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  “Your hands are so rough.”

  Tom shrugged.

  “Here, I’ve got just the thing.” There were a few baskets on the counters filled with complimentary items, and she reached into one of them for a small tube of cream. She squeezed a bead of rosy cream onto the back of Tom’s hand. “You’re supposed to rub it in,” she instructed. “It’ll make your hands nice and soft.”

  “Should I want soft hands?” He rubbed the cream in.

  “Yeah, it’s nice when a man has soft hands.” She handed him the tube. “Here, keep it.”

  He slipped it in his pocket, more for her sake than his.

  The next night they met again, though he had a sense that he was doing something he shouldn’t. Leaving the run of the restaurant to the staff, she took him on a tour of the inn. He wondered why she would bother, until they were in a suite and she locked the door behind them. She came up close and brought her lips to his. Her tongue explored. She moved her hands over his chest and into his pants, unzipping him, taking delicate hold of his erection, tugging clothes away from both of them. He pushed back, softly, moving against her touch. She kissed an old scar on his chest, a straight line he’d had for years, since wrestling a knife off a robbery suspect. He wanted to say the right words but could only moan.

  “You need a shower,” she said, pulling him into a spacious, shining bathroom and turning on steaming water. “Be quick, then come and find me.”

  He stood under the hot water and washed with some soothing gel that smelled of strawberry. Then he dried off quickly with a plush white towel. He found her stretched out on her front on the bed, naked. Anne’s toned skin and jet-black hair contrasted with the billowing white blankets and pillows.

  “Oh, you’re still wet,” she whispered. He pulled back, as if to go dry off some more, but she held on. “No, silly, come here,” she said, rolling over on her back, pulling him down and curling her long, smooth legs around him.

  “You don’t mind that I was with Paul Carignan before you?” she asked afterwards.

  “Not for me to judge your past,” he said.

  Never in a million years did Tom think he’d end up in bed with Paul Carignan’s ex-girlfriend, who had been responsible at least in part for the break-up of his marriage. At first, Tom was convinced it was a one-night romp, but they continued to find each other and to please each other over the months to come. There was often little said, their focus being on physical compulsion and satisfaction. Without commitment or emotional depth, the time they spent together were more like workout sessions than lovemaking, and, if Tom was honest with himself, that suited him fine.

  He could hardly believe that he’d been capable of holding another woman besides his sweet Lauren, who’d been gone from his life for so long now, but it had happened, without his seeing it come.

  All part of Tom’s unpredictable year.

  It didn’t last, his relationship with Anne. When her parents decided to open a boutique hotel in Old Montreal, she spent more and more time there, and less and less time in Beaufort. Anne disliked Tom’s church-house, finding it too rough, dark and unfinished, so most of their encounters had taken place at the Auberge. They had gone fishing together, and she lent him the fishing tackle, as he had none. They cast off from an old wooden bridge across Rivière Margelaine, and Anne caught a brown trout, Tom a small but likely black-striped perch. They necked like teenagers after that in the back seat of the police SUV, inadvertently turning on the sirens, which had spooked several hikers.

  Nothing had been said at the beginning of their casual relationship, and nothing was said to bring it to an end. It was just over. It had run its course. Anne’s warmth and all that good sex had had a calming effect on Tom’s spirit and had distracted him from his concerns.

  He wasn’t sure he’d had the same positive effect on her. She had done him more good than he had returned, he thought, but that was just his way of thinking. He had done nothing to help his father, in his darkest, lowest times, nor his mother, who disintegrated after her losing her husband. He had done nothing to help Lauren, when she was hemorrhaging on a foggy highway, slipping toward death.

  That dense and immovable fog still drifted through his mind and his heart. He and Lauren had gone for a drive in the country. When the fog enveloped them, nothing was visible at all, and an oncoming vehicle interrupted their adventure and their lives, sending Tom’s sleek convertible careening into oblivion. Tom, who was thrown free and suffered only minor injuries, had crawled back to his love, finding her jammed in the wrecked car.

  Lauren died there as Tom reached uselessly into the wreck, touching her face, her hands, unable to move her. There was nothing to do but let go.

  Tom had come to accept that his relationships were a series of collisions, out of his control, usually with some brutal impact that left jagged-edged fragments by the wayside. But there was surprisingly little collateral damage, even an unusual calm, from this accidental connection with Anne. When it ended so simply and cleanly, he was sure he would pay dearly at some point for having gotten away with just a little bit of happiness.

  Brian Henley’s visit had been unpredictable, too. Tom hadn’t seen that coming. He had met Henley before—it was a small county, after all—but they had never exchanged more than a few words.

  Henley had just positioned his big frame across from Tom one day over dinner at Auberge du Lièvre and initiated a conversation. A retired lawyer and businessman, Henley was a wealthy man with no need to talk to anyone he didn’t already know, so Tom did wonder what had brought this on.

  Henley was a big game hunter, with exotic travels and major kills in the wild that he boasted of, having a reputation of being quite the storyteller. He was rumoured to be ruthless in business, too, going out of his way to crush competition and to leverage his political and legal contacts on a whim. Not at all the type Tom sought out for dinner conversation, and Tom was terrible at conversation anyway.

  It started with an exchange of platitudes, during which Tom was distracted by the size of Henley’s head, never having realized before how small it really was.

  “We’ve never really talked, Tom,” Henley said, “but I thought we should. Sometimes you can live and work so close to others and never really know them.”

  He waited for some kind of response from Tom and got nothing.

  “Well,” he continued, “I’m wondering what your thinking is on economic development?”

  “Economic development?” Tom repeated.

  “That’s right. See, the trend, and by trend, I mean local just as much as global, the trend leans toward the support of economic development and change. Change is good in most people’s minds. Change means progress. Evolution. Betterment. Thing is, when it comes to Beaufort, not all of us agree on that. Some of us feel it’s in our interest to keep things as they are and control development. Keep it in check. Nice and slow.”

  Tom’s impatience got the better of him.

  “Listen, buddy, I’ve heard this speech. I’ve been Deputy Chief of Beaufort Police just long enough to have been on the receiving end of this message more times than I’ve actually eaten dinner here, and this is the only restaurant in town—apart from La Petite Patate down the road, anyway. And Suzanne’s sandwich counter in the grocery store. I know you know the Mayor and the executive council members well. I know you guys are friends and I’m telling you I’m not going to give up on the idea of renovating my house, if that’s what this is about. I’m going to push for that zoning change until I’m as blue in the face as my police truck.”

  Henley moved his little head closer, titled it slightly, and narrowed his eyes.

  “You think this is about you? I don’t give a rat’s ass about you! I couldn’t give a shit what you do with that old church. Live in it or bulldoze it, I don’t care. I’m concerned about the county! I care about the downtown area and the way we live here. And I�
��m concerned about your boss!”

  “What about my boss?” asked Tom.

  “He’s getting old. And tired.”

  Tom shrugged. “Is that so?”

  “He is,” continued Henley. “Arthur’s in his last year as Chief of Police.”

  “What, did he tell you that? He didn’t tell me that.”

  “Arthur’s too tired, too old, I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, drinking so goddam much, but he’s in his last year and that means change.”

  “And you don’t like change. I got that. But what’s the problem?” asked Tom.

  “You’re the goddam problem! You spend more time fucking the daughters of local business owners than patrolling the roads! The rest of the time you spend fighting every other guy and his brother for reasons nobody understands. You know Jeffrey Lennox is my cousin? No shit. He’s a bag of trouble, but he’s family. No, you didn’t know that, did you? Because you’re too busy sulking in some far-off field in the woods over an old church even God doesn’t care about anymore. Nobody knows who the fuck you are or what you’re about, except for Arthur, I guess. Nobody can even talk to you without a fight breaking out. How’s the town council supposed to feel about your taking over the police department?”

  “Privileged,” said Tom. “You know, maybe I don’t even want the bloody job! Ever think about that?”

  “You’re a piece of work, Brooder Doran! Yeah, I’ve heard the stories,” said Henley, “and I know all about your father, too, and about how Arthur saved your ass.”

  “Are we done?” asked Tom, calmly. “My steak’s getting cold.”

  “How’d you end up a cop anyway?”

  “Too much homework in law school. I just wanted to shoot guns.”

  “Impressive,” said Henley.

  “Okay, let’s stop the bullshit,” said Tom, meeting Henley’s eye. “You’ve ruined my meal, and that’s fine, the kitchen can warm it for me. But one serving of your bullshit is more than enough. Tell me, why does every wealthy asshole in town, including my boss, by the way, keep reminding me to be loyal to the Beaufort cause? I don’t get it. What is that all about? Is there some kind of plan here in Beaufort I don’t know about? Is there an untapped oil supply in the valley that you and the executive committee want to keep for yourselves? What’s the big secret? You all act like there’s a big goddam secret.”

  Henley squirmed in his seat.

  “You said it yourself just now,” Tom continued, “this isn’t about me. What it should be about is the law, plain and simple. Not about me, not you, not your piece of shit cousin, not about shooting down deer after deer out of season, not about Arthur getting too old or drinking too much, not about my zoning derogation request, but simply about respect for the law. Good behaviour. Point final. Does that clarify where I stand on things for you, Mr. Henley, and what I’m about? Is that clear enough! Let’s all abide by the law, and then as a police officer, I won’t, for one thing, have to kick your sorry cousin’s ass so freakin’ often.”

  Henley’s little head was beet red. Veins pulsed in his long neck.

  “So,” Tom continued, “unless you’ve got some ivy-league, holier-than-thou response you’d like to share with me, and I really hope you don’t, could you get the fuck out of my face and let me enjoy my steak?”

  “Sure. Enjoy the steak, Brooder,” said Henley, getting up slowly, angrily.

  “I’ll try,” said Tom. “Oh, before you go, answer me this. Paul Carignan, did you know him well?”

  “We had some business dealings, nothing that really worked out.”

  “How come?” Tom asked.

  “None of your business. Not that you’d even understand if I shared it with you.”

  “Yeah, I’m just a cop. What do I know about business?”

  “Exactly, you’re just a cop.”

  “Was Paul Carignan a friend of yours?”

  “No, friends help each other. Paul Carignan wasn’t in business for anyone other than himself.”

  “And that’s what you do, help others?” asked Tom.

  “Yeah, I do! I’m a good neighbour to my Beaufort friends.”

  “I see. You sound a little resentful,” said Tom.

  “It’s unfortunate what happened to Paul Carignan,” said Henley.

  “Some might even say it was tragic,” Tom said. He observed Henley, who looked as though he had lost something for a moment, then seemed to find it again.

  “There’s an executive committee meeting, at Town Hall at the end of the month,” Henley said. “You should attend so we can finish up this business about this church of yours.”

  “Should I bother? I’m getting the sense I already know the answer.”

  Henley backed off from Tom’s table.

  “I should sell the property to a fanatic religious cult. No re-zoning required. It’ll continue as a church!” said Tom. “Would that be better for Beaufort? I’ll sell it to the Children of Science! You know the ones? They believe God is really this weird, rich, fat guy in Philadelphia who thinks he’s an alien and all women are meant to serve his sexual needs and donate all their earnings to the cause! They would be interesting neighbours for you, don’t you think?”

  “You’re a real piece of work, Brooder,” said Henley.

  “That’s Deputy Chief Brooder,” said Tom, stabbing his fork into a chunk of steak.

  “I’m sure we’ll talk again,” said Henley.

  Tom had no reply. He was chewing. He hated cold food.

  Valhalla couldn’t come soon enough.

  Noah and Jack stared out at the fields, the passing light posts, the farms, the street lines, the other cars, the clouds, the spaces in between them. Everything moved far too slowly for their adolescent brains.

  They finally came to Beaufort County.

  My father’s spirit is in this ground, thought Jack. He stretched his tired legs and arms. The car constrained him. He watched a flock of crows over the highway.

  Catherine was anxious to return to Montreal after dropping them off. “This isn’t a family trip,” she had said. “This is punishment!”

  “Okay, Mom, we know,” said Jack, slumped in the passenger seat, not looking at her.

  “Be careful what you say, Jack, or you’ll end up back in Kirkland in a snap!”

  “Mom! I know! That’s all I said. Jesus!”

  “Jesus has nothing to do with this,” said Catherine, and was then annoyed at herself for bothering to correct Jack. That was her stress talking. That, and a certain amount of anger.

  “Okay, Mom,” Jack said, making it softer this time.

  “We know we’re exiled from school, Mom.” said Noah. “We get it.”

  “Exiled?” asked Jack. “We weren’t exiled. We were suspended, that’s all!”

  “That’s all?” said Catherine.

  “You know what I mean, Mom. Noah always has to use these sorts of words. Exiled. We weren’t kicked out of a small country.”

  The boys snickered. Catherine sighed. A smile finally broke.

  Jack and Noah ran in, each with a travel bag filled with more electronics than clothes. Laptop, tablet, DVDs, CDs, games, wires and connectors. They set up their command centre, and quickly plugged in and booted up. Entertainment, videos, communications, chat, email—all ready.

  Noah popped the seal on a frozen turkey dinner and placed it in one of the two microwave ovens. Without bothering to read the cooking instructions, he keyed in five minutes on high. Noah was hungry. While the oven beeped and purred, Noah looked around in the walk-in pantry for what else he might snack on. He scanned shelf after shelf of canned and pickled goods, a survivalist’s dream, though that had never been the purpose. A second door inside the pantry led to a cold room, and that was well stocked, too, with everything from juices, fruit, and smoked meats to innumerable bottles of spring wate
r.

  By the time Jack was on level three of Vanquish, Version Seven, Catherine was almost back in her office in Kirkland.

  Jack and Noah played games through the evening. Catherine called them at 10:30 to remind them of their curfew, which they acknowledged but soon forgot.

  Next morning, despite a long night of gaming, the boys woke early and started up their computers again.

  Jack pulled the headphones off his ears and let them dangle around his neck. He raised the volume. Furniture and windows vibrated with thick, impenetrable sound. He loved it. He tore across the dimly lit, barren plain of a country not on this planet, targeting monstrous creatures that objected to his virtual presence. Whenever he wished, he could press a tiny lever and leap a hundred feet forward and fifty feet up and then crash back down, with definitive, brutal force, shattering the skulls of the enemy.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Zeph outside the Valhalla living room windows, waving frantically with a big smile on his face. He banged on the glass, but Jack couldn’t hear it. Zeph’s hair was spiked, shooting up to the sky and out to the sides. He looked as though a bolt of lightning had energized him.

  Jack started toward the windows, then motioned for Zeph to go to the back. He ran to meet him, but Noah was already there, letting him in.

  “Zephmeister!” shouted Jack, with open arms.

  “How’d you know we were here?” asked Noah.

  “The Zephmeister knows everything!” said Zeph, giving Noah a high-five and Jack a hard slap on the forehead. All three were grinning.

  “You guys are so big,” Noah said, seeing their reflections in the mirrors at the entry. “Look how small I am!”

  Jack and Zeph turned toward the mirrors and both dropped into muscle-popping bodybuilding poses, growling for emphasis, their faces reddening with the effort. They relaxed with a gasp for air, laughing.

  “What happened to you?” asked Jack.

  Zeph explained that his parents took advantage of his suspension to come to Beaufort to meet up with some friends here, so he would be around for the next few weeks, too.

  “We may not be here the whole time. Might be just a few days, now and again. Depends on our mom and her work.”