and, in summer and fall, flowers bloomed profusely on every windowsill. Front doors competed for the freshest paint and driveways glistened with sealed asphalt. Secret Valley’s residents were proud of their humble homes.
I didn’t live there.
If you drove through the narrow, winding main street of Secret Valley, the pavement ended abruptly. And, just to emphasize that this was the end of the rainbow, a chain hung between three white wooden posts. Beyond these posts, the ground dropped sharply. At the bottom, my trailer squatted with two others, like toadstools in a goblin’s circle.
Officially, it was part of Secret Valley, but unofficially it was known as Hemp Hollow.
The trailers in Hemp Hollow were real trailers and didn’t pretend otherwise. The wheels sunk into the ground and the hitches were propped on stacks of bricks, ready to fall at the slightest shove. All three trailers shared a dirt courtyard where even weeds refused to grow.
My trailer rental was three hundred dollars a month. I hadn’t been able to find anything cheaper, not even a room in somebody’s basement. From November to April, when the weather made riding a motorcycle impossible, it was a long walk into town and I hoped that, before I had to spend a second winter in the dump, I could find a place in town that was affordable. I was terrified that the rusty gas furnace would malfunction and emit deadly carbon monoxide, so I moved a small electric heater from room to room in cold weather to prevent death by hypothermia. Even so, last winter my bedding froze to the thin aluminum wall more than once.
I rode north past the front gates of Secret Valley and, more by memory than sight, found the dirt trail leading to a dense stand of trees shielding the perimeter of Hemp Hollow.
Food and flashlight in hand, I walked cautiously through the trees to the clearing behind my trailer and listened closely. Except for a few hooting owls and grass-rustling rodents, the night was silent. Then, a faint, earthy odour I had noticed several times lately after nightfall wafted into my nostrils. I whirled around and saw a pair of green, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A bear?
Not wanting that question answered, I turned and ran, aiming the flashlight beam ahead. A garbage can blocked my path, and I’m pretty sure I leapt over it, because the lid flew off, pinging off my trailer and, no doubt, bringing the bear on the run. I knew garbage drew bears like some women are drawn to Chanel No. 5 perfume.
Judging by their darkened windows, both my neighbours had turned in. No help there. I located the keyhole with shaky fingers, my bag of food still intact under one arm. As soon as I rushed inside, I turned on the light and shut and locked the door behind me. While trying to catch my breath, I listened for nails scratching on the outside of the door and peered through a crack in the faded gingham curtains. No eyes, no scratching, no roars in the night. My heart thumped rapidly as I stored my food in a tiny fridge under the sink.
I had running cold water, but no toilet hookup. There was a common bathhouse in the trees behind the middle trailer, and we were expected to take turns cleaning it. After my first look at the place, I never went back. Instead, I used Dougal’s bathroom to shower when I could, and if that wasn’t possible, I waited for darkness, then made my way up the hill to Secret Valley’s recreation building where there were clean showers and toilets.
I was starving again, but before I settled down to eat some of Dougal’s leftovers, I communicated with my bladder to determine if it could hold out until morning. It couldn’t.
Toiletries in hand, I opened the door. I looked both ways for slavering beasts, then raced up the hill to the rec hall where, after relieving myself, I took a shower and washed my hair. Returning to the safety of my trailer, I was barely able to stay awake long enough to lock my door before falling into bed. My empty stomach gave way to exhaustion, and I found sweet unconsciousness on the lumpy mattress.
It seemed I had only been asleep for seconds when there was a loud thumping on my door. My eyes shot open to find the sun was shining through my bedroom window. It was morning in Hemp Hollow, and my regular Sabbath visitor better be bearing the gift of strong coffee.
Chapter
FIVE
I threw an old fleece jacket over my pyjamas and opened the door. My neighbour, Rae Zaborski, usually dropped in on Sunday morning with two cups of coffee. I looked at the old windup clock on the counter and wasn’t surprised to see it register seven o’clock. Rae liked to get her visiting done before she left for church at ten-thirty.
“Come in, Rae,” I said, “and close the door. It’s chilly out there.”
“Well, my dear, the temperature dipped a bit last night. Here, this will warm you up.” She handed me a large blue mug.
“I hope this is strong.”
“Extra strong Columbian for both of us.”
She settled herself on my patched bench and pulled her yellow chenille bathrobe more tightly around her toned curves. Sunday was Rae’s day of rest, and it was sacrosanct. The bathrobe stayed put until she put on her church-going clothes for an hour, then it returned for the duration of the day.
“I had a really good week,” she began. “Fourteen clients.”
“Geez, Rae, that’s more than two a day. How can you stand it, and where do they all come from?”
“Two a day is usually my limit, but I have my regular customers like Ewan Quigley and some of his friends, and I don’t like to turn any of them down. A couple of the guys were willing to pay extra if I fit them in, so I thought, what the heck, it’s all money in the bank, right?”
“I guess.” Ewan Quigley? Eesh. I guess if you closed your eyes, you could pretend you were doing George Clooney.
Rae was a hooker, and quite a successful one. She charged a hundred dollars a pop, so made at least twelve hundred dollars a week, tax-free. Rae also taught water aerobics to seniors at the high school three afternoons a week for minimum wage. Since her income from this legitimate job was so limited, like mine, she never paid a lick of income tax. But she filed religiously each year to keep Revenue Canada happy — and ignorant of her more lucrative career.
Rae was only twenty-five, but she had been investing her money since she was eighteen. She took endless aesthetics courses and figured that by age thirty she would have enough money to open her own spa. She already had a name picked out: Pamper U.
“Today we’re doing your hair, remember?” She indicated the plastic shopping bag hanging off one arm.
“I forgot. I don’t think I have time today, Rae. I have a real estate client at one o’clock. Nothing will come of it, as usual, but Elaine Simms made the appointment with people from out of town, so I have to meet them at the Barrister house.”
“We’ll be done in less than two hours. Come on, quit stalling. I’ve been dying to get my hands on your hair for ages.”
“Rae, I don’t think …”
“Come on, Bliss. Don’t be such a chicken. I do my own hair and, look, it’s fine.” She shook her multi-shaded blond mane. It did look good, but I didn’t really want to look like the cheerleader Rae once was.
“Look,” she coaxed, “I have a base colour that’s the same as your own. Then I have two accent colours to highlight with, copper and caramel. It will be subtle, but look gorgeous. And I’ll trim your
