of hot water. Julie had discovered that Canadians expected this facility and remembering the lukewarm baths she had taken in English hotels, she thought they could well learn something from them. Everything was spotlessly clean, both in the cabins and in the main building, and the staff were always ready and willing to accommodate her every need. She would miss their cheerful friendliness when she returned to England, she thought, still unable to contemplate that eventuality without emotion.
Changing for dinner that evening, Julie viewed the becoming tan she was acquiring with some pleasure. She had looked so pale and drained of all colour when she had arrived, but now her cheeks were filling out a little with all the rich food Pam was pressing on her, and she no longer had that waif-like appearance.
Regarding her reflection as she applied a dark mascara to her lashes, she decided Adam would see a definite change in her. She had grown accustomed to seeing a magnolia-pale face in the mirror, with sharply-defined features and honey-coloured hair. Now she had a different image, the thin features rounded out, the hair bleached by the sun and streaked with gold. She had not had it cut for months, and instead of her usual ear-length bob it had lengthened and thickened, and it presently swung about her shoulders, curling back from her face in a style that was distinctly becoming.
She had not troubled much about clothes either since she left England. Most of the time she wore shorts or jeans, adding an embroidered smock or tunic at night instead of the cotton vests she wore during the day. Adam, who had always complimented her on her dress sense at home, would be appalled if he could see her now, she thought ruefully, putting down the mascara brush and studying herself critically. He did not approve of the negligent morals of the younger generation, and in his opinion the casual attitude towards appearance was equally contemptible. Still, Julie consoled herself wryly, she had paid little heed to what she had thrown into her suitcases before she left London, and because what she had brought was unsuitable to her surroundings, she had bought the cheapest and most serviceable substitutes available.
Now she turned away from the mirror, and checked that she had her keys. They were in the pocket of her jeans, and she adjusted the cords that looped the bottom of her cheesecloth shirt before leaving the cabin.
It was a mild night, the air delightfully soft and redolent with the scents of the forest close by. She crossed the square to the main building with deliberate slowness, anticipating what she would have for dinner with real enthusiasm, and climbed the shallow stairs to the swing doors with growing confidence. These weeks had done wonders for her, she acknowledged, and she felt an immense debt of gratitude towards Pam and her husband.
The reception hall was brightly illuminated, even though it was not yet dark outside. Already there were sounds of activity from the dining room, and the small bar adjoining was doing a good trade. Julie acknowledged the greeting of the young receptionist, a biology student working his vacation, and then was almost laid flat by an energetic young body bursting out of the door that led to the Galloways’ private apartments. It was Brad Galloway, Pam’s twelve-year-old son, and already he was almost as broad as his father.
‘Hey …’
Julie protested, and Brad pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘But there’s a terrific yacht coming into the marina! D’you want to come and see?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ Julie’s refusal was dry. ‘And you won’t make it if you go headlong down the steps.’
‘I won’t.’ Brad exhibited the self-assurance that all Canadian children seemed to have and charged away towards the doors. ‘See you, Julie!’ he called and was gone, leaving Julie to exchange a rueful grimace with the young man behind the desk.
‘I know—kids!’ he grinned, not averse to flirting with an attractive girl, so far without any success. ‘Did he hurt you? Can I do anything for you?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ Julie’s lips twitched. ‘I think a long cool drink is in order, and Pietro can supply me with that.’
Pietro, the bartender, was an Italian who had emigrated to Canada more than twenty years ago, yet he still retained his distinctive accent. He had been quite a Lothario in his time, but at fifty-three his talents were limited, and Julie enjoyed his amusing chatter. His wife, Rosa, worked in the kitchens, and their various offspring were often to be seen about the hotel.
‘So, little Julie,’ he said, as she squeezed on to a stool at the bar. ‘What have you been doing with yourself today?’
Julie smiled. ‘What do I usually do?’ she countered, hedging her shoulder against the press of George Fairley’s broad back. He and his wife were always in the bar at this hour, and invariably hogged the counter. ‘Yes, the same as ever,’ she nodded, as Pietro held up a bottle of Coke. ‘With plenty of ice, please.’
‘Wouldn’t you like me to put you something a little sharper in here?’ Pietro suggested, pulling a very expressive face. ‘A little rum perhaps, or—’
‘No, thanks.’ Julie shook her head, her smile a little tight now. ‘I—er—I’m not fond of alcohol. I don’t like what it can do to people.’ She gave a faint apologetic smile, circling the glass he pushed towards her with her fingers. ‘It’s been another lovely day, hasn’t it?’
Pietro shrugged, a typically continental gesture, and accepted her change of topic without comment. ‘A lovely day,’ he echoed. ‘A lovely day for a lovely girl,’ he added teasingly. ‘You know, Julie, if I were ten years younger …’
‘And not married,’ she murmured obediently, and he laughed. They had played this game before. But, as always, she saw the gleam of speculation in his eyes, and picking up her glass she made her exit, carrying it with her into the dining room.
She chose a shrimp cocktail to start with. These shellfish were enormous, huge juicy morsels served with a barbecue sauce that added a piquant flavour all its own. When Julie first came to Kawana Point, she had found herself satisfied after only one course, but now she could order a sirloin steak and salad without feeling unduly greedy.
She was dipping a luscious shrimp into the barbecue sauce when she looked up and saw two men crossing the reception hall towards the bar. Her table was situated by the window, but it was in line with double doors that opened into the hall, and she had an unobstructed view of anyone coming or going. The fact that she averted her eyes immediately did not prevent her identification of one of the men, and her hand trembled uncontrollably, causing the shrimp to drop completely into the strongly-flavoured sauce.
Putting down her fork, she wiped her lips with her napkin, trying desperately to retain her self-composure. What was Dan Prescott doing here? she wondered anxiously. People like the Prescotts did not visit hotels like the Kawana Point. They stayed at their own summer residences, and when they needed entertainment they went into Orillia or Barrie, or to any one of a dozen private clubs situated along the lake shore road.
Her taste for the shrimps dwindling, she picked up her glass and swallowed a mouthful of Coke. It was coolly refreshing, and as she put down her glass again she felt a growing impatience with herself. What was she? Some kind of cipher or something? Just because a man she had never expected to see again had turned up at the hotel it did not mean he had come in search of her. That was the most appalling conceit, and totally unlike her. Was it unreasonable that having discovered the whereabouts of the hotel he should come and take a look at it, but how had he got here this time? She had not heard any motorcycle, a sound which would carry on the evening air, and although he was not wearing evening clothes he had been wearing an expensive-looking jacket, hardly the attire for two wheels.
Appalled anew
