LITMIR.BIZ

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David Anthony Bliss is hereby awarded the Commendation of the Commissioner of the Grand Metropolitan Police Force,” reads Samantha from the vellum scroll, as the five of them await the hors d’oeuvres in the main dining room of the Dorchester Hotel two hours later.

      “That was quite a ceremony,” says Phillips.

      “For service above and beyond the call of duty,” adds Daphne, reading over Samantha’s shoulder.

      “It’s hardly an OBE though, Daphne,” says Bliss, knowing that the somewhat reckless Canadian adventure that brought him the award pales in comparison to her wartime heroics in Europe and Asia. Bliss ignores Daphne’s black look and sloughs off the praise as he encompasses his daughter, his boss, and the Canadian officer with a gesture. “You three deserve this more than me. I would have been dead if you hadn’t rescued me.”

      “It all sounds jolly exiting,” carries on Daphne. “I read it in the Times—how you’d been shot and left for dead on an island. How the Natives attacked ...”

      “They didn’t attack,” protests Bliss. “The newspaper got it wrong.” They just pointed their guns at me when they realized I threatened their dodgy little exploit.”

      “But the bear attacked you. That bit was right, wasn’t it?”

      “Yeah,” cuts in Phillips. “It sure is, Daphne. Biggest damn bear I’ve ever seen. Took a dozen shots to scare him off.”

      “That’s why I’m glad you could make it,” says Bliss. “I wasn’t in a fit state to thank you properly before I left Canada.”

      “My pleasure,” says Phillips. “Anyway, I always wanted to take a look at London. But, how are you doing now?”

      Bliss’s head goes down. “It’s going to take quite awhile—nearly lost the leg—infected wound, a lot of nerve damage. Good job I’ve got my daughter to take care of me. Sam’s been great.”

      “The stairs at your little place must be a nightmare,” says Daphne to Samantha—forever practical—then she turns to Bliss. “Why don’t you come and stay with me for awhile? The country air will do you good, and I could make you up a bed in the study.”

      “Hmm ... Westchester,” muses Bliss, with memories of a previous secondment when he’d first encountered Daphne—the police station’s cleaning lady.

      “That sounds like a great idea, Dad,” jumps in Samantha just a fraction over-enthusiastically.

      Bliss catches on immediately. “I smell a conspiracy,” he says, looking from Daphne to his daughter. “Are you two ganging up on me?”

      “No ...” starts Samantha, but can’t get her expression to agree.

      “It’s a waste of time lying to me, Sam,” says Bliss with a smile. “I guess you’ve had enough of me under your feet all day.”

      “Oh, Dad ...”

      The arrival of the waiter gives Samantha thinking space and Peter Bryan comes to her aid. “Actually, Dave, I think it would be a great idea. In fact, I’m pretty sure that admin will actually pay Miss Lovelace to take care of you ...”

      “I don’t expect ...” protests Daphne, but Samantha stems the dissent with a warning look.

      “I’m not going to argue,” says Bliss, catching them all by surprise. “Daphne makes the best treacle pudding I’ve ever had. Anyway I haven’t seen the old General for a year or so.”

      Daphne slumps at the thought of her old tomcat. “The poor thing died of old age back in the summer,” she tells Bliss, and he knows her pain.

      “That’s a coincidence,” he says. “Balderdash, my old cat, died as well.”

      “Oh, dear,” sympathizes Daphne; then she perks up a little. “Actually, I’m getting a kitten next week. She’s the fluffiest little thing, and her fur looks almost red at times. I was going to call her Madam Rouge but I thought that made her sound a bit like a Parisian street walker, so I’m calling her Missie Rouge instead. What do you think?”

      “I think I’m looking forward to meeting her,” says Bliss.

      Now it’s Daphne’s turn to smile, though Bliss holds up a hand in caution. “But it won’t be for a few weeks. I’ve got my physio to finish first.”

      “Anytime you’re ready, Dave, and I’ve got room for you as well, Mike, if you’d like.”

      “Thanks Daph,” replies Phillips. “But I’ve gotta get back to Vancouver in a day or so. The place might fall apart without me.”

       chapter four

      Vancouver may still be standing, but Ruth’s world is crumbling by the time Jordan’s fortieth birthday approaches, though a new-found purpose has bolstered her through the darkest moments.

      A month of intense therapy has taken its toll on both of them, and Ruth tries hard to hold back the tears each time she sees him off with his neatly packed overnight bag, hoping it will be the last time he’ll have to go. But hope cuts both ways, and she vacillates between hoping he’ll suffer little and die quickly, and hoping he’ll outlive his prognosis, despite the misery he may endure in the meantime.

      “I’ll be fine,” he’d assured her the first morning as she desperately clung to him at the curbside in the thin dawn light.

      They really couldn’t afford the cab, but Jordan wouldn’t hear of her leaving the café to drive him into the heart of the city at rush hour. “Cindy can’t do breakfast on her own,” he’d said, “and you’d barely get back in time for lunch.”

      “I’ll visit you this evening,” she’d promised, perking herself up as she’d helped him into the taxi.

      Jordan’s face had dropped. “It’ll just make things harder for me, Ruth. You’ll come all that way and I’ll be asleep, or you’ll get upset.”

      “I don’t mind ...”

      “I do, Ruth ... I mind. I don’t want you remembering me hooked up to a machine. Besides, the evening girls will have their boyfriends in and turn the place into a rave joint if you’re not watching them. I’ll phone, OK? And it’s only a few days.”

      “But, I can’t ...” she’d started.

      He’d shushed her with a finger to her lips, and she hadn’t asked again. Each week thereafter he had quietly slipped out of the apartment’s rear door when her back was turned, like a womanizer on a date.

      “I didn’t want you getting upset,” he would tell her when he’d phoned as promised, as he had done each week, his watery voice trying to lighten their short conversation with a “doctor” joke. “The doctor said I had to drink plenty of liquids,” he’d laughed one night, “and I asked him if that meant I had to give up drinking solids.” Then, after two or three days, he’d arrive back, struggle up the stairs, and barely hit the bed before falling asleep.

      The nights without Jordan’s comforting presence are an awful prelude to the future, but during the day, Ruth has found new zeal. Trina started it. She’s a home care nurse whose patients always die, though only once was it her fault. Generally, by the time she gets them, they’ve been hacked about and patched up beyond endurance and are simply awaiting the inevitable. Trina’s greatest contribution to their well-being is her unintentional ability to make them laugh as she changes incontinence pads and colostomy bags, and her only culpable failure occurred when she dropped the contents of a fully loaded bag on the aging patient’s cat. “Oh, crap!” she’d cried, and the bag’s owner had laughed himself to death at the sight of the shit-covered creature racing around the room like a greased pig, with Trina in hot pursuit.

      It was Trina who’d brought light into Ruth’s dark world. She knows about Jordan; she’d guessed—not the specifics, but enough to force Ruth’s

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