Sharing Spaces (16 page)

Senna hadn't meant to anger him, and spying on him had certainly not been the reason she'd walked to his
cabin last night, but she wasn't the least bit sorry that she'd seen the interaction between the two. Jack's behavior toward Wavey had erased all suspicions that there was anything between them.

Senna watched the fog rise from the river. The morning was gray and quiet, still too early to know if it would be sunny or overcast. She was contemplating the odds when she heard the kitchen door bang again and Jack reemerged, striding back down the porch with an insulated travel mug in one hand. He passed her without so much as a look, started down the steps, and began descending the steep ramp.

Senna scrambled to her feet and started after him, tripping at the top of the ramp and spilling most of her coffee. She set the cup down and caught up with him as he was beginning his preflight check of the plane. “Jack, honestly, I wasn't spying on you. I didn't know Wavey would be there.”

“Forget it.” He was wiggling the rudder, the flaps, and checking some fluid in the engine itself. “Doesn't matter.”

“Look, I'm sorry,” Senna said, frustrated that he wouldn't acknowledge her. Her fists clenched at her sides. “Okay, that's not true. I'm
not
sorry. I'm glad I saw you send Wavey off that way. It made me feel a whole lot better.”

He untied the tethers, stepped up onto the pontoon and opened the side door, giving her the briefest of over-the-shoulder glances. “Good,” he said. “As long as you feel a whole lot better, that's all that counts.”

Senna reached in her pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled Canadian bills, extending them toward him.
“For the petunias and the champagne,” she said. “The rest of it you can put on our charge account.”

He ignored the offering, climbed into the plane and slammed the door behind him. Moments later she heard him holler, “Clear!” just before turning the engine over. The prop whirled to life as the engine uttered its throaty rumble. Senna took a few steps back as the prop wash pushed against her and the plane began its downriver taxi. She stood there until it disappeared around the corner and the loud take-off roar faded as the plane climbed into the air and drew away.

Senna shoved the money back into her pocket and sighed, hoping that by the time he returned he'd be over his big mad. She picked her way along the riverbank for a while, enjoying the solitude and reluctant to return to the lodge, where the sour-faced Gordina held dubious rule over a kingdom she should be expelled from, and the sensual Wavey would appear for another day of daydreaming when she was supposed to be working. A few moments of exploring wouldn't be such a bad thing. She could make up the lost work on the other end of the day.

The edge of the river was hard to follow, choked with the debris of previous high-water floods, but now and then a clear sandy stretch would beckon. Senna made a mental note that Charlie would have to clean up the riverbank on both sides of the lodge to allow guests to fish the deep pools from shore. It would be a good chore for him, one he'd enjoy since he could simply toss all the driftwood back into the river. Then maybe he could trim back some of this brush to establish a walking path and…

Senna stopped abruptly, studying the damp sand at her feet. “My goodness,” she breathed. She was look
ing at a track, a very large canid track, at least seven inches long and four inches wide.

Wolf!

She stepped carefully to avoid marring the perfect imprint and looked for the next one. Easy enough to find. She followed the set of tracks up the shoreline until they veered into the brush, and then she followed them by sheer perseverance and intuition, finding a single paw print here in the mud, another partial track farther along, an indentation in the lichens, a broken patch of fern. The riverbank climbed and flattened out and she found herself on an established game path, winding through the thick forest of black spruce. She picked up her pace, traveling head-down, intent on finding the next clue, wondering if she'd be lucky enough to catch sight of the wary and magnificent creature. She wondered if it was Raven, the black female her grandfather had written of in his journal.

The path eventually dipped down into a wet, boggy area, soft and spongy with moss. She picked her way carefully, aware that soon she should be heading back. There was lots to do, and someone had to keep an eye on the two employees, else they'd spend the morning drinking coffee and gabbing. But just now, with the woods full of birdsong and redolent of clean, earthy smells, this was the place she'd much rather be. As soon as the sun broke through the morning fog, she'd get back to the lodge. She spied another imprint in the moss and felt a gathering thrill. She wished she'd brought her camera along, but then again this had been a spur-of-the-moment adventure.

The bog she was traveling through climbed onto a low esker and she paused for a breather, trying to catch
a glimpse of a familiar landmark. She could no longer hear the river, just the increasing whine of mosquitoes, and she had no insect repellent. With a sigh she realized it was time to go back. Just as she started through the bog again, carefully retracing her steps, it began to rain. The rain was cold and steady, but it drove away the mosquitoes, which was a relief. She hurried along, pushing through low undergrowth, swatting at bugs and wishing she'd worn a hat. The going became more difficult and several times she floundered in water up to her knees. She didn't remember the path being this rough or wet on the way through. Could she have somehow veered onto the wrong track?

Senna stopped, listening for the river, but all she could hear was the sound of the rain and the few persistent mosquitoes that pursued her. She realized that without the sun to take her bearings by, she had no idea what direction she was traveling in. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no need to panic. It was broad daylight, and would be for many hours yet. In fact, this time of year in Labrador it never got truly dark. All she had to do was find her own footprints and follow them back to the river. She turned around and began to retrace her steps, trying to find where she'd lost the trail.

 

J
ACK STOPPED BRIEFLY
at the lake house to pick up another of the admiral's books for Charlie to read and while he was there he searched through his room for a set of clothes worthy of sharing a bottle of champagne with a beautiful woman. He'd been too long without the need for anything fancier than blue jeans and work boots, and the one dress shirt he came up with had
threadbare cuffs and wouldn't pass muster. In the bottom drawer of his bureau he kept a sock stuffed with an odd assortment of change, and he took the whole sock. Whatever was in it was going to serve as the champagne fund. He hoped it would amount to enough for a fairly decent bottle, with enough left over for some petunias and a respectable dress shirt.

But the champagne was paramount, although Senna probably wouldn't share it with him after his surly departure. The very idea that she'd witnessed Wavey's behavior the night before caused his stomach to churn. By the time he'd flown thirty minutes away from her, he realized that the reason he'd been so upset was that he realized if Wavey hadn't shown up at his cabin, Senna would have. It would have been Senna who came into the clearing to see why he was splitting wood at 2:00 a.m. Damn that Wavey! He should have packed her out of there this morning and dropped her back at Goody's house.

Jack stopped in the living room to check the phone's answering machine. A brief message from Granville, for Senna. “I'm sorry to report I still haven't found your grandfather's letter, m'dear, but I know it'll turn up. I'll have some paperwork for you to sign soon, I expect the courts will be sending it along any day now.”

Another one for Senna. “Hi, it's Tim. You haven't called and I'm getting worried. I'll try to get the lodge's number from your mother. Talk to you soon, I hope. Miss you.”

Hearing that message sent Jack into an even darker state of mind. He stalked back to the plane, satisfied to see that it had begun to rain. Rain suited his mood. He climbed into the plane and headed for Goose Bay. One
of the benefits of spending all those years in the Navy was access to the base commissary. There were good prices there, and a fair selection to choose from. He stocked up on all the necessary items to get them through the first full week of feeding twelve guests, but when it came to choosing the champagne he enlisted the help of one of the employees, who asked the advice of another, until finally four people were actively debating the merits of the different champagnes, not that there were all that many to debate. The more they talked, the more confusing the choice became.

“I don't mean to interrupt, but is this a special occasion?” a middle-aged woman who was perusing the wines inquired.

Jack nodded, relieved by her interest. He needed a mature woman's perspective. “Very special. A great woman and a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

“Then you'll want a very special champagne,” she said with a knowing smile. “Perrier-Jouet. The one with the pink flower painted on the bottle.”

Jack scanned the selection and the woman touched his arm. “Don't bother looking, you won't find it here,” she said with a kind smile. Probably the wife of the base commander. She had that look of patient and long-suffering regality about her. “You'll need to go to a first-rate liquor store or wine shop, and even then you might strike out. This is Labrador, after all.”

It was handy that Goody had left her car for Wavey and Jack to use. Jack took full advantage, driving to the nearest purveyor of fine wines and cheeses, where he asked for the bottle of champagne with the flower painted on it.

“You're in luck,” the shopkeeper said. “I have one
bottle in stock. Pricey stuff, so I don't keep much on hand.”

Jack pulled out his sock. “How pricey?”

The shopkeeper watched as the bills and coins spilled out onto the counter. “A hundred bucks,” he said.

Jack tried to hide his shock. The other bottles back at the commissary had been in the ten-to-twenty-dollar range. He sorted through the bills, counting what he'd accumulated over the past three years. It came to $114.52, Canadian. No doubt about it, he'd never be a rich man. “How much does caviar cost?” he said.

“Depends on the type. You got the flying fish caviar, that's cheap. You got the beluga caviar, that'll cost you twice your life's savings for four ounces.” The shopkeeper paused, watching Jack organize the loose change. “Strawberries go well with champagne,” he suggested. “Or a fine cheese, or smoked salmon on petit points.”

Jack paid for the champagne and with what was leftover bought a nicely aged cheese and some of the most expensive crackers ever made. The shopkeeper ceremoniously packed this in a very attractive shopping bag that Jack knew Senna would like. He felt better about life in general as he left the shop, bag tucked under his jacket to keep it from getting wet, and carefully loaded the bag into Goody's car. Back at Goody's house he ferried all the groceries down to the plane, and the last thing he tucked in was the shopping bag with the champagne, right beside the pilot's seat. He was doing pretty good. All the errands were done, and it was only eleven o'clock. He'd be back at the lodge in an hour. He hoped Senna wouldn't be too mad at him for not getting the petunias, but at the moment he was dead broke.

“Jack!” a voice called out as he was locking Goody's car up. He saw a man wave from down the street. “Jack, bye! I couldn't believe my luck when they said you just flew into town. I only just arrived myself.”

“George?” Jack squinted through the rain. “George Pilgrim. I'll be damned!”

“I was sorry to hear the old admiral had died,” George said, pumping Jack's hand as they met beside George's battered pickup. “You knows how much I liked the old warhorse. I just come over from Lab City, y'see. Went to visit my daughter. Bad news there, the iron-ore workers just went on strike. They belong to the steelworkers' union. Bad business going on now, sabotaging ore trains and such. The men are out of work, and it scares 'em and makes 'em ugly.”

George Pilgrim was a native of Mud Lake, the son of a Montagnais girl and an Air Force man who had flown through her life one night. He was undoubtedly one of the best outdoorsmen in Labrador, having been a ranger for over forty years, patrolling the better part of Naskaupi and keeping the poachers on their toes, but he was in his seventies now, and starting to slow down. He guided fishermen mostly, to keep food on the table and his hand in the game. He and the admiral had raised a little hell together in the past five years and had formed a good friendship.

“I'll buy you a beer,” Jack said.

“I'll buy you a bite, if you'll buy me a beer,” George grinned, his ruddy face beaming.

Minutes later they were in the same pub where Gordina had once worked, ordering burgers and drinking beer. “It's good to see you, bye,” George said. “You're looking fit. Is the admiral's lodge built, then?”

“It's built. Come out with me and see it. We're opening next week.”

George shook his head with regret. “I'd like to, but I'm having a surgery tomorrow. That's why I'm here. They found a bit of smut in my innards, y'see, and they have to cut it out. They say the hospital here is pretty good.”

“How long will you be in?”

“If it goes good, not long. If it goes bad, I might not come out. That's why I went to see my daughter. Didn't tell her about it, though. Didn't want to worry her.”

“You're too tough to die in a hospital, George. I'll pick you up when you're ready. Call the lodge, we have a satellite phone in there, and I'll come get you. You can hang out there and recuperate. The fishing's pretty good.”

“Oh, aye, I'll bet she is. The Wolf's a fine trout and salmon river. So tell me, bye,” George said with a knowing look. “Who's the lucky lady?”