Stormy Cove (15 page)

CHAPTER 18

Three days later, the blizzard let up as abruptly as it had begun. Silence had never seemed so loud to Lori. Driving to the Hardy Sailor, she felt a sort of pleasurable expectation at seeing people again and plunging into some hustle and bustle. She was not disappointed: The Hardy Sailor was already bustling by ten, and it was almost impossible to move around by eleven. By twelve, you had to bellow to be heard above the din.

On a stage in the middle of the room, the talent show Patience had mentioned was already underway, and Lori quickly realized that “talent,” for some more inebriated participants, was merely an excuse to draw attention to themselves. Four men had to drag a fifty-year-old guy off the stage who couldn’t play the guitar or sing, but did both. The same thing did
not
happen to a young woman in a black camisole and pink stockings, though she couldn’t sing either. The singer who followed had some talent, at least, and earned a lot of laughs. Her song was about being a “Newfie spy”—always at the window with her binoculars, watching everything and everybody in the village.

People joined in on the chorus, even Aurelia from the library, who surfaced beside Lori and explained that the song was a parody of an old popular Newfoundland tune. Lori caught a glimpse of Patience and Ches in the crowd, but she’d found a good corner for taking pictures and didn’t want to give it up. Some customers waved at her, others simply gawked out of curiosity. More people surely knew her than the other way round. Then she heard her name being called and turned to see Mavis approaching with a cold bottle of beer and the deepest plunging neckline in the place, while shrieking, “A ladies’ beer for the lady; no calories.”

Knowing better than to refuse, Lori couldn’t take offense at that and accepted the Moosehead Light gracefully.

Mavis waved her arms.

“Where’s your Romeo?”

“No idea,” Lori replied, ignoring the insinuation. Didn’t she tell Noah she’d come? In Vancouver that would have been a firm invitation, a date.

Mavis pulled a face.

“He’s probably at the bar like always. He waits for women to find him so he doesn’t have to make any effort himself.”

“He’s sure to be having white wine.” Lori grinned, then stuck out her tongue at Mavis, who gave her the finger and smirked back.

A band was setting up on stage. Ten minutes after midnight—dancing was to begin any minute now. Lori was in no mood to dance with strangers smelling of alcohol, but mostly she wanted to keep an eye on her equipment.

She scanned the crowd again and caught sight of Noah. He was wearing a shiny black shirt, unbuttoned at the top. He wasn’t looking at her but at a dark-haired woman who was shouting something to him. It was the woman who’d come out of his house before. He shook his head, but the woman came closer and said something that made him laugh. He put his hand, in which he held a bottle of beer, on her shoulder for a second. Her hand reached farther down and grabbed him by the genitals. He laughed again and pushed her away gently.

Lori felt her face freeze. She turned her head sideways to avoid Noah’s eyes, but realized Patience had caught her looking. Lori wanted desperately to get out of there. She barreled through the crowd without looking right or left. Two people said something, but she pretended not to hear and pushed on ahead.

When she tore open the door, she noticed she was carrying her ski jacket over her arm. The shock of the cold made her retreat inside and hastily put the jacket on. She zipped up and bent down to pick up her camera bag.

“Leaving so soon?” someone behind her asked.

Nate, Noah’s brother.

She nodded.

“You’ve got to stay. We all want to see Noah finally dance.”

Nate was visibly tipsy. Until then, he’d hardly dared make eye contact with her. She turned toward the door.

“He’s already found somebody he can dance with. Have fun watching.”

She was in such a hurry to get to her car that she almost slipped on the snow. A truck had parked right behind her, so she couldn’t leave.

“What goddamn little shit did this?” she shouted.

A young man stood nearby, smoking a cigarette.

“Is this your pickup?” she shouted.

He shook his head but came over.

“It’s Brent’s. Why?”

“Why? He’s blocking my car!”

“Oh,” the man said, his face hidden under his baseball cap. “You can just repark it.”

“I can?”

“The door’s unlocked and the key’s inside. Everybody does that around here.”

The man hopped into the truck and turned on the motor. Now Lori realized she’d seen him once in the village store. He backed up several feet and blinked the lights.

Lori pulled out and turned onto the road. She was still in a rage but plenty sober enough to drive carefully through the pitch-black night.

When she got home, she looked at the clock: still early enough to call Vancouver and vent.

She paced up and down like a tiger. Then she called her friend Danielle, who’d had twins three months ago, but got the answering machine.

Maybe she should call again in a while once the babies were in bed. Besides, what was she going to say to Danielle anyway? That she was furious because some man was having fun at a party, somebody she wasn’t even involved with? And that women in Stormy Cove could apparently be pretty bold?

She’d make a fool of herself. Now she’d have questions to answer. Are you falling for the guy? Is he falling for you? What’s the deal between you two? Is there even one at all?

That’s how women in Vancouver thought. Customs were different here in Stormy Cove, and she really hadn’t learned them yet.

She’d try her friend Craig. He was sure to listen patiently to her story without dramatizing it. Sometimes it seemed like Craig knew her better than she did herself. He knew how to make a mouse out of an elephant and put things in perspective.

She picked up the receiver, and a busy signal indicated she had a message.

“This is Lloyd Weston. I’m at the Birch Tree Lodge. Maybe we could get together so I can tell you more about our dig. It would be nice if you could find the time.”

Screw your dig!
she thought, slamming the receiver down. She knew perfectly well she was taking out her frustration on the wrong person, but she had to unload it somehow.

She grabbed a quart of milk from the fridge, impatiently and awkwardly, and it hit the floor, making a white mess. Swearing loudly, she got a dish towel. At that moment, the side door opened and somebody called hello.

Patience.

“I’m up here,” Lori shouted back, mopping the floor. “Don’t bother taking off your boots, I’m cleaning the floor anyway.”

She was still on her knees when Patience came into the kitchen and sized up the situation.

“You’ve spilled some milk,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Who drinks milk on a Saturday night?”

Lori looked up at her, and they both laughed.

Patience gave her a hand up. Lori flung the dish towel into the sink.

“What are you doing here? Is the party over already?”

“No, but I saw you take off.” Patience’s fingers kneaded her gloves. “Don’t be mad at Noah because of . . . Ginette’s always like that when she’s had one too many. A lot of women do that—it’s a long tradition. In the old days . . . they all would grab a guy by the balls.”

She took the towel out of the sink and wiped a white splash off the refrigerator.

“People in Vancouver don’t behave like that, I’m sure, but here . . . nobody gives it a second thought.”

So Patience had seen it all and drawn her own conclusions. Lori had underestimated her neighbor yet again.

“Noah and I are not an item, even if a lot of people think we are,” Lori said primly. “He can do whatever he pleases.”

“Well, Noah and Ginette aren’t an item either,” Patience said. “I think she did it on purpose, to annoy you.”

“What? Why?”

“She’s always been like that. She flirts with men, and when she’s drunk, she throws herself at them. We all hate her.”

Lori was so surprised at the candidness that she didn’t ask who Patience meant by “we.”

“Have you ever told Ginette that to her face?”

Patience looked at her in astonishment.

“Told her what?”

“That you find her behavior completely out of line?”

“No, no. People . . . people would hold that against me. Then I’m the bad girl.”

A momentary silence. Patience cocked her head and looked at Lori. “Are you going back to the Hardy Sailor? Noah’s sure to be missing you.”

Lori shook her head. “You know, at first he wanted me to go there so badly, then he didn’t show up until midnight and . . . he’s probably embarrassed if people think that he and I . . . and there’s nothing going on, I swear.”

“It’s all Ginette’s fault. Noah’s a good man, you’ll see.” She turned to leave. “I’ve got to go. Ches is waiting in the truck.”

It crossed Lori’s mind that she hadn’t heard the truck come back. What would Ches think about all this?

“I feel terrible that you two went out of your way twice because of me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. But you shouldn’t hold it against Ginette; she’s not worth it.”

With that, she rattled down the stairs and slammed the door.

This was exactly what Lori didn’t want to have happen. To take sides with some villagers or get caught up with their lives so that she couldn’t be a neutral observer anymore. But how could she stay aloof from this closely knit community that fate had thrown together? As long as she was living here, she had to depend on their help and on being one of them, or else she’d never get the book done. She had to live in peace and harmony with them and set her emotions aside, hiding them behind a smile even when she didn’t feel like it.

She needed some space—even if only for a few days. And maybe she needed a nice archaeologist.

CHAPTER 19

Mavis gave Lori an amused look as she paid for gas at the store.

“You left much too early. The party didn’t really get started until late.”

Lori feigned absorption in entering her pin number. She hoped Mavis would shut up and not tell her what had happened after she’d left the bar. In vain.

“Even Noah danced! Imagine that. He practically never dances.”

“How nice for him,” Lori commented, keeping herself composed.

If they can do it, so can I. Harmony and steadiness no matter what.

Maybe it was the saleslady’s cheerful expression that prompted her to keep talking.

“I’d have liked to stay longer, but I needed to get up early this morning. I’m meeting an archaeologist at the Birch Tree Lodge who’s going to take me to see his dig. Next time I’ll certainly stay for the dancing. I owe you a beer!”

Mavis handed her the receipt.

“Maybe it’s good you left so early. Ginette had lousy luck. Somebody slashed her tires.”

Lori was about to leave, but spun around.

“What? Are you sure?”

Mavis was obviously pleased at the effect her words had.

“Of course I’m sure. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“That’s awful. Who’d do such a thing?”

“Somebody who can’t stand her, maybe.”

Lori shook her head.

“In Vancouver, I wouldn’t be at all surprised, but here?”

She went to the door.

“I hope the police catch whoever did it soon.”

Mavis banged the cash register drawer shut.

“The cops? They’re too slow. Scores get settled differently around here. There’s sure to be payback.”

Lori’s heart was pounding as she drove out of the village. She kept seeing Mavis’s smile of schadenfreude. Did the villagers of Stormy Cove believe
she
had slashed Ginette’s tires? Probably Patience wasn’t the only one who saw the episode in the pub. And Lori had attracted even more attention with her sudden departure. She could have slashed Ginette’s tires and taken off while everybody was partying inside.

Now Mavis would tell everybody that Lori was skipping town:
How suspicious is
that
! Just so happens she has to go to Birch Tree Lodge right away.

When the car began to fishtail, she snapped out of it.

Keep calm, Lori, keep calm. You’re not the center of the universe here.
Nobody would suspect a photographer from Vancouver would do a rotten thing like that. Ginette isn’t popular in Stormy Cove. Maybe she led some guy on and then dumped him, and he got even.
Mavis’s schadenfreude was probably directed at Ginette, not her.

After a while, she’d settled down enough to take in the landscape. Walls of snow soared up everywhere. It seemed like a white Monument Valley, with mighty rock towers and bizarre shapes. But the road was well plowed. Some plows must have cleared it early that morning, restoring order immediately after chaos.

The farther she got from Stormy Cove, the more she relaxed. The stillness of the frozen landscape and the soft hum of the motor tended to lull her. She greeted the mountains on the horizon like old friends and waved to a lone oncoming trucker. As she came round a curve, she saw two moose disappear into the bush before she could whip out her camera.

She reached the lodge in two hours. There wasn’t a single car in the parking lot. Had Weston left? She hadn’t told him she was coming.

Someone came outside from the office and waved when Lori opened the car door. It was Hope Hussey, the owner. Lori was struck again by how young she looked in her light purple fleece jacket—but very self-assured.

“Come into the dining room,” she shouted. “I need coffee, and you look like you could use some too.”

“Am I the only one here?” Lori inquired.

“No, no, we’ve got a bunch of Canadian archaeologists, but they’re over in Port aux Choix today, looking at the finds in the museum.”

Hope went around the lodge building and opened the door from the patio. The soothing warmth of the fireplace streamed toward them at once. Hope made for the counter and started the coffee machine.

“Have you ever been to Port au Choix?”

Lori shook her head.

“Interesting place. They’ve dug up Inuit and Indian settlements. Forty-five hundred years ago, there were Indians living on the coast there, but the climate was warmer then. Where did I put those muffins?”

She found them in a plastic container behind the counter.

“Gooseberries. Picked them myself.”

She put the muffins on a plate and continued as she got out two mugs.

“Yes, and when it got cold again, the Eskimos came, about twenty-eight hundred years ago, I think it was. They built homes with whale ribs covered with sealskins. And after the Eskimos, the Indians returned, about two thousand years ago. That’s my history lesson for today. I tell it to all the guests so they don’t think Newfoundland history began with European immigrants.”

They sat down in the brightly lit lounge, with large windows on three sides. After the confined spaces of the buildings in Stormy Cove, Lori felt like a fish released from an aquarium into the sea.

The aroma of good coffee reminded her of the cafés in Vancouver.

“But there are none of the original Indians in Newfoundland today, are there?”

Hope stirred her coffee vigorously.

“No. First of all, the Europeans drove them away from the coast and into the interior, so they couldn’t fish anymore and almost starved to death. Next, we infected them with our diseases and exterminated most of them that way. And some were butchered by European settlers.”

She leaned back against the sofa.

“So what are you escaping from that brings you here?”

The question came so unexpectedly that Lori had to laugh in spite of herself. She stalled by sipping her coffee.

“I simply had to . . . I had to make sure that another world was still out there. More than the cosmos of Stormy Cove.”

“Wow! For a Vancouver gal, Stormy Cove must have been a tremendous culture shock. How did you get through the storm?”

Lori had to smile at the expression “Vancouver gal” coming from a woman younger than herself.

“A friend took me in when the power went off. My place just has electric heating.”

“Yes, nothing beats a good wood stove and human warmth.”

Something in Hope’s voice made Lori prick up her ears. It sounded as if she knew more than she was saying.

“What have people been telling you?”

“That one of the fishermen’s after you.”

Lori was speechless.

“Watch out for sweet talk,” Hope admonished. “Men around here are super attentive until they’ve tied the knot, and then they do more or less what
they
like.”

Lori stiffened her back, ramrod straight.

“Oh, I see lots of public affection—like at the Hardy Sailor last night, it sometimes gets
very
physical.”

“Sure, kissing and grabbing between friends and relatives, but not between spouses.”

“So is it in good taste when guys and gals who aren’t married grab each other between the legs in front of the whole world?” Lori asked angrily.

Hope looked quizzical.

“Not anymore . . . why? Did you see something like that? People really ought to know that nowadays that’s called sexual harassment, even here. But years ago—well, it used to be perfectly normal. And I must say that nobody interpreted that behavior as sexual. It was more . . . an everyday gesture. I know . . .”—Hope noticed Lori’s raised eyebrow—“I know it sounds odd to an emancipated woman from Vancouver, but I’d be the first to tell you the truth if that wasn’t so. People were just cruder then, even when they were being affectionate.”

Lori said nothing. There was no point in arguing with Hope about personal boundaries or transgressions. She didn’t want to open up a second front in the Birch Tree Lodge. But Hope evidently felt the need to talk.

“Women here are strong, believe me, they’re not submissive crickets on the hearth, but in the end, it’s always a man’s world. When I took over this lodge after my father’s death, everybody expected the business to go belly up. They simply didn’t think I could do it. Hunting and fishing—that’s a man’s business, and if a woman tries to make money from hunting and fishing, they’ll undermine you.”

“But by now they must admit how successful you are, right?” Lori objected.

“Yes, nobody utters a peep about it. Money talks.”

Hope’s laugh had a hard edge to it. They sipped their coffee in silence until Hope reopened the subject.

“I want to be straight with you. I heard that one of the Whalens took you to his place during the storm.”

“I imagine you even know what we had for dinner,” Lori said drily.

“Noah Whalen. Does it bother you that people know that?”

The muffin crumbled between Lori’s fingers.

“I find it disturbing that these matters are broadcast far and wide. It’s—”

“You need to understand it’s not just gossip. It’s important to be informed and to know the person next to you and what he’s doing.”

“But where’s the privacy in all this?”

“Security takes precedence. People here don’t die anonymously in their homes like they do in big cities, where somebody only discovers them weeks later.”

“No, here they’re killed, and the body’s found months later in a peculiar grave.”

Hope said nothing at first but started rubbing her right arm rhythmically.

“There was a rumor making the rounds that it was one of the Whalens, but I don’t know for sure who or from which family. Lots of Whalens around.”

This was supposed to be a pleasant chat,
Lori thought to herself. If only she hadn’t brought up the subject of Jacinta. But now there was no going back.

“Are you trying to warn me about something, Hope?”

“I talked to Lloyd Weston about all that business. His team is coming back this summer because they discovered another prehistoric grave. ‘Lloyd,’ I said, ‘it will open up old wounds if you start digging up there.’”

“And what did he say?”

“Maybe that’s a good thing, because then they’ll talk about Jacinta again, and maybe somebody will come clean.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He and his team were staying at my father’s lodge when it happened.”

She looked at her watch and jumped up.

“I’ve got to see to dinner. Making butternut squash soup and chicken fricassee with orange sauce.”

She charged off, her steps echoing on the wooden floor.

Lori looked out on the frozen lake and noticed dark cracks in the ice. Was that because of the storm or was spring finally on the way?

She mulled over Hope’s words. What was that all about, the rumors about it being one of the Whalens? The name
Whalen
was as common around here as
Smith
and
Lee
in Vancouver. If she meant Noah, why didn’t she just come out with it? Lori couldn’t fathom Hope’s motives. This capable and resolute woman didn’t seem inclined to gossip. Lori decided to bring it up with her again.

But for the moment, she felt like getting some fresh air after those long, stormy days trapped inside. A little while later, as she was tramping along a snowmobile trail through the woods, the silence and motionlessness of the surroundings covered her like a blanket. She noticed how calm she felt—even her coffee palpitations faded away—and there was nothing beyond pushing her body harder, the crunch of her steps in the snow, and her dripping nose. She marched ahead as if in a trance. No living creature, no movement disrupted her concentration.

She had to confess that it was sometimes good just to give yourself over to the elements. To something so powerful that was impervious to you. Lori understood intuitively, for the first time, that serenity and equilibrium could be achieved in this way. She suddenly experienced a lightness of being, as if her soul were vibrating like a shimmering dragonfly.

The path snaking its way through the bush was navigable only because snow-covered treetops marked it. The underbrush was buried in snow. Lori kept sinking into it, and exhausted, she decided to turn back.

But the way back seemed much longer—had she really gone that far? Her blood sugar sank, and she scolded herself for not putting a chocolate bar in her backpack. Soon she was thirsty but resisted the temptation to eat snow. Hadn’t she read somewhere that thirst was one of the biggest problems for those first white Arctic explorers when their fuel was exhausted and they couldn’t melt snow? If they’d swallowed snow and ice, their body temperature would have dropped dangerously low, and they could have rapidly frozen to death.

She came to a fork in the trail she didn’t remember. Which way had she turned? She looked around for some clue, but everything appeared uniform and nondescript. The trail, she said to herself, must end in a loop back to the lodge where guests would go for snowmobile rides. She took the path that led straight ahead, but a deep feeling of insecurity set in.

After twenty minutes, tired and numb, Lori heard the roar of a snowmobile. When it came through the trees, she didn’t recognize Hope at first. But she’d happily have hitched a ride with a complete stranger; that’s how desperate she was.

“You should have let somebody know where you were going,” Hope said through her open helmet. “You can get lost fast in this place.”

Lori clambered up on the rear seat. Back at the lodge, she learned that one of the kitchen staff had happened to see Lori leave and told her boss. When she wasn’t back after two hours, Hope went looking.

“My dear girl, girl, girl,” Hope said in the warm lounge, but she didn’t sound unfriendly. Lori felt like a naughty child nonetheless.

She had two cups of bakeapple tea and half a chocolate bar, then retired to her room to lie down. She woke up to a knock at the door and somebody calling, “Dinner’s ready!”

She was so sweaty that she showered and put on a fluffy wool sweater. Entering the empty dining room, she heard a loud medley of voices coming from the lounge. The table had one place setting. Hope brought her a heaping plate of food.