She sat down opposite me, straight-backed and rigid, and proceeded to demolish a panino. I popped an olive into my mouth, savouring the saltiness, and watched an Albacore far out on the water by Chiefs Island, desperately searching for a snatch of wind.
“If I may say, Mr. Havelock, you seem an admirably quiet and serious young man.”
I felt myself blush.
“Not like those uncivilized creatures whose animal noises and whoops one hears from the city park when the wind is in an unfavourable direction.”
“Raphaella says I’m steady. And reliable. I think she means dull.”
Something happened to Mrs. Stoppini’s face. I realized she was smiling. Sort of.
“I shall look forward to meeting this Miss Skye of yours.”
“I don’t think she’d like the ‘of yours’ part.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you mind if I ask something?” I said, changing the subject. “Professor Corbizzi-he was a university teacher?”
“He was an eminent historian and author of several books. He held a chair at Ponte Santa Trinita University in Renaissance studies in our native Florence, and his specialty was the San Marco church and monastery. I take it you have not had an opportunity to examine his library.”
“Too busy,” I said.
“Indeed. Well, he was, some years ago, offered a post at the University of Toronto, and after a few years he retired to this place. I fear he was not happy at Toronto. His work was… a trifle unorthodox.”
“Oh.”
There was something unusual in the way she talked about the man who had been her companion. Raphaella and I assumed that meant they were a couple and had been for years. Yet she seemed impersonal when she spoke of him. “He was not happy,” “he retired,” “his work was unorthodox.” Strange, I thought as I munched on the last olive in the bowl.
“He continued his work here, but I am not aware of its exact nature. He did not share it with me.”
I got the message. Don’t enquire any further. I drank down the remains of my water and stood.
“Well, thanks for the lunch,” I said. “Time to get back to work.”
IV
DURING THE AFTERNOON, thunder grumbled on and off in the darkening northwest sky. I wondered if I should pack it in and head home before the rain came. Riding a motorcycle with a face full of windblown water was no fun. But I put it off, intent on what I was doing, and didn’t clue in to the weather again until I heard a handful of rain spatter against the window above the bench. I opened one of the garage doors, allowing a gust of cool air to swirl inside, carrying sticks and dust with it. I pushed the bike inside and ran the door back down, hoping that if there was a thunder-shower, it would be short.
I sat for a while, safe and dry behind the glass, and watched the drama in the sky above the lake, where thick purple clouds roiled over the whitecaps. Here and there bars of sunlight shot through like yellow spotlights, illuminating the emerald green water. But soon the lowering sky formed a dark ceiling. Lightning flashed and crackled. Thunder boomed like artillery. The wind came like a series of punches, bending the tall spruce between me and the water like blades of grass and lifting the skirts of the willows along the shore. Small branches spun past the window. The patio chairs tipped and rolled across the grass. The umbrella, folded and tied, rattled in its mooring, rocketed into the air, touched down briefly in a sea of irises, and somersaulted toward the lake and out of sight.
A roar like an approaching train announced the downpour, and huge raindrops slammed the concrete apron outside the shop like tiny bombs. Puddles appeared almost instantly. Distorted by the curtain of rain running down the kitchen window, Mrs. Stoppini’s tall form appeared. My cellphone rang.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Snug as a bug, Mrs. Stoppini.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’ll probably blow by in few minutes.”
“I hate storms,” she said, and hung up.
The uproar moved on after less than an hour of heavenly mayhem. The violent gusts of wind gave way to a steady breeze. The rain stopped and the sun came out, drawing steam from the apron and the patio, and setting alight the droplets that hung from every leaf. I went back to work, but by suppertime, when I had planned to quit, a sullen downpour had set in.
Mrs. Stoppini offered me supper and a guest room for the night, “in view of the weather,” and when I saw the doleful look on her face I remembered her saying earlier in the day that she hated storms-which meant they scared her. I called home and let my parents know. After supper-pasta with garlic, butter, fresh Parmesan cheese, and asparagus-I put in another hour’s work, then called it a day.
“Let me show you your room,” Mrs. Stoppini said when I came back into the house holding an umbrella against the rain. She went ahead of me up a wide staircase that gave onto a carpeted landing, turned left, and led me down a wainscotted corridor, past a few doors to the east wing, floating like a wraith ahead of me, her leather lace-ups tapping the floorboards. How does she
She pushed open a door and gestured toward a large tiled bathroom. Then she showed me into a spacious bedroom with its own fireplace and easy chairs, as well as a four-poster bed with what looked like antique end tables. A bulky dresser took up most of the wall opposite a huge bay window that looked out over the lake. There was no TV, no radio, no clock in the room.
“I trust you will be comfortable here,” she said, flipping the light switch beside the door. “There are candles and matches in one of the end tables. Electrical storms often cause power outages here. You will find towels and a bathrobe in the lavatory.”
With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, saying “Have a pleasant evening” over her shoulder.
I drew back the window curtains to reveal a view of the side yard and the lake spreading beyond a row of willows, then sat down on the cushioned seat. Darkness flowed across the grounds and rose up the trunks of the trees. The rain hissed in the big blue spruce to the left of the window and gurgled in the gutter over my head. Thunder boomed out over the lake, and lightning flickered. Another cell was moving in. I switched on the crystal lamp that stood on the night table nearest the window and pulled open the drawer to find a half-dozen candles, a box of wooden matches, and a saucer-shaped brass candle holder.
I looked around the room for something to read but had no luck. Then I remembered I was directly above a huge library. I made my way along the dim corridor and down the stairs. At the bottom I noticed the faint smell of smoke. Old, stale smoke. Strange, I thought. The library had been completely cleaned.
The ground floor was sunk in shadow. I considered returning to my room for a candle rather than blundering around looking for light switches, then changed my mind. The notion of visiting that gloomy library with a storm brewing overhead to make a creepy place that much creepier didn’t sit well with me.
I climbed back up the stairs The faint sound of weeping floated from the west wing, where Mrs. Stoppini’s room was. I crept down the corridor toward her door, cringing at every creak underfoot.
“How could you leave me? How could you?” I heard, followed by pitiful sobs muffled by the door.
I had been so involved in my own projects-setting up the shop, solving the various problems that came with making a replica of the mantel-I had forgotten that Mrs. Stoppini’s life companion had suddenly been snatched away from her. I told myself as I turned toward my room that I would try to be more sensitive in my dealings with her.
I took a long shower, towelled off, and pulled on the blue hooded bathrobe I found neatly folded with the towels Mrs. Stoppini had left for me. By the time I closed the bedroom door behind me the sky was black. A brilliant blue-white flash momentarily lit up the spruce branches outside the window, then the thunderclap whacked the house, shaking the glass.
The lights went out.
