Page 8 of The Woodcarver's Model
“Yes, you were.”
“It’s just that…when I want to have a relationship, I’ll find someone. On my own terms.”
She looked at him with concern and said, “But it’s been such a long time since you and Kevin split. Was it so bad that it put you off men entirely?”
“Oh, trust me. I still like men.”
She took his hand in hers. “It’s just that you seemed so happy back then. I miss that.”
“I’m still happy,” he assured her.
“Oh, come on. When was the last time you laughed?”
“Other than tonight?”
“You are such a jerk,” she said, swatting him with a throw pillow.
“And that’s why you love me. Look, that thing between Kevin and I ended up… It was horrible. As sucky as it sounds, it hurt like hell. I honestly wanted to die, and it took years before I stopped feeling like a hollow shell. The last thing I need, or want, is another person in my life making a mess of it. I like it just the way it is.”
She hugged him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You were just trying to help.”
“I meant I was sorry about what happened between you and Kevin. I’m not apologising for tonight.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.” He laughed.
“So…you don’t see anything happening between you and Thom?”
“No.”
“Not even a tiny spark?” she asked hopefully.
“Not even static.”
“I’m going to have so much explaining to do come Monday,” she said, burying her face in her hands.
Rob smiled a lot on his walk back to the hotel. Tom-with-an-H was an unmitigated disaster, but Jessica loved him enough to try, and that was what mattered.Oh God, Rob thought.When did I become so sentimental?He wondered if it was age, loneliness or a combination of both, but Rob knew that sentimentality made him uncomfortable. He pushed the thought away and focused on getting back to the hotel. Perhaps it was the wine, but something inside of him was sounding a small alarm bell.Something’s coming.Don’t let your emotions get out of control.
Chapter Five
Rob had initially thought he’d fly from Vancouver to Victoria but opted to rent a car and take the ferry instead. It gave him more flexibility in scheduling, and he loved to be in control of things.
He had researched Marsh Island online before leaving Toronto and found almost nothing about it.The island is like an undiscovered world. You can barely find it on a map. No wonder they wanted an article on it.He was uneasy going into a situation knowing so little about it, but it was still in Canada, so how bad could it get? Just the same, he thought he’d better rent something with traction and a winch. And while he was at it, maybe get a pontoon boat.
He arrived at the local car rental office, a short walk from the Sylvia, at nine in the morning. They had his Jeep Wrangler cleaned, fuelled and ready for him when he got there. Sadly, they had no pontoon boats. After a brief walk-around inspection, he tossed his duffle bag in the back, adjusted the seat and mirrors and headed out on the adventure. At least with this one, no one should be shooting at him—he hoped.
Rob had two choices—drive north to Horseshoe Bay and take the ferry there, or head south and take the ferry from Tsawwassen. The ferry trip from Horseshoe Bay was less picturesque than the southern route, but it was shorter, so it won. He’d get in quickly, talk to the locals and get out as fast as he could. A strategic strike was what he was looking for. He could make anything sound desirable to tourists.
The drive to the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal from Vancouver’s West End took him through Stanley Park, still looking a bit sad after the windstorm of 2006 which had blown down ten thousand trees, including countless giant redwoods. An old-growth forest wasn’t something that could be replaced in fifteen years. That being said, Rob felt at peace driving through the four-hundred-and-five hectares of lush vegetation.
From Stanley Park, it was a twenty-minute trip along the winding coastal highway to the ferry terminal where Rob joined the boarding line.
The air smelled of the sea—salt, fish and algae. It hit his sense memory like a halibut to the face. With each deep breath, the tension in his body released and a calmness crept over him. An announcement signalled all passengers should return to their vehicles as boarding was about to commence.
Once his Jeep was parked in the car bay, he made his way to the passenger deck where he started taking some shots around the ship. His process was to take as many images as he could. Pictures formed the article. Formed and informed. He loved photography—stealing moments of time, capturing emotions. It was photographing the jungle in Peru as they searched for his parents that had allowed him to hold on to his life as he knew it—to hold on to his sanity. It was later in life that he saw the benefit of taking a photographer along with him. Besides being a second pair of eyes to capture those split-second events that eluded him because he was looking in the opposite direction, they could also capture Rob. He became, in some pieces, the story.
A young man sat by the window of one of the observation windows. The sun shadowed his face to perfection, his cheekbones, perfect nose and the slightest smile showing his pure delight in the sight of the island they were passing. Rob rapidly fired off a number of shots. The young man was pure beauty in that instant, never to be repeated. He had captured his soul. Rob sighed and took in a deep breath.
