of the Fishing Camp, he was always on the hunt for new ventures that would bring more jobs, more money and a better life to the Migiskan. Hence the Migiskan Ski Marathon.
Annoyed by his glibness, I shot back, “Forget last night. You blew it, and I want to know why.”
I got out of the chair and walked to the narrow window which normally provided a view of the full expanse of Forgotten Bay all the way down to the cliffs of Three Deer Point. Today, swirling white blocked that view.
“See. It’s started,” I said, pointing to the snow. “And it’s too late now to make a new course for the marathon.”
The only good thing to say about this snowfall was that it had waited until after Eric and the paramedics had carried Yvette out of the bush.
“In typical Meg Harris fashion, you’re making mountains out of molehills. This stuff ’ll be gone by tomorrow.” Eric leaned back into his padded office chair with a nonchalance that only riled me more.
“And what about my money?” In a rash moment, I had promised Eric twenty thousand dollars when he’d failed to get full financing for his marathon venture. Although the money I’d inherited from my great-aunt provided enough income to live modestly without having to work, a twenty thousand dollar loss would hurt.
“Sit down, Meg. You’re twitching.”
“Not until you tell me how you’re going to get Papa Gagnon to agree.”
“Relax. We’ve just hit a small hiccup, that’s all.”
“Small hiccup! You call his chasing us off his land with a shotgun a hiccup?”
“I can turn him around. No problem.”
“How? Like the agreement you got first time around?”
“Let’s just say it’s between me and Gagnon.”
“Don’t try to buy me off with platitudes, Eric. I want to know how you are going to convince a psychotic old man who hates people to let a slew of them ski over his land.”
By this time the grin had been completely wiped from Eric’s face. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the only spot on his desk devoid of papers. “Maybe I should be the one asking the questions. Like, why’d you let Yvette join your crew? You knew what the old man’s reaction would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that. Have you thought for one moment that maybe Yvette’s participation in the trail clearing was the reason the old man went after you?”
“She had his permission. How could I know that he’d changed his mind? Besides, I had no choice with the crummy crew you gave me. At least Yvette was someone I could count on to do her share of the work.”
“Knock it off. John-Joe’s one of the best workers I’ve got.”
“Yeah, maybe for you. But he sure acted like deadfall for me. And Chantal was another one, who—”
“Don’t Chantal me,” he shot back. “Leaving such a defenseless young woman completely alone in this wilderness was one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done.” Eric had a facial scar that would glow white when he was angry. A whiteness was now seeping into its edges.
“Made it back, didn’t she? By herself?” I said, barely able to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “Didn’t happen to pick up some stray male along the way?” I pointed my eyes straight at him.
Eric’s scar turned whiter. “Enough. If Pierre hadn’t found the girl, you would’ve had another casualty on your hands. I’m disappointed in you, Meg. I never would’ve expected you to be capable of such irresponsibility.”
“Yeah, well, if that’s how you want to look at it, fine. I’m leaving. Just give me a call when you’ve got my money.”
“Now, calm down.”
I turned on my heels.
“Don’t take it—”
And slammed the door on his words. But before I’d walked two paces, I collided with a female with the kind of sculpted looks I used to pray for as a teenager. Instead, a thousand freckles disguised any cheekbones I might have, and my skijump nose automatically eliminated me from the qualifier “classic beauty”.
“Could you please tell me where Eric Odjik’s office is?” she asked in a husky voice. She brushed a lock of black silk away from a pair of shimmering onyx eyes.
I assessed her tall, despicably “willowy” figure through the fringe of my eyelashes and debated telling her his office was down the hall, to the right and out the back door. But I didn’t. I wasn’t that mean. Not yet.
I watched Eric’s office door fling open and his face light up as he pronounced words that sent my stomach into free fall. “Teht’aa! How wonderful.”
I didn’t wait to see what followed. I fled through the lounge to the outside door, past the bar where John-Joe was usually to be seen hanging out. Today someone else was working in his place. No doubt he was recuperating from Chantal.
I slammed that door too.
Men. I’d had it up to here with men. They were all clones of my ex, testosterone-driven jerks. Eric could have his fling with this…this Indian Princess, whomever. What did I care?
I sloshed through the snow to my truck, rammed it into gear, skidded down the Fishing Camp road to the main road and headed back home. By the time I’d reached my turn-off, I’d convinced myself there was no point in getting angry.
Eric was just a friend, after all. I might even go so far as to call him a special friend. But obviously he didn’t feel the same way. And why should he? I was an overweight, fortysomething divorcée whose hair needed help in retaining its brilliant red colour. Not exactly a catch, was I?
My truck churned through the wet snow covering the twisting two kilometre road to my cottage. At one particularly sharp curve, it almost slid into the ditch, but the wheels managed to catch on to solid ground and jerk the dilapidated pickup back into the centre of the narrow lane.
I spied my cottage’s Victorian turret through the curtain of snow, then the rest of the squared timber and fieldstone building hove into view. Built by my great-grandfather in the late 1890s, its fanciful architecture more properly belonged in Charlevoix or a similar turn-of-the-century playground for the wealthy. Instead, Great-grandpa Joe had built the six-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere, with Ottawa the closest city at a hundred and fifty kilometres away and the Migiskan Reserve the only neighbour. And although several farms, including Papa Gagnon’s, had appeared in the intervening years, along with another cottage or two, the property was still isolated, for much of the surrounding land remained undeveloped crown land.
The building stood on the tip of a high granite point that jutted like a fat finger into the deep waters of Echo Lake. At some time in its distant past, the property had been christened Three Deer Point, intended to commemorate one of Greatgrandpa Joe’s successful hunts. In the living room hung a picture of this hunt, with the eviscerated carcasses of three stags hanging from the eaves of the large wraparound Victorian verandah. The same sprawling verandah whose fretwork and
