BY August we’d settled into a routine. I spent most nights at Sandy’s flat during the week, then the three of us headed out Saturday mornings for weekends at my mews. We usually returned to Sandy’s after an elaborate Sunday-night dinner with Isabelle.
Sandy’s summer workload teaching English literature at Carleton was relatively light, and Jane had settled in well with playmates at the summer camp the university ran. Sandy and I occasionally kicked around the idea of buying a house together, but there didn’t seem to be any real rush.
One mid-month Saturday I was showing Jane how I made my hot dog specialty dish, which I called chiens chaud avec fromage, my nod to the immersion school she’d be starting in the fall.
“Okay, now that the boiled hot dogs are nice and plump in the saucepan, I can turn the stove dial to broil,” I told her. “Now, if you can get the buns and cheese out of the fridge, we’re ready for the next steps.”
I placed the pan with the wieners loaded with cheese on the top rack of the oven under one glowing element, then the two opened hot dog buns under the other, and pushed the oven door back to the just open position.
“So, Jane, your job now is to watch those buns. We want them to be nice and golden brown like toast and you can see already the cheese is starting to melt in the wieners.”
“Okay!”
Jane stood peering down through the oven door window at the dogs and buns.
“Here,” I said, pulling up one of the kitchen chairs from the table and placing it behind her. “Why don’t you have a seat while you’re watching.”
Jane turned to me and grinned and sat down, raptly resuming her watch through the oven door window as the cheese started bubbling in the sliced wieners and the buns were starting to toast.
I got the ketchup out of the fridge, grabbed plates and napkins, and put them on the table.
My phone rang in the living room. I nearly went to answer it, but then thought to heck with it, probably just someone soliciting for a charity anyway, and besides, lunch preparation was at a critical point. I could hear a low male voice leaving a message.
Jane and I were soon sitting at the table contentedly eating our cheese dogs, cooked to perfection.
“Wow, this is really good, Conn,” Jane said half-way through her lunch. “Can we have them again tomorrow?”
“Well, your mother is thinking we might go to the picnic spot along the canal for lunch.”
“Great! That’s great! Can I take Suzy and Alice?”
These were guinea pigs that lived in a hutch in Isabelle’s barn. It fell to Isabelle’s caregiver, Angela, to feed, water and clean up after these little critters during the week, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, you’d better ask your mother about that. But I think they’ll be happier staying in the barn, really, because there’s no room in the Miata, so we’d have to put them on the back seat of the Mini. It’s a loud car, and it might scare them, then they’d go to the bathroom in their travelling cage all over the car seats.”
If the weather tomorrow co-operated, I’d be driving Isabelle to the canal lock picnic area in the Cooper, with Sandy bringing Jane in her Miata. Isabelle had very strong arms, and could raise herself fairly easily up out of her reclining chair. It just took a little time, Sandy and I steadying her on either side, for her to get across the room with a cane in each fist, out the front door, and down the steps. The Mini Cooper was low to the ground, so Isabelle found it relatively easy to get in and out of its fully pushed back passenger seat.
For these picnics, we favoured the Burritt’s Rapids locks where, if we timed it right, we could usually get a picnic table under a tree. We brought a robust folding lawn chair for Isabelle to sit on and usually packed sandwiches, water, some fruit, white wine, and a couple of ales for me.
It was pleasant just watching the power boats pass in and out of the locks from our shady spot. There were usually other children Jane could run around with, but more often she liked to read her books sitting on the grass nearby as Sandy, Isabelle and I chatted.
“Something smells good in here,” Sandy said, coming up the stairs.
“We made … chins … chins … cheese dogs!” Jane reported.
“Hmm, sorry I missed them, but I had a tuna sandwich with Isabelle so I’m okay.”
Sandy didn’t really approve of hot dogs in Jane’s diet, but agreed with me that once in a while wouldn’t hurt.
Jane was a bit put out when Sandy also thought it wasn’t a good idea for the guinea pigs to join us on the picnic.
“Why don’t we go and visit them now, Jane? Then I’ve got some papers to mark.”
“Papers to mark” was Sandy’s euphemism for suggesting that she and I make love, in this instance while Jane fed, watered, and studied Suzy and Alice in their hutch in the barn.
“Boy, you have to mark papers every weekend, Mum!”
Sandy put one of her hands across her mouth, avoiding looking at me. I managed to turn a snort of laughter into a pretty convincing cough. It was a near thing, though.
After they trooped off down the stairs, I hit the play button on my machine and heard Tony Martello telling me to call him on his cell.
Robert Short had escaped custody.