Free Cape Breton Road by D.R. MacDonald Page A

grandfather. The rockers are his, the pine cupboard. People here flung a lot of stuff in the fire, Starr says, they thought it was dreary, they wanted new things, especially after the war, you know? But the folks hung on to it in this house. It’s dreary allright, that old dark varnish.” “Not really,” she said, “they’re antiques now. They have the atmosphere of another time, that’s all. Sometimes atmosphere is everything.” She ran her finger across the mantle of the fireplace and held it up to him, smiling. “Okay, okay,” he said, “we’re behind in our dusting. The fireplace is always cold, Starr doesn’t use it. That TV is something, isn’t it? I think my grandfather built it.”
    Innis let her go ahead of him up the stairs, watching her hips move under her wool skirt, her expensive leather boots allowing him just a glimpse of her leg. Too much to hope that his uncle would get held up and he’d have this woman to entertain into the evening. Maybe this Russ guy would be more than Starr bargained for, a real tussle, the Mounties would be called in.… He moved ahead of her, turning on lights. He showed her the bathroom first. “This was a little bedroom once, until the plumbing came in. Starr has lots of outhouse tales. You know, how rugged it was, the slop bucket and all that, chamberpots, cold water.” She shivered. “It is cold up here. Big quilts, I hope.” “Trunkfuls. Here’s the spare bedroom. I’ll do the bed up for you, I know where the sheets are. Unless, I mean …” He had passed Starr’s bedroom without a word even though the door was wide open, the bed neatly made. He didn’t even want to consider that she and Starr might share it, yet he felt like a hostelkeeper or somebody’s dad, steering her to the safe bedroom, next to his own. But she touched his arm to put him at ease. “This room will do fine. A big tree out the window. And wallpaper!” “I hate it,” he said, “but it’s not as bad as mine.” He pointed her to the next room. “Look.”
    “Oh,” she said. “You draw.”
    Innis stayed in the doorway while Claire went from sketchto sketch, peering close, then leaning back. “Nice, you’re very good. That old man’s face, terrific. Who is he?”
    “Old guy up the road. He’s about a hundred years old. I put the army cap on him, with the feather. He didn’t pose that way, I just did him from memory. Dan Rory MacRitchie.” He watched her long slender fingers drift absently over the glass shade of his lamp, his radio, the feathers in a cracked vase. A woman in his room. Too much. “Sometime I’ll draw you, since you’re going to be around.”
    “I’d like that. But flatter me if you can.”
    “Piece of cake.”
    “Good God, are you a hunter?” She reached up to touch the deer skull. “That’s gruesome.”
    “He’s like a pal now, I can’t go to sleep without him. I don’t hunt, I found him in the woods.”
    At the head of the stairs she paused by a closed door. “Another bedroom?”
    “God, no. The attic, full of junk. I mean, to the rafters. Just step in the door and you’re filthy.”
    She stared at it until Innis felt his heart pick up. For a few moments he had the urge to tell her everything, to open it and show her there was something in there that was only his. Instead he reached out and rattled the knob. “See? Locked. Hey, you haven’t seen the little corner cellar where they used to store their food.”
    “Maybe I’ll skip that, Innis, for now.”
    “If you hear cracking and groaning, by the way, it’s not me, it’s the foundation. Unmortared stones.”
    “I should call my old number. I don’t know what’s going on over there.”
    “Don’t reveal any secrets. There’s always about six dozen locals tuning in.”
    She laughed. “The same in Black Rock. I’m used to it.”
    There was no answer at her old address but Starr was back just after dark, banging two suitcases through the back door, flushed, out of breath, highly