Sharing Spaces. Nadia Nichols

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 sun-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