Page 6 of Royal Reluctance

Coffee made, I shrug into my coat, taking a cup out to the porch along with Kody so he can do his business.

Wake up. Coffee. Let Kody out. Eat, and then chop. My morning routine may be comforting but it still… lacks.

I know exactly what is lacking, but I’m not ready to do anything about it.

The sun hints at the horizon. Laandia may be on the edge of the Atlantic, but we’re pretty far north so the sun is a rare commodity during the winter months.

The cold seeps through the flannel of my pants and quickly chills my bare feet in the fuzzy yellow Crocs Lyra gave me last Christmas, but I’m used to the temperature. Winter in Laandia is unforgivingly cold, and you accept it. Or you leave.

Through the trees, I see the light wink on and time how long it takes for Fred to gallop through the forest for his morning visit with Kody.

My neighbours, Jean and Buck Marsden, live five minutes away through the trees but a longer twenty if you take the road. Fred is a Lab/ beagle cross and seems to always know when Kody is outside.

“I’m glad you have a friend,” I mutter as Kody races away for a romp with Fred.

Buck’s father had been the groundskeeper when my grandfather would use the cottage as a hunting lodge years ago. No one in our family is a hunter, but the one-bedroom cottage made a great hideout when I was younger.

Buck and I expanded it over the years—it now has four bedrooms, three baths, with a porch wrapping around the building to join the screened-in section out back with the good view of the mountains. The screens help with the mosquitoes and the heaters help with the cold.

There’s enough space for my brothers for a visit even though it’s been a while since anyone has been here. I usually go back to Battle Harbour when I’m summoned, or someone needs me. Or when I miss my family.

My brother Gunnar isn’t the only pilot in the family. As soon as my father took me to the cabin, I knew I had to find an easier way to get there than the drive across Laandia. I bought the secondhand Cessna 206 about five years ago, so it’s an easy flight back home when I need to be there.

The barking of the dogs treeing every squirrel in the vicinity follows me inside. I see the odd deer and the coyotes roam through the trees but they steer clear of the house. The bears keep to the north, so the only wild things I have for company are the squirrelsand the raccoons.

I like the solitude. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I like living in the woods, far away from the demands of being part of the royal family. No one bothers me here, no one expects anything from me but a load of firewood. I have no responsibilities or duties other than at the animal reserve about half an hour north that I work at a few days a week. There’s no strain of being told to smile, give my opinions, or show up dressed in a tuxedo to be fawned over.

I have my trees. I have my books, the homemade shelves filling one wall. I have friends in Wabush when I’m in need of conversation over a beer.

There are women if I’m in need of more than conversation, but I’ve never brought anyone here.

This is my space. My sanctuary, full of great works of literature and a whole pile of regrets.

The sunken living room is dark, but my eyes still land on the painting hanging on the wall: the back of a woman walking through the pine trees, wearing a short pink dress with flowers in her red hair, Kody by her side like he’s escorting her. She walks along a thick carpet of rose petals that I laid down because Hettie preferred her feet to be bare, even in the forest.

It took bags and bags of petals to make the path from the house to the spot in the woods, and a lot of praying that the wind wouldn’t pick up.

It’s truly amazing what you can order on-line.

I commissioned the painting years ago because there were no pictures of that day and I wanted to remember what Hettie looked like when she walked toward me. The artist couldn’t get her faceperfect and it hurt too much for me to see it, so we went with the back view.

Her face haunts my dreams more than the accident, so I don’t need to see her smile every time I walk into the room.

I still remember the way the corners of her mouth curved up, always ready for a smile, how her eyes would shine when she looked up at me. The tiny spatter of freckles across her cheeks. How it felt to have her hand folded into mine, her body pressed against me.

Missing Hettie has been a constant over the years. Some days it’s bad. Some days it’s bearable.

Today, after dreaming about the accident, it feels like a bad day. I make myself eggs and toast and then head out with my ax to stop myself from thinking about her.

Some days it works.

3

Hettie

Buck Marsden gives mea ride to Bo’s.

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