Her Favorite Husband

She began to leaf through it. Andy was on every page, a boy discovering the variety of life in a forest.

The clerk must have noticed her interest. “That one is by a Manitoba author. Very popular. What’s the age of the child in question?”

“Oh, about thirty,” Sarah said, with a laugh. “But I already have these three. I’m enjoying remembering the first time I read them.”

“They’re lovely books, aren’t they? So colorful, and full of warmth, I always think. Robb has another book coming out in the spring. We’ve started a sign-up sheet.”

“You need a sign-up sheet?”

“It saves disappointment. I wouldn’t say the response compares to Harry Potter, but we do get a stream of parents and children coming in the month of an Elizabeth Robb release.”

That was good news and bad news. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.” A desperate, anxious eye.

Sarah chose some books—biographies of northern explorers and prospectors—and carried them to the checkout counter. As if the reminder of Liz’s problem wasn’t enough, taped to the wall behind the cash register she saw a clipping of Ian’s column. His black-and-white photo stared back at her.

I didn’t, she wanted to tell it. I didn’t drop anything.

ALL RIGHT, SO SHE had been a little careless where Liz was concerned. That don’t-bug-me tone had merited closer attention. Oliver could lecture her about it if he wanted, but not Ian.

With heavy bags digging into her fingers and banging against her legs, she finally came to the lake. On a map or from the air its shape made her think of a goose in flight. From the ground, it was like an ocean. The water went on and on, all the way to the horizon, clear and blue and sparkling.

Brightly painted houseboats—blue, red, yellow—were tethered on the north side. Farther out, sailboats and windsurfers glided across the waves. A few hardy people were swimming. In spite of the sun, the nearly twenty-four-hour sun, she couldn’t believe it was warm enough for that.

It reminded her of the Whiteshell, where her family had a cottage. Huge sheets of weathered granite sloped up from the lake. Along the shore, rocks had long ago broken off and tumbled into the water. A stab of homesickness struck her.

“Kinda pretty, a’nit?”

Sarah turned with a start to see an old man nearly at her elbow. She stepped back, more comfortable having a few feet between them, even though he seemed too frail to do any harm. He wasn’t a hundred percent clean. As soon as she noticed that she felt guilty.

“I didn’t hear you,” she told him.

He raised his voice. “Pretty, a’nit?”

She smiled, not sure if he was joking. “I meant I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “You was off in your own world. From away, are ya?”

“Vancouver. And you’re from here?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “From the Flats.”

He must mean Willow Flats, part of the Old Town. Sarah wondered if he was one of the prospectors who’d built there during the Depression. That would make him, what, ninety-five? Couldn’t be. Maybe he’d come during the second wave of gold mining. That would put him in his seventies or eighties. From the look of him he hadn’t had much luck, whatever brought him here.

“I’m taking my walk,” he told her. “Up to the caf for a beer.”

“In the morning?” She couldn’t help asking.

“Be noon once I’m there.”

The café, looking out over the water from the other side of the narrow peninsula, was a long walk for a slow-moving old man. Sarah wondered if she should offer him a few dollars. She didn’t want to offend him, but here she stood with bags and bags of souvenirs, and there he wobbled in his dusty clothes.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you that beer?” She felt in her pocket and brought out a few five dollar bills, enough for a meal, as well. “To thank you for stopping to make me feel welcome?”

“Well, ya know, I did that for free.” He nodded in farewell and started away, leaving her with her hand and the bills outstretched.

Embarrassed, she put the money back in her pocket. She didn’t seem to be doing much right lately.

Not far along the shoreline was a place where the stones were terraced like stairs. They led to a flat rock shelf big enough for a few people to sunbathe. She tucked her purchases into a dry, shaded nook, put her shoes on top, rolled up her slacks and waded into the lake.

Cold, clear water lapped over her toes, then over her ankles. It chilled her through, an odd sensation when she was so hot, like chills and fever. Minnows and water bugs darted to her feet, then away. She stopped to watch a small plane take off, slapping against the water before it lifted to the air and headed north, its loud engine fading to a drone.

She reached the stone steps and she climbed onto the shelf. There was one just like it at her family’s cottage. She and her brothers had fished from it, dived from it, had campfires on it. She and Ian had made love on it, late at night when there was a new moon, so nothing but stars lit their bodies.

The good memories were the ones that gave her the most trouble. Better memories than she had with anyone else.

Right from day one.

First class, first day of university, Old English lit, two rows ahead and three seats over. The cutest guy on the face of the earth.

Of course, at that point she hadn’t seen many guys yet.

Beowulf, as fascinating as he was, had receded. Her world, in that moment, was composed only of herself and this unknown boy. She was sorry for everyone else, everyone who wasn’t her, about to fall in love with him.

They had nearly all their classes together. That first week, she didn’t learn a thing. Didn’t take a single note. Didn’t turn a page. She watched Ian.

He was different from anyone she’d met before. Quiet, still, but not from shyness. She could tell it was from listening and thinking so intently.

One day they went for coffee and he talked about Shakespeare the way other guys talked about video games—like something vivid and fun, full of muscled, sweaty men with swords, not English actors in tights.

She couldn’t concentrate on what he said, though. All she could think was that she wanted to kiss him. She watched his face and his eyes, watched them change as his thoughts changed, noticed the way his mouth tightened when he stopped to think, and the way his lips parted and softened when he spoke. She thought of the way her lips would feel on his.

One day she did it. Kissed him. Right there in the coffee shop. What she hadn’t imagined was the heat, the current, sparked by that touch. It propelled them, no questions asked, into his dorm room and onto his bed.

They spent days in his room. Shakespeare was still in the mix. With Ian, Shakespeare was always part of it. Of course, Sarah was a fan, too. After seeing an old video of the Olivia Hussey Romeo and Juliet, how could she not be? But for Ian the Complete Works was like a self-help book. Shakespeare, Ian had claimed, understood everything, all human yearnings, all the mistakes and all the dreams.

Sarah didn’t want to think what the Bard would say about her now, a comic character on a fool’s errand to Yellowknife. Never mind rose-colored glasses; the minute she’d read that article on Saturday morning, she’d put on a blindfold.

THE WALK BACK TO THE hotel was uphill all the way. By the time Sarah reached the New Town, she felt as old and tired as the man by the lake.

She stopped for a breather, and saw three restaurants within close range. A pizzeria straight ahead, a Chinese establishment at one end of the street and a place that claimed to serve authentic northern fare down the other.

She went closer to read the menu posted on an outside wall. There through the window was Ian, like a framed picture, lost in thought, a cup of coffee beside his laptop.

Writer at Work. No, that didn’t fit. He didn’t look productive at all. Stalked by Guilt?

Probably not. By now he’d managed to squeeze the mistake he’d enjoyed so much into some dark, unused corner of his brain, then shut the door and locked it.

The imbalance between them unsettled her. He so clearly didn’t want to see her, but she wasn’t done needing to see him.

It was noon and she was hungry. She decided to go in.

CHAPTER FIVE

SARAH MANEUVERED HERSELF and her bags onto the bench seat across from Ian’s and gave him a bright smile. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ve been shopping all morning and I’m starving.”

She couldn’t tell if he minded or not. He closed his laptop and pushed it to one side, then caught a waiter’s eye, pointed at his coffee cup and signaled for another.

At least his first move wasn’t to call a taxi.

His water glass, apparently untouched, sat a tantalizing few inches away from her. “Could I have that? I’m parched.”

“Help yourself.”

“Another half hour out there and I’d be dead from dehydration.” The restaurant was busy, but not full. From the door she hadn’t seen the empty tables. She’d only seen Ian.

She drank most of the water, then patted some on her forehead. The coolness was such a relief she spooned out a few small ice cubes and dropped them inside her sweater. “This is the Arctic, right? I didn’t take a wrong turn and end up in Arizona?”

“It’s the subarctic—”

“Oh, the subarctic.”

“And you’re dressed for fall.”

He was dressed for gardening, or fishing, something outdoorsy, a bit casual even for a freelancer. The look suited him—the open collar, the rolled up sleeves, the signs of a little too much sun and just the right amount of muscle.

Her body began to tingle. Apparently it had no IQ at all.

“I thought you might be on your way home by now,” Ian said.

“That would have been a very short holiday.”

“You’re staying?”

“Hard to accept, is it?”

“No, no…of course not. You should enjoy the sights.”

The sentence sounded incomplete. Enjoy the sights quickly, he was saying, leave town even faster.

He had already ordered his meal. By the time the waiter arrived with coffee, Sarah had chosen one of the lunch specials printed on a blackboard menu—an almost zero-fat meal of poached arctic char and a salad.

When the waiter left she said, “Ian, could we let it go?”

“It?”

The unpromising response made her pause. “Whatever’s causing problems between us.”

He looked the way he had yesterday, withdrawn, and not friendly in the least. It was hard to feel good about the middle part of the evening given his antagonism before and since.

Oh, well. She’d unmade the bed, and regardless of lumps, she’d have to lie in it for a while.

The slight variation on the old saying made her smile, and a man two tables over smiled back. It cheered her up. Male admiration had a way of putting a spring in her step.

“Careful, Sarah.”

“Of?”

“Some of the men around here are just down from the mines. They’re two weeks in, two weeks out.”

“Not exactly an eternity.”

“They spend half the month in a high-security zone accessible only by plane in summer and ice road in winter. The other half of the month they like to unwind—”

“Understandably. It’s nice of you to be concerned, but it isn’t necessary. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten years?”

“Getting married, apparently.” He muttered it almost grumpily. His tone surprised Sarah. Pleased her, too.

“Looking after myself. Spying the wolves with my own little eye. Anyway, if I were looking for romance there’s someone at home who—”

His shock stopped her. A flash of it, then nothing, his face expressionless.

He’d misunderstood. And thought the worst.

The waiter arrived with their meals. They sat in stiff silence while he deposited plates in front of them and refilled their coffee cups.

She wouldn’t explain. Let Ian leap to his regularly scheduled judgments.

“SOMEONE AT HOME.” Ian tried to keep his voice neutral.

“That’s right.”

Maybe in her book, cheating with an ex wasn’t really cheating. He’d thought better of her.

“How many winter coats have you had since we broke up?”

“How many?” She looked at him blankly. “I have no idea.”

“It’s been ten years. Three coats? Four?”

She shrugged. “I have a long gray one with a fur collar for formal occasions. A red one for dreary days. A ski jacket for the slopes. A black-and-white houndstooth for contrast when I wear all black. An all-weather trench with a zip-out lining. A long down parka for visiting at home in January. A cape, but that’s not strictly a coat—”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Got what?”

“You have a coat for every mood and every occasion.” Maybe he was finally starting to understand her. “This is just the way you are, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. What am I agreeing with?”

“Your need for variety.”

She picked at her fish, separating the flakes with her fork. After a few moments she said, “This is very good char.”

Ignoring an idea she didn’t like, as usual.

Just as well. He was starting to feel ashamed of himself, being petty enough to ask the question.

They went on talking, two acquaintances catching up on each other’s news. About parents and siblings, about the storm that had destroyed her family’s house a couple of years earlier. Ian had heard about it at the time. It was a real loss. A grand old house, moldering away until the wind gave it a swift end. He’d liked the place. Missed it, after the divorce. Missed her family, too.

“Why are you pretending you’re not angry, Sarah?”

“Angry?”

“About last night.”

She gave him a cool smile. “You think I can’t have a roll in the hay and come out of it unscathed? It didn’t mean all that much to me, Ian. And your…behavior wasn’t a big surprise. It’s what you do.”

“What I do?”

“Run off.”

“I run off?”

Their voices had steadily been getting louder. Not much, but people at nearby tables had noticed. He lowered his, and suggested that she should, too. Even before he’d finished saying it, the anger he’d known must be there swept into her face.

“DON’T TELL ME HOW LOUDLY to speak. You’re the one who can’t carry on a normal conversation. And then you scold me?”

Ian pushed his plate away. “I don’t need this, Sarah. We’ve been divorced for ten years. There has to be some advantage to that, right? Lunches don’t have to dissolve into fights anymore.”

“Our lunches never dissolved into fights. What are you talking about? Is that how you remember it?”

“It doesn’t matter how either of us remembers it. We were married for two years a decade ago. A blip in both our lives.”

A blip? “And last night? Was that a blip, too?”

“Of course it was.”

“A blip.”

“Had to be, didn’t it?”

She was annoyed, for no good reason. She knew he was right.

It was the physical thing. They’d gone to bed the week they met and after that they had tumbled together at every opportunity. As hello, as goodbye, as good-morning and good-night. As an apology. As exercise. As entertainment. Anytime they got within three feet of each other. They’d mistaken it for belonging together.

“I don’t mean to be offensive,” Ian said. “It was one time only. By definition that’s a blip.”

“Why are you going on and on about it? You’re protesting a little too much. The blipness of last night getting to you?”

He took a few bills from his wallet, tucked them under his cup, stuck his laptop into its case and started out of the restaurant.

She wasn’t going to be left behind, not again. Loading up her parcels, she hurried outside, too. By the time she reached the sidewalk he was half a block ahead, waiting at the curb for the light to change.

Just as it did, she caught up with him. He crossed the road and turned right. That was the direction she’d come from in the morning, so she went that way, too, nearly stepping on his heels.

He responded by taking bigger steps. Over his shoulder he said, “Sarah, I have work to do.”

“So do I.”

“Work?”

“Sure. What did you think, that I dropped everything? I’m in contact with the office. A big, fat, profit-draining problem has already landed on my lap.”

“Then why don’t you stop following me?”

“What makes you think I’m following you? How arrogant is that?”

“You’re behind me, going in the same direction.”

“Whither thou, darling.”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

Sarah gave an exasperated groan. “Honestly, your sense of humor could fit on a flea! I’m not following you. You’re not the center of everything, you know. I’m going to my hotel.”

He pointed behind them. “Your hotel’s that way.”

She swung around, ready to argue, but there it was, the tallest building around, easy to see if only she’d looked.

“Come on, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t need you to take me!”

He ignored her, his whole body expressing his aggravation. He couldn’t be half as aggravated as she was, because now she really was following him.

He stopped in front of the hotel’s big double doors. “Okay?”

“It was okay before. And just so you know, I don’t like you when you’re sarcastic.”

His irritation seemed to evaporate and he looked at her with something approaching gentleness—tanned, hard-edged gentleness. It completely threw her. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

As soon as he said it she was sorry, too, although she didn’t know exactly why and, in any case, wasn’t willing to say so.

“What a pair we are.” He checked his watch, muttered that he was late, and headed back down the street.

CHAPTER SIX

SARAH EASED HER PACKAGES out of her arms and onto the bed, then pulled off her sweater, relieved to feel cool air on her skin.

Nobody made her angry the way Ian did. It was as if she had a hidden switch only he could find and flick on. It never stayed on for long, though.

The telephone’s message light was blinking. She lifted the receiver and pressed the retrieval button.

“You have—one—message,” the robotic voice said. “Nine—forty-five—a.m.” After a click, she heard Ian’s voice.

“Don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep last night.” There was a pause, long enough for her to slip off her shoes and sit on the side of the bed. When he continued, she was surprised how genuinely disappointed in himself he sounded. At lunch, he hadn’t seemed sorry or disappointed at all.

Then he ruined it, talking about same old problems and provocations.

Still, it was nice that he’d tried.

Why hadn’t he told her in the restaurant that he’d called? Nine-fifty, soon after she’d left the hotel. She wouldn’t have been angry at lunch if she’d known about the message. Not very angry, anyway.

“We aren’t good together,” she told the wall. “Simple as that.”

SARAH CHANGED INTO LIGHTER clothes and began to pack the presents she’d bought. There was no way they’d all fit in her luggage. She’d have to send most of them home by mail.

A few things could take the place of the wine she’d brought with her. She set the bottle on the desk. It was a Grand Cru burgundy, meant to celebrate a special occasion. She’d pictured drinking it under the northern lights while belugas leaped out of the sea.

Belugas were a long way from Yellowknife, though, and it turned out northern lights and midnight sun couldn’t happen at the same time. Who knew?

Her laptop beeped. A message had come in.

Sender, Liz McKinnon. Aka Elizabeth Robb.

Not this time.

Sarah had to scroll down to remind herself what she’d said that morning. It was a question about images coming before text.

Not this time? That was it? Where was the explanation? The urgency? The realization that faraway bookstores were already lining up readers?

Instead of typing HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?, the uppercase letters denoting a shout, Sarah confined herself to asking,

What’s different this time?

Liz’s answer arrived ten minutes later.

I’m married. I’m a mother. I’m a Wife and Mother.

Sarah understood. New commitments, busier days. That didn’t mean her old commitments had disappeared.

Poor Liz! Things not going well?

A few minutes passed.

This place should be called Robbtown. More people come in and out of the house than I ever saw in Vancouver—to talk to, anyway—and almost all of them are relatives who think because I’m at home I’m not working. Then there are the diapers.

It was hard to imagine Liz dealing with diapers. Hard to imagine anyone dealing with them.

I’m sorry about the crowds of Robbs. Sorry about the diapers, too.

Sarah hesitated before adding to the message. Should she ease Liz along or drag the monster out of the closet and, she hoped, see how puny it really was?

Drag out the monster, she decided.

We’ll talk about this more when I see you, but I’m wondering…do you need to postpone the book? Cancel it?

The answer came immediately.

No. No! I’ll figure it out. Sorry, Sarah, but I’ve got to go. Baby’s crying, kettle’s whistling, dog’s barking. See ya.

Sarah tried not to be irritated by the casual sign-off.

The monster didn’t look all that puny. Liz either couldn’t or didn’t want to ignore the distractions her life was throwing at her.

If her book wasn’t finished in time there’d be an empty spot in the company’s catalog and an empty spot on bookstore shelves, one another publisher would be glad to fill.

Sarah rubbed her eyes. Her head was starting to throb. So much for taking a break and getting perspective. Surrounded by tundra and houseboats and Old Town shanties and she hardly had a chance to—

Of course…why hadn’t she thought of it right away? She hurried to the phone and dialed Liz’s number.

No answer. That was always the way with Liz. The phone was busy, or no one was there. With an e-mail, an answer could take hours, even a whole day.

Liz, I told you, didn’t I, that I’d be in Yellowknife before Manitoba? That’s where I am now. You’ve got to come. Instead of me going to you, you come here. Every two steps you’ll trip over a story. You can’t be here and not see pictures. You’ll have to hurry, though. I’m flying back to Vancouver on the weekend. I know it’s rushed, but it’ll be worth it. All right?

Every few minutes Sarah hit the receive button. Nothing happened. With any luck, it meant Liz was hard at work. Off in the woods with her easel and paints. Or shut in the attic, insulated from interruption.

Finally, Liz answered.

I’m a Wife and Mother. Did you forget?

Uh-oh, Sarah thought, this time noticing the capital letters. Liz wasn’t just overwhelmed. She had a martyr complex in the making. Sympathy would be the worst thing to offer.

Hand infant to husband. Point nose north. Flap wings.

For half an hour, Sarah heard nothing back. She heated water through the coffeemaker, directly onto a tea bag in a mug. She dipped the bag in and out, burned her tongue on the first sip and wished she had her own kitchen with a proper kettle, a nice porcelain pot and a wide choice of premium tea leaves.

The laptop dinged.

Infant handed. Flight booked. Arriving Yellowknife Thursday.

Like magic, Sarah’s headache began to subside.

The schedule would still be tight; there was no getting away from that. But a few days here, and Liz would have grist for the mill for years to come.

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