Burden of Memory (19 page)
Elaine froze in her steps, as unable to move as if the ice were on her feet, not her back. Only when the touch had passed did she gasp a half-scream and whirl around.
Long shadows cast by the encircling trees shrouded the cabin in darkness. Nothing moved.
“You okay?” Phoebe’s brows drew together in concern.
Elaine couldn’t speak; she only nodded, swallowing her panic. When her voice had crawled back into her throat and they were walking again, she noticed the scent. That cheap perfume. Sharper than the last time she’d been here. The copse was full of it. When she was a teenager, a friend had picked up a sample bottle of toilet water off the store’s display case to spray on her arm. Instead the lid came off and drenched not only the outstretched arm, but the counter, the floor, and a good deal of her friend’s coat. They escaped from the store, collapsing with laughter, almost gagging under the power of the sickeningly sweet scent, the prune-faced clerks glaring at them with stern disapproval.
This smell was almost as heavy.
Elaine shivered and hurried to catch up with Phoebe.
The place did give her the creeps.
“Do you think someone started the fire on purpose?” Phoebe asked, once they were again on the sunny flagstone path that lined the lakefront. She didn’t seem at all affected by anything that had happened behind the cluster of white pines, and Elaine wondered if she were losing her mind.
“Elaine?”
“Sorry, I was daydreaming. No, I do not. It’s an old building, things happen.” What was more frightening, a midnight arsonist or a family cottage that turned on its owners for no apparent reason?
“That’s what Mr. What’s-his-name, the fat fire investigator said. We all heard him.” Phoebe grimaced and kicked at a stone with her foot. They followed its progress as it bounced down the hill and hit the lake with a tiny splash.
“I don’t know, Phoebe. I still want to go for my run. Then I’d like to get back to the papers and continue where we left off. And I’d like you to help me, if you have the time, that is.”
“I told you, I want to help.”
“Then why don’t we meet in the kitchen in exactly one hour. I’m sure Lizzie’s chomping at the bit for us to get those boxes out of her way. Okay with you?”
“Okay,” Phoebe grinned, cheerful again, another sudden shift in disposition. Elaine’s eldest brother had two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and he was always complaining that he couldn’t keep up with their moods, which shifted like fluff blowing in the wind.
“They were saying last night that it looks like we’ll have to stay on for the rest of the week, at least,” Phoebe said. “What with the fire inspector poking around and Grandpa still in the hospital and all.”
“One hour then.”
Phoebe traced her steps back to the cottage, and Elaine sprinted up the hill towards the driveway and the road beyond. Before she hit her stride, Hamlet and Ophelia were after her, barking and snapping at her heels. Hamlet circled around the front and stood blocking the way; one side of his lip curled up, his no-nonsense teeth bared.
Elaine jogged on the spot, in no mood to be cowed by this animal. “Get out of my way, you stupid thing,” she bellowed. “Bite me and I’ll have you put down, see if I don’t.”
“I don’t think he understands.” Alan stepped out of the woods carrying a wicked sharp-toothed saw. His curly hair was damp with sweat and drops of moisture dripped down the side of his face. He wiped at them with the arm of his shirt. Keeping their eyes on her, the dogs walked over to stand beside him.
“Cutting wood?” she asked inanely.
“Clearing some brush.”
“Nice day for it.”
“Cut Hamlet a bit of slack, please, Elaine. He’s a real pain in the posterior, but he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s confused, they both are. All the fuss around here. People coming and going in the middle of the night, fire trucks, smoke. People yelling. Moira too upset to even play with them. They don’t know what’s happening.”
She forced a smile at the dog. He growled deep in his throat. “I’m going for my run, see you later.” Three pairs of eyes followed her as she trotted down the driveway.
Spurred on by the madness of the last couple of days, Phoebe’s dark musings, the terror of the icy caress, a jolt of adrenaline courtesy of Hamlet—and most of all the sort of highly confusing thoughts that seemed to come over her whenever she found herself in Alan’s company—Elaine chewed up the miles of country road.
She was on her way back, the hour almost over when, rounding a corner at full speed, so deep in thought that she scarcely noticed where she was going, she drifted over to the left side of the road and almost ploughed straight into Greg Josepheson. He was also out running, headed in the opposite direction.
“Whoa,” he cried, “slow down there. Where’s the fire? Oops, bad choice of words. Sorry.”
Elaine skittered to a halt. Bending over she rested her forearms on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “Sorry,” she panted, “I was lost in thought. Didn’t see you there.”
“No harm done. But you’re lucky I’m not a garbage truck.”
Not sure if she was being mocked, she looked at him. “I do think I would have heard a garbage truck coming.”
He smiled, showing a line of white teeth and dancing gray eyes. His Nike tracksuit was new, but fresh sweat soaked the underarms and chest, and his first-class running shoes were scuffed, caked with dirt, heavily worn. “I meant no offence, I assure you.” He laughed. “The running up here is perfect at this time of year. Not too hot, not too cold, and not too many people and cars to spoil the solitude. I’ve been known to get into a bit of a trance myself, on occasion.”
His relaxed charm was so natural that Elaine lowered her defenses, swallowed a mouthful of indignation, and found herself grinning back. “My fault entirely. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your run.”
“Not at all. Too bad I didn’t know you were a jogger, I would have suggested we run together. Never mind. I know now. And there was nothing to be ruined, I’ve about finished. Our place is right over there.” He nodded to a discreet paved driveway cutting off from the road and disappearing into the dense bush. There was no handmade wooden sign engraved with the cottage owner’s name, nailed to a tree, as there was on practically every other piece of property in the area. No doubt those who came to visit the Josephesons were expected to know the way.
“Would you like to come up and see the place?” Greg asked. “With your interest in the history of the old cottages, you’ll like it.” He laughed again, a deep laugh, like his voice, full of warmth and good humour. “Or maybe not. Unlike the Madisons’ cottage, which I much prefer, my mother wanted everything to be modern. So she ripped out all the charm and character and stuffed in what she saw in magazines. But perhaps I’m prejudicing you. Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
They walked up the driveway, enjoying the opportunity to cool down from the exercise. The wind felt wonderful nipping at Elaine’s overheated face. She unzipped her tracksuit top to let in the fresh air, and simply enjoyed the peace of the woods and the beauty of the day.
The first sight of the Josepheson cottage brought her to an abrupt halt. Huge and multi-faceted, it had been built directly into the rocky hillside in layers of fine old timber and beautifully carved stone, faded dark with time.
“The view first,” Greg said, leading her around to the front. It stood high up over the lake, and offered a breathtaking panorama of blue water, brown and green islands, and the vista of the last of the autumn hues dotting the forest beyond. A large boathouse, identical in materials, design, and color to the main building, squatted at the water’s edge.
“Beautiful,” Elaine said.
He escorted her inside, and the contrast was breathtaking.
Not good, but breathtaking none the less.
“Uh,” she said. A writer, she wasn’t often at a loss for words. “It’s very…interesting.”
“Interesting is what Canadians say when they can’t think of anything polite to say. You can use the word ‘awful’ if you like. I hate it. I’ve seen pictures of how it looked when my father first bought it. Ancient wood paneling, stone and wood floors, classic colors, white wicker table and chairs in the sun room.”
“What happened?”
“My mother started by making a few changes. And every year there were a few more. Until we ended up with this. But she’s proud of it. Fancies herself as quite the decorator.”
“A small price to pay, if it makes her happy.”
Greg smiled. “It’s nice of you to say so. My sister and I agree. I need a drink after that run. Let’s go to the kitchen. It’s perhaps the least offensive room in the cottage.”
“Do you come up here often?” Elaine asked a few minutes later as she sipped at a welcome bottle of icy Gatorade.
“Not much. When we were children we spent all of our summers and most holidays here. But my sister lives in Texas, her husband’s job transferred them there, and I don’t seem to find the time. I miss it.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he leaned across the Formica table. “I’ll tell you a deep dark secret, if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
Instinctively, or maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes that gave it away, Elaine knew this was a game. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she breathed, matching his solemnity.
“I’ve always envied the Madisons. When we were kids, there was only Rosemary and me up here for the summer; we weren’t often allowed to invite friends. Bad for Mother’s nerves,” he drew quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “we were told. So we’d go over to the Madisons’ and there would be all these children. A pack of cousins and their friends, in the water and out on the boats, having such a grand time. Both of my parents are only children, so there were no cousins, just me and Rosemary. When they, the Madison children, grew up there were piles of nieces and nephews, and assorted relatives and who-knows-who-else, parties and picnics and fun. While over here we sat around the big formal dining room table, suitably dressed for dinner, the four of us lost in that huge room with nothing to say to each other.”
Elaine threw back her head and laughed. “Are you expecting me to be sorry for you, Greg Josepheson? Poor lonely little rich boy. Well, when I was a kid there were a few—and highly obnoxious they were, let me tell you—cousins, but there sure weren’t any parties or boating or swimming in the lake. We lived in an apartment in Mimico and in the summer we went to the community pool, along with nine hundred other kids, for our regular dose of chlorine. And a picnic was a broken table in the city park on a lawn covered with goose droppings.”
“Well you have me there, Ms. Benson. My childhood wasn’t quite the disaster I’ve always wanted to believe.”
They smiled at each other over the Gatorade.
“I thought I heard voices.” Olive Josepheson bustled into the kitchen, all flowing silk, fluttering hands, and vacant, welcoming smile. “Dear me, Gregory. We have a guest. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, Mom,” he said, his face folding into a gentle smile. “You remember Elaine. Who’s helping Moira Madison with her memoirs. I ran into her out jogging and knew she’d like to see what you have done with the cottage.”
Mrs. Josepheson patted her short, steel hair. “Welcome, welcome,” she simpered. “Would you like me to give you a tour? Our cottage is quite unusual in the Muskokas, dear. Nothing like it, I have been told.”
How could Elaine refuse? “I’d love to. I was admiring the décor as we came in. Greg tells me you did most of the decorating yourself.” She handed her glass to Greg and smiled at his mother. She could tell by the gentle look on his face that she’d said the right thing. Her own late mother had advised her: You can always tell the quality of a true gentleman by the manner in which he treats his mother. Unfortunately for her, her own two sons had moved to the opposite ends of the country almost the minute they were of age. At the end there was only Elaine to care for the ailing woman.
As the tour progressed, Elaine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The cottage was a monstrosity of overlapping styles and hideous taste. Beneath thick coats of paint, shag carpeting and highly polished veneer she caught the odd glimpse of quality woodwork and well-laid brick. It was like peering into a pop rock video to make out the soft, fading light of a daguerreotype behind. But Mrs. Josepheson beamed in delight as she showed Elaine everything, from the Art Deco bathroom to the French Provincial master bedroom and imitation Louis XIV guest bedroom. Not to mention the Italian restaurant front room.
“Thanks so much for amusing Mom,” Greg said as they made their way back up to the road. “She’s not quite there some of the time.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Elaine interrupted. “My grandmother suffered from Alzheimer’s. Old age isn’t fun. When are you going back to the city?”
“At the end of the week. I intended to go down on Tuesday, but the fire upset my parents badly. So I’ll stay for a few more days. I won’t be missed.”
“Nice to be able to do that. What do you do?”
“I own an Internet company. We help major corporations interface between each other in the way that they do business. B2B, it’s called. I’m not missing all that much by not being at the office—most of what they need me for can be done on the phone or over the Net.”
They walked up the road, enjoying the warmth of the morning sunlight, until they reached the hand-painted sign announcing the entrance to the Madison property. “I’ll leave you here,” Greg said. “I’m sure you can find the rest of the way back.”
“Thank you for showing me your home.” She could stand in this road, in the warm dappled sunlight, on this autumn day, forever. The fire, the deserted and foreboding servants’ cabin, even the black dog of depression that followed her on silent paws over the Thanksgiving weekend—all was forgotten, soaked up by the peace surrounding her.
“It was my pleasure, entirely,” Greg said. “And thank you for being so considerate to my mother.” He also didn’t quite seem to know how to leave.
Hamlet and Ophelia decided for them. They burst out of the undergrowth with a chorus of barking, display of teeth, and ominously twitching tails.