Page 56 of Just Trouble

I need to court her. It’s an old word but a good one. We need to date and talk, cultivate some romance instead of just satisfaction. I need to show her that I’m not a one-hit-wonder with one foot out the door. I need to prove to her that it’s not just about the sex—even though the sex was amazing.

Can I do it? Can I win the war without my most reliable asset? I’m pretty sure I could convince Daph to invite me home again, but that’s not nearly enough. I need her to trust me. I need to prove that I have the stuff to go the distance.

Maybe, we need to abstain until she’s sure.

If ever there was a thought to shake me up, that’s it—but it also echoes with truth.

What she distrusts are words. Promises. Lies. What I need to provide is tangible evidence of my reliability. (Yes, that has to be Taylor laughing again.)

Fortunately, I’m not a guy who backs away from a challenge. If Daph sends me away, I’ll go, but until she does, I’ll argue my case as well as I can.

While I strategize that campaign, I have stuff to do. Merrie is coming today, but first I want to tell Una the good news.

The last timeI went to Una’s place, a few weeks back, I didn’t use her driveway. I rode into the provincial park to the east of Empire and approached from behind, coming through the forest to avoid the town. This time, I walk up to Daph’s place, take a right at the two-track leading into the woods, and go for a more conventional arrival. I’ve scored a big black umbrella from Bruno and am enjoying the soft patter of the rain. It’s tranquil in a way that I’m not.

Una’s driveway is an unpaved two-track that hasn’t seen a vehicle in a long time. The grass is already long on either side of the worn pathways, both beaten down so hard that nothing grows in them. One is wider than the other so it must be her footpath of choice. In between, there are small pink flowers emerging like little stars. Right now, they’re glistening with raindrops. The path bends a bit, making its way around larger trees that obviously weren’t worth felling, even when the house was built. As a result, the trees quickly close behind me. I could be a million miles from anywhere, if not for that worn path leading me deeper into the woods.

There were trilliums in bloom the last time I was here, gleaming white in the shadows of the forest on either side. They’re finished now and something yellow has come into bloom instead. The trees are in full leaf now and the shadows on the forest floor are speckled with sunlight. I hear a lot of birds calling, then see that there are feeders hanging from the trees at intervals, all close to the path. A blue jay screams at me for interrupting his meal, then flies away, leaving the feederswinging in his wake. I don’t take more than half a dozen steps past the feeder before I hear claws on metal, and look back to see that he’s perched there again, gobbling seeds as the feeder swings like a metronome from the force of his landing.

Una’s house could be something out of a fairy tale, in that it’s a log cabin, hewn out of the surrounding forest. The foundation is fieldstone, a collection of rocks in various sizes, undoubtedly collected from the local fields. The roof is ribbed metal and steeply pitched, one guarantee that snow will always slide off. There’s a tendril of smoke rising from her fieldstone chimney, a reminder that she’s off the grid and proud of it. It could be a cottage and maybe it was once.

When we were kids, we always speculated that Una was a witch, that she ate children and mixed potions, that she cast spells turning people into frogs and toads. The dares were plentiful to go knock on her door alone at Halloween, despite the fact that she never had a bad word to say about anyone. Bruno and I took the dare one year and discovered that she had full-sized chocolate bars for trick-or-treaters. After that, we were Team Una (although we did debate the merit of continuing the rumour to score more chocolate for ourselves.) I don’t remember Sylvia being around then, but maybe there was a phase in my life when I didn’t care about girls. (Impossible. She must not have been here.)

Today, Una is sitting on her porch, sheltered from the patter of rain. Her porch is closed in and extends across the entire front of the house. I can see her there through the screens, the sunlight making the fat braid cast over her shoulder even more silver than it is. She’s frowning at something, and as I get closer, I see that she’s knitting—or she’s counting stitches and not liking the answer very much.

“Back twice in as many weeks,” she says by way of greeting. “There must be something in Empire that’s caught your attention.”

Is it so obvious that she’s right? I don’t know what to say and she smiles, indicating that I should come in. I leave my umbrella at the door, then sit in the other chair and wait. She counts the row again, then puts the work aside with a grimace.

“What can I do for you today?” Una’s eyes are pale blue and her skin is fair. She looks both delicate and powerful, a woman confident in what she knows and who she is, a woman who has looked in the mirror and come to terms with the battle she must wage.

“I thought you had chickens,” I say, indicating the empty coop.

“I did. A coyote took the last one, just after you were here.”

“You could get a couple more.”

She shrugs, looking tired for a moment. “Not now. I have to save my strength for the next while.” Then her eyes brighten and she fixes me with a look. “But you didn’t come to talk about chickens, did you?”

I didn’t come here to talk about cancer either.

I shake my head and give her the copy of the property transfer and title from Daph. She straightens her glasses and peers at it with as much concentration as her knitting, then eyes me.

“What’s this?”

“Just what it looks like. You own your house again.”

To my surprise, she slaps the document into her lap and glares at me. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to make something right, and that became part of it. Aren’t you pleased?”

Her expression changes, softening as she casts a glance over the interior of the porch and the chairs there. They’re wicker chairs that have been painted bright blue, and they have patchwork cushions on them. The inside of the roof is unfinished and the floor is just sanded wood, worn from footsteps and rain. The rain falls steadily on the roof, making me feel that I’ve stepped out of time.

“Of course, I’m pleased,” she says gruffly. “This is my home.” Her eyes narrow. “This is about Patrick, isn’t it?”

---