Small Town Cinderella. Caron Todd

pair now, except for Grandma and Mom and me. The thought had never occurred to her before. That was the trouble with weddings, with red-letter days in general. They disturbed the contented flow of things.

      Tomorrow, after lunch since it was Sunday, she would ask Mrs. Bowen to let her into Daniel’s house again. If she could find his address book she could contact some of his relatives. With any luck one of them would know where he’d gone.

      THE AIRBUS GOT INTO Pearson International from the Bahamas at eight in the morning. At the start of business hours, he picked up a couple of white, no-wrinkle shirts, replenished his supply of batteries—laptop, cell phone and camera—and made arrangements to pick up a car that evening. By noon he was at a lunch meeting, looking out at the SkyDome and wishing there was time to see a Blue Jays game.

      The subject on the minds of everyone around the table was the recent discovery of a crash site in northern Manitoba. In 1979 a bush plane had disappeared between Flin Flon and Winnipeg. The plane, a deHavilland Beaver, and the pilot, a D-Day vet and ex-cop by the name of Frank Carruthers, were both considered absolutely reliable. Carruthers had done his preflight check, studied the weather charts, filed his flight plan, then taken off and was never seen again.

      Last month a group on a fly-in fishing trip had found the plane’s remains tangled in some dead trees on a lakeshore. What concerned the people in this room was that its cargo—fifteen gold bars—was gone.

      Fifteen bars identified by a refiner’s stamp and number, each weighing a thousand ounces. It was more than the mine usually sent out at once. A series of blizzards and a bad flu season had caused the cancellation of a couple of planned flights. Somewhere out there, in the muskeg or underbrush or transformed into gleaming ankle bracelets, was nearly seven million dollars’ worth of gold.

      He opened the map he’d bought at the airport. Most of Manitoba’s population was concentrated in a band along the south of the province. The central and northern areas looked almost empty. Lakes, rivers, forests, bogs, tundra. It was easy to see how even something as large as a plane could go unfound for so long.

      “Same arrangement as usual,” said the woman at the head of the table. “Expenses and ten percent of what you recover.”

      “My partner is already in place.” He refolded the map, leaving it open to show the area northwest of Winnipeg. “We’ll do what we can.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      AFTER THE SUN SET, he could hardly stay awake. Driving alone in the dark down a nearly straight, nearly abandoned highway felt almost like crawling into bed. The dotted yellow line disappearing under the car every microsecond didn’t help at all.

      He turned off the air conditioner and rolled the windows down. Fresh air felt better, even warm, humid fresh air. It smelled like hay. Hay made him think of farmers. Farmers made him think of farmers’ daughters. That took him right back to where he had started the day.

      Not happy.

      He should be happy. The information he needed was waiting for him. The dark corners and unanswered questions connected with the job didn’t bother him. Not even the remote chance of success bothered him. Long odds made things interesting; the potential payoff made them worthwhile. His problem was with the personal aspects of what he had agreed to do. If he was going to start getting fastidious about things like that he’d have to look for a new line of work.

      The headlights picked out a sign on the side of the highway. Three Creeks.

      Getting to his destination always gave him a shot of adrenaline. He felt alert again. The clock on the dash said one-twenty.

      He slowed the car and turned onto the gravel road.

      THE MORNING BEGAN with an argument over Eleanor’s invitation to tea. Julia didn’t want to go, not even if it was just the five women, not even if her mother particularly wanted her to be there.

      “All they do is sit around and talk.” She poured herself a glass of juice, took a piece of toast and jam from the plate in the middle of the table and opened a cookbook.

      “It won’t be long, Mom. An hour.”

      “You go. I’ll make dinner.”

      “You will?” Those words never failed to make Emily’s neck muscles tighten. The tension wasn’t reasonable. From time to time she came home from work to find dinner simmering or roasting, the table set, the house standing. “Something cold would be fine.”

      Julia didn’t answer. One minute they were having a conversation and the next, they weren’t. Drawbridge up, moat flooded. Emily was never sure when the barrier was erected, before her mother heard or before she was expected to respond to an unwelcome idea. It couldn’t be involuntary, not all the time.

      “Did you know John’s coming for a visit?”

      The drawbridge eased open. “Who?”

      “John Ramsey.”

      Julia turned a whole sheaf of pages and landed in the pasta section. “Never liked him much.”

      “I didn’t know that.”

      “Pasta primavera. I have peas. I have tomatoes.”

      Emily waited, wondering if her mother would say more about John. They had dated all through grade eleven and twelve. She’d never expressed an opinion about him then.

      “Why didn’t you like him, Mom?”

      “Who?”

      “John Ramsey.”

      Julia went to the cupboard. “It should be fettuccine. We never have fettuccine.”

      “Mom?”

      “You need those wider noodles to hold the sauce.”

      It didn’t matter if her mother hadn’t liked John, or why. He’d moved to the city and Emily had stayed home. If he’d wanted to take over his parents’ farm they’d probably be married now.

      Julia was on her knees, buried up to her waist in the cupboard. Emily could hear containers being moved back and forth. Boxes began to appear on the floor.

      “When I go to town after lunch I’ll get fettuccine.”

      “There’s no need to go to town.”

      “I’m going anyway, back to Daniel’s.”

      “Get some of that bread, then, the square white bread.” Julia didn’t like the taste or texture, but she liked the way the sides lined up straight for sandwiches.

      While her mother put the boxes back in the cupboard, Emily began to tackle the housework that had piled up during the week. As she was finishing the laundry and about to start making lunch, her cousin Martin called.

      “Grandma told me you were asking about Daniel. You can stop worrying.”

      “He’s back?”

      “Looks like it. I went through town late last night, saw the light on over his door.”

      The uneasiness that had clung to her all of yesterday still didn’t let go. “You’re sure it wasn’t one of his neighbors?”

      “I’m sure. His Christmas lights were on, too.”

      The thought of those bright colors sparkling through a hot July night made Emily smile. A couple of winters ago Daniel had decided he’d had his fill of climbing ladders. Now he left the lights attached to the eaves all year.

      “Have you heard the other news?” Martin asked.

      “News? No.” She assumed he meant local news, family news. “What happened?”

      “You’re seeing Mom and Sue later, right? I’ll let them tell you.”

      “Martin—”

      But he had already hung up.

      AN ALMOST NEW silver-gray