Road Ends (35 page)

The woman seemed at ease with that. She stood in the doorway, smiling faintly behind her dark glasses, and waited to be shown to her seat.

The boss-guy spotted Luke, waved to him, then guided his wife down the aisle. Luke got up and stepped out of the booth. His back was to Tom, which was a pity, Tom thought, because he would have liked to see his face, but on the other hand he got to see the woman and that was an experience you didn’t get every day.

“This here is Luke Morrison, furniture-maker extraordinaire,” the boss-guy said with a wide smile. “Luke, I’d like you to meet my dear wife, Cherie. She’s the brains of the business. As well as being the beauty, of course.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Luke said.

The woman took off her dark glasses and smiled at him. Her face was a work of art.

“Isn’t this a cute place you have here,” she said. She allowed her husband to help her out of her coat and slid into the booth opposite Luke. Without the coat she was a bundle of twigs.

“And this is the furniture,” she said. “And isn’t it cute too.”

The men sat down and watched her. The whole of Harper’s watched her. She picked up a miniature circular table, turned it around, turned it over, put it down, picked up a chair.

A hot beef sandwich and fries appeared in front of Tom. Perched on top of the sandwich was a solitary pea. Tom’s retinas registered the pea but the optic nerves were busy with the woman and failed to pass the message on to his brain. Despite five years in Toronto he’d never seen anyone who looked quite as unreal as the boss-guy’s wife. Every eyelash looked as if it had been meticulously crafted and glued in place that very morning.

Bo was setting down iced water in front of the newcomers. Seeing her beside the woman, Tom suddenly realized that Bo was a knockout. He wondered how he’d failed to notice it before;
maybe he’d never really looked at her, in case she started talking to him. In addition to being tall and blond, she was clear-eyed and long-legged and looked fit as hell. If the boss-guy’s wife worked at it for a million years she’d never come close to looking as good as Bo did without lifting a finger, which when you thought about it was kind of unfair.

“Very nice to see you again, sir,” Bo was saying. “How are you today, ma’am? Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Lovely,” said the woman.

“Are you ready to order yet?”

“Um, no,” said Luke quickly. “Give us a minute.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Bo said. “No problem. The menu’s on the table mat in front of you when you’re ready, ma’am.”

“I know what I’m having,” the woman said, making a little rocking chair rock with the tip of her finger. “This is delightful,” she said, smiling at Luke. “May I have this?”

“Sure,” Luke said. “Sure, of course.”

“I’ll have an omelette,” the woman said. She balanced the rocking chair on the palm of her hand and raised it to eye level. Everyone watched.

“That’s a good choice, ma’am,” Bo said, taking out her notebook.

“Please tell the chef to use two eggs, fill it with fresh spinach and grate a little Parmesan on top.”

“Fresh spinach?” Bo said, her pencil pausing.

The woman looked at her for the first time. “You don’t have fresh spinach?”

“Not at the moment,” Bo said, looking out of the window at several million square miles of snow.

“I wasn’t assuming you grew it in your garden,” the woman said, her mouth going thin. “I was assuming you would have it flown in.”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am,” Bo said. “I’m pretty sure we have tinned spinach, though. Would that do?”

“It’s not that kind of town, Cherie,” the boss-guy said jovially. “This is the
North
.”

“Have you
frozen
spinach?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that either. How about peas? We have frozen peas.”

“A
pea
omelette?” the woman asked glacially.

“Or how about potatoes?” Bo said, warming to the subject. “They’re fresh. Potatoes are great in an omelette. And onions—how about a potato and onion omelette with cheddar cheese? That would be delicious! We could add some peas as well for colour if you like. It would be healthy too.”

“Are you saying you have no fresh vegetables apart from potatoes and onions?”

“Oh no, we have carrots, cabbage, squash, turnips … a turnip omelette would be different. How about that?” There was a dangerous light in Bo’s eyes.

Luke was squirming in his seat. Tom knew it would have been a kindness to look away, but it was too good to miss.

The boss-guy said, “Why don’t you have one of their hot beef sandwiches, Cher? They’re damned good and it wouldn’t hurt you for once. I eat them all the time and look at me.”

“I have looked at you,” his wife said, not looking at him. “I’d like to speak to the chef.”

“Sure,” Bo said. “I’ll just get her.” She sailed away.

“Do you think people who have enough money to be flown all the way up here by seaplane will be happy to stay in a place where there are no fresh vegetables?” the woman asked her husband. Her tone was enough to freeze your balls off, Tom thought. Which might explain why the guy looked as if he didn’t have any. It was funny, when you thought about it, how many rich guys looked like eunuchs.

“We can get them flown in if they really want them,” the man was saying. “But this isn’t Toronto, Cher. That’s the whole point!
People will be coming up here for a new and absolutely authentic experience.” He stretched his arms out to encompass the magnificence of the Canadian North. “That’s what we’re offering them—that’s why it’s so special. They’ll experience the North as it really is, up to and including the food of the region.”

“I think you should be very worried about this,” his wife said, scanning the menu.

“Not everybody likes raw spinach, dear. Some people prefer normal—”

“I think you should be losing sleep.”

Luke was scrabbling frantically around in his box of models. He brought out something wrapped in newspaper and began unwrapping it with great care.

“I, um, brought this in to show you,” he said. “Just in case you were interested. It isn’t something I could do in quantity; each piece takes a long time to make. But I thought … you know … you might be interested in having one or two.”

He set a small chair down on the table in front of the woman. The seat was a smooth silver-grey disc of driftwood resting on slender legs. The back was formed from a delicate branch, or maybe several branches, each twig arching up or curving around to lend itself to the whole.

Wife and husband looked at it.

“I want twelve,” the woman said.

“Twelve?” her husband said. “I mean it’s gorgeous, I agree, but do you think it’s right for what we—”

“Not for the hotel,” the woman said impatiently. “People up here wouldn’t appreciate how unique they are. I want them for us. For the dining room.”

She turned to Luke. “Can you do me twelve? And I want a table to match. I’ll leave the design to you.”

“I couldn’t do it in the time frame we’re talking about, ma’am. I’m sorry, but they’re handmade and each one depends on me
finding just the right-shaped branches. Takes a really long time, so they’d be kind of expensive. Actually, very expensive.”

Mrs. Harper appeared, Bo at her elbow. “I’m the chef,” Mrs. Harper said. “Bo here says you wanted to see me.”

“Just bring me a plain omelette,” the woman said. “I’m sure it will be fine.” To Luke she said, “You can discuss the price with my husband. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, send me each one as you finish it. As for furniture for the hotel, I think this style here would be most suitable for the lounge …”

Tom found he was sitting with both elbows on the table, his knife and fork sticking straight up in the air. Bo, passing by, said, “That’s what I like to see. An empty plate. How are you feeling?”

“What?” Tom said.

“How do you feel? Sometimes when your body’s not used to a certain food it can upset your stomach a little bit to begin with. That’s why it’s a good idea to build up gradually.”

“What?” Tom said.

“Never mind,” she said kindly. “If you feel a little strange this evening just lie down for ten minutes. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m going to need more guys,” Luke said. “Want a job?”

“Making furniture? I’ve never done anything like that.” Tom was examining the models—he’d taken a seat in Luke’s booth. “This is really nice stuff. I’m not surprised they want it.”

“These are all machine-made,” Luke said. “Not hard to learn.”

Tom would have liked to have a close look at the branching handmade chair, but the woman had taken it with her.

“You have work lined up for after the snow goes?” Luke said.

“Not sure. Last summer I drove a lumber truck. Is your workshop out at Crow Lake?”

“Yeah. It’s in the garage. I’m going to need to extend it, get more machines. I’ve got to go see your dad, talk to him about money.”

Tom put down a chair and picked up the circular table with its central leg and three elegant feet.

“I did aeronautical engineering,” he said. He hadn’t realized he was going to say it until it was out. “I was working on supersonic flight.”

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Wow! Sounds really interesting.”

“Yeah. It was. But things got a bit … messy, a year or two back. Personal things.”

Luke nodded.

Bo appeared with more coffee. “Make him treat you to a brownie,” she said. “He’s going to be rich.”

“Want a brownie?” Luke said.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Bo smiled at him and vanished.

Luke started wrapping up the models and putting them back in the box. “Well, like I said, I need to talk to your dad again, arrange some financial stuff before I know how much I can offer money-wise, but I definitely need more guys, so the job’s there if you want it.”

“Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind. And congratulations, by the way. Glad you got the contract.”

While he’d been in Harper’s the wind had changed again and tiny stinging flakes were driving into his face as he walked home. He wondered what it would be like to work with a bunch of other guys. Six months ago—even six weeks ago—he couldn’t have considered it, but he liked Luke. He was a straightforward sort of guy and working with him might be okay. As for the others, if there were machines going, they probably didn’t talk much anyway. He could just keep himself to himself. It would be a completely different life from the one he’d imagined for himself, but that in itself might be good.

The downside would be that, to start with at least, he’d have to live at home and he’d been thinking it was time he got out. Things seemed to be falling apart there and it was definitely no longer a refuge. He needed to give the whole thing some serious thought.

As he was walking up the drive he noticed the sled he’d borrowed from Marshall’s Grocery leaning against the side of the house. He’d meant to return it weeks ago. He looked at his watch, then studied the sky. If he took it back right now he’d have time to get home before the weather got serious.

He flipped the sled over and towed it around to the front of the house. As he passed the living room window something made him look up. Adam was standing right up against the glass, hands clenched under his chin.

“Shit!” Tom said to his feet. “Shit, shit,
shit
!” He dropped the tow rope and went in. Sherry was bashing about in the kitchen. Adam was watching him, his whole body taut with longing.

“I’m taking the sled back to the grocery store,” Tom said sharply. “You can ride there but you’ll have to walk home. Can you walk that far?”

Adam didn’t waste time replying. He shot into the entrance hall and started pulling things from the rubble. “Is this your coat?” Tom asked, taking a coat off the hooks.

“Yes.” Adam’s face was shining like a candle; it made Tom want to smash the wall with his fist.

“Boots,” he said. “Scarf, hat, mitts. That hat isn’t warm enough—put this one on top of it. Okay, we’re off.”

The wind had dropped, which was something. He walked fast, listening to the swish of the sled’s runners on the hard-packed snow. Each time he looked back Adam grinned up at him like a jack-o’-lantern. You’d have thought he’d never been on a sled before. The thought made him wonder if Adam
had
ever been on a sled before. It’s not your bloody fault, he said to
himself. It’s not up to you, it’s nothing to do with you, it’s not as if he’s starving or living in a doghouse, just fuck off and leave me alone.

Marshall’s was on the same side of the road as Harper’s and three stores farther along. The worst thing that could possibly have happened, the thing so bad that even he with his genius for imagining disaster hadn’t thought of it, was that as they passed Harper’s Bo would be serving someone in one of the window booths and would happen to look out and see them.

She was out the door in a split second.

“And who is this?” she demanded, hands on hips, looking down at Adam with astonishment. “Who is this and why haven’t I met him before? Hello, gorgeous, what’s your name?”

“Adam,” said Adam.

“Adam is a wonderful name,” said Bo, “and you have the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen in my
life
. Is this your daddy?”

She gestured at Tom without looking at him.

“No,” said Adam.

“We have to go,” Tom said. “Sorry, but we’re in a hurry.”

“So, if he’s not your daddy, who is he?”

“Tom,” Adam said. “My brother.”

“Okay, good. I know all about brothers. Is he nice to you?”

“Yes,” Adam said. He’d tipped his head back as far as it would go in order to take in all of her, which made his mouth hang open and his parka hood come down over his eyes.

“That’s good,” Bo said, “because otherwise I was going to have to kill him. Would you like to come in and have some ice cream?”

“We can’t,” Tom said, very fast. “We have to get this sled back and get home before the storm sets in.”

“What storm?” Bo said, still looking at Adam. “How would it be if you came in while your brother takes the sled back, which will take him quite a long time because he’ll have to apologize
profusely
to Mr. Marshall for keeping it so long. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”