His mother couldn’t be dead. There had to be some mistake. He’d talked to her two weeks ago.
Guilt cut into the numb emptiness in Drew’s gut. He should have phoned more often. He should have gone home more often. Hell, there were a lot of things he should have done more often.
He thought back to their last, short five-minute conversation. He’d had no hint that she wasn’t feeling well. She’d been mulching down the raspberries for the winter when he’d called.
He had such a clear picture of her at the task. Wearing her old gardening clothes, that straw hat he’d brought her from Mexico City. He could see her booted foot on the spade, the suede gardening gloves she always wore....
No. That she was gone just wasn’t possible. People so sick they were about to die didn’t mulch down gardens, publish weekly newspapers and talk to their sons as though nothing were wrong.
Maybe there’d been a mistake with the identification. Maybe it was another Angela Driscoll.
Drew stared out the small window of the 767, into the pale-blue void. Was he really hurtling at five hundred miles an hour through space, thirty-odd thousand feet from the earth? Nothing seemed real to him, not even his hand, which was resting on the pullout tray, holding tight to the glass of scotch he’d just ordered.
The lines on his knuckles were deeper than he remembered; the dark color of his skin seemed more weathered than tanned. This wasn’t the hand of a young man anymore.
Thirty-five years old.
When had it happened? How had it happened?
It felt like only months since he’d sat at the kitchen table, working on math problems while his mother labored over her weekly editorial.
“Those jet skis are getting completely out of control,” she’d mutter, while he worried about memorizing geometry theorems.
Oh, Angie. Angie...
At some point he’d started calling her by her given name. She’d smiled the first time, but she hadn’t objected.
Mother. Mom.
Why wouldn’t she have told him she had cancer? How long had she known? Had she suffered terribly? He should’ve been warned how little time they had left together. He could have gone home for a while, helped ease some of the demands in her life.
Really? Which stories would you have dropped to find the time?
He pushed self-doubt aside. He would have done what he had to do. Like now. He thought about the flight he should have been taking—to Heathrow Airport, where he would have connected with El A1 to Tel Aviv.
He felt a moment’s regret for the story that was now out of his hands. He couldn’t deny it hurt to give it up. But for his mother he would have given up more.
Oh, God, it wasn’t fair. There was so much they hadn’t talked about. Her past, her childhood, even his grandparents. He was amazed now at how little he knew. How his family had ended up in Port Carling. What it had been like running the newspaper when Angie was young, when her grandfather was just starting up.
About his mother’s personal life. On that topic he was almost completely ignorant. What was the grand passion his grandpa had occasionally hinted at that had ended when she’d left Port Carling to go to journalism school in Toronto? And why hadn’t she ever married? As a child, it had seemed natural to him that he should be the center of her universe. Only recently had he begun to wonder why she’d chosen to live the way she had.
Could it have been because of his father? The man who’d been responsible for his conception but who’d never been a part of his life? Maybe he’d hurt Angie so badly she’d never recovered.
Drew clenched his hand. That was another topic he and Angie had never talked about. Why hadn’t he been more curious about his father?
He remembered the first time the topic had come up, around Father’s Day when he was in kindergarten and all the other kids were making pencil holders out of Popsicle sticks for their dads. The teacher had pulled him aside and suggested he make one for his grandpa.
At home that night he’d asked his mother why he didn’t have a dad like the other kids.
“There isn’t a lot I can tell you, Drew. I’m sorry, but I don’t even have a picture. I know it’s hard. I expect you’ll just have to learn to accept it, though.”
When he was around eleven or twelve, she’d told him more. “I was in my last year of journalism at Ryerson when I got pregnant. There was a journalist from the States. We dated a couple of times while he was in town working on a story. His name was David. I know it seems ridiculous, but I can’t remember his last name. We only saw each other a few times, and of course I hadn’t planned on having a baby....”
Funny how he’d never questioned that story of hers. Now his investigative mind saw the flaws. Sexual attitudes when his mother was growing up were quite different from current ones. Would his mother have slept with a man she’d seen just a few times? And had she really forgotten his last name?
Yet what good would asking questions do him? The one person who could answer them was gone.
If he’d known she was sick, if he’d gone back to Port Carling to look after her, maybe he could have found out some of the answers. Now it was too late.
She was gone and he could hardly stand to think of the void that would leave in his life. Maybe he hadn’t seen her often, but their occasional visits and frequent calls had been important touchstones in his life.
He downed his scotch in one swallow, then settled his forehead against his hand. With his index finger he wiped away a tear, then another. He supposed a guy was entitled to feel sorry for himself at a time like this. But it wasn’t true that he was alone.
He thought about his friends. Grady, who shared his passion for waterskiing, fishing and hockey. Claire, who mothered him in ways Angie hadn’t, bringing him home-baked treats when she came to visit, offering to hem his pants or sew on a button when he was looking particularly bedraggled.
And finally, Mallory, who only seemed to notice the good in him, no matter what he did. Not just in him, to be fair. He remembered his mother saying, “She sees the world through rose-colored glasses. And the world would be rose colored—if there were more people like Mallory in it.”
He’d called her from the car on his way to the airport. She’d insisted on picking him up at Pearson International in Toronto, even though he could easily have rented a car, which he usually did on his visits home.
“No sense in that,” Mallory had said. “You can use your mom’s Explorer once you get to Port Carling.”
Drew considered the unspoken context. Because Angie wouldn’t be using it anymore, would she? Dead people don't drive. It sounded like the title to a gruesome children’s novel, the kind Claire and Kirk’s eldest daughter, Andie, couldn’t get enough of.
Dead people.
No. Not Angie. Angie wasn’t “dead people.” Angie was alive, with her husky laugh and her darting blue eyes that took in everything around her. Angie was full of energy, raising a child on her own, keeping up the huge vegetable and perennial gardens her mother had tended all her life and publishing the Hub of the Lakes Gazette every week.
A series of high-pitched beeps sounded in the airplane cabin. The overhead lights flashed a warning for him to put on his seat belt.
Drew flipped his tray into the upright position.
Please let Mallory be waiting when he landed. He wanted so much to see her. Sweet-hearted, dependable Mallory.
He thought about their last visit, when she’d come to his cottage in the Gatineaus for a weekend of hiking in July. They’d been alone together so many times he couldn’t count. Yet that last occasion had been different. Why had he reached out to stroke her face when they were sitting by the fire drinking wine and complaining about the weather? And why had she caught his hand and held it there?
God, he still couldn’t believe they’d actually made love. Twice that day and once the next morning before she left. It had felt so right. That was the truly amazing part. But it had been a mistake. Lovers came and went; friends like Mallory were forever. Sex didn’t belong in their relationship, even if it was absolutely the best he’d ever had.
This would be the first time they’d seen each other since that weekend, and he felt uneasy. Would everything be the same between them?
It would. Mallory had promised. Things could have been so awkward when they’d said their goodbyes after that weekend, but she’d kissed him lightly on the cheek the way she usually did and told him not to worry. “We shouldn’t have,” she’d said, “but it was fun.”
Yes, it was. And maybe it had been bound to happen. Once.
“Still friends for life?” he’d asked when he’d dropped her off at the airport.
“Yes,” she’d promised. And Mallory always kept her word.
There she was, watching suitcases as they shot down the chute and landed with a thud on the rotating luggage carousel. Drew picked up his pace, feeling the corners of his mouth pull up into his first smile since he’d received the phone call about his mother.
Mallory was wearing a muted-green wool sweater and tan corduroy pants. The scarf twisted around her throat added the colors of the autumn leaves—red and gold—to her outfit. Her thick mop of curly light- brown hair was pulled back in her usual ponytail, and even from yards away he could see the dusting of freckles that highlighted her nose and upper cheeks.
“Hey!” he called out, feigning anger. “Does that suitcase belong to you?”
She’d picked his worn bag off the conveyor belt and was hoisting it onto the floor beside her. At his words she swung a guilty-looking face in his direction, then shook her head when she saw who it was.
“As if anyone would want to steal your decrepit luggage. Don’t you get paid, now that you’re working freelance?”
He wrapped his arms around her and swung all five feet eight inches of her off the floor. She squeezed him tight, not letting go when he settled her back on the ground. Her hair, smelling of herbs and sunshine, brushed up against his cheek and under his nose; its rough texture made him want to sneeze.
“Don’t you use conditioner?” he complained, pushing a strand away from his eyes.
“Don’t you?” she countered, rubbing a hand over the top of his head.
Their eyes met, and the words he’d been planning to say next drained out of him. Sympathy, understanding and compassion were reflected in the deep pools of her green eyes. The pain that had gripped his chest suddenly loosened into something less like agony and more like simple sadness. She put a hand to his cheek and he held it there for a few minutes, watching as her eyes began to glitter with unshed tears.
Of all the people in the world, Mallory was the person who best understood what Angie meant to him.
“I’m sorry, Drew. Angie was the best. The absolute best.”
The last time he’d held Mallory was after they’d made love. But he wouldn’t think about that now. Instead, he just lowered his arms and smiled, feeling a trace of regret.
He’d liked it better when he could hug her without remembering how perfect her small, upright breasts had appeared in the glow from the burning logs in his fireplace. Or how smooth her skin had felt under his lips as he’d trailed kisses over her entire body.
Amazingly, the loving hadn’t felt awkward at the time. After all, he’d been making love to a girl who’d seen him pee behind the raspberry bushes that divided his house from hers. Everything that long wild afternoon had felt so right.
Now he felt uncomfortable enough to make up for it.
“Don’t, Drew.” Mallory’s hand was back on his face. Of course she knew what he was thinking, feeling. She always did. “What happened between us was beautiful. I don’t want you to regret it.”
“I don’t,” he said, but it was a lie. He slipped his laptop case over the handle of his suitcase. “Where did you park?”
“In the parking lot.”
“Funny girl.” He yanked her ponytail. “You lead, then.”
When they’d found her dark-blue SUV, he loaded his luggage in the back then asked, “Can I drive?”
“Are you sure? You must be tired.”
“Yeah. But I need to do something.”
She tossed the keys in his direction. “Just remember which side of the road you’re supposed to drive on, okay?”
Fingers groping the side of the driver’s seat, he found the lever to move the seat back. “Mallory, you worry too much. I’m an excellent driver.”
“Sure. And the last time you were here, when you turned into oncoming traffic?”
“I’d just spent six weeks in England. What could you expect?” He paid for the parking, ignoring the five-dollar bill she tried to press into his hand. Then he searched out the signs for Highway 401 east, which would take him to the 400.
Driving was good for him, requiring that he focus on simple matters of road signs, merging lanes and speed traps. Once they’d passed Canada’s Wonderland, however, he had nothing to concentrate on but the occasional lane change, and his thoughts roamed.
“Where is...Mom?” he finally asked, avoiding the word body.
“At the funeral home in Bracebridge.” Mallory’s voice was velvet-soft. “I have the number for you to call when you’re ready to discuss arrangements.
The mental picture of Angie’s, body stretched out in some dark wooden box made him want to start crying again. He swallowed and pushed up the visor. The sun was low to his left now. “I’ve seen a few dead bodies in my line of work, but I’ve never had to make funeral arrangements before.”
Mallory’s gentle sigh wound itself around his heart. “I’m sure Angie would want to keep things fairly simple.”
“Yeah.”
You’ll want to get in touch with Buddy, too.”
He nodded. Buddy Conroy was the family lawyer and also a close family friend.
They were both silent for a moment, then impulsively Mallory reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s so good to see you. If only—”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but he knew what she meant. If only he were here for a different reason.
He stared at the cars in front of him, at the blue-gray asphalt that seemed to lead forever to the horizon. An optical illusion. The road had to end somewhere, didn’t it? Right now he wished that it wouldn’t. That he and Mallory could keep driving like this forever, and he would never have to face the reality of his mother’s death, of the funeral and what would happen next.
“Did anyone know she was sick?” There. At last he’d asked the question that had plagued him from the moment he’d heard the news. “Because I sure as hell didn’t.”
“We wondered about that. But no, none of us knew, either. Maybe you can talk to her doctor about it. Or Buddy. She must have had a reason for not telling anyone.”
“Maybe she was just too used to having nobody but herself to rely on.” The idea was a bitter one, especially since it might have been true. Hadn’t it been months since his last visit? But when he’d phoned to cancel out on Thanksgiving, no recrimination had tinged his mother’s voice.
“Don’t do this to yourself, Drew. Angie knew you loved her.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. Somehow that didn’t seem enough.
“Sure you wouldn’t like me to drive?” Mallory asked.
Damn. He must have started crying again. He wiped at his eyes and shook his head. “I’m fine.” They drove awhile longer without talking, until a pedestrian overpass came into view ahead of them. “Do you want to stop at Weber’s for a burger?” Mallory asked.
Food was the last thing he wanted, but Weber’s was a tradition, “Of course.” He pulled off the highway and parked in the lot on the right side of the road. Often, a long lineup of people flowed in and out of the fast-food restaurant, but the place wasn’t that busy now. Most of the Thanksgiving traffic would have come through last night or earlier in the day.
They ordered chocolate shakes with their burgers and fries, and Drew had to admit that getting something in his stomach felt good. He noticed Mallory only ate a few bites, though, before she put down her food and slipped into the washroom.
When she came back she said she’d meet him in the car.
“Was it something I said?” he asked, settling in for the last two-thirds of the journey.
She tipped her head back on the headrest. “More like something I ate.”
That didn’t sound like the Mallory he knew. Usually, she ate like a horse. Well, healthy-sized portions, anyway. “Don’t tell me you’re developing a delicate constitution?”
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But she was staring out the passenger window, a hand pressed to her temple.
“Why don’t you look at me when you say that?”
“Because you’re supposed to be driving. Because...” Her voice faded. She turned her head and glanced at him. Took a deep breath, then smiled. It looked fake.
“Everything’s okay. Really, Drew.”
“’Cause if it’s what happened the last time we saw each other...”
“Oh, Drew.”
She sounded close to tears. Lord, that was it. He should have known better than to expect no after math. “Come on, Mallory. We gave in to urges we should have ignored. Can’t we just forgive ourselves and move on?”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Why can’t it be? Do you need someone to blame? Well, blame Grady, then. If he hadn’t canceled out on us, we wouldn’t have been alone, and wouldn’t have had the opportunity.”
“That’s true.” Mallory sounded reflective. “Funny how little things in life can end up making such a big difference.”
Drew bit back a retort. So they’d made love. It wasn’t such a big deal, was it?
Dusk was falling. As he got back on the highway he reached for the knob that turned on the car’s lights. The recently harvested farmland and acres of pasture dotted with dairy cattle had given way to forest struggling for survival on the rocky Canadian Shield. Occasionally, Drew glimpsed the still waters of Lake Muskoka in the faded light.
“We’re almost home now.” He tried not to think of how empty the house was going to be without Angie. Best to avoid that right now. Maybe he could stay with Mallory. Just this first night.
He glanced sideways and saw that her forehead was still set in a frown. Obviously, this wasn’t the right time to ask. But they did need to talk. He couldn’t take this tension between them.
Spotting a rest stop ahead, he put on his signal light. Once they were safely off the road, he shifted into park and turned off the ignition. Only then did he look at Mallory.
She’d twisted in her seat to face him, but her eyes were downcast. Her hands, he noticed, rested lightly against her stomach.
“If there’s something we should discuss, let’s get it out in the open.”
“Yes.” She nodded but still wouldn’t look at him.
He reached out to take one of her hands. It felt cool and smooth and he rubbed his thumb over her pulse point.
“We can work this out. I know we can. Just speak to me, okay? You’re making me nervous with this silent treatment. And look at me.” With his other hand he reached for her chin and tilted her face upward.
“Drew, I’m sorry if I don’t seem myself, but I don’t want to talk. I can’t stop thinking about Angie, and I’m sure you feel the same way. Let's get through the funeral, okay? Maybe then we can talk about...about what happened between us.”
She looked at him then, and her solemn gaze gave him a rumbling feeling in his chest. Oh, God. This was not going to be good.
Part of him protested. Why did Mallory have to start acting like such a damned woman now, when he needed her help to cope with Angie’s death?
He knew his resentment was unjustified. She’d offered to put their issues behind them, at least until after the funeral.
“Okay, Mal. We’ll do it your way. Let’s go home.”
At eleven o’clock they finally pulled into Port Carling. He drove up to the garage behind the house Mallory had lived in all her life, next door to his and Angie’s.
“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” she asked. “It might be easier for you to go home in the morning.”
After the tension between them earlier, he was surprised at the offer. But glad for it, too.
“Yeah. Thanks.” As he got out of the car, he found it hard not to remember the welcome Angie had always prepared for him when he visited. She’d have ready his favorite scotch and a collection of clippings she wanted to talk about. They’d stay up late, just chatting. Usually a few friends would drop in. And Mallory, of course. Always Mallory.
Angie’s golden retriever, Doug, greeted them, barking and sniffing. Once they were inside, the dog glanced back at the door anxiously.
“I told Buddy I’d keep Doug until you got here,” Mallory explained. “The poor guy hasn’t left the door the whole time. He’s waiting for Angie to pick him up.”
Drew patted the animal’s light-brown coat, then wiped his shoes on the bright cotton rug at the door. He set his bag on a bench shaped and painted to look like a cat, before glancing around.
The house was the same one Mallory had always lived in, but she’d made a lot of changes since Norma left. Clutter for one. She had an aversion to empty space. Yet the net effect was not the mess you might expect.
Drew actually loved Mallory’s place. It was warm and comfortable and there was always something interesting to feast your eyes on. Like this old creamery can filled with umbrellas. He was sure it hadn’t been here last time he visited.
“I don’t have any scotch. Would you like a beer?” She reached up to a cupboard filled with glasses of various shapes and sizes. All of them different colors. Mallory had something against matched sets, too; even her wooden kitchen chairs were each painted a different color.
“That’d be great.” He went into the living room and turned on the television. Easing into the soft, worn leather of Mallory’s sofa, he lifted his feet onto a nearby ottoman. A few moments later Mallory was beside him, handing him a glass of cold beer.
They watched the news without speaking, then stayed tuned as an old movie came on. Butterflies Are Free.
“I’ve always liked this movie,” Mallory said. But ten minutes into it, she was asleep, her head on the armrest, her feet tucked up next to him to keep warm.
A cotton blanket had fallen to the floor. Drew picked it up and settled it over her. Her pale-brown eyelashes rested lightly on her still-flushed cheeks, and her apricot-colored lips were parted slightly with the relaxation of sleep. Somehow, the elastic holding her hair had worked its way loose, and her hair was a jumbled mass around her shoulders.
“What’s happened, Mal?” he asked quietly. “Where’s your stamina?” He couldn’t count the number of times they’d stayed up late watching old, corny flicks. Usually, he conked out sooner than she did.
Ah, well. He refocused on the television, but the story fell flat now that he knew Mallory had dozed off. Maybe he ought to turn in, too. He switched off the set, then put their glasses in the dishwasher. Heaving his bag over his shoulder, he made for the spare room, the room that used to be Norma’s.
Mallory’s aunt had left Port Carling shortly after Mallory’s high-school graduation. As far as Drew knew, Mallory didn’t mind much. She and Norma had never been close.
Norma's old room now sat stripped of any sign of her stern, cold personality. Mallory had painted the walls a blue-green color and sewn a new duvet and curtains. On the floor by the bed lay one of those hooked rag rugs Mallory was always working on, and favorite photographs she’d had blown up and framed covered the walls.
Here was one of Drew and her when they were young, sitting in a little inflated pool, blowing bubbles at each other. He had seen the photo often, but now he stopped to examine it. They couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, he was sure. And already they’d been the best of buds.
He smiled and brushed his index finger over the glass that covered her small face. Then he hefted his bag onto a hand-painted dresser.
Was he exhausted enough to sleep? He hoped so, but just to be sure, he pulled out his vial of sleeping tablets. Carrying his toilet bag, he went to brush his teeth, careful to avoid the view from the window— of the home he’d shared with his mother for more than eighteen years.
When he was done, he popped his head around the corner. Mallory was still sleeping on the couch. Maybe he should carry her to her bed. But that would wake her for sure. Better to leave her as she was.
He grabbed another blanket from her bed and layered it over the light cotton throw. She didn’t budge. In fact, she hadn’t moved an inch since he’d left her.
Obviously, she was exhausted. Yet she’d still picked him up at the airport, offered him a bed for the night.
Good old Mallory. He bent to kiss her forehead. Sweet dreams, my friend.