do you mean?”
“Well, face the concept, I guess. When his mother, my sister Nell, had to be put into a nursing home because of Alzheimer’s, he became so depressed that he had to take tranquillizers every visit. Says he’ll kill himself before he reaches that stage. Early dementia runs in families.” Her voice trailed off.
“I can understand. First time through the door at Rainbow Country, my legs turned to rubber. You and I can’t imagine living in helplessness.” Belle shrugged and made a palms-up gesture. “But for some, a word or a wave brightens their day. Not that I’m bucking for sainthood, but I can’t just skulk in and out with his lunch. These people I see every week. They deserve acknowledgement.”
Anni’s slender fingers curled around each other as if to husband strength against a growing vulnerability. Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. “I’ve . . . been forgetting things lately. The odd bill, the time I left the dogs out all night, and I’m forever losing my keys. I made the mistake of telling Zack, and you should have seen his face.”
Belle gave a light laugh of reassurance, took off her glasses and twisted the titanium frames, which sprang back obligingly. “I’m always losing these, or sitting on them. Happens to everyone. You’re safe as long as you remember that you wear them.”
“I hope you’re right. Anyway, enough family problems. Thanks for listening and for bringing the cheque. I’ve been a bit short this month.” Anni tossed back the last of her glass gamely, but the droop of her shoulders told a different story. “I’m not sure how long I can keep the Geo going. Rollins Automotive said that it needed a valve job and a new ‘tranny,’ I think the word was.”
Swallowing, Belle tried to keep a neutral face. Big time expensive, but why worry the woman more? As they walked outside, her eye was attracted to a contorted woody shrub. “What is that bizarre plant?” she asked.
Her friend hummed a tune. “A clue? You’re the film buff.”
“The puzzle lady. It’s familiar, but so far away. Another era. ‘You are my dearie . . . da da da. Sweet as sugar candy’ and something, something brandy.” She snapped her fingers. “Greer Garson in Random Harvest. She did a little dance. Cute kilt. So what’s the connection?”
“You know your movies, but not your music halls. The Scottish entertainer she was imitating. Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, it’s called. Common name: hazel.”
“Will it grow here?”
“Zone Five.”
“Risky. I lost my lavender last year in that -35° stretch.”
“We’ll see. It’s in a sunny spot, and the bay is sheltered. In a few years I’ll whittle a stick for you.”
Belle drove home with a nagging concern for her friend. Dementia, what a cruel spectre for someone with a healthy body. Belle’s father had been so vigorous, at eighty-one keeping pace with her all over Epcot Centre. Then, a few months later, he had needed full-time care.
THREE
Several weeks later, a giant wicker basket on her porch snapped Belle out of the doldrums of a Friday afternoon. Wrapped in bright red cellophane was an assortment of fresh fruit, California zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay, no shoddy brands either, and expensive cheeses sampled only on holidays: triple-crème French Brie, Emmanthaler and a butterscotch square of Gjetost. A pound of cashews and a jar of macadamias completed the feast, along with palm hearts and marinated olives. What gourmet angel had been monitoring her wish list? The card was inscribed with a copperplate style that recalled her mother’s careful hand: “From a grateful client. If you’re free tonight around six, I have some perch who wish to make your acquaintance.” Belle grinned. Mr. Sullivan, Charles, had settled in.
She popped a macadamia into her mouth, moaning at the milky crunch, and took Freya scampering up a path behind her house. Checking the time carefully, she doubled back at Skunk Brook after the animal enjoyed a brief, peaty slurp and was home in time for a bath. As she prepared to leave, ladling out Mature Purina, extra oil and Metamucil, which the vet had recommended for the older dog, she rubbed the velvet ears. “We’ll find out if he likes pups, and maybe next time you can go.”
She strolled to the end of the road, encountering Charles beaming at the gate. He had a proprietorial touch in the way he escorted her down the lane. Wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a zippered safari jacket and dark green knee sox, he might be serving with the Raj in rural India, except for the spotless apron around his waist. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said as he studied the bottle she presented. “But the chardonnay should complement our friends.” He escorted her to a picnic table by the house, appointed with an Irish linen tablecloth along with an assortment of covered dishes. With a flourish, he filled two crystal goblets, and they relaxed in lawn chairs under a shady grandfather oak next to the house. Old-fashioned citronella candles warded off the bugs with less distraction than the popular electrical lanterns which crackled ruthlessly but dispatched only innocent moths.
“You’re all moved. I wish you had given me a call to lend a hand,” she said.
“No difficulty there, my dear. I’m a simple man and a frugal one. Hired transport can be expensive, so I packed only the bare necessities, as they say, my library and phonograph records notwithstanding.” He coughed and rubbed his back. “You were right about the wretched beds. My Lord, what white nights I spent until the new furniture arrived. Aspirins every hour. My ears are still ringing the ‘Anvil Chorus’.”
She laughed out of hard-gained wisdom. “My cottage had three varieties of chiropractic mine fields.”
He appeared surprised. “But your house is new. When did you build?”
“A couple of years ago. My uncle left me enough in his will for the basic package, and I added the rest a bit at a time. Did the painting and clean-up myself.” She didn’t confess how she had nearly blown the central vacuum by sucking up drywall dust.
Sullivan cocked an eyebrow. “Very wise. So many people overextend. Try to have everything at once. Not the way my family operated, nor yours, I’ll wager.”
“True enough. My parents waited until their forties for our first bungalow. They constructed a basement, covered it with plywood and tarpaper, and we lived there like blind moles until they could afford to finish. Suburban Toronto was loaded with blocks of flat structures with a doorway sticking up. Kids thought it was the way everybody lived.”
A few glasses of wine later, Belle went inside to use the washroom and was amazed at the transformation of the camp. Neutral curtains and paint, a tasteful brown corduroy sofa and a glass coffee table. One wall was covered with books, mostly music and philosophy at a glance. A stereo system played Brahms symphony which floated outside like a blessing. On other shelves sat a few keepsakes, a Toby jug of Falstaff bearing a droll resemblance to its owner, onyx boxes and a folded wooden shape which attracted her. She opened it tentatively to find a delicate carved triptych.
A throat cleared behind her. “Ready for our repast?”
She felt like a kid caught with its hand in a candy jar. “I’m being nosy, but I couldn’t help marvelling at this. What is it, Charles?”
His face seemed more disappointed than stern, though he softened at her appreciative tone. “You have an eye for antiquities. That’s fourteenth-century
