Grave Concern by Judith Millar Page B

stern warning and a finger wag from a grudging nurse, who declared him a very lucky young man , as though she wished he weren’t.
    A week or so later, Nicholas’s dad presented him with the knife, a nasty switchblade à la West Side Story . “I think this is what did the trick,” he said. “Found it way down under the foredeck, under the bow. Must have floated back in there under the bilges. Jib sheet’s severed, obviously cut. I think, young man, your long-haired friend may have saved your can.”
    â€œNot may have , Dad. Did,” Nicholas said. “God. I feel like an ass.”

    Since she had first set eyes on J.P., a pale spot just above the temple where his thick hair began had exerted a powerful fascination. At the moment, Kate couldn’t see anything, of course, but only feel soft whorls of his hair tickling her face. In the silence, Kate brought her hand somewhere up beside his head. Slowly, she moved the teeniest tip of her index finger to where she guessed his temple to be. The flesh was firm over the bone of his skull, but the skin surface was surprisingly soft. At her touch, J.P.’s head jerked up, like a dozing tabby alerted to danger. Kate startled too then, but her fingertip remained. She felt him relax a bit and added the next finger. And the next.
    Neither breathed. J.P. lowered his head the slightest bit. Cautious now, Kate applied her palm. His head took on weight, gained mass, sank heavily on her chest. Kate buried her hand deep in the mane where it came to luxurious rest. Slowly, starting from the brow, Kate smoothed the hair, across the skull and down the nape of the neck. His body went completely slack, pressing her hard against the floor. His forehead rested somewhere down by her cheek. Feeling his warm breath rise along her throat, Kate stroked him again, brow to nape.

    At a quarter to nine in the morning, Kate stood in the backroom of Flower Power by the gas canister, filling balloons for a balloon-a-gram. Emma Raymond, daughter of Foxy, last seen at Ron and Hille’s party, was turning sixteen. Kate felt a blast of cold air on her feet, telling her someone had entered the store. “Happy Groundhog Day, Gwyneth!” she called, and stopped the gas to hear how old Pickle-face would respond.
    Nothing. Kate tethered the balloons to a stapler and went out to investigate. Lanh (Leonard) Ho Lam, Manager, stood among the floral displays, holding what looked like a bunch of oversized business cards, laughing in perfect silence, his shoulders shaking up and down.
    â€œOh, hi there!” said Kate. “Glad you liked the joke, which was exactly … ?”
    â€œI was just imagining how Gwyneth might react to your greeting,” he said.
    Kate looked Leonard up and down. “Just because you share the same strip mall, doesn’t mean you may disrespect Miss Waters.” She grinned. “But I’d appreciate it very much.”
    Leonard’s look of alarm dissipated. “Huh! I saw your light on. I wondered if you would be so kind as to display these cards by the cash.”
    Would be so kind as to . How charming. Kate stared pointedly at his badge. “With all due respect, Mr. Ho Lam , I’m guessing you didn’t just ‘see the light on.’ You saw me come in. Me, not Gwyneth. I’m guessing you, like many long-suffering souls, had Miss Waters for Grade 9 math.”
    Leonard’s face opened like Thoreau’s evening primrose. “She freaks me out. Always has.”
    Kate laughed. “You and me both.” She glanced at the cards. “What’s this all about?”
    â€œWe’re starting up a film society here in town. A few of us. Bring in films you don’t normally see. Canadian, foreign, small-release indies, you know. We need members for the society and an audience, of course. I’m asking merchants like yourselves to help out with a bit of publicity.”
    â€œHey, I’m not the