Free WingSpan (Taken on the Wing Book 1) by Elizabeth Munro Page A

about something else to clear it up and he walked out.”
    “So you ride da bus to Calgary an Edmonton an Regina an Saskatoon an go to every ‘ouse wit ‘is name jus’ to ‘pologize? Could phone, eh?”
    “It was a bad misunderstanding. He deserves better than a phone call.”
    Ambrose stretches as they wait for the green light; thick fingers and thin thighs from years of working in a seat. He wears a tie and Jenn figures he’s one of the hardest working men she’s ever met. Two blocks later he turns the cab right onto a nearly invisible side street. Even during the day with a flashing street sign she would have missed it.
    “Dis use to be good neighbour’ood,” he nods. “When I bring my family out ‘ere was bad. Workin’ girl an drug dealer, eh. Dey pay, dey ride.”
    He takes his hands from the wheel to shrug; shoulders high, palms up. In the past few hours Jenn’s learned the gesture simply means ‘it is what it is.’
    “Now even dey move on. Da city even forget dees street.”
    This late in the day the good neighbourhoods look the same as the bad as long as you don’t look too closely. The street Ambrose turns left on doesn’t even have a sign. His cab lights illuminate a boarded-up house, its porch sagging under the weight of years of abandonment as they wheel around the corner.
    “If dis not it my beautiful wife fix you dinner an’ tuck you in. Take you to da bus tomorrow.”
    “That sounds fine,” Jenn agrees.
    “Dis your trucker?”
    The old guy’s eyes are good. Under a single streetlight three blocks away are two vehicles: one big, the other bigger. Jenn’s eyes strain to see through the snow and she makes out Mark’s rig and in front of it his truck. As they get closer the hood shines like a black eye where latent heat refuses to let the new snow stick.
    “Damn,” Jenn sighs and her heart sinks. The trucks face the taxi up against an empty lot. Only a couple of old leafless trees are visible past the fallen down fence.
    “‘dere Miss,” Ambrose points to the other side of the street. “Dat da one.”
    Jenn turns just in time to see the curtains fall shut, making the house look as empty as the others. A narrow covered porch crosses the front, windows on either side of the old door. When Ambrose picked her up his practiced mind calculated the best route and he’d only been off by a few dollars so she offers him another twenty.
    “Ah, keep it Miss,” Ambrose passes Jenn his card. As she reaches for it he bends his elbow, snapping it away. “Deal ‘ere dis. Don’ work out you call an’ ask for Ambrose, eh? You don’ call den I tell your love story to every fare dat listen. Secon’ bes’ to me an Maude but still good, eh?”
    Jenn glances at Mark’s door and imagines the story of the crazy Parksville girl he’ll tell if she doesn’t phone.
    “Deal, Ambrose,” she agrees. “And it’s not a love story.”
    He shrugs again and before he gets his arms down Jenn hugs him. It is what it is.
    “Is cold, Miss,” he says as her door pops open. “Don’ stan’ out long if ‘e won’ listen.”
    One last wave at Ambrose and Jenn stands alone, her bag over her shoulder. The cold instantly pulls the moisture from her skin, tightening it over her nose and stiffening her fingers before she gets her hat down a little lower and tries to warm them in her pockets.
    As Ambrose backs up, Jenn faces what she hopes is Mark’s door. The cab turns around at the first cross street and sits, its red tail lights looking out for her.
    Maybe Mark has another woman or he’ll hear her out and say good-bye. It’s more likely Jenn will choke up like in her apartment and she’ll spend the night with Ambrose and Maude. After she’s come all this way to apologize to Mark it’ll be disappointing if it’s just a repeat of the scene in the hall.
    Stiffness in her bad leg sets in after only a few steps. The insufferable prairie winter goes right through her flesh and into the metal that holds her