Aunt Aggie ever married?”
“I don’ know. Maybe? Don’ know.” She stopped the refolding and glanced at the photo. “I remember picture.”
“What, you’ve seen this before?”
“When I was little. Mooti was looking at it. Next time I come, it was gone.”
“Do you know who the man is?”
She glanced at the picture again, then returned to the refolding of the gown. “Nope.”
She was being evasive again.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
There was a long pause, then she answered. “Yup.”
I decided not to push her further. Obviously, she was hiding something, but she wasn’t ready to tell me. I’d try to find out next time she came.
I was stunned by the revelation of this marriage. Aunt Aggie had never breathed a word of this, not even a veiled hint. I was positive my father hadn’t known. He’d often kidded her about needing a man in her life and even chided her for her obstinate old maid ways.
Judging by her youth and the style of clothes, the marriage would have taken place over eighty years ago. Why would she have kept it such a secret, especially in her last years, when time surely would have blunted whatever had caused her to hide it in the first place? And what had happened to this man, her husband, whoever he was?
So many questions, and no one to ask. It was a year since my father had died and more than likely that my mother, who had never cared for Aunt Aggie, didn’t know. And there were no other living Harrises. Well, I couldn’t leave this alone. The answer had to lie somewhere.
I returned the wedding clothes to the trunk and took the picture downstairs. Deciding it was time this banished couple looked on something other than darkness, I placed it on the mantel beside the paisley china cat that Sergei had taken to growling at.
The discovery of Aunt Aggie’s marriage pushed everything else from my mind. By the time I remembered to question Marie again about Aunt Aggie and Whispers Island, she’d gone.
I did, however, know one further thing about my great-aunt. She was good at keeping secrets.
FIVE
I’d almost given in to Gareth when I found myself hugging a pillow instead. Frantic, I looked around my bedroom searching for his glistening male body. I didn’t find it. I heaved a sigh of relief. My body didn’t. It continued to tingle in anticipation of the rest of the dream.
It was another second before I realized the phone was ringing. I scrambled to answer and knocked it off the table. A disembodied voice called out from the receiver lying on the floor.
“Hello. Megs, you there?”
My heart stopped when I heard Gareth’s voice. I almost slammed the receiver back on the cradle. Instead, with the feel of his naked body still rousing my senses, I shot back, “What do you want, calling me at this hour of the morning?”
“Something’s come up. I can’t make it Saturday.”
I relaxed. “That’s okay. I don’t really want the painting.”
“I’m bringing it, but it’ll have to be Sunday.”
I hesitated. I should end this now.
“Okay with you?” Gareth continued.
I tried to shake away the dream of our lovemaking—the one place that had always brought us both pleasure—and failed.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. Today was Wednesday. Five days should provide enough time to prepare myself for his visit.
“Good, I’ll be at your place sometime late afternoon.”
“No, wait, come in the morning.” But he’d hung up.
I cursed. I knew what was going to happen. Pleading it was too late to return to Ottawa, he’d want to stay the night.
I dialled his home number. It was busy. I tried again. Still busy. Next time, I got the answering machine. I left a message telling him to come early Sunday morning.
I decided to leave another message at his office and was surprised to be informed that the number was no longer in service. Surely, he hadn’t given up his law practice? He’d always said he’d never share the spoils with a partner. I wondered who’d managed to come up with the right price.
My head pounded from another night of drinking myself to sleep. With my day starting so dismally, I grabbed a hot coffee and a warm blanket and retreated to the verandah and Aunt Aggie’s chair.
I sat down just as the rising sun burst over the lake. I watched the glow streak across to Whispers Island, which seemed to hover like some mythical kingdom above the flat water. Mist rose from the lake in the cold morning air, while the lonely putt-putt of a boat echoed off the surrounding hills.
The island’s yellowing birch trees glimmered like molten gold, almost as if they were beckoning. I decided I’d banish my headache and Gareth with a canoe paddle and explore Whispers Island while I was at it. I might by chance find some connection to Aunt Aggie. And I’d look for the gold. I was curious to see where the discovery was located.
I pointed my canoe towards Whispers Island. It had become one of those glorious fall mornings that seem to occur only in the Canadian Shield, one filled with the crystal brilliance that makes everything sparkle in sharp relief. I paddled slowly across the wide mouth of Forgotten Bay to the Migiskan Reserve side of the lake. The canoe cut a knife edge through a mirror shimmering with the reflected neon of autumn. I drifted along the uninhabited shore towards the cliffs of Indian Point.
I surprised a stray flock of merganser ducks, long overdue on their flight south. Feeling somewhat devilish, I decided to chase after them, to see how close I could get before they fled into the air. I dug the paddle into the water. The canoe picked up speed. The ducks raced splashing across the water towards Whispers Island, their large crested heads stretched far out in front. I began to gain on them. I was almost upon them, when suddenly, one after another, they spread their wings, and up into the blue they fled.
I found myself exactly where I wanted to be, at the spit of land where the boats had beached the other day. And it seemed I wasn’t the only one paying a visit to Whispers Island.
A battered aluminum boat lay on the sand, half in, half out of the water, its motor raised, its propeller still dripping. I dragged my canoe onto the beach and overturned it beside the motorboat, which looked to be one from the Fishing Camp. I noticed a red tackle box jammed under the stern seat and recognized it as belonging to Eric.
Thinking he couldn’t have gone far, I shouted, “Eric! Wait for me.”
I’d tag along with him. He knew the island. I didn’t. Aunt Aggie had scared me away with her warning of bears, which was another reason for not believing Eric. If Aunt Aggie did own this land, why would she want to keep her family away from its rocky shores?
I
