stair. Gareth. He was here. A day early. My stomach lurched. I had half a mind to drive away and return in a couple of hours when I was sure, given his low patience threshold, that he would be gone.
Before I had a chance to decide, Gareth stepped down from the verandah. He sauntered towards me, his brown eyes alert, his cinnamon hair marred by only a few streaks of grey. The weight he’d put on from too many client lunches had been shed. His body had returned to the firm slimness of his youth. He looked good, too good. Something deep inside me twisted.
“Oh, hell,” I muttered to myself.
He stopped several metres away and gave me one of those smiles that used to make my knees weak.
“Megs, it’s great to see you,” he said.
Determined to end this quickly, I ignored his opening words and said, “Thanks for the painting. I appreciate you coming all this way, but I think it best if you get back into your car and leave.”
“Please Megs, can’t we at least spend a few minutes together,” he said, “for old times sake.” He made no attempt to move closer, as if sensing that one step nearer could very well send me fleeing back to the safety of my truck.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “Sure you want it this way?”
I could hear Sergei barking in the house and wondered what would happen if I let him out. During the short time Sergei and Gareth had lived together in Toronto, the two of them had waged a war. From the moment I brought the squirming ball of black fluff home to our condo, Gareth had refused to have anything to do with him. In fact, Sergei had been the cause of several arguments, most notably the time I caught Gareth kicking him after Sergei, full of puppy excitement, had peed on his dress pants. Perhaps I could use the dog as further incentive in getting Gareth to leave.
A sudden gust of wind ruffled Gareth’s hair and loosened a shower of pine needles from the branches high above. Several landed on his designer sports jacket and in his hair. He flicked one or two off but didn’t bother with the rest.
“We had so many good times together,” he said. “Surely you can’t pretend they never happened.”
My heart thumped at the kaleidoscope of memories that came flooding in with his words. I tried to thrust them back. “It’s too late.”
He looked at me with the kind of longing I’d not seen since our early years together. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry you feel this way, but I’ll accept your decision.”
I felt my eyebrows rise in surprise with his last words. This was out of character. Gareth did not admit defeat so easily, especially to me. I searched for the sarcasm that would invariably lurk behind his eyes and saw none. Maybe our last terrifying argument had scared him as much as it had scared me and had caused him to have a good hard look at the kind of man he’d become.
He seemed at a loss, unsure what to say or do next. He cast a bleak glance at the painting and said, “Enjoy it.” Then, with a wan smile, he walked towards his car.
It was the dejected slump to his shoulders that did it. I began to feel sorry for him. Maybe I was being too harsh. After all, it was partly my fault things had gone so disastrously wrong at the end. “Okay,” I called out, “come in for a drink.”
“You’re sure? I wouldn’t want to push you into anything you didn’t want.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I replied, reaching for the painting. This wasn’t turning out to be the traumatic confrontation I’d feared for the last three years.
He followed me into the house, where he confronted his old nemesis, Sergei. But amazingly, after a few threatening growls, the dog quieted down, even condescending to receive a few pats.
“I thought you were coming tomorrow,” I said as I poured us both some lemon vodka, the drink he’d introduced me to.
“Last minute change in plans.” He glanced around the large kitchen. “I see you’ve made a few improvements since my last visit.”
“Aunt Aggie may have been able to cook in a turn-of-the century kitchen, but I couldn’t. I had the new cabinets and appliances installed last year shortly after I moved in. The only remaining fix-up is the repainting of the chairs. What do you think?”
“Looks good. Not too modern. Blends nicely with the age of the house. Do you mind if I take a look at the other rooms?”
So with Sergei bringing up the rear, we started in the large dining room, where Gareth ran his hands over the antique patina of the mahogany table and suggested that the wall above the buffet would be the perfect spot for the Chaki painting. Next we wandered into the small room I’d converted into my television room and disregarded another small room still jammed with the empty packing crates from the move. Then we crossed the hall to the largest room on the ground floor, the living room spanning the entire lake side of the house. But Gareth ignored this room and walked across to the turret that occupied the front corner.
“Best room in the house,” he said, surveying the octagonal walls with their long floor to ceiling windows. His eyes drifted over the antique desk and oriental carpet and fell upon Aunt Aggie’s old wooden box, but he made no comment. Thank goodness I’d returned all the letters and replaced the lid. I wouldn’t want him asking awkward questions.
Returning to the living room, Gareth looked appreciatively over the massive stone fireplace. “Boy, they sure don’t make them like this any more.”
“Hey, isn’t that your aunt?” he said, picking up the wedding picture. “Sure was a looker in her day, just like you.” And he ran his eyes over my spreading middle-aged body, stopping to focus on the too-tight sweater I’d mistakenly put on this morning. “You look terrific. The wilds must agree with you.”
Embarrassed, I muttered some sort of a reply and suggested we go out onto the verandah to finish our drinks, where Gareth immediately installed himself in Aunt Aggie’s old rocker. I started to protest, then decided I shouldn’t be so set in my ways. I sat down in the wicker chair, which was really just as comfortable. Sergei slumped his large, curly haired body down on the wooden floor between us.
Mumbling about something digging into him, Gareth extracted his cell phone and his key chain from his jeans’ pocket and placed them on the table beside his drink. He took a long sip and said, “I’d forgotten what a fantastic view you have of the lake from here.” He lit up a cigarette.
“I see you’re still doing your best to become another lung cancer statistic,” I said.
He laughed. “And you’re still nagging me about it.” He attempted to blow the smoke into my face, but it scattered with the breeze. He continued, “Got a good view of the island too. What’s it called?”
“Whispers Island, or Minitig Kà-ishpàkweyàg as the Algonquins call it, Island Where the Big Trees stand. Majestic, isn’t it?” I was about to mention the threat of the gold mine but stopped, figuring best not to bore Gareth with my environmental woes.
“You still the only one on the lake? No cottages or farms?” he asked.
“Nope, mine’s the sole private holding on this lake, and it occupies the only accessible shore. The other shorelines are too steep. Probably why the government has
