Sharing Spaces

by Nadia Nichols

  Jack stopped in the living room to check the phone’s answering machine. A brief message from Granville, for Senna. “I’m sorry to report I still haven’t found your grandfather’s letter, m’dear, but I know it’ll turn up. I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign soon, I expect the courts will be sending it along any day now.”

  Another one for Senna. “Hi, it’s Tim. You haven’t called and I’m getting worried. I’ll try to get the lodge’s number from your mother. Talk to you soon, I hope. Miss you.”

  Hearing that message sent Jack into an even darker state of mind. He stalked back to the plane, satisfied to see that it had begun to rain. Rain suited his mood. He climbed into the plane and headed for Goose Bay. One of the benefits of spending all those years in the Navy was access to the base commissary. There were good prices there, and a fair selection to choose from. He stocked up on all the necessary items to get them through the first full week of feeding twelve guests, but when it came to choosing the champagne he enlisted the help of one of the employees, who asked the advice of another, until finally four people were actively debating the merits of the different champagnes, not that there were all that many to debate. The more they talked, the more confusing the choice became.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but is this a special occasion?” a middle-aged woman who was perusing the wines inquired.

  Jack nodded, relieved by her interest. He needed a mature woman’s perspective. “Very special. A great woman and a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

  “Then you’ll want a very special champagne,” she said with a knowing smile. “Perrier-Jouet. The one with the pink flower painted on the bottle.”

  Jack scanned the selection and the woman touched his arm. “Don’t bother looking, you won’t find it here,” she said with a kind smile. Probably the wife of the base commander. She had that look of patient and long-suffering regality about her. “You’ll need to go to a first-rate liquor store or wine shop, and even then you might strike out. This is Labrador, after all.”

  It was handy that Goody had left her car for Wavey and Jack to use. Jack took full advantage, driving to the nearest purveyor of fine wines and cheeses, where he asked for the bottle of champagne with the flower painted on it.

  “You’re in luck,” the shopkeeper said. “I have one bottle in stock. Pricey stuff, so I don’t keep much on hand.”

  Jack pulled out his sock. “How pricey?”

  The shopkeeper watched as the bills and coins spilled out onto the counter. “A hundred bucks,” he said.

  Jack tried to hide his shock. The other bottles back at the commissary had been in the ten-to-twenty-dollar range. He sorted through the bills, counting what he’d accumulated over the past three years. It came to $114.52, Canadian. No doubt about it, he’d never be a rich man. “How much does caviar cost?” he said.

  “Depends on the type. You got the flying fish caviar, that’s cheap. You got the beluga caviar, that’ll cost you twice your life’s savings for four ounces.” The shopkeeper paused, watching Jack organize the loose change. “Strawberries go well with champagne,” he suggested. “Or a fine cheese, or smoked salmon on petit points.”

  Jack paid for the champagne and with what was leftover bought a nicely aged cheese and some of the most expensive crackers ever made. The shopkeeper ceremoniously packed this in a very attractive shopping bag that Jack knew Senna would like. He felt better about life in general as he left the shop, bag tucked under his jacket to keep it from getting wet, and carefully loaded the bag into Goody’s car. Back at Goody’s house he ferried all the groceries down to the plane, and the last thing he tucked in was the shopping bag with the champagne, right beside the pilot’s seat. He was doing pretty good. All the errands were done, and it was only eleven o’clock. He’d be back at the lodge in an hour. He hoped Senna wouldn’t be too mad at him for not getting the petunias, but at the moment he was dead broke.

  “Jack!” a voice called out as he was locking Goody’s car up. He saw a man wave from down the street. “Jack, bye! I couldn’t believe my luck when they said you just flew into town. I only just arrived myself.”

  “George?” Jack squinted through the rain. “George Pilgrim. I’ll be damned!”

  “I was sorry to hear the old admiral had died,” George said, pumping Jack’s hand as they met beside George’s battered pickup. “You knows how much I liked the old warhorse. I just come over from Lab City, y’see. Went to visit my daughter. Bad news there, the iron-ore workers just went on strike. They belong to the steelworkers’ union. Bad business going on now, sabotaging ore trains and such. The men are out of work, and it scares ’em and makes ’em ugly.”

  George Pilgrim was a native of Mud Lake, the son of a Montagnais girl and an Air Force man who had flown through her life one night. He was undoubtedly one of the best outdoorsmen in Labrador, having been a ranger for over forty years, patrolling the better part of Naskaupi and keeping the poachers on their toes, but he was in his seventies now, and starting to slow down. He guided fishermen mostly, to keep food on the table and his hand in the game. He and the admiral had raised a little hell together in the past five years and had formed a good friendship.

  “I’ll buy you a beer,” Jack said.

  “I’ll buy you a bite, if you’ll buy me a beer,” George grinned, his ruddy face beaming.

  Minutes later they were in the same pub where Gordina had once worked, ordering burgers and drinking beer. “It’s good to see you, bye,” George said. “You’re looking fit. Is the admiral’s lodge built, then?”

  “It’s built. Come out with me and see it. We’re opening next week.”

  George shook his head with regret. “I’d like to, but I’m having a surgery tomorrow. That’s why I’m here. They found a bit of smut in my innards, y’see, and they have to cut it out. They say the hospital here is pretty good.”

  “How long will you be in?”

  “If it goes good, not long. If it goes bad, I might not come out. That’s why I went to see my daughter. Didn’t tell her about it, though. Didn’t want to worry her.”

  “You’re too tough to die in a hospital, George. I’ll pick you up when you’re ready. Call the lodge, we have a satellite phone in there, and I’ll come get you. You can hang out there and recuperate. The fishing’s pretty good.”

  “Oh, aye, I’ll bet she is. The Wolf’s a fine trout and salmon river. So tell me, bye,” George said with a knowing look. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  Jack took a swallow of beer as the burgers were slid in front of them and avoided George’s question by glancing up at the man who’d delivered his order. “I see you have a new cook?”

  “Yep. Some high-browed lodge owner stole Gordina from me a week ago and thought he was really getting something, that’s the joke on him. I got me a real chef now. Business is already picking up. Gordina couldn’t cook worth a damn, and she was a sour old bitch, to boot.”

  Jack leaned toward George after the pub owner had shuffled off. “Guess which high-browed lodge owner stole Gordina from this place a week ago?” he said, lowering his voice. “And he’s right, she can’t cook worth a damn and she is a sour old bitch.”

  “You’re not going to tell me about her, bye, are you?”

  “It’s the admiral’s granddaughter, you old coot. Am I that plain to read?”

  “I can read the tracks a woman makes on a man’s heart as well as I can read animal tracks in the woods. Pass that ketchup along. It’s good to see you like this. You need a good woman, and if she’s the admiral’s granddaughter, then I’d say you done all right for yourself.”

  “The lodge is booked for the summer, George. I could use another guide once you’re up and about. Hell, I could use two of you, and if you know of anyone who can cook or clean rooms, or do prep work, or anything at all…”

  “I’ll think about it.” George nodded, squeezing ketchup on his burger and fries.

  “You can do your thinking at the lodge, while you recuperate. There’s a bunk
with your name on it in the guides’ camp.”

  “I’d like that, Jack, bye, I truly would,” George said. He set down the ketchup and the two men shook hands solemnly over the table before eating their burgers.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LUNCH WITH GEORGE TOOK over an hour, and by the time Jack got the plane back into the air it was two o’clock. He opened up the throttle, flying into a stiff headwind laden with rain and wondering if Senna would be worried. No doubt she was getting madder by the moment, wondering if he was shirking his work, wondering if the plane had crashed, worrying needlessly about nothing at all. By the time he landed on the Wolf, he was dreading how angry she was going to be and wondering how he was going to explain his tardiness and the lack of petunias. He carried the box of meats up the steep ramp, wanting to get some into the refrigerator and rest into the freezer as soon as possible. Inside the lodge he heard laughter in the kitchen and entered the room to the unlikely sight of Wavey and Gordina playing cards.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he said, setting the box down on the work island. “For cripe’s sake, with all the work that has to get done, you’re playing cards?”

  “We stopped for a cuppa,” Gordina said defensively, nudging the teapot on the table. “We were tired and need a break.” Wavey said nothing, just stood and left the room with a hurt, pouting expression on her face.

  “Where’s Senna?” Jack asked Gordina.

  The older woman looked surprised. “We haven’t seen her all day. We thought she was with you.”

  Gordina’s response caught Jack completely off guard. For a few moments he stared at her, hoping he hadn’t heard her speak those words. And then, all at once, his heart rate surged off the scale as adrenaline flooded through him. He turned and went to Senna’s room, banging on the door and bursting in. Empty. Chilkat was snoozing on the rug in front of the living-room fireplace, and looked as if he’d been there all morning. Jack’s blood had turned to ice by the time he returned to the kitchen. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Down to your cabin, I expect. Not much wood gets cut in a hard rain.”

  Jack ran to the guides’ camp, relieved to find Charlie on his bunk, reading. “Charlie, Senna’s missing. She’s been gone all day. I need your help. Get the crackie and come with me.”

  As he spoke he picked up his pack and began cramming things into it. Survival stuff for a cold overnight in bad weather. Compass on a thong around his neck. Map in the front compartment of his pack. Dry clothing. Rain gear. Flashlight. Fire starters. Gorp and jerky. Sleeping bag. Tarp. Everything he could fit in went into the pack, and it was a big pack. He filled his thermos with strong, hot coffee left over from that morning, the pot still on the woodstove. It was as black as tar and would float a teaspoon. He added about a cup of Charlie’s instant hot cocoa mix and a generous tablespoon of real vanilla extract. From past experience he knew this particular brew could practically jump-start a dead man. He stuffed the thermos into the pack. His stomach was filled with nameless dread.

  “The last time I saw her was early this morning,” he said, shouldering the pack and picking up his rifle. “She was standing on the dock when I flew out of here. We’ll start the search there. Charlie, for the love of God, get a move on!”

  SENNA WAS HUDDLED IN A BALL, knees to her chest, shivering, when she heard Jack’s plane fly over. It took a few moments before the distinctive roar of the engine insinuated itself into her dazed mind. She leapt to her feet, ducked out of her shelter and raced out onto the open esker, hoping to catch sight of the old plane, hoping she could orient herself to its direction, hoping she could use it to navigate her way back to the river. But the gray, murky overcast, the thick veils of mist that shrouded the dark forest, and the steady rain all conspired to obscure it from her sight. She strained her ears trying to hear some change in the engine’s pitch, but she couldn’t really tell which direction the noise was coming from.

  Tears filled her eyes as the sound faded into the vast silence of the wilderness, which closed back around her in a thick, suffocating blanket and smothered the last glimmer of hope. She was cold and wet and plagued by the mosquitoes but none of that mattered a damn compared to the depth of fear she felt. She was scared, and that was the most frightening sensation of all. She was really, truly scared. She’d never been scared of anything, ever, but she’d never been this lost before. It had taken every ounce of her self-control to stop the frantic search for the game trail she’d followed. It had taken all of her will power to realize that she was running in circles, exhausting herself, becoming colder and more panicked by the moment.

  That very terror she was experiencing had overwhelmed and killed others who had been lost in far less wild circumstances, and it was her knowledge of that deadly panic that had undoubtedly saved her from the same blind, hopeless fate. This was the stuff wardens had talked of, when hunting season rolled around. Stories of men getting disoriented in the woods, running until they dropped from exhaustion and perished of hypothermia. One man even threw his rifle away and was found two days later after a massive search, dead from exposure, but the real cause of his death had been his succumbing to panic. She’d read the little orange survival book that all hunters were encouraged to carry and tucked away all those nuggets of knowledge, never realizing that she would one day need them desperately.

  This was the day.

  When she’d realized how fast and how furious she was using up all her reserves and getting nowhere at all, she’d stopped, gasping for breath, and then stock of her situation. She had no compass. She had no matches with which to kindle a fire. She had no hat. Her jacket was water resistant but that didn’t do much good after such a long, steady exposure to the rain. She had no emergency food, no signal whistle, no knife. In short, she had none of the items that the little orange survival book recommended all people carry with them when they went into the woods, but she did remember the gist of what the book had preached. “When you realize you’re lost, stop and make camp. Prepare to spend the night out. You might be uncomfortable, but if you put enough effort into the shelter you build, you can be reasonably protected from the elements.”

  Shelter was the first order of business. If she were going to survive this experience, she’d have to create some sort of cover from the elements, without the benefit of an axe or saw, and in a land where two-hundred-year-old trees stood barely twenty feet tall. Once Senna knew what she had to do, she focused on the project and her sense of panic abated. She scouted the adjacent woods until she found a spruce that had been uprooted by the strong winds, laying the trunk over at a forty-five-degree angle before the tip became caught up in a thick tangle of other trees. Since black spruce was the abundant tree, she began breaking the longest boughs she could from the biggest trees she could find, until she had amassed a huge stack. Then she layered them thickly, beginning at the base of the uprooted tree, until she had created a tiny lean-to just big enough for her to sit under. She then gathered more boughs and laid them inside the lean-to to keep her off the wet ground and crawled inside. While not completely waterproof, the majority of rain was turned by the thick thatching, and if she could have kindled a fire at the lean-to’s opening she might even have been comfortable.

  She’d sat there for what seemed like hours, leaving the shelter periodically when the cold became so intense that she was shivering uncontrollably. She would crawl out and run in circles to get her circulation going, and when she became too tired to keep moving she’d crawl back into the shelter. The rain kept on, the dreariness contributing to her growing sense of despair. When she’d heard the plane approaching she had scrambled out of the lean-to, craning skyward and calling out Jack’s name as if he would hear her, and when the plane passed over unseen and the sound faded, she fought back the tears as she crawled back inside. Jack would soon know she was missing, he’d figure out she was lost, and he would find her. All she had to do was wait inside her lean-to, stay calm, and he would find her.

  JACK CURSED THE RA
IN. He cursed it loudly, savagely, repeatedly. He cursed the cold. He cursed the wild land and the dark woods and Charlie’s crackie, who was moving forward ever so slowly, stopping to delicately sniff every dripping branch, every wet rock, and he wondered if the little dog was really trying to pick up Senna’s scent or if Ula was just reading all the stories of the forest. The rain had washed away all but the deepest of tracks. He’d found the blurred paw print of a big wolf at the river’s edge, and Senna’s boot track beside it, but those were the only two defined tracks they’d seen. The rest of the search had been based on the crackie’s painstakingly slow progress away from the river and into the woods.

  Charlie had taken Ula to the one imprint of Senna’s boot track, held out Senna’s crumpled nightshirt for her to sniff, which Jack had thought would be the best item of clothing to use, and that was all. For the past hour they’d been following her along this old game trail while she acted as if she were on a relaxing Sunday jaunt.

  Who the hell knew what the crackie was smelling. Wolf? Caribou? It could be any of the dozens of animals that called this land home. The crackie was nothing more than an Indian hunting dog. Sure, she had a keen nose, but no training in search and rescue. Jack had never felt so hopeless as he did following that useless little chicken killer. He was already hoarse from shouting Senna’s name into the unforgiving wilderness. Damn the crackie for moving so slowly. Damn the rain for making so much noise. Damn his heart for beating so loudly in his ears! And damn Charlie for his stoic expression. The boy never displayed any emotion whatsoever.