“It’s a long way, and we live on the same street.”
She considered a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever. Free country.”
They walked through the main street of Clarksbury, passing fish and tackle shops closed for the season and a single, quiet convenience store. The proprietor of Luigi’s Pizzeria and Bait Shop looked up from the scrape of his shovel and waved to them as they passed; Rosemary took no notice. On the road, a single car breezed by.
“So, why do they call you Sage?” asked Peter.
She hunched forward. “My family called me Sage. My brother let it slip. It stuck.”
“Your family calls you Sage?”
“Because I read encyclopedias,” she replied. “It was okay when they did it.”
“‘Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.’ That’s a folk song, isn’t it?”
“How would I know? I don’t sing!”
“Leo probably doesn’t either. He sounds like a cat with a hairball.”
Rosemary snorted.
They neared the edge of town. Their boots squelched on slush as the sidewalk gave way to gravel. The houses receded, and the Niagara Escarpment, a one-hundred-foot rise of rock and trees that surrounded Clarksbury on three sides, drew closer. They turned at a sign pointing to a road that broke off the main highway and ascended the Escarpment. “45th Parallel Road,” it said, with a sign beneath boasting, “Halfway between pole and equator.”
Peter puffed as they trudged up the slope. “Well, not much further, Sage.”
She rounded on him. Her fists clenched. “What did you call me?”
“S-Sage,” he said, swallowing. “Do you mind?” He raised his hands. “Look, I won’t say it like they mean it, but like your brother meant it and stuff. It’s a good nickname; it means ‘wise one.’”
She looked at him. “You always quote dictionaries?”
He shrugged. “Got a problem with that?” He gave her a grin.
She rolled her eyes. “And it’s me they tease.” She looked over his shoulder. “Uh-oh. A squall’s coming in.”
He looked back. Behind them, the slate expanse of Georgian Bay swept out to piled black clouds on the horizon. A white chop was developing on the dark water. “What’s a squall? A snowstorm or something?”
“You’ll find out if we don’t hurry.” She turned up the slope.
The squall overtook them before they’d gone half a mile, starting with a few flecks and a short gust of wind pressing at their backs. As they topped the Escarpment, the world disappeared into whirling snow and icy daggers slipped under their collars. The slush turned crunchy. Rosemary stumbled, and Peter hauled her up. She stared at his hand in hers, then shook it off. Then a gust nearly knocked them off their feet. Rosemary grabbed Peter’s hand and ploughed forward. Finally, they came to the Watsons’ mailbox and leaned on it, gasping. “I wish we hadn’t missed the bus,” Rosemary wheezed.
“I don’t.” Peter gave her a smile. It looked wistful. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.” He turned to leave.
She stopped him. “What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“In this weather?”
He raised an eyebrow with small smile. “Where else would I go?”
The wind blew snow into her mouth and she spluttered.
Behind them, a screen door banged open and a man shouted, “Rosemary! Come inside, for heaven’s sake!”
They stumbled along a pathway and up swayback steps to an old stone house. The wind blew them past a front door plastered with snow. They entered a room lined with bookcases. The house smelled deliciously of spicy tomato sauce.
A German shepherd ploughed into Rosemary, knocking her down, and started licking her face, despite her muffled protests. Then it looked up at Peter and growled.
“Shamus!” Rosemary grabbed her dog. “No! Friend! Peter’s a friend!”
Shamus stopped growling, sniffed Peter’s leg, barked once, and then trotted off. Peter swallowed.
“He approves of you,” said Rosemary.
Rosemary’s father came back from the kitchen, wearing glasses, a “Kiss the Cook” apron, two potholders shaped like pig puppets, and a scowl. “Young lady! Why didn’t you call me for a lift? The radio has been going on all afternoon about this weather!”
“I’m sorry, Dad!” Rosemary pulled off her coat and boots. “I didn’t know about the weather. I walked home with —” She hesitated, hardly believing she was doing this. “Peter.”
Rosemary’s father pushed his glasses further up on his nose and peered at Peter. Then he snatched off his potholders and extended his hand. “I’m sorry! This is hardly a proper welcome. You live up the road, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Peter McAllister.”
“I’m Alexander Watson, Rosemary’s father.” Mr. Watson shook Peter’s hand and smiled brightly, all trace of his anger gone. “Come in! It’s not often Rosemary brings home gentlemen callers. In fact, I think this is a first. May I ask what your intentions are towards my daughter?”
“Dad!” Rosemary flushed red. Peter kept his eyes on the floor and didn’t say anything.
Rosemary’s father chuckled and patted Peter on the back. He nodded over his shoulder. “The phone’s in the kitchen. You’d better give your father a call; dinner’s almost ready.”
“He’s my uncle, actually,” said Peter, pulling off his coat and heading for the phone. He jumped back as a small blonde girl bounded down the stairs, holding a Lego model aloft and making engine noises.
Mr. Watson cleared his throat. “Trisha, no landing airplanes in the kitchen.”
The girl made a graceful turn and flew back up the stairs.
“Trish,” Rosemary explained to Peter as she passed.
In the kitchen, Mr. Watson lifted the lid off a steaming pot. “Rosemary, could you and Peter set the table? Your mother and Theo should be home soon.”
Rosemary nudged Peter as he hung up the phone. “Come on, I’ll show you where the placemats are.”
As he followed her into the dining room, rich and dark after the bright kitchen, she added, “Sorry about my dad. He likes to tease everybody. It’s his way of making people feel welcome.”
“I didn’t mind,” said Peter. He looked around. Bookshelves lined the walls like wainscotting.
Rosemary glanced at the table and sighed. “Dad forgot to put the plates out again.”
