“IT’S A RICH Vancouverite!”

  “What is?” Mabel asked. The temperature had dropped, and the snow was falling in earnest. Reg Mather was with her in the post office alcove, waiting for Eleanor to pull up the window. Both were muffled in scarves and hats. They could hear Eleanor in the background calling out, “Coming! No, Alexandra, no one needs you right now.”

  “That work at the house up the road. I was talking to the workmen last week, and they told me they’d discovered a rich city dweller was behind the whole business. Summer home sort of thing. That’s all we need. Strangers in and out. Good stand of trees there going to waste.”

  Mabel abhorred Reg’s views on stands of trees but had long ago stopped worrying about it because Reg, in her view, was too bone idle to start cutting underbrush in his garden, let alone logging stands of trees. “Why wouldn’t they buy one of the houses on the lake? That’s where the summer holidaymakers ought to confine themselves. Ah! Good morning, Eleanor. You hear what Reg is saying?”

  “I was saying,” Reg interposed, irritated at having his story whipped away from him, “that the fixing up of that house is being directed by some rich bastard, begging your pardon, who wants a summer home. Utter nonsense. We don’t need that sort of carry-on up here. Respectable families willing to put their backs into things. That’s what’s wanted. We’d be better off if people stayed away altogether.”

  Mabel uttered a sound like a punctured tire and turned to Eleanor with a “Yes, like him!” expression on her face.

  “Lane came here, and she’s been a great addition. We don’t know these people won’t be the same,” Eleanor said, reaching up into the wooden cubbies to collect the Hugheses’ mail for Mabel.

  “Completely different. She’s not a summer visitor. She lives here. She redeemed herself by putting down roots and marrying,” Reg pointed out, completely oblivious to any opinion the eldest unmarried Hughes daughter might have about what constituted being redeemed.

  “In my view,” Mabel said, “if whoever it is is only going to be here in the summer, they’ll be out of our hair for the other three-quarters of the year. We’re all too busy in the summer to pay attention to holidaymakers, anyway. We’re about to be enveloped in snow again. I’d best get back.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Eleanor, looking out into the yard as the post office door opened and then closed on Mabel. “It makes travel up to town so difficult, all this snow. I feel sorry for Dave Bertolli and the poor inspector, having to go all that way every day.”

  “See, that’s another thing. Why can’t people stay put? We didn’t used to have to rush up to town every five minutes in the old days. We got whatever we needed every week on the steamboat. We grew vegetables and fruit and ordered what we couldn’t grow.”

  “The world is changing, I expect, Reg. You can’t say life wasn’t a struggle. It’s rather nice to go up to town and shop in the nice new supermarket and see a film. And people must go to their jobs,” Eleanor said mildly, if a little pointedly. Lane was always so generous about offering to take Eleanor to town, and she had to confess she rather liked the diversion.

  “That struggle made us strong. How do you think we won the war?” Unwilling to discuss any war with Reg, who had participated in neither one because of a “gamy” leg, Eleanor smiled. “Do give my regards to Alice. She makes the loveliest sugar cookies. I do hope we’ll see some at the Christmas service this year!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  October 1947

  HARRY DEVLIN AND HIS WIFE, Serena, waited on the pier, wrapped in thick jackets against the late October morning cold. The boats moored along the length of the pier made a gentle knocking sound against the rubber bumpers and each other with the quiet oscillation of the water. The sun was breasting the low hill before them, and already shone a splash of golden light on the autumn trees making their last declaration in explosions of red and yellow surrounding the lodge. The fishing holiday had been Harry’s idea, but Serena had to admit that the glow of the trees in the early morning cold was uplifting. And it was nice to get away from her husband’s cohort. Besides the maid, his only aide on this trip was his secretary, Michael, who had elected to stay at the lodge to deal with a briefcase full of correspondence he’d brought along.

  “Happy, darling?” Harry turned to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  Serena smiled and nodded.

  “That’s my girl! It’ll be good to take a few days away. I know it’s been a little overwhelming. You’ve been a good sport about it all. It’s a bit of nonsense anyway. I don’t know how I was persuaded into it, now that I’m out here away from everything. I’m bound to fail. Instead, life should be like this: simple, elemental.” He took a deep breath of the crisp air and squeezed her shoulders.

  He was, she thought, like a Nietzschean superhero: tall, full of self-centred confidence, so sure of his own rightness. He seemed to have no awareness at all of the struggle of life for ordinary people, or really, how many people and how much work it was taking to get him elected. Serena was tempted to make a sarcastic remark about the “simple and elemental” activity in getting them to the island with two large suitcases, a trunk, a private secretary, and a maid for only a weekend away. Money, as she had often observed, could buy quite a lot of high-grade “simple.”

  “If you don’t mind, darling, I won’t fish. Could you get the boatman to drop me off at the picnic site? It’s going to be a lovely day. I have a nice warm rug, a good book, and, if that fails, my little paintbox. And I’m thinking of buying a little property for us. A real getaway far from anything. We could find a nice little lake somewhere easy to get to. You’re much too busy, of course, but I think I could have quite a lot of fun with it. I’ve even brought a notebook to sketch out some ideas for a cottage.” She held up a leather bag.

  “If you’re sure, darling?” Harry tried to hide his relief. She was a lovely woman, but not very sporty. He’d have liked to leave her behind altogether, but it was increasingly important that they be seen together being happy and engaged in activities the average voter would understand. He knew Michael would be alerting someone from the press who would be up to photograph them before day’s end. A large fish held aloft and his pretty blond wife beside him were just the thing. This by-election had come up suddenly, and he’d been unpersuaded at first. He was not, after all, a particularly political animal, but Serena had been so convincing that he had agreed to run. The local Tories had leaped on the idea. He was ideal. Intelligent, good-looking, the leader of a major business empire, well liked, and he had a beautiful wife. It seemed to him that he’d given his entire life over to the people running his campaign. All its demands seemed to put everything out of his mind. He suppressed a little upsurge of guilt. He was away so much that he realized he’d almost lost a sense of their life together. He was relieved that she had a project and that the whole election would be over before Christmas. A cabin somewhere on a lake would keep her busy, and happy, he was sure, as she would only want the most luxurious fixtures and furnishings.

  “If you’re sure, darling, about not fishing. I promise not to be too long.”

  “Absolutely sure. I imagine the lodge elves are already over there starting up the fire and making coffee.” She turned at the sound of booted footsteps on the pier. “This looks promising.”

  It wasn’t a man they were waiting for, as it turned out, but a woman. She was a grizzled-looking specimen, Serena thought, closer to fifty than forty by the look of her, dressed in men’s clothing, hair pulled back, and a cloth cap low over her eyes. It was just as she was about to turn away and prepare to climb on board that Serena saw what fine eyes this woman had. Intense blue, undiminished, despite her age. She must have been a beauty once. She mentally shook her head. Country life.

  “Morning. My name is Deedee. You can call me Dee.” Her voice had the texture of soft gravel. She walked past them and threw the fishing rods she’d been carrying into the boat and then pulled a folded scrap of paper out of the breast pocket of the thick wool shirt she was wearing over a turtleneck sweater. “Mr. . . .” she read, “Harry Devlin.” She stopped and looked at him and then turned away quickly toward Serena.

  “Let me help you on, Mrs. Devlin. You like to fish?”

  Serena took her hand. “Not much, but Harry loves it. In fact, I was wondering if you could drop me off at the picnic site. I’ll spend the morning there, if I may. Would that be a bother?”

  “No, ma’am. I believe they’ve set out some chairs and whatnot so you should be quite comfortable. Sir.” She pulled her cap low and nodded at Devlin as he got on board.

  Dee went to the outboard and sat down, looking at the backs of the two customers, and shook her head. What were the chances? She’d been following his career. President of his father’s company and now Tory candidate for parliament. Beautiful young wife. She pulled the cord and the engine sprang into life. No embarrassing faltering with this outboard motor. The lodge provided the best of everything for its wealthy, often famous, clients. The sun blanketed both sides of the river now, and though the air was still chilly, it would be one of those glorious October days, warm enough to sit in shirt sleeves in the early afternoon.

  Serena stood on the beach across the river where she’d been deposited and put her hand over her eyes to watch the boat pull away, the outboard churning up the sparkling water. Her husband sat facing forward, fiddling with a rod, and Dee, one hand on the tiller, looked out toward the shining length of the river.

  “I HOPE YOU don’t mind,” Serena said to a young man already on site, placing a grate over a firepit. The sound of the boat receding downriver faded into the background. “I’m not much of an angler. Could I just sit in one of these chairs and enjoy the whole thing from here?”

  The young man leaped to help her put the chair exactly where she wanted it, on the sunny point near the water, overlooking the sweep of the river, with the lodge just visible along the opposite bank. He could not recall a prettier woman coming to the lodge. Blond, her hair swept and curved into a bun, a beautiful tweed hat framing her face. Pale blue eyes, an oval face, and perfect skin.

  “You’re so kind,” she said. She’d remember to tip him generously when they decamped after lunch. She sat down and stretched her legs, prepared to enjoy this respite from the fuss of getting Harry elected. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the strengthening sun on her lids. Unbidden, the matter of children came to her mind. She had been somewhat successful in pushing this unhappiness far away, but the by-election had opened up the wound. Her husband’s political handlers had lamented more than once that there ought to be a couple of kids to complete the look of the all-Canadian family. She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to let the morning work its magic, but the pain, once remembered, lingered, making her feel as if she was recovering from some long-ago illness.

  She knew it was her. She’d gone secretly to her doctor when a few years had gone by and no children had materialized, and he’d confirmed that it was unlikely she would ever be able to conceive. A deep part of her believed that it was some sort of cosmic retribution for the kind of family she had come from. Of course, Harry didn’t know the full extent of it, and her education and European finishing school, her clever brother with his law degree, had all done their job of lifting them, fresh smelling, into society. But she never felt fully free of the taint of it. And of course Harry had been deeply disappointed about the children, though he had gallantly worked hard to cover that disappointment. He had never blamed her, but she knew. It was a disappointment nothing she did could ever quite erase.

  With a slight groan of impatience for once again allowing herself to go down this road, she reached into her bag to take out her sketchbook. She knew that her feelings of guilt were slowly transforming into a kind of constant irritation with her husband, and she found herself resolving to try to be a better person. The work on the cottage would help, give her an outlet.

  The sound of a suddenly raised voice from across the water caused her to look up, furrowing her brow, and she leaned forward to hear better. The only vessel on the river just now was the boat Harry was in. It was quite far downriver from where she sat, but she could see the two figures on it. Putting her hand across the brim of her hat to further block the sun, she saw that Harry had turned and now sat facing the woman at the outboard. She could hear their voices, earnest, suddenly lowered, carried over the water, but could hear nothing of what was said. Were they arguing over where to go? She saw her husband suddenly reach out his hand toward the woman. She made some movement and he abruptly took it back.

  Serena sat back, perplexed, watching. They were still talking. She could make no sense of this interaction. For a wild moment the thought came to her that Harry had come here to meet a lover, and she flushed. Certainly that old cat could not be his lover. Then, what?

  With deliberate grace, Serena got up and walked to the fire where the young man had set up a table and was unfolding some chairs, and was now stopped, watching her approach. “So, tell me about your work at the lodge,” she said, smiling sweetly. He looked like he might be inclined to gossip.

  November 1939

  THE NIGHTCLUB WAS smoky and noisy. Harry Devlin was well beyond tipsy, but he excused himself because he was drinking champagne in a convoluted attempt to both defiantly celebrate the loss of his latest girlfriend and drown his misery about it. His father’s impatient demands that he needed to marry and “get on with his life” were an added irritation he could do without. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, squinting to enhance the murkiness of the scene before him. He was at the point of feeling a kind of elation where nothing and everything looked marvellous. The girls on the stage, scantily clad and generously proportioned, the satisfied complacency of the groups of men and women at the tables who smoked, drank cocktails, and talked and laughed, ignoring the stage show. Everyone looked jolly.

  His companion tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him out of his reverie. “You want to look over there, Devlin. A cure for all your ills.”

  Harry put out his cigarette and languidly directed his attention to where his friend was pointing at a table on the mezzanine just above them. He felt a jolt that made him feel as though he’d sobered up instantly. There sat undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, her blond hair pulled back on one side and curling under in a sleek pageboy that reflected the candlelight. Her gold satin dress flowed down her body like, he thought, liquid. And most importantly, she appeared to be very angry with her date. She was collecting her purse and pulling her pale fur coat around her shoulders. As she stood, her date reached out to stop her, but did not get up.

  “Don’t wait up,” Harry said, rising. He manoeuvred through the dining room between the tightly packed tables and kept an eye on her progress along the mezzanine. He was at the bottom of the stairs waiting as she came down.

  “Miss, let me get you a cab.”

  “I’m quite capable of getting my own cab, thank you.” She glanced at him. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “You have the advantage of me. I have never seen you before. If I had, I would never forget you. Harry Devlin.” He offered his hand, which she took passively.

  “Serena Lee. You’re that businessman.”

  “I don’t know if I’m that businessman, but I do have a business. Where do you live?” The doorman had opened the door and they were moving onto the street before she answered.

  “I tell you what. You can hail the cab and I’ll tell him where to go.” She smiled.

  “Fair enough. What was wrong with your date?”

  “He was an idiot. I don’t like idiots.”

  Devlin nodded. “He certainly was. He made no attempt to follow you when you left. Ah. Here we go. Here, my card.” He opened the door to the cab so she could get in, and then bent down. “I’d like to see you again, Miss Lee. I hope it is ‘Miss.’ I would be devastated to learn that the idiot is your husband.”

  “He’s not. And we’ll see.” She closed the door and said something to the driver.

  Devlin patted the roof of the cab and then stood on the sidewalk watching it drive up the street. Yellow Cab, number twenty-eight. She’d be worth a fling, he thought. He went back to his table and was pleased to see another bottle of champagne was being put into the ice bucket.

  “You’re back. Bad luck,” his companion said, leaning over with a lighter for the cigarette Devlin dangled between his lips. “I’m not surprised. She’s not known for being easy to get.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not exactly know her, no. Know of her. Her family is a mixed bag. They run a couple of clubs in town, including, if I’m not mistaken, a piece of this one, but also two high-priced restaurants. Mostly on the up and up.”

  “Mostly?” Devlin asked. It would be a shame to discover that he was attracted to a local moll.

  “Oh, she’s fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing known against her. She’s their attempt to get into society. I even heard she went to Switzerland to some school and has a degree from UBC in something ladylike, like philosophy. No, it’s some of her younger male relations that have a reputation. You need muscle to run clubs, and her uncle likes to keep it in the family.”

  “How do you know so much? I’ve never heard of her before now.”

  “I met her at a dinner party thrown by that Tory politician, Grant, the wife made me go to. I was sorely tempted, I can tell you. She looks very good in candlelight. But . . .”

  “Your wife,” Devlin concluded.

  “Yup. But you don’t have a wife, and it’s time you settled down. She’s smart and she’s connected. Who knows, maybe she’ll drag you kicking and screaming into politics.”

  “Ha! Very unlikely. I’d make a lousy politician. Anyway, I don’t care who she’s connected to, she’s jolly nice looking and, if I’m not wrong, didn’t seem entirely uninterested.”