She said we were going to love each other.
“Webb’s River,” the driver calls out.
I suck in my breath. Then I hoist the backpack onto my lap and hug it to my chest.
“Well, Mom,” I say quietly, “I sure hope you’re right.”
Chapter Four
My nose is plastered to the bus window as I watch for signs of Webb’s River. It doesn’t show up on most maps, so I know it’s got to be small. I’m picturing a quaint Tom Sawyer town with white picket fences, flower boxes, and apple pies cooling on window sills — maybe even a babbling brook running through the middle of things.
Not even close. The only thing running through Webb’s River is provincial Highway 97, and though traffic is supposed to slow to sixty kilometres, it just whistles on through like there wasn’t a town there. Probably because there isn’t. Not much of one anyway. A truck-stop restaurant, gas station, and hardware store cling to one side of the highway, while a church and grocery store hang onto the other. A sign on the edge of a crossroad indicates a school somewhere over the hill. Then the landscape turns to grass and trees again and the town is a memory.
Suddenly, I begin to worry that the driver missed the stop, and I’m stuck on this bus until Williams Lake. I’m just getting set to pull the cord when I spot a red-roofed motel up ahead. The bus slows and moves into the left-turn lane.
I scan the sign out front. It reads like a telephone directory. WEBB’S RIVER MOTEL. WEBB’S RIVER BAR AND GRILL. WEBB’S RIVER COMMUNITY CENTRE. LIQUOR SALES. SEARS ORDER DESK. GREYHOUND PASSENGER/PARCEL PICKUP AND DROP OFF. Talk about multi-tasking. Though it looks exactly like every other motel I’ve ever seen, this is clearly the town mall.
There are half a dozen vehicles in the parking lot — a couple of trucks, an SUV, a van, and two cars. I wonder which one belongs to my uncle.
As the bus slides to a stop in the parking lot, I sidestep my way to the aisle and start toward the exit. No one else is getting off. Though I don’t know these people, we’ve shared the same space for the better part of the day, and the realization that I’m about to sever ties with all things familiar makes me more nervous than I already am.
I head down the steps into the July afternoon. After staring out tinted windows for hours, I am momentarily blinded by real sunlight. The driver already has the cargo compartment open and is waiting for me to point out my bag.
“Somebody picking you up, miss?” he says as he sets my suitcase on its wheels and extends the handle.
I nod and smile. “Yes. Thanks.”
He glances around the parking lot. The only people in it are him and me. “You sure?” he says.
I nod and smile again. “My uncle.” I look over my shoulder toward the building. “He must be inside.”
The driver still doesn’t seem convinced, but he closes the cargo compartment and heads back to the front of the bus. “Okay, then.” With a foot on the first step, he stops and looks back. “A coach to Vancouver comes through here at nine thirty every morning. You take care now.”
I know he’s trying to reassure me, but his words have exactly the opposite effect, and as I watch the bus pull back onto the highway and speed away, I feel like I’ve been abandoned at the gates of Hell.
My thoughts start crashing into one another like chunks of carrot in a food processor. What if my uncle isn’t here? What if I got off at the wrong stop? What if I’ve lost his phone number? Who can I call? Should I stay at the motel? Should I take the next bus home?
I stomp on my panic while I still can, grab the handle of my suitcase, and march towards the motel office. Slipping the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I open the door to a tinkling of chimes and push my way inside.
My mother’s bathroom is bigger than this office, and I have to pull my suitcase out of the way to shut the door. Straight ahead is a revolving rack containing brochures and postcards. To the left is the registration counter, but there’s no one behind it.
I drop my backpack onto the floor beside my suitcase. “Hello?” I peer through the doorway behind the counter. No answer. There’s a bell on the counter, so I ring it and call again — louder. “Hello? Is anybody here?”
A movie star wannabe complete with bottle-blonde hair and kiss-me-red lips comes running from the back. The woman is fifty if she’s a day. She smiles when she sees me, revealing dental-white veneers, but the tip of one of them is coated with lipstick, so now I’m thinking vampire.
She pulls a pen from her hair and lays it on top of a registration card. Then she slides the whole works toward me. “Lookin’ for a room, sugar?”
Before I can answer, the door chimes tinkle again, and the deepest voice I’ve ever heard says, “Kathy Ann, has the —”
Kathy Ann doesn’t let the man finish. She frowns and clucks her tongue. “For goodness sake, Sam, can’t you see I’m with a customer?”
Sam? I swivel toward the voice. At first all I see is a big, old, battered cowboy hat and a moustache that could be used as a broom. Kathy Ann called the man Sam. How many Sams can there be in this town? The guy has to be my uncle. I should introduce myself, but suddenly I can’t find my voice. My mouth doesn’t work either. So I just continue to stare. He’s too close. I can see all the parts of him, but I can’t pull them together into one picture. Tall and wiry. Tanned face and hands. Thick salt-and-pepper hair curling over the collar of a white buttoned shirt. Well-worn jeans. Big silver belt buckle. Scuffed cowboy boots.
I’m not sure how long I stand there gawking, but it must be quite awhile, because finally Sam laughs, and waves of happy lines break out around his eyes and moustache — I still can’t see his mouth. He sticks out his hand. I put out mine. His grip is firm, and his skin is rough.
He’s not laughing anymore, but he is grinning. “I’m Sam,” he says in that voice that starts somewhere down in his boots. “And unless I’m mistaken, you’re Dani.”
“You’re not.” My voice is barely there. “Mistaken, I mean. I am Dani.”
He keeps hold of my hand as he looks me over. His eyes narrow and travel from my head down to my feet and back up again. He’s clearly assessing me, and I suddenly feel self-conscious. Finally, he lets go of my hand. “You look like your mother.”
“Do I?” It’s a stupid thing to say considering people are always comparing Mom and me.
Sam doesn’t answer. Instead he picks up my back-pack and holds the door open for me and my suitcase.
“Hey, where are you going with my customer?” Kathy Ann complains. And then, “Aren’t you even going to introduce us?”
“Not today,” Sam says. “Have a nice evening now, Kathy Ann.” Once the door shuts behind us, he whispers, “Biggest gossip in Webb’s River. The whole town will know about you before suppertime.”
“What town?” I blurt.
Sam stops and looks me over for a second time. Then he shakes his head and resumes walking. “Not only do you look like your mother, you have the same sharp tongue.”
Heat
