friends Gail and Lynne were handling the media. I couldn’t think of better people to put out the story. They would stay calm and be meticulously accurate.
“And the RCMP has it all wrong. They keep saying Petra was in the Webbers’ house having breakfast with Val and the girls on Thursday.”
“Well, we know that’s impossible.” Petra and Val had a romantic relationship; everyone in the Landing knew about it, and we also knew that Val’s daughters weren’t too happy about the situation, and weren’t on friendly terms with Petra. It was ridiculous to suppose they’d have invited her over for breakfast.
“What else did you hear?”
“Apparently there’s over a hundred people out there digging.” I glanced at him. Christopher had the look of a man who wished he could be out there digging too.
The phone rang again, but I let it go to the answering machine. A hundred rescue and recovery people. Three times the population of the Landing: what an invasion!
Christopher rolled onto his side. “What do you miss most, at the moment? Apart from Ozzie, of course.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, stroking his hand. “I miss the silence. I miss the deep green shade from the tall firs that made the house so comfortable in the summer. I miss swimming naked in the lake. I miss the sparkling light reflecting off the water mid-afternoon, that danced across the ceiling.”
We sighed deeply, lost in the vision. The yearning was a physical ache.
Osa came over after tea and the three of us stood together in the front yard, now bathed in late afternoon sunshine. It helped to have members of our Johnson’s Landing “family” so close by, especially Osa and Paul, after everything we’d been through together; they understood our loss.
“Our place feels like Grand Central Station; the phone ringing, people stopping by,” she said. She was inundated with food, and was driving all over town delivering food parcels to evacuees. Rachel Rozzoni, now in Shutty Bench with her three children, was missing her garden. “She was ecstatic when I brought fresh organic vegetables.” We nodded. Johnson’s Landing always had bountiful gardens.
Osa turned to leave, then added, “Oh. There’s a plan to float the trapped vehicles across the lake on a barge.” She went on to explain. Derek and Camille Baker had a barge, and Derek was primed to make the first crossing the next morning. Christopher perked up at this news: “I’m in.” Renata’s car was one of the vehicles stranded at the parking area by the beach.
I sat down on the front doorstep, my heart racing. The mere idea of going to the Landing had me clammy-fisted with fear. “I’d love to help too,” I added—the Landing, to me, had become a life-threatening place, an ogre that might eat you up—“but I can’t go.”
Christopher told Osa he’d contact Renata and they’d drive out to the Landing in the morning.
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