Frankie had been the one to insist on including children. “We have to catch these kids early,” she’d said, leaning across the table at the Tim Hortons in Parry Sound. “Growing up in an abusive home is terrifying, and by adolescence their reactions are entrenched. Girls in particular need to know that abuse is not their fault and they have a right to demand respect.”
“But I want this trip to be a refuge for these mothers. An escape from the constant demands of nurturing. Plus I can’t bring little kids on the open water. It’s too risky, and everyone has to be able to pitch in.” Amanda contemplated the trip she had in mind. Camping, paddling, strolling through forests and along granite shores. Stargazing, swimming, sharing stories around a campfire. It was to be a chance to laugh, to slip the bonds of their frightened lives and to find hope and confidence again.
All qualities she had tried to impart to the children and families she worked with as an international aid worker in Africa and Asia. She had loved the job and never imagined giving it up until a horde of jihadist thugs rampaged through the Nigerian village she was working in, torching buildings, slashing villagers, and kidnapping the children for their own brutal purposes. Amanda had managed to escape but had fled back home to Canada with her trust and her dreams in tatters.
Fun for Families rose out of those tattered dreams as a way to continue giving help and hope right here at home, while also raising money for overseas help.
“Nine- to twelve-year-old girls, then,” Frankie had countered. “I was once one of those. They still have some fight in them.”
Amanda smiled at the image of ten-year-old Frankie — fierce, raw, righteous — talking back to teachers, punching obnoxious boys in the head, getting suspended time after time. Teachers rolling their eyes and saying, “Well, what do you expect?”
Frankie was the kind of success story Amanda was aiming for, galvanized rather than defeated by her hardships and ready to take on any obstacle in her path. Fresh out of social work school, she had founded support services for abused women in the far-flung, sparsely populated Parry Sound District, including an emergency shelter, co-op apartment building, and counselling centre. Equally important, she was as adept at outdoor sports as she was at writing grant proposals and cajoling local service clubs.
Even at thirty, she still had the rebellious gleam in her eye that Amanda remembered so well from her own early years overseas. The belief you could change the world, and the energy to try. Amanda still felt that spark but now, in her midthirties, it sputtered and nearly winked out when fatigue, failure, or memories of Nigeria swept over her. Just being with this feisty young woman, with her ripped jeans, turquoise hair, multiple silver studs, and fringed leather jacket made her heart beat faster.
“Then let’s include sons, too,” Amanda had said. “Mothers with nine- to twelve-year-old children, period. Boys are affected by abusive men as well. They need to learn a different way to be a man.”
Frankie was clearly not ready to forgive the male half of the species just yet, but by the end of the coffee meeting, they had hammered out the makeup and size of the group and a rough list of the activities. Amanda had come away with the name of the outfitter Frankie had recommended. “No one knows the islands like George Gifford, and he’s also a huge supporter of our work. He sits on boards, organizes fundraisers, and talks to local clubs and bars. He’s a guy’s guy, and up here, that’s everything. He hired me on as a cook one summer when I was a sixteen-year-old brat headed for jail. George is …” Frankie paused, her eyes shining. “If any man can be a saint, he’s one.”
Standing now on the dock with George’s son, Amanda wondered whether the sainthood applied to the son as well. He looked too young and brash, not yet tempered by the years. His eyes were impish and his movements jaunty and sure. He was sexy in an earthy, rumpled way, and Amanda suspected he knew it.
Not a saint by a long shot.
What was Frankie going to make of this when she arrived? Since she had worked with his father, did she already know the son? Amanda had only a moment to wonder before an aging Honda CR-V rattled down the road and jerked to a stop in the middle of the lot. Frankie yanked the emergency brake and leaped out. Silver studs glinted in the sun.
“Ronny!” There was no delight in her tone. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Ronny grinned. “How ya doing, Flash?”
“George is apparently not coming,” Amanda said, hoping to head off trouble.
“But he sent me.”
“Oh, no, no, no. The deal was George. What the hell? He’s dying to do this trip!”
“And he will,” Ronny said. “He put his back out a few days ago, but it will be fine by July. I’m just here to work out the route and the supplies with you. I’ve been on hundreds of trips with Dad, and I know every shoal and eddy, all the secret camping spots and best hikes.” He walked over to her car. “Let’s call a ceasefire for now, okay, Flash? And get your gear in the boat. I’ll even forgive you that kick in the balls in grade six.”
Frankie’s lips twitched. “I hope it did some good. But lucky for you, we don’t need a ceasefire. I can’t come. There’s a crisis with one of the women. Husband found her and put her in the hospital. I’ve got to deal with cops and restraining orders. Again!” She pulled a handwritten sheet off her battered clipboard and held it out. “Here’s the details on the group. If I can get things sorted out in a day or two, I’ll join you. Otherwise …” She shrugged as she climbed back in her car. “Sorry, Amanda. I thought George would be here.”
This trip really is going from bad to worse, Amanda thought. What more could go wrong?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The boat was loaded and ready to go when her cellphone rang. Chris. Finally! Her quiver of excitement faded when he spoke. His usually cheerful, teasing voice sounded tense.
“I’m still in Deer Lake,” he said. “A situation came up, and Sergeant Knotts needs an extra hand. I think he’s just being a jerk, but I better not argue.”
“But …” Her voice trailed off. What could she say?
“Sorry, I should have called earlier, but I didn’t think it would take this long. But if I get a flight first thing in the morning, I should be able to get there by tomorrow afternoon. Will that work?”
Amanda’s hopes sank. There was no point in arguing or pleading. Much of his current problem at work was her fault, and the tie between them was too tenuous for guilt or expectations. Suppressing a sigh, she turned to Ronny, who was playing with Kaylee.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked.
“He’s not —” She checked herself. Ronny didn’t need to know the complexities. With a vague shrug, she relayed the problem to him.
If he noticed her evasion, he gave no sign. “Tell him we’re just going to Franklin Island for the night. There’s lots to explore there, and it has cellphone coverage. I’ll leave his kayak and gear at the marina in Snug Harbour, and if he gets here tomorrow, he can meet us on the island.”
Amanda tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She’d been looking forward to this day ever since the phone call two months ago, when he’d finally committed to coming on the trip. She knew he was still wary, and their fragile relationship might crumble before it could really get started, but it was a step. He’d agreed to use some of his leave from his RCMP post in Newfoundland. Even with the others around, they would still have moments together. Chances to share the sunsets, the moonlight, the swims in secret lagoons, the tent at night.…
This trip would give them a hint at their future. If any.
She relayed Ronny’s suggestion to Chris and told him to keep her informed of his whereabouts by text. “Ronny says there is cellphone coverage on Franklin Island, so we can set up a rendezvous.”
“Okay.” His voice dropped. “Sorry, Amanda.”
She gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “I’ll miss you tonight.”
For a beat he didn’t respond, and she was afraid she’d gone too far. Un
til finally … “Hold that thought.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ronny gunned the engine, and Amanda grabbed Kaylee’s collar as the boat bounced over the waves. Ronny laughed. “She’s not fast,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, “but she’ll get you where you want to go.”
“Where are we going?” she replied as he turned the boat southward to thread between two islands. “I thought we were going to explore by kayak.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll pick up the kayaks farther south in Snug Harbour. But you should see some of the coast before we decide on the route for the trip, and it’s faster by motorboat.”
All around them lay a maze of islands and wandering shoreline. Short, twisted pines struggled to find purchase in the polished pink granite of the water’s edge. Red and green channel markers guided boats down the middle of the waterway, but Ronny slowed the engine and nudged the boat closer to land. In the lull, he pulled an iPad out of his pack and booted it up.
“Navigational app,” he said with a grin. “It shows me water depth and the safest routes, takes most of the guesswork out of navigating. My dad says it takes all the fun out of it too, but I’m not taking any chances. This coast is full of shoals and underwater rocks. You gotta be careful, or they’ll take out your propeller. Dad knows every single rock, and I know most of them, but I like this high-tech stuff.”
She glanced down at the map on the tablet. It looked a bit like a nautical chart, but a little blue dot marked their progress through the channel. Useful, but she agreed with George. Looking at the real landscape was more fun.
Ronny gestured to the shoreline as they passed. “Lots of cottages along here; not much public land for camping, but my dad wanted you to see it. These cottages are part of Georgian Bay’s history.”
The term “cottage” seemed like a gross inaccuracy. Some of the dwellings perched on the clifftops or sprawling across the manicured shore were more like palaces, with multiple decks and balconies, docks, boathouses bigger than most homes, and even floatplane hangars. There were gleaming wooden timbers, hand-hewn stone walls, banks of windows facing the sunsets. For her struggling single mothers, it would be a world as foreign and unattainable as Hollywood. She thought about the families she had worked with in Cambodia and Africa, living with six children in a one-room hut, trying to coax vegetables from a patch of dust outside.
Ronny must have seen her dismay, for his grin widened. “Different world, eh?”
“Who are these people?”
He shrugged. “Rich. These places can set you back well over a million. Some folks are from Toronto, but there’s lots of Americans — Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan. They bought up the cottages during the war when Canada had gas rationing and they didn’t.” He swerved the boat just in time to avoid a pink rock that loomed like a whale beneath the surface. “But a few of the cottages are over a hundred years old and still owned by the original families. Most of them didn’t start off rich. They came to work when fishing and logging were the big industries, and they built little cottages on the islands for the season. In a hundred years, you can make a lot of improvements.”
“Improvements” didn’t begin to describe the extravagance tucked into the inlets and perched on western points. As beautiful as some of the homes were, they didn’t belong here.
Ronny seemed oblivious. “Think your group would like to see these?”
Her protective instincts kicked in. What was the point of rubbing their noses in their own poor luck of the draw? But that was being patronizing. Television had already shown them the unattainable world of the super rich. Advertisements seduced them with glamorous clothes, luxury cars, and homes that gleamed of stainless steel, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers.
“Maybe,” she said, “but I don’t see any place for us to land and explore.” Most of the islands had private property signs prominent on the shore.
“Not here. This is millionaires’ row. But there are public islands farther south, and we can make a day trip up here. Not much going on right now, but in the summertime, this channel is hopping. Speedboats, water skiers, floatplanes all zooming around.”
As they rounded a point of land, another huge mansion came into view, with stone patios and gardens sprawling along the waterfront. Amanda stared at it in appalled fascination. It was stunningly beautiful, with soaring two-storey windows, square timber framing, and granite cladding. The sound of power tools whined above the low put put of the motorboat, and she could see swarms of men at work. Ronny drew closer, craning his neck to see through the trees.
“Construction season. This place is owned by some rich New York guy, Wall Street or something, just bought it last year. He’s putting in a swimming pool.”
“Swimming pool!” Amanda looked with astonishment at the sparkling waters of the strait. “Why on earth?”
He shrugged. “Heated. And some people don’t like swimming with fishies and crayfish and zebra mussels. But they can build a whole Disney theme park if they want, as long as they bring jobs. I’ve worked on a couple of these mansions, and a buddy of mine is working on this one.”
Amanda tore her eyes away and looked across the channel, where country estates peeked out from the shoreline of rocks and trees. “Is that shore all privately owned as well?”
His gaze flickered. “Mostly. It’s a couple of big islands.”
“Can we take a peek? They might be nice to paddle through.”
He hesitated a beat before turning the boat and guiding it across the channel. He pointed to the tablet. “Zoom in on that app. Lots of tricky shoals for a motorboat around there. We don’t want to end up at the bottom of the lake.”
As they drew closer, she saw most of the homes were still boarded up for the winter, with boats tucked into boathouses and docks lifted from the water. One or two floatplanes bobbed in the water, however, and as they came around another point, a deep natural inlet sliced through the granite shoreline, protecting a sailing yacht from the open waves. In another slip beside the yacht, polished wood flashed in the morning sun. Peering closer, she could make out the familiar contours of an antique speedboat.
“Wait!” she cried. “Can you go closer?”
He glanced at his watch. “Our gear’s waiting for us at the marina.”
“Who owns that place?”
He turned the boat back toward the marked channel. “Been in the family so long, it’s called Saint Clair Island. Toronto family made their money in mining and steel years ago. The old tycoon just died a couple of years ago.”
She could see figures moving around the property, sweeping the patios and stringing up lights through the greenery. Others were cleaning the barbeque and setting glasses and plates out on a long table. Down at the dock, a lone handyman was hammering in some new planks. “Looks like they’re having a party.”
He shrugged. “Could be. Might be their big cottage opening weekend, but I don’t exactly get an invite. Used to be they hired local people to work their parties, but now they bring in crews from Toronto.” He wheeled the boat around and opened the throttle on full, apparently having forgotten the threat of hidden rocks. Soon they were carving between the buoys at the centre of the strait, the mansions just distant scars on the wild granite beauty of the shore.
Images of Benson stayed with her, his open delight with Kaylee and his loving touch with the baby. Yet he had ignored Ronny, and now Ronny was being equally evasive. Was there a story there? she wondered idly. Was it just a clash of two solitudes, resentment over the loss of local jobs, or something more personal? Benson, for all his playful warmth, came from privilege and clearly enjoyed his luxuries. As Ronny himself said, different values.
She shook herself. Down, girl. Your prejudices are showing. Just because he has money, that doesn’t automatically make him a bad person. Even in the developing world she had known wealthy people who were extraordinarily generous and kind, and if his money had been in the family for generations, he could hardly be blamed for it anyway.
<
br /> A fluke of fate, she thought, putting the mysterious encounter behind her.
As Ronny had assured her, the kayaks and gear were waiting for them when they piloted up the inlet to Snug Harbour. He had packed food for four days, and once they’d transferred their personal and group gear to dry sacks, Ronny explained the intricate process of packing the kayaks.
“You gotta balance the weight in the front and back hatches,” he said as he stuffed the first dry sack deep into the front hatch. “Otherwise it won’t float level. And you gotta keep your emergency kit in easy reach. You don’t want to be trying to open a hatch when your boat is upside down in the water.”
“But we’re staying in sheltered bays, right?” Amanda said. “We’ve got kids and novice paddlers with us.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you never know when a storm will blow up. Even the quietest water can turn ugly. Better to overprepare than underprepare.”
Amanda could almost hear his father’s voice in the warning. She eyed him with new respect and relief. He might be young and cocky, but he appeared to know his job. The kayak she was packing was wider and heavier than the sleek craft he was using, because she had to fit Kaylee in the cockpit in front of her. She had done some paddling with Kaylee earlier in the month, and the dog was not thrilled with the cramped quarters, but Amanda hoped she would get used to it. In any case, the group would mostly be hopping from one island to another in short stints, because she doubted ten-year-olds would be any more patient than Kaylee.
Prisoners of Hope Page 2
