that faced the water and trees on a quiet little patch of land. He’d been told two of the other cabins hadn’t been filled for the week, so he had the place almost to himself.
He’d bought some groceries on the way up, and he put them in the fridge, aware of his footsteps padding around on the wood floor. Smoked trout, milk, pasta, pecorino, roasted red peppers, plum tomatoes, oranges, butter, a loaf of wholegrain bread, carrots and cucumber, a bottle of red wine, and a head of iceberg lettuce. Enough for the weekend. His plans were to do the minimum amount of physical movement. Beds and chairs only, plus books. He’d brought a couple of detective novels as well as some crummy American celebrity magazines. He also had some sample detective sergeant exams in his bag. (How varied my inner life is , he thought.) It was early to be living in hope, but he’d been a detective constable for almost three years. He was thirty-one years old. If all this change he’d gone through since David’s death was to be for something, he had to keep moving. He hadn’t arrived at a mental space where he was ready to love again, but he sure as hell felt like working.
It had been a little awkward leaving in the midst ofan investigation, but if anything happened – and he dreaded and anticipated something happening in about equal measure – he knew he’d hear from Hazel. Maybe, if he was lucky, there wouldn’t be a break in the case until next Wednesday. Five days of R&R would be enough, if he could get that.
He hadn’t had a break since he arrived in Port Dundas in November of last year. It had been a busy year since, perhaps busier than any he’d experienced in Toronto. It was as if the whole county was undergoing a sea change. You could smell it: the first hints of cold threaded in the fall air, that told you summer was really over, that winter was on its way. It was in the impending changes at the station, with Ray Greene coming back, with whispers of what amalgamation was going to bring. He’d heard rumours that the station was going to be moved to another location. He had to presume it would still be in Port Dundas, but who knew what this commissioner was capable of? The way Hazel talked about Chip Willan, he sounded like a bull in a china shop. Who knew what the future held anymore?
He chopped a bit of lettuce into a bowl, added tomato, cucumber, and some of the smoked trout, and headed out to the lakeshore with one of the magazines. It promised to tell of the tribulations of a Hollywood couple who were having trouble conceiving. The husband was widely understood to be gay, so the story was just part of theongoing folderol about his viability as a leading man and international sex symbol. Probably the wife was gay too. It had long ago stopped galling him, this masquerade in which the truth was known by everyone who had considered it. He imagined most of the people who were the subjects of this kind of attention were already half insane from believing their own stories.
He took his cell down to the lake.
] 12 [
Friday, August 12, morning
The following morning, Hazel made tea for herself and her mother. Cathy remained asleep in the guestroom, but Hazel had opened the door a crack to ensure the woman was actually there, and she was. Emily had already forgotten that she had her appointment with Dr. Pass in an hour. When Hazel reminded her of it, she made a sour face.
“I used to pinch that man’s cheek. Grace Pass says he wet his bed until he was ten – she thought I’d know what to do about it.”
“Well, you were the mayor.”
“I told her to wait until January and put him on an ice floe. And you trust him to prod me with his tools?”
“He’s your doctor, Mother. You’re supposed to be in his office at nine. So none of your games.”
“I’ll play whatever games I want to.”
“I think you’re depressed.”
“I get disgusted, distracted, and dead-tired; I do not get depressed. That’s you, my dear. My
He’d bought some groceries on the way up, and he put them in the fridge, aware of his footsteps padding around on the wood floor. Smoked trout, milk, pasta, pecorino, roasted red peppers, plum tomatoes, oranges, butter, a loaf of wholegrain bread, carrots and cucumber, a bottle of red wine, and a head of iceberg lettuce. Enough for the weekend. His plans were to do the minimum amount of physical movement. Beds and chairs only, plus books. He’d brought a couple of detective novels as well as some crummy American celebrity magazines. He also had some sample detective sergeant exams in his bag. (How varied my inner life is , he thought.) It was early to be living in hope, but he’d been a detective constable for almost three years. He was thirty-one years old. If all this change he’d gone through since David’s death was to be for something, he had to keep moving. He hadn’t arrived at a mental space where he was ready to love again, but he sure as hell felt like working.
It had been a little awkward leaving in the midst ofan investigation, but if anything happened – and he dreaded and anticipated something happening in about equal measure – he knew he’d hear from Hazel. Maybe, if he was lucky, there wouldn’t be a break in the case until next Wednesday. Five days of R&R would be enough, if he could get that.
He hadn’t had a break since he arrived in Port Dundas in November of last year. It had been a busy year since, perhaps busier than any he’d experienced in Toronto. It was as if the whole county was undergoing a sea change. You could smell it: the first hints of cold threaded in the fall air, that told you summer was really over, that winter was on its way. It was in the impending changes at the station, with Ray Greene coming back, with whispers of what amalgamation was going to bring. He’d heard rumours that the station was going to be moved to another location. He had to presume it would still be in Port Dundas, but who knew what this commissioner was capable of? The way Hazel talked about Chip Willan, he sounded like a bull in a china shop. Who knew what the future held anymore?
He chopped a bit of lettuce into a bowl, added tomato, cucumber, and some of the smoked trout, and headed out to the lakeshore with one of the magazines. It promised to tell of the tribulations of a Hollywood couple who were having trouble conceiving. The husband was widely understood to be gay, so the story was just part of theongoing folderol about his viability as a leading man and international sex symbol. Probably the wife was gay too. It had long ago stopped galling him, this masquerade in which the truth was known by everyone who had considered it. He imagined most of the people who were the subjects of this kind of attention were already half insane from believing their own stories.
He took his cell down to the lake.
] 12 [
Friday, August 12, morning
The following morning, Hazel made tea for herself and her mother. Cathy remained asleep in the guestroom, but Hazel had opened the door a crack to ensure the woman was actually there, and she was. Emily had already forgotten that she had her appointment with Dr. Pass in an hour. When Hazel reminded her of it, she made a sour face.
“I used to pinch that man’s cheek. Grace Pass says he wet his bed until he was ten – she thought I’d know what to do about it.”
“Well, you were the mayor.”
“I told her to wait until January and put him on an ice floe. And you trust him to prod me with his tools?”
“He’s your doctor, Mother. You’re supposed to be in his office at nine. So none of your games.”
“I’ll play whatever games I want to.”
“I think you’re depressed.”
“I get disgusted, distracted, and dead-tired; I do not get depressed. That’s you, my dear. My
Similar Books
