. Behind her, Sullivan stayed well to the right. She hoped that the incident wouldn’t discourage him. Nothing like a fender-bender introduction to rural living.
A mile beyond her house, they passed the school bus turnaround and stopped by a farm-style gate. The property had the bonus of chain-link fencing along its road boundary to foil snowmobilers or people pulling boat trailers looking for lake access, she explained, opening the padlock. “Pretty safe out here,” she said. “Occasionally the snowbirds lose portable temptations like chain saws, shotguns or stereo equipment.”
They parked in the large lot at the end of the lane, where red osiers sported their umbilical flowers. She pointed out raspberry bushes, the new canes green promise. “These make great jam. Wild ones always taste better than commercial berries. People say Mr. Brown was famous for his wine, too,” she said.
“Is that so? I used to be a dab hand with that art myself.” He looked up as a small dark red-barked tree with a host of white blossoms showered them like bride and groom. “Pale pink like lemonade, but proofing out at over 20%, especially if aged in old rum barrels.”
Belle laughed and warmed to his enthusiasm, not to mention her rising hopes for the sale. “Might call it ‘firewater.’ Medicinal purposes only, eh?”
“Nature knows best.”
The little house needed a good airing. It was musty, the heavy curtains pulled tight to discourage nosy intruders. Originally a one-room post-and-beam camp, when a foundation had been added, the upstairs had been divided into a living area, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom with shower. Belle opened a window to let in fresh air. A collection of castoffs, the furniture mixed decades like an eclectic museum. Massive Forties overstuffed chairs merged with the drab Fifties nubbly couch in a vomitous colour and the Sixties black and white television. “Silverware and dishes in your choice of patterns,” she said with a laugh as they passed through the kitchen. In the bedroom, they paused to consider a swaybacked mattress on a metal frame. Belle shook her head. “Multiple lumps or a sag that you fight all night seems part of cottage life.” Downstairs, the oil furnace gave the cinder block basement a definite wang, but Sullivan didn’t comment, nodding as she showed him the new jet pump. “The house is well-insulated,” she added. “Pink batts in the crawl space and blown-in fibre in the walls.”
Was the man interested? He hadn’t spoken more than a “um-hum” since they had come inside. When they returned to the yard, she asked, “Have you lived in the country?”
He hesitated, then looked at her pleasantly. “Not for years. Ottawa’s been my home.”
“If you’re used to city life, what I’m getting at is this. Everything looks so benign in the summer. But we get plenty of snow. Eleven feet this year. Not much thawing, either, like the chinooks out west. The road is plowed, better be with the taxes we grouse about, but you’ll have to clear your drive with Brown’s old truck or arrange for a contract. Ed DesRosiers’s very reliable. I use him myself, and often I’m away by seven.”
He waved his hand in polite dismissal. “The Capital City gets a lion’s share, and I think I’d like plowing. Make technology do the dirty work. It seems productive and relaxing. Enjoy tinkering with cantankerous motors, too.”
That sounded better. Belle took a deep breath. After expenses, namely Miriam, the six-percent commission would pay for a new refrigerator, maybe a down payment on a van. And it really was a splendid place, much larger and far more private than hers.
He retrieved a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and jotted notes with a gold Cross pen. “Septic OK? And how about the drinking water? Is there a well?”
“Whoa! You’re no amateur.” Belle pointed to a grassy knoll. “Field bed’s back there. Natural drainage slope, so you don’t have the worry of a lift chamber. Most of us have our tanks pumped every two years to be on the safe side. A grant’s available, too. And as for the water . . .” Spread out like a melted Prussian blue crayon was Lake Wapiti, an eight-by-eight mile meteor crater, deeper than the Underworld itself and as frigid as the other place was sizzling. “There’s the best well in the world. Brown has a heated waterline like mine. A bit of colour in spring run-off, but you can get filters at Canadian Tire if you’re squeamish about algae or sediment. Even a reverse-osmosis system is available now. Big bucks, though.”
What they found next in the large shed made Sullivan clap his hands. “He left all his tools? They’re worth a fortune.” He studied the table saw, chop saw, lathe, router, shop vacuum, grinder and rows of assorted jars of nails and screws neatly affixed to the wall. A pegboard with hooks held graduated series of screwdrivers and wrenches.
“He’s in a nursing home. The relatives down south took only the bass boat. Cottages are usually sold all-inclusive,” she said as if bestowing a personal gift. “Never know what you’ll find. Maybe five sets of rusty bedsprings. Maybe buried treasure. His nephew told me that Brown had hinted at some secret hideyhole. Family joke, I guess.”
The central part of the property was cleared, which allowed the breezes to blow off the bugs, with a few well-placed large oaks and maples saved for shade. At one side, flanked by dwarf plum and apple trees, a weedy garden sprouted asparagus feathers and the broad rhubarb leaves of the ubiquitous Canadian staple. “Hurts to see a garden gone to seed,” Belle said. “Before he started going downhill, this used to be the best on the road, especially the tomatoes. Once he even grew a prize-winning pumpkin. Milk-fed, but don’t ask me how.”
Sullivan knelt stiffly and sifted the soil with his hands. “Fine stuff. Just the right mix of organic material, clay and sand. Must have taken him many years, hauling in the soil.”
Belle broke off a thumb-thick asparagus spear to munch on. “Don’t tell me you garden, too?”
Pulling out a plantain weed, he tossed it aside. “Oh, I’m hoping to have time for many hobbies now.”
Belle led him to the dock, bolstered by a formidable rock wall for ice and wave protection. Far across the water, flanking the North River, the hills leapfrogged each other in layers of teal and black under shadows of scudding clouds.
