singsong quality to it at the other end of the line. “How’s it going with you two?”
Robert smiled: since Sharon had started talking about moving in, it was clear that Pat was more than a little uncomfortable in her role as matchmaker. It would have been easier on her if they’d just gone out on a few dates, maybe kept up an affectionate correspondence between here and Toronto until the divorce was final; then a proper wedding at the nice old Anglican church the Sheas favoured in Gravenhurst. From Pat’s point of view, she had created an extra-marital monster by introducing Robert Thacker to Sharon Tefield.
“It’s going great,” said Robert, then added, to help Pat relax as much as anything, “Sharon’s back at the cottage tonight.”
“Is she?” There was a measure of change in Pat’s voice that Robert couldn’t quite place. “That might be just as well. I was actually calling to let you know. Allan phoned here this evening.”
Ah, hell. “What did he have to say?” he asked.
“A lot of ugly things. He sounded as though he’d been drinking.” Pat paused for a moment—he heard her breaths against the mouthpiece as she decided what to say next. “But he told me he knew about you and Sharon. He asked me if she’d moved in with you yet. I’m afraid. . . .”
She’d told him. She was sorry, she didn’t know how it slipped out, but there it was. Allan knew that his ex-wife was shacking up with the guy who owned Twin Oaks Campground.
“I’m sorry, Robert.”
“It’s all right. He was going to find out anyway.” In truth, Robert was surprised Sharon hadn’t told Allan already.
“We’re just worried about you. The two of you. Allan might be calling there later on tonight. That’s why I called.”
Robert smiled. “To warn me?”
Pat gave a small laugh. “I know you can take care of yourself, Bob. But you might want to screen your calls for the next few days.”
“Well I may just do that.” Robert didn’t remind Pat that his bachelor’s cabin didn’t have an answering machine or any other means to screen his calls, as she put it. “Thanks for the advance notice.”
But Pat went on. “You really don’t want to be talking to Allan right now, and when Sharon gets back, she won’t either. He sounded so . . . .”
Robert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder and uncapped the vodka while Pat searched for the word.
“It was like he was dried out. Like he’d been drinking whisky, straight up, every night. And the things he said . . . about Sharon, you . . . mostly Sharon. Honestly, Bob. . . .”
He set the vodka down, uncapped, on the end table. “I wish he’d called here in the first place,” he said. “This shouldn’t be your problem.”
“Do you want us to go out there? To her cottage?” Pat didn’t sound as though she wanted him to take her up on the offer, so he didn’t.
“No no no. Don’t worry; I’ll give her a call.”
“I just thought I should warn you.”
“And you did. Thank you, Pat.”
So they said their goodbyes and Robert returned the phone to its cradle. He swore softly. If Allan was in as bad a state as Pat seemed to think he was, Robert was more worried about him calling Sharon at the cottage—or driving there, for that matter—than he was about him calling here. After a moment’s thought, he picked up the phone again and dialled the number of Sharon’s cottage. It rang five times before she answered—she had been sleeping, he could tell.
He would be brief, he said, and told her about the conversation with Pat. “So you might want to, ah, screen your calls,” he said.
“Okay,” she mumbled through her sleep-haze. “Go to bed, honey.”
“Do you want me to come out there?” he asked.
“No.”
“If he shows up and you’re alone—”
Sharon made a stretching sound. “He won’t come,” she said.
“What if he does?”
“Bobby, will you please go to bed? Allan can’t do anything to me. Believe
Robert smiled: since Sharon had started talking about moving in, it was clear that Pat was more than a little uncomfortable in her role as matchmaker. It would have been easier on her if they’d just gone out on a few dates, maybe kept up an affectionate correspondence between here and Toronto until the divorce was final; then a proper wedding at the nice old Anglican church the Sheas favoured in Gravenhurst. From Pat’s point of view, she had created an extra-marital monster by introducing Robert Thacker to Sharon Tefield.
“It’s going great,” said Robert, then added, to help Pat relax as much as anything, “Sharon’s back at the cottage tonight.”
“Is she?” There was a measure of change in Pat’s voice that Robert couldn’t quite place. “That might be just as well. I was actually calling to let you know. Allan phoned here this evening.”
Ah, hell. “What did he have to say?” he asked.
“A lot of ugly things. He sounded as though he’d been drinking.” Pat paused for a moment—he heard her breaths against the mouthpiece as she decided what to say next. “But he told me he knew about you and Sharon. He asked me if she’d moved in with you yet. I’m afraid. . . .”
She’d told him. She was sorry, she didn’t know how it slipped out, but there it was. Allan knew that his ex-wife was shacking up with the guy who owned Twin Oaks Campground.
“I’m sorry, Robert.”
“It’s all right. He was going to find out anyway.” In truth, Robert was surprised Sharon hadn’t told Allan already.
“We’re just worried about you. The two of you. Allan might be calling there later on tonight. That’s why I called.”
Robert smiled. “To warn me?”
Pat gave a small laugh. “I know you can take care of yourself, Bob. But you might want to screen your calls for the next few days.”
“Well I may just do that.” Robert didn’t remind Pat that his bachelor’s cabin didn’t have an answering machine or any other means to screen his calls, as she put it. “Thanks for the advance notice.”
But Pat went on. “You really don’t want to be talking to Allan right now, and when Sharon gets back, she won’t either. He sounded so . . . .”
Robert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder and uncapped the vodka while Pat searched for the word.
“It was like he was dried out. Like he’d been drinking whisky, straight up, every night. And the things he said . . . about Sharon, you . . . mostly Sharon. Honestly, Bob. . . .”
He set the vodka down, uncapped, on the end table. “I wish he’d called here in the first place,” he said. “This shouldn’t be your problem.”
“Do you want us to go out there? To her cottage?” Pat didn’t sound as though she wanted him to take her up on the offer, so he didn’t.
“No no no. Don’t worry; I’ll give her a call.”
“I just thought I should warn you.”
“And you did. Thank you, Pat.”
So they said their goodbyes and Robert returned the phone to its cradle. He swore softly. If Allan was in as bad a state as Pat seemed to think he was, Robert was more worried about him calling Sharon at the cottage—or driving there, for that matter—than he was about him calling here. After a moment’s thought, he picked up the phone again and dialled the number of Sharon’s cottage. It rang five times before she answered—she had been sleeping, he could tell.
He would be brief, he said, and told her about the conversation with Pat. “So you might want to, ah, screen your calls,” he said.
“Okay,” she mumbled through her sleep-haze. “Go to bed, honey.”
“Do you want me to come out there?” he asked.
“No.”
“If he shows up and you’re alone—”
Sharon made a stretching sound. “He won’t come,” she said.
“What if he does?”
“Bobby, will you please go to bed? Allan can’t do anything to me. Believe
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