Her voice warmed up a degree. “Good morning, Mr. Havelock. How nice to hear from you.”
“I said I’d phone and give you my decision about your offer.”
“Ah.”
“Er, I’m willing to meet your two conditions.”
A little more of the frost melted away. “Excellent.”
“But I have one of my own.”
A pause. “Indeed.”
I waited her out, chewing on my lip.
Her voice had iced over again, like a pond in winter. “May I know what you have in mind?”
“I have a friend. She’s very reliable. And honest. I want to bring her along from time to time to help with the books.”
“Mr. Havelock, I did stress that our business arrangements and all the attendant details, along with information personal to this household, must remain strictly confidential.”
“She’s very discreet. And I know from experience that she can keep a secret. Forever, if necessary.”
“But-”
“I need her help, Mrs. Stoppini.”
“Did you say
“Raphaella is my girlfriend,” I said.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Stoppini said again, stuffing as much distaste as she could manage into the two syllables.
Girlfriend. I hated that word. It sounded trivial, as if Raphaella was a buddy I went to the movies with every Saturday afternoon. But how could I explain our relationship to a stranger? And why would I? Especially a cold fish like Mrs. Stoppini. Raphaella and I were soulmates.
“She’s my best friend,” I added.
Silence.
“My companion.”
More silence. Then, when Mrs. Stoppini spoke, her voice took on a neutral tone, as if she had made up her mind.
“Raphaella. An Italian name. It means ‘She who heals.’ I shall take that as a good omen. What is her surname?”
My turn to hesitate. “You’re going to investigate her.” It wasn’t a question.
“I must, Mr. Havelock. But I shall be just as circumspect as before.”
“Skye,” I said. “With an ‘e.’ ”
“Fine. Let us agree on the following: provided my lawyer has no objection, I shall consent to your condition and allow your… companion to assist you in your work and, to that end, come and go as she pleases.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“I shall have the contracts drawn up. And one more thing, Mr. Havelock.”
“Yes?”
“May I say how pleased I am that you have accepted.”
I almost shouted, “Me, too!”
III
WHEN I WAS IN GRADE NINE I went out with a girl named Sandy Mills until I found out I was her reserve boyfriend-the guy she dated as long as her real love interest hadn’t asked her out first. Sandy tore away the last shred of my already tattered self-confidence, and I wondered if any girl would ever give me the time of day. I was so desperate for ideas that one evening while my parents and I were washing the dinner dishes-we only used the dishwasher if we had company-I made the mistake of asking them how they met.
They agreed on the first part. Dad was an Orillia boy and Mom met him at the farmers’ market one summer Saturday while visiting friends who owned a cottage on Lake St. John and had brought her into town to shop. From that point on, my parents’ versions of their relationship story varied.
“She chased me all over town,” my father called out from the living room. He had finished washing and left Mom and me to sweep the floor and put the dishes away. “She wouldn’t let me alone. It was embarrassing. I’d turn a street corner and there she’d be. I married her just to put her out of her misery.”
“Not true!” Mom contradicted, directing her voice toward the living room as she swept. “You were so smitten you phoned me once a day and twice on Sunday. Your phone bill was bankrupting you. I only agreed to your proposal because I felt sorry for you.”
“Go on, admit it. I was irresistible. You were head over heels. Obsessed. Besotted.”
“You don’t even know what besotted means,” Mom scoffed, laughing, as Dad came back into the kitchen.
“Yes, I do,” he said, taking her in his arms, bending her backwards, and planting a noisy kiss on her mouth. “See?” he said to me over his shoulder. “She still can’t leave me alone.”
I threw down my dishtowel and left the kitchen. “No wonder I’m immature for my age,” I said.
Whatever my father claimed when he and Mom were horsing around, the grin on his beaming face in the wedding photo on the mantel told a different story. He couldn’t believe that the young woman holding his arm had agreed to have him.
They were different people-Mom was a journalist whose drive and ambition had made her well known, and had landed her in a few dangerous situations. She would go anywhere to chase down a story. Her favourite drink was adrenaline. Dad was a part-time music teacher-he played flute-and a store owner, and his calm familiar life in the town where he was born was adventurous enough for him. He was, in my mother’s words, an old-fashioned stick- in-the-mud, which was why he operated an antique store, preferred the golden oldies station on the radio, and drove a 1966 Chevy pickup truck he had restored himself. Mom had once had dreams that I would go off to university and be a scholar and hold a pen rather than a chisel or screwdriver, but Dad had quietly backed my wish to finish high school and learn cabinetry and furniture design.
But they were as tightly meshed as the strands in a suspension bridge cable, and they made all their big decisions together. Which is why I sat down with them in the living room on the same day I talked to Mrs. Stoppini. I explained what I wanted to do and asked for their support.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be the
Mom suggested that our family lawyer look over the contract before I signed it, and Dad offered an interest- free loan to get me up and running. We talked about my plans, and I noticed they kept exchanging smiles.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” my mother replied.
“We’re proud of you,” my father said. “She just won’t admit it.”
Four
I
WITHIN A COUPLE OF WEEKS the workshop was operational. I had installed a layout table, a drafting board, racks for my tools, and, along the walls, benches equipped with vises. The table, band, and radial arm saws and a power planer were situated on the floor with lots of working room around them. There was also a lathe, only three years old, that I had bought from Norbert for a song. I ordered the wood for the mantel, along with a supply of lumber and specialty woods I’d need to have on hand for occasional work. The vacuum-and-exhaust system would
