Sharing Spaces

by Nadia Nichols

  Chilkat skulked into the living room, casting an offended glance over his shoulder as he did. Just as Jack was about to effect his own escape from the lake house, Senna stalked into the room, brandishing a knife in one hand.

  “You really expect me to clean out my savings account to float the start-up of a fishing lodge I have absolutely no interest in?”

  “You own a half interest, so the way I see it, you should be at least halfway interested,” Jack corrected. “The only other alternative we have is not to open, and that’ll set you back a whole lot more because then we’d have to refund the advance deposits.”

  “Which total exactly how much, dare I ask?”

  “Oh, somewhere in the vicinity of thirty thousand dollars, give or take a few thousand.”

  “I see.” She whirled around and stalked back into the kitchen. He heard the loud hiss as the caribou steaks hit the hot frying pan. Jack turned once again toward the door, gesturing silently to the dog, but before he could take two steps, she reappeared.

  “I think it’s cowardly of you not to have mentioned these financial problems before now,” she said, waving the knife around for emphasis. “What if I don’t have ten thousand dollars?”

  “Then we’d better hope the fishing’s good and all of our guests are fish eaters.”

  “There are a million details in a start-up operation. You quoted ten grand, but it’ll probably be closer to twice that amount, though I won’t know until I see your set-up. How many guests can you take at a time?”

  “The lodge has six guest rooms with two double beds each and can accommodate twelve comfortably, but we’d need more guides to operate at full capacity. By law, there has to be one fishing guide for every two clients.”

  “How many employees?”

  “Four. A housekeeper, a cook and two guides. Three guides, if I can hire another. Four would be even better.”

  “Plus you. That’s seventeen or eighteen people eating three meals a day, seven days a week.”

  “That’s about what I figured,” Jack said, nodding.

  She spun and returned to the kitchen. More angry noises. Jack gave up on trying to escape. He knew he wouldn’t have time. Sure enough, she burst into the room again, eyes flashing. “And just how long do you think one cook is going to last with no helper and all those meals to prepare and no days off?”

  “It’s a short season, barely two, two and a half months. The cook’ll last, and that time will pass in the blink of an eye.” Jack snapped his fingers to emphasize just how fast summers flew by in Labrador. “You might even consider staying on yourself and pitching in. Think of it,” he continued, forging boldly onward in spite of her ominous expression. “In just twelve weeks time, you could easily double or triple what you’d get for your grandfather’s half of the business. You saw the reservation book. We’re going to be busy as hell. By summer’s end, you won’t have any trouble at all getting rid of your shares. It’d be worth your while to wait, and who knows? You might even enjoy spending the summer here and decide not to sell.”

  Senna regarded him as if he were crazy and shook her head. “I couldn’t get the time off even if I wanted to take it, which I can assure you I don’t.”

  “Then I guess you’ll just have to trust me enough to open the lodge and run it. We should be able to clear enough money after two months to keep the bank from foreclosing.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why would the bank foreclose? Is there a mortgage?”

  “Construction loan. We’re four months in arrears of making payments on it. The admiral’s medical bills were pretty steep and the insurance payments take forever to come, so we had no choice but to take out a—”

  “How big a construction loan?” Her voice was way too quiet.

  “Forty thousand,” Jack said, tensing for the explosion, “but we have a three-year pay-back period and a good interest rate.”

  Her expression never changed. She just stood for several moments with her hands on her hips, still as a statue. “Now would probably be a really good time for you to tell me you studied hotel management at Cornell,” she said in that same ominously quiet voice, “or graduated top of your class from Johnson and Wales.”

  Jack glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, detecting a whiff of something burning. “Now would probably be an even better time for you to turn those caribou steaks.”

  SENNA OVERCOOKED THE CARIBOU and the baked potatoes were equally dry, but the canned corn was heated to perfection. Conversation at the table was limited to such requests as “please pass the salt, the pepper or the butter.” Cutlery scraped on ironstone. Chewing was conducted with matching scowls of intense concentration. Chilkat appeared to be the only attendee enjoying the supper from his hiding place beneath the kitchen table, where, believing he was unobserved, Jack would slip him the toughest pieces of meat. Senna finished what she could and then laid her silverware across her plate. “I’m sorry about the meal.”

  “It was great,” Jack said, as if he really meant it. At least he had the good manners to pretend.

  Senna dabbed her mouth with a paper towel and cleared her throat. “There is another option for us to consider as far as this partnership goes.” She crumpled the paper towel in her hand and met his wary gaze. “We could have the entire business appraised right down to its individual components. Airplane, fishing lodge, this house, the trucks, the dogs and gear, the workshop. Then we’d divvy it up in such a way that’s fair. That way nothing will be shared jointly, I’ll be able to sell my half much faster and easier, and you’ll own your portion outright. No partner for you to have to deal with. I’ll even give you my half of the plane.”

  His response was a firm and immediate “No.”

  “You might at least consider it.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair with a shake of his head. “Not a happening thing. This place stays just the way the admiral wanted it to be. It doesn’t get hacked to pieces just because you want to run back to Maine with a quick chunk of change. I warned you I wouldn’t make this easy for you, and I won’t. A man’s lifelong dream isn’t just something you try to dispose of in two weeks, even if he is dead. And you might at least consider seeing what he created before you decide you want to get rid of your half.”

  “I could petition for partition and force you to divide the property or agree to sell it in its entirety and split the money,” she challenged. “The courts would rule in my favor, especially if they could see the mess you made of this place.”

  “The mess you stumbled into was a result of the wake we just held,” he said, rocking forward in his chair and leaning toward her. “And as far as bringing this to court, I’ll fight you tooth and nail. I might not win. Hell, I probably won’t, but I’ll fight you to the bitter end.”

  Senna felt her cheeks flush. “Mr. Hanson, I’m not trying to be heartless or greedy. I’m sorry the admiral’s dead, and I’m sorry the two of you didn’t get a chance to run the lodge together after all the work you put into it, but that’s not my fault. I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible for the both of us. Besides, you have no idea what kind of person might buy my half of the business. Maybe you wouldn’t get along. What could be worse than running a fishing lodge you love with someone you hate?” Senna could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn’t be swayed. She heaved a sigh of frustration. “What time are you thinking of leaving tomorrow morning?”

  He gave her another wary look. “Leaving?”

  “Flying me to see this lodge you plan to turn into a gold mine.”

  His expression cleared. “Sun-up.”

  “What time does that happen at this latitude?”

  “When the sun comes over the eastern end of the lake.” His grin was so unexpected and contagious that in spite of her disgruntled mood Senna very nearly returned it. “You’ll love the place when you see it, guaranteed. You won’t want to sell out, and you won’t want to leave. Better pack your overnight bag.”

  “I’ll be ready at su
n-up,” she said, rising to her feet and gathering up her plate. “But please understand that I have no intentions of spending the night there, or going into business with you on anything more than an extremely temporary basis.”

  Jack’s expression became stony as he matched her cool stare with his own. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different from a wedding planner,” he replied with a dismissive shrug. He pushed out of his chair and left the kitchen before Senna could hurl the plate at him, which was nothing less than his rude and insulting behavior deserved, but if he had been intending to leave the lake house, his escape was cut off by another arrival.

  The front door opened even as he was reaching for the door knob and Senna was startled to see a young and somewhat bedraggled-looking boy in his early teens with black, shoulder-length hair standing in the darkened doorway. He wore clothing that looked as if were made of old canvas, and there was a faded red bandana wrapped around his head.

  “Good to see you, Charlie,” Jack said. “C’mon in and meet Senna McCallum, the admiral’s granddaughter. You know. The wedding planner. Senna, this is Charlie Blake. I forgot to tell you that Charlie almost always eats supper here. He helps out around the place when he can. Likes working with the huskies.”

  “Hello, Charlie,” Senna said, still holding her plate and struggling to control her temper.

  The boy gave Senna a brief, inscrutable stare, then held out a book he was carrying. “Finished,” he said.

  “Good,” Jack said, retrieving it. “How’d you like it?”

  “I liked the part when Captain Ahab got tangled up, and the great white whale dragged him down,” the boy said, solemn-faced.

  “Best part of Moby Dick,” Jack agreed.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Charlie,” Senna managed after this brief interchange. “Sit down and I’ll get you some supper.”

  She began cleaning up the kitchen while Charlie ate and carried on a sporadic conversation with Jack. He began with the book he’d just read, continued with one-sentence subjects she couldn’t quite grasp, and peppered his conversation with words she’d never heard before. By the time she’d finished wiping down the counters, Charlie was getting ready to sack out on the couch. This was apparently also the norm, as he knew exactly where to find two blankets and a pillow stashed inside an old sea chest which also served as the coffee table. A small, black fox-like dog had appeared out of the blue arctic twilight to settle down with him, behaving as though it had been born and raised in that very living room.

  Senna hung the dishrag and towel behind the wood stove to dry and took Jack aside before heading upstairs for the night. “Just out of curiosity, is there anyone else who might show up to spend the night?”

  “Nope. Just Charlie. But unless you want Chilkat on your bed, better keep your door closed. That damn dog takes up most of the mattress. You’d better go up now. I don’t know what time morning comes in Maine, but in Labrador it comes really, really early.”

  “Don’t worry,” Senna said, turning her back on him and starting up the stairs. “I’m an early riser. You won’t be needing to roust me out of bed.”

  “Too bad. That might be kinda fun,” he called after her. Senna ignored his parting shot and took asylum in her grandfather’s room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, pondering the wisdom of sleeping under the same roof as that brash and arrogant man. His bedroom was just across the hall, and her door didn’t have a lock. Well, if he tried anything with her, he’d be sorry. Those three years of karate classes she’d taken in college would come in handy.

  As long as the day had been, and as tired as she was, Senna wasn’t ready for sleep. She stood in the middle of her grandfather’s room, surrounded by his personal belongings, and tried to feel some sort of connection. Strangely, none of his things reflected his lifelong naval career. There were several pieces of vintage carved scrimshaw atop his bureau, a stack of old books, including several regional histories of arctic exploration and the Hudson’s Bay Company, a harmonica that looked well used, a beautiful meerschaum pipe, several old buttons that appeared to have been carved out of bone in a pewter salt, a rifle propped behind the door, a box of excellent wildlife photographs, mostly of wolves and caribou, and a pair of well-worn mitts and matching mukluks made out of some kind of fur and hide and decorated with elaborate beadwork. Being surrounded by her grandfather’s things was like being in a museum.

  She touched each item, pondering the life of a man she hadn’t known at all, full of questions that could never be answered, and most of all, full of regrets. She was disappointed that she hadn’t yet stumbled across his journal. When she did, she hoped she would learn more about the enigma who was her grandfather, and why he had named her as his executor. At length she went to the window and looked out at the lake, its silken black waters reflecting the pale sliver of a new moon in a sky that wouldn’t know true darkness again until the far side of summer. The cove was as still as a mirror. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and contemplated the vastness of the wilderness beyond the panes of glass, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia for the two brief years she’d spent in the field as a wildlife biologist, fresh out of college and full of enthusiasm, truly believing she could make a difference.

  A day didn’t go by that she didn’t miss tramping through the Maine woods with a pair of binoculars and a notebook. She’d particularly enjoyed the time spent checking on the radio-collared female bears in their winter dens, gathering data and counting cubs. Bears and coyotes had become her favorite animals to observe, and ravens her favorite birds. The difference she had hoped to make in educating the public about the coyotes’ place in the ecosystem never came to pass. The deer-hunters’ hatred for that little brother of the wolf was far too deep-seated. If wolves kill a moose in Alaska, or coyotes kill a deer in Maine, these were sins committed by predators that humans had little tolerance for. They shot the wolves from airplanes and wanted to snare the coyotes. That these predators helped the moose and deer population remain healthy by culling out the weak, old and the sick was a foreign and unwelcome concept. The only difference Senna had made in the department was purely statistical. For a brief period of time, she was their token woman field biologist.

  Working for her aunt at the inn gave her an income far higher than that of her entry-level biologist’s wage at the state, but it didn’t come close to fulfilling her passion for wildlife and wild places. Here in Labrador she was sensing ever more acutely everything that she’d missed for the past five years.

  Senna heard a faint rustling sound outside her door and opened it to see Chilkat waiting there expectantly. He stood and nosed his way into the room. Senna hesitated for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices from below. She closed her door again, quietly, then braced the chair beneath the door knob, just in case Hanson got any funny ideas in the middle of the night.

  Meanwhile, the big husky leapt onto the bed with the grace of an athlete, curled up dead center, heaved a big sigh of contentment, and closed his eyes.

  “Very well, then,” Senna relented with a sigh of her own, opening her bag and rummaging within for her pajamas, “but you’re going to have to share.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EARLY MORNING, AND THE KITCHEN was cold enough to warrant kindling a fire in the woodstove. Jack wished there were bacon. He had a hankering to slice it into the frying pan, smell the fragrant hickory smoke and hear the fat sizzle. He searched the refrigerator twice before giving up. Yawning, he emptied the last of the stale coffee from the can into the pot and thought about all the mornings when the admiral had come down the stairs into the kitchen tamping tobacco into his pipe, reaching for his chipped mug and filling it to the rim. “Lots to do today,” he’d growl. “Long row to hoe.”

  The admiral was used to being first man up. The fact that Jack had him beat every morning had been a bone of contention at first, but eventually the old man had come to enjoy the luxury of coming down to the smell of freshly brewed
coffee. Always said the same thing. “Lots to do today. Long row to hoe.” Then he’d drink his coffee and smoke his pipe and plan the day.

  Jack missed the old man. He wondered if anyone would miss him half as much if he dropped dead. Doubted it. Well, maybe Charlie, and the huskies out in the dog yard. For a little while, anyway. Time was a river that washed a person away. Memories faded, became dilute. The day would come when he wouldn’t be able to picture the admiral’s face or the way he’d smoked his pipe or paddled a canoe. Made him wonder about Senna. Why had the two of them been at such odds? Damn shame. They could’ve shared a lot, but it was too late now.

  The coffee smelled good. Boiling now, perking along smartly and picking up speed. Let ’er rip. Charlie snored softly on the couch, the crackie stretched out alongside him, awake and watching. Always watching, that dog was. Her eyes never closed. Jack shut off the propane burner under the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, carrying it with him out onto the porch. He stood in his stocking feet, breath pluming into the frigid air. June, and the thermometer stood at thirty-two degrees. Not exactly gardening weather, but crisp and wonderful and completely free of mosquitoes. He stood in silence, watching smoke rise from the surface of the lake, watching the sky pale to the east and the stars slowly fade as he drank his first cup of the morning. He heard a noise behind him and turned, seeing movement through the open door.

  Senna was coming down the stairs. She was barefoot, clad in a white knee-length nightshirt with a green cardigan pulled over for warmth. Her slender, pretty legs flashed pale in the gloaming. She rounded the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, not seeing him on the porch, and went into the kitchen, where the fresh coffee waited and the woodstove gave off a strong, welcome warmth. She was pouring herself a cup when he entered the room, and she regarded him steadily as she blew over the top to cool the scalding brew.