woods, but there’s a T-shirt draped on the back of a chair with the name of a band on it, an empty box of M&M’s in the bin and a plate on the floor with the remains of breakfast, all of which suggests some version of kid.
Gil sighs and then seems aware that he’s being ungracious. Never mind, he says. As surprises go, I couldn’t ask for a nicer one.
You’re shameless. Lynda smiles. But it’s lovely to see you. And Mila! She drags her attention away from my father. That’s the trouble with breakups, she says. You lose everyone else too. But your father and I always got along. I always suspected I chose the wrong friend.
Breakups. The wrong friend. So she
is
the girl in the photograph.
Lynda smiles again and gives me a look to show that she’s not serious about the wrong-friend thing, though it strikes me with some force that she is.
I check Gil to confirm this impression and yes, there is something. My father is attracted to this woman, this old girlfriend of Matthew’s. I narrow my eyes, but neither of them is looking at me.
Matt didn’t tell you I was living here?
Gil shakes his head. We’re not great at keeping in touch. Even less since Owen died. The occasional e-mail, not much else. Suzanne thought he might have come here. Gil looks anxious. You know he’s married?
Of course.
But Suzanne doesn’t know about this arrangement?
I never asked, says Lynda. But on the evidence, it would appear not.
Even with my lack of worldly knowledge, this strikes me as a bad idea. Should Matthew be keeping this sort of secret? And why, exactly, is their relationship such a secret if she was his girlfriend a hundred years ago?
Look, Lynda says, please sit down, sit down. Let me get you something warm to drink. You must be freezing.
It’s warm in here and we aren’t freezing, but we both sit at the wooden gateleg table and watch as she heats coffee and milk on her little gas stove.
I teach English at the local high school, she says. Doesn’t pay fabulously but they like me. Matt visits occasionally and sends money though I tell him not to. I keep meaning to move into a more sensible house but he doesn’t charge us to live here. Basic as it is, that counts for something.
I glance at Gil, who acts as if there’s nothing wrong with this picture. We just happen to be here in Matthew’s camp with his secret ex-girlfriend + one, who Matthew sends money to and doesn’t charge rent, and none of this has any bearing on our mystery?
Lynda bends down and puts her hand out to Honey, who is standoffish and withdraws as much as possible without moving her feet. Most dogs would sniff the hand.
She’s Matt’s dog, Gil says. Her name is Honey.
Lynda nods. I thought so. We’ve met, actually.
Gil’s eyes widen for an instant. Of course you have, he says. But he looks wrong-footed.
Honey backs away and resumes sniffing every corner of the room. Every once in a while she stops and tries to inhale a particular object. Matthew may not have been here for some time, but Honey’s sense of smell is a lot better than mine. The house remembers him, whispering his name at a frequency only dogs can hear.
And then she stops, having collected all the information available. She’s still damp, Lynda says, digging around in the bottom of a drawer and pulling out an old gray blanket. She puts it down by the stove and Honey steps over carefully, sniffing to make sure there’s no trick, then turns in a circle and lies down. Maybe the blanket smells of Matthew too.
So. Lynda frowns at Gil. Why exactly have you got Matt’s dog?
It’s kind of a long story, he says.
He left her behind? That’s not like him.
Gil sighs.
Unless he was going somewhere he can’t take a dog?
We kind of hoped he’d be here. But you’re right.
Could he have gone back to England?
We have no idea, Gil says. Though why would he? When he knew we were coming.
Lynda says nothing, setting coffee on the table for Gil and hot chocolate for me.
Gil and I
Gil sighs and then seems aware that he’s being ungracious. Never mind, he says. As surprises go, I couldn’t ask for a nicer one.
You’re shameless. Lynda smiles. But it’s lovely to see you. And Mila! She drags her attention away from my father. That’s the trouble with breakups, she says. You lose everyone else too. But your father and I always got along. I always suspected I chose the wrong friend.
Breakups. The wrong friend. So she
is
the girl in the photograph.
Lynda smiles again and gives me a look to show that she’s not serious about the wrong-friend thing, though it strikes me with some force that she is.
I check Gil to confirm this impression and yes, there is something. My father is attracted to this woman, this old girlfriend of Matthew’s. I narrow my eyes, but neither of them is looking at me.
Matt didn’t tell you I was living here?
Gil shakes his head. We’re not great at keeping in touch. Even less since Owen died. The occasional e-mail, not much else. Suzanne thought he might have come here. Gil looks anxious. You know he’s married?
Of course.
But Suzanne doesn’t know about this arrangement?
I never asked, says Lynda. But on the evidence, it would appear not.
Even with my lack of worldly knowledge, this strikes me as a bad idea. Should Matthew be keeping this sort of secret? And why, exactly, is their relationship such a secret if she was his girlfriend a hundred years ago?
Look, Lynda says, please sit down, sit down. Let me get you something warm to drink. You must be freezing.
It’s warm in here and we aren’t freezing, but we both sit at the wooden gateleg table and watch as she heats coffee and milk on her little gas stove.
I teach English at the local high school, she says. Doesn’t pay fabulously but they like me. Matt visits occasionally and sends money though I tell him not to. I keep meaning to move into a more sensible house but he doesn’t charge us to live here. Basic as it is, that counts for something.
I glance at Gil, who acts as if there’s nothing wrong with this picture. We just happen to be here in Matthew’s camp with his secret ex-girlfriend + one, who Matthew sends money to and doesn’t charge rent, and none of this has any bearing on our mystery?
Lynda bends down and puts her hand out to Honey, who is standoffish and withdraws as much as possible without moving her feet. Most dogs would sniff the hand.
She’s Matt’s dog, Gil says. Her name is Honey.
Lynda nods. I thought so. We’ve met, actually.
Gil’s eyes widen for an instant. Of course you have, he says. But he looks wrong-footed.
Honey backs away and resumes sniffing every corner of the room. Every once in a while she stops and tries to inhale a particular object. Matthew may not have been here for some time, but Honey’s sense of smell is a lot better than mine. The house remembers him, whispering his name at a frequency only dogs can hear.
And then she stops, having collected all the information available. She’s still damp, Lynda says, digging around in the bottom of a drawer and pulling out an old gray blanket. She puts it down by the stove and Honey steps over carefully, sniffing to make sure there’s no trick, then turns in a circle and lies down. Maybe the blanket smells of Matthew too.
So. Lynda frowns at Gil. Why exactly have you got Matt’s dog?
It’s kind of a long story, he says.
He left her behind? That’s not like him.
Gil sighs.
Unless he was going somewhere he can’t take a dog?
We kind of hoped he’d be here. But you’re right.
Could he have gone back to England?
We have no idea, Gil says. Though why would he? When he knew we were coming.
Lynda says nothing, setting coffee on the table for Gil and hot chocolate for me.
Gil and I
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