was an emotion long gone; it was no longer on the list. She’d killed it. Cruelly and deliberately, in a way he’d never forgotten or forgiven.
Stop it! he berated himself. For God’s sake, quit while you’re still ahead. It’s only a photograph, a piece of colored paper stuck in a gold frame. A printed image of a woman who’s as inaccessible now as she ever was, and not worth the time you’re wasting on her. That’s all it is. Nothing more.
You’ve got more important things to do than stand on the sidewalk as if you’ve been hit on the head and don’t know which way is up. Like think about Sam’s offer. Like get some lunch.
He strode around the corner and pushed open the door to the photography studio.
It was cool inside, the decor an attractive blend of glossy-leafed plants and cleverly arranged portraits. The middle-aged woman behind the counter gave him a friendly smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
Cade should have smiled back; but his face felt as stiff as a board. “There’s a photo in your showcase outside,” he said abruptly. “Of a woman with her two daughters.”
“Oh, yes...it turned out rather well, didn’t it?”
“I—I knew her years ago. But we’ve gotten out of touch. I wondered—does she live around here?”
The woman’s smile became a little guarded. “I’m very sorry, sir, I can’t really give you any details. We—”
“Her name’s Lorraine. Lorraine Cartwright. I used to work for her father, Morris Campbell.”
“We have a policy of client confidentiality, as I’m sure you understand,” the woman said. “Is there any other way I can be of assistance to you?”
Leave, Cade, he thought. Get out of here. Now. You’re making a total ass of yourself. “Can I get a copy of the photo?” he said hoarsely.
The woman was now regarding him through narrowed eyes. “That wouldn’t be possible without the express permission of my client,” she said briskly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, sir?”
Cade turned on his heel and left the studio. Without giving the showcase a second look he marched down the street, blind to the tourists, office workers, students and children who thronged the pavement. Good work, MacInnis, he jeered. That woman in the studio—a thoroughly nice woman by the look of her—now thinks you’re a combination of a weirdo, a psychotic and a stalker.
You’re none of the above. But you’re an idiot. Letting Lorraine Cartwright jerk you around as if you were thirteen. not thirty-three pushing thirty-four. Grow up, will you? Quit reliving a fairy tale.
For hadn’t that whole three years between twenty and twenty-three had the remoteness, the otherwordly air of “once upon a time”? Lorraine, with her long blond hair and her cool blue eyes, had been cast as the princess, who one night in a fit of pique had thrown herself at Cade the commoner, the peasant, the tall, dark and—so he’d been told—handsome young worker on her father’s estate. Manfully the commoner had refused to take advantage of the princess’s youth, beauty, and undoubted virginity. Had the princess very prettily thanked the commoner? Had she presented him with a silk scarf she’d embroidered with her own fair hands as a memento of his noble act of abstention? No, indeed. She’d turned on him like a virago and then she’d engineered that her father fire Cade from his job.
Nor, he thought bitterly, had the peasant ever turned into a prince.
Unfortunately the story hadn’t ended there; and the rest of it was more difficult to fit into the mode of fairy tale. For someone from the village had seen him and Lorraine in the woods that evening, had witnessed their initial, impassioned embrace, and gossip had spread like wildfire through the little village of Juniper Hills. Cade had fought several pitched battles on Lorraine’s behalf, defending her virtue like a true knight of old. At which point three hired thugs—paid for by Lorraine’s father, spurred on by Lorraine—had given Cade the beating of his lifetime. Afterward Lorraine had made a point of calling at the garage where he worked, where she’d let him know with humiliating accuracy how little his militancy on her behalf was appreciated.
That scene was still seared in Cade’s memory. It had been, he supposed, the worst moment of his life. Worse by far than the beating, and that had been bad enough for a young fellow who’d prided himself on his fists.
Somehow Cade’s feet had carried him all the way down to the waterfront. A fish and chips truck was parked outside the market. But his appetite had disappeared and he was in no mood to stand patiently in the lineup and wait for his turn.
He’d go back to the hotel, change into his running gear and head for the park. He had to do something physical, and soon. Or else he’d go nuts.
Twenty-five minutes later Cade was jogging under the tall pines of Point Pleasant Park, which was situated on a peninsula jutting into the waters of Halifax Harbour and which had as its view the knife-sharp edge where the open Atlantic met the sky. He passed the container pier and the war monument, feeling his muscles loosen and his stride settle into an easy rhythm. Lorraine was nothing to him. Nothing.
Quite apart from anything else, she was a married woman. Happily married, by the look of her.
Which, considering the man she’d chosen for a husband, didn’t say much for her.
He forced himself to put her out of his mind, to concentrate on his surroundings. A group of children were playing ball on the grass by the edge of the harbor, their cries like the chittering of sparrows; dogs chased each other through the trees, and other joggers passed him, some breathing easily, some gasping for air. He ran through the woodland trails for the better part of an hour, then stretched out his calves against a tree and found himself a perch on the weathered rocks that overlooked the Northwest Arm. It was time, he thought wryly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, to think about shock number one. The one that Sam had landed on him when they’d met for breakfast that morning in the little diner across from Sam’s garage.
Sam Withrod. He’d been the area supervisor for a chain of gas stations, one of which had been leased to Cade’s father in the years when Cade had been growing up. Cade had always liked Sam. Liked him and respected him. They’d kept in touch ever since, one or two letters a year, short letters on Cade’s part, long newsy letters on Sam’s. When he’d come back to Canada a year ago and taken the job in Toronto, Cade had phoned Sam, and somehow they’d fallen into a pattern of monthly phone calls.
This morning Sam had offered Cade a job. More than a job. A partnership in his business.
“I’m sixty-four years old,” Sam had said, plastering his toast with butter. “Got no kin, no sons of my own. Not as bright-eyed and busy-tailed as I used to be, either. I’d like it just fine if you’d take over the garage eventually, Cade. When I get ready to retire. In the meantime I’d like you to be a full partner, learn the business, give me your ideas and your input. What d
Sam specialized in foreign cars, employed a dozen mechanics and had always had an impeccable reputation for efficiency and honesty. Cade said blankly, “Do you mean it?”
“Sure do. Hadn’t you seen it coming?”
“Can’t say I had.”
“You’re
