LITMIR.BIZ

      Later that week, she fielded a call at the office.

      So far, Yoyo was working out well, except for her clothes and the occasional grammar error. She’d taken the coughing hint about the perfume, but Belle wondered how to broach the subject of those scooping necklines and clinging tops. Hot and humid summer weather would make the problem worse. Between the shrink-wrapped skirts and the décolletage lay mere inches. The spike heels beckoned and promised minimal flight. Nothing had changed since Betty Grable’s pin-up poster to raise GI morale, among other things.

      A hesitant male voice said, “My name is . . . Malcolm Malloy. I’m trying to reach Gary Myers. Your card was on the table, so I hoped that you might know where he is.”

      Belle shifted out of realtor mode as she introduced herself, wondering what this man might look like. How old was he? “Not since Monday, when I arranged for the house rental.”

      A worried sigh came over the line. “I just drove in from Hamilton. Found the key under a rock by the door like he told me. A note on the fridge said he’d be back from field camp by ten.”

      “Did you try his cell phone?”

      Malcolm, or rather Mutt, gave a snort. “He always forgets to top up. Don’t know why he doesn’t get a regular plan. Just cheap, I guess.”

      “Runs in my blood, too.” A dose of Northern hospitality was in order. “I’m sure he’s delayed. It is a couple of hours to Burwash. Cottage country traffic gets wicked on Fridays.” She didn’t mention that the infamous route was a killer highway with enough rock cuts to demolish two hockey teams per year. Her van sported a bumper sticker reading “Four-Lane 69”. “You probably know that Gary and I were friends in high school.”

      “Oh, that Belle Palmer.”

      Suddenly she felt vulnerable. What had Gary said about her? Mocked their relationship? She remained silent, chewing her lip. Meeting Mutt now didn’t seem like such a good idea.

      “He said that you were the smartest girl in your class. Had him tongue-tied on every date.” Mutt gave a hearty laugh. “You literally made him sweat.”

      She had waged quite a campaign. Staked out his house, followed him to the show, collected grade-school pictures from his collaborating friends. She even knew his locker combination and took an occasional peek. Now they’d call it stalking. Belle joined in the spirit, reading the unspoken undercurrent. “Guess I was a handful.”

      Yoyo returned from Muirhead’s with a bag of stationery supplies and gave her a wave.

      “I’m leaving early today to meet a client on the way home. How about taking a walk with me around four? I’ll point out all the good trails. If Gary’s back, all the better.” As she told him where she lived, she had second thoughts. Gary was the nature lover. Perhaps Mutt didn’t care for hiking.

      Late that afternoon, Freya set up a roo-roo that heralded someone in the drive. A knock sounded at her door. When Belle opened it, elbowing the dog aside, she saw the vision of Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff, high brow, sculpted lips, flashing raven hair. His chinos and striped rugby shirt were neatly pressed, and his white sneakers immaculate. So “Mutt” was a joke, like a heavy person called Tiny.

      “No car?”

      “I just walked down. Got to stretch out after that drive.”

      “And Gary’s not back?”

      Shaking his head, he turned to stare at the glorious wraparound deck over the walkout basement, one side jutting forward in a tongue, two sets of stairs with platforms. “I like your Escher effect. What a view—180 degrees.”

      The lake was glassy, and they both swiped at their necks. “Wind’s down. Bad news in early June.” She explained that the freshly hatched blackfly swarm was too ravenous on the trails back of the house. “They were kissing me last week, but by now they’ve learned their survival lessons and are going for the jugular.”

      Belle flipped down the third row of seats to make room for Freya in the back of the van. Then they drove down Edgewater Road, headed north and pulled off on Station Road. In the bush were the remains of an abandoned mile of the old asphalt highway to Skead. It had served as an unofficial drag strip, with spray-painted starts and stops, but now the poplar and birch saplings encroached on the sides. “It’s less dense here,” she said. “We can hook onto a bush road and do a loop.”

      From her pocket, she pulled a bottle of industrial-strength bug dope. God only knew its long-range neurological effects, but nothing else worked. “This oily junk melts plastic. I hate it,” she said.

      “My parents have a cottage near Bracebridge, so I’ve been through the drill. It’s a Canadian ritual. Don’t leave home without it.” He took a squirt, rubbed his hands together and patted his face as if applying aftershave.

      “I’ll take the risk for now,” she said, tucking it away in her pocket.

      On the scrubby trees that lined the road, miniature leaves were emerging. Mutt admired a bush with a delicate set of red seed keys dangling like a necklace.

      “Swamp maple,” Belle said. “One of five species in the area.” She pointed out a birch conk, then a yellow shelf fungus. “Chicken of the woods. Supposed to be quite choice.”

      “Reminds me of shiitake. Have you ever tried it?”

      “Some of my Italian friends comb the woods for mushrooms. Familiar though I am with many types, I don’t have the nerve to risk a wrong choice.” Sounded like much of her life.

      Streaks of golden and green moss were making inroads on the old highway. They stopped to tune their ears to the location of a hairy woodpecker tapping for dinner. “So how long will you be here, Mutt?” she asked, feeling his odd name growing more familiar.

      “The whole summer. I’m a writer, if Gary hasn’t told you. Been having a bit of a block with the third book. It’s common enough. A change of scene seemed perfect for a kick-start.” With his clean-shaven baby face, he looked barely twenty, though she’d never ask. A gentle tracery around his hazel eyes bumped her estimate to thirty-plus. Gary wasn’t a cradle robber, but she preferred companions her age. Who wanted a blank stare after mentioning a favourite musical group or pivotal historical event? Then again, with her classic film addiction, she should date octogenarians who remembered Joan Crawford as a jazz baby, not Baby Jane’s sister.

      Freya bounded ahead, flushing a grouse from the grassy borders. The bird’s nearby mate followed to the safety of a stunted oak. Scrabbling on the asphalt trimmed the dog’s nails, a chore saved. Then they rounded a corner. “Watch the glass!” Mutt yelled.

      Belle grabbed the dog’s chain collar and steered her around a shattered windowpane. At the side of the road was a huge, fresh mound of construction material. Someone had been renovating and was too lazy and cheap to visit the town dump, even for a nominal fee. As Mutt watched, her keen eye tallied the totals. One truckload. Ripped up carpet, ten paint cans, guts of an old washing machine, scrap wood panelling, leftover pink fibreglass insulation floating on the breeze, and on top, a carton for a fifty-inch TV. For good measure, six bald tires lay in a ziggurat framed by an army of soft drink bottles. Green packing peanuts littered the landscape like toxic snow. The man who whispered “plastics” in Dustin Hoffman’s ear in The Graduate was a seer. The world was drowning in its own garbage. An island miles long had formed in the ocean. “Damn. This has me seeing red. Why do people have to foul their own nest?” she asked, pounding her fist into her palm.

      “It’s disgusting, but what can you do about it? Check for tire treads?” He put his hands on his hips and bent over, Sherlock-style.

      She waded into the field of scratchy blueberry bushes and leathery Labrador tea. “The smell’s not bad. Let me peek into those nice black garbage bags.”

      He shuddered. “Be careful. There could

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