to chat about music. Or spread gossip.’ His laughter followed her out of the store.
The heat pressed down on her and sweat dampened her armpits as she made her way to Royce’s Garage. The blond man had disappeared and the two service bays, doors open wide, stood empty except for the expected paraphernalia. She approached the customer entrance and tried the door. It was unlocked so she poked her head in. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’
The blond man jumped up from behind the counter accompanied by a clatter of falling pens and pencils. Catherine could have sworn it was fear she saw in his blue eyes for the split second before he gained control and began stuffing the pens into the pocket of his shirt. Embroidered on the pocket was the name Ed Royce. The proprietor, she wondered?
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ The man cleared his throat and brushed his hand over his hair. ‘What can I do for you?’
Catherine shifted from one foot to the other. ‘My car’s been acting up lately. I wanted to make an appointment for it …’ Her voice trailed off as she recalled the empty service bays.
Ed laughed without humour and flipped through his blank appointment book. ‘Let’s see when I can fit you in …’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Whenever is most convenient for you. Now, if you’d like.’
‘I need the car this afternoon. Maybe I should wait till tomorrow.’
Ed scratched his head. ‘Tell you what. Let me have a look. If it’s something simple I’ll fix it now but if it’s going to be a long job you can bring the car back in the morning.’ He came around the end of the counter. ‘Where is it at the moment?’
‘Just down the block. I’ll get it.’ She hurried out of the stuffy office into the sauna outside.
Ed stood in the doorway where the harsh sunlight accentuated the new lines in his narrow face. His first customer since he’d reopened and she wasn’t a local. Figured. When would his old customers come back? Would they come back?
While the mechanic had his hands buried in the bowels of her old car, Catherine found Morgan in the only dress shop in town and took her to wait in the coffee shop. Its décor made the teenager smirk but, while Catherine agreed with her, she hushed her daughter. ‘We can’t go ridiculing everything we see. Atawan isn’t Kingsport, but then Kingsport must seem pretty primitive to people from Toronto or Montreal. Everything is relative, Morgan.’
‘Relatively dismal.’ The girl stirred her ice cubes with a straw while her mother toyed with a coffee spoon. ‘How long is the car going to take?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘An hour, maybe. Could be a little more. I told him I needed it by one o’clock.’ She brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. ‘You can walk home if you want …’ She looked inquiringly at her daughter.
‘I’m going to stay here where it’s air conditioned.’ Morgan reached for the canvas bag at her feet. ‘We can read the magazines I bought.’
Although she held her magazine in front of her, Catherine couldn’t concentrate on it. Her mind flitted from subject to subject and too many of them were unpleasant. To distract herself she studied her surroundings and mentally cringed at the maritime ‘look’. She turned back to the magazine. In a few minutes she’d order lunch.
As she looked up again, two men entering the restaurant caught her attention. They chose a table near by and she recognized the older, heavily built one as Ernie Grant, the real estate agent who’d arranged her house rental. He either didn’t see her or didn’t recognize her as he went by and then sat down with his back to her. Catherine didn’t advertise her presence. It had been a long time since she had felt sociable.
From where she sat she had a good view of the real estate agent’s companion, a tall, slim man in his late thirties. His thick thatch of wavy red hair curled over his high forehead and stuck out like the prow of a ship. It contrasted sharply with Ernie Grant’s bald pate. But as she watched the younger man, her stomach somersaulted. Although his face and hair were totally different, his general mien and the way he drummed his fingers on the table reminded her of her husband, Paul. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away.
‘Something wrong, Mom?’ Morgan asked, peeking over her pages.
‘Not at all, honey.’ She was glad Morgan couldn’t see the man. ‘Go back to your reading for a few minutes, then we’ll order some food.’
Catherine’s eyes seemed to move of their own volition as again her gaze rested on her husband’s doppelgänger. She began straining to hear his voice. Was it, too, like Paul’s? Filtering out the extraneous noise, she concentrated on the conversation at the other table.
‘… get going on the development as soon as you can sell me the Tomachuk property,’ Grant was saying.
Catherine started, knocking her spoon against her saucer.
‘Don’t say that. I don’t own the land, remember,’ the other man growled. His voice was lower than Paul’s.
‘OK, OK.’ Grant fluttered his hand placatingly. ‘But you control the kid’s trust fund. If you consider the sale a good idea you can go ahead with it.’
The waitress interrupted the conversation to take their orders. The younger man ordered a salad while Grant, the heavyweight, ordered a burger and fries with gravy. The unknown man’s gaze roamed around to Catherine who quickly lowered her eyes and stirred the dregs of her coffee but her attention didn’t waver.
‘Will the old house stay or will you be bulldozing it for the subdivision?’ the man asked, returning his attention to the real estate agent.
‘Bulldoze it likely,’ Grant replied. ‘No one wants to live there. The only way I could lease it at all was to let it go for a pitiful rent. Even then, only a stranger was interested.’
The conversation drifted on to property values in general and Catherine was left in suspense. What was going on? What was wrong with the house she’d rented? Glancing at Morgan, she was relieved to see her daughter was oblivious to everything but her fashion magazine. She tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘Shall we order now?’
With lunch time fast approaching, the restaurant filled up and Catherine and her daughter were immersed in the hum of conversation. They were just finishing their dessert when she noticed the background clatter fade and die. She looked around. What was happening?
All eyes were turned, either boldly or surreptitiously, towards the door. When she craned around she saw Ed Royce silhouetted against the sunlight. He stood still for a moment and then slowly moved into the restaurant, letting the door close silently behind him. Catherine noted the tightness around his mouth. He blinked every few seconds as he scanned the room. Catherine’s heart sank when his gaze came to rest on her. Involuntarily she tightened her grip on her fork.
Ed took a deep breath and began threading his way among the tables, his stare fixed on Catherine like a drowning man on a life ring. As he passed, the diners drew away as if he had a contagious disease. Catherine watched in disbelief. Why was she, who desired anonymity above all things, being singled out? To her eyes it took an eternity for him to approach, each step played in slow motion. He stopped beside her table. The room held its collective breath. Catherine’s stare avoided his eyes, fixing on the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.
Ed
