Free Who Is Frances Rain? by Margaret Buffie

bay and to Erica about fishing, and ate his way through piles of roast beef sandwiches. Tim, who’d perked up a bit when fishing was mentioned, asked us how many we’d caught.
    â€œFive,” said Alex. “You guys can have those. I’ve got to go out and get more for the weekend. I’ll be out till dark. You wanna come, Evan?”
    Before Evan could answer, Tim said, “I’d like to come very much, Alex. How about if I pack a supper for all of us and we can get going? You can have whatever I catch.”
    â€œMe too?” Erica begged.
    â€œWe’ll be gone a long time, Peanut.”
    â€œI can do it, honest. I’ll take some comics. I promise I won’t complain once. There’s nothing to do around here.”
    Tim looked at Mother. “That’s true. But you’d better ask Alex first.”
    Poor Alex looked trapped. “Sure ... uh ... I guess so. How about you, Lizzie?”
    Evan scowled and muttered. “Count me out. I don’t fish in gangs.”
    â€œI think I’ll hang around here with Gran this afternoon,” I said. “Maybe go for a walk. How about it, Gran?”
    She looked pleased. “Sounds good. How about you, Connie?”
    â€œWhat is this?” sneered Evan. “Life at the McGill resort? Are you all little social directors?”
    Mother ignored him. “I’ve got work to do. All of you go and do your little things,” she said tersely. “As we won’t be going home for a few days, I’ve got to get some work off to my colleagues. I can’t waste time doing nothing.”
    So Tim had won round two. They were staying for a while. Round one had been getting her here in the first place. Pretty soon, though, she’d make her move. Tim could end up mincemeat in round three.
    Gran and I walked along the long shore path that ended up on a rocky ridge overlooking a wide open stretch of the lake. We sat down on the edge of the ridge and gazed out over the glittering lake.
    â€œGran?”
    â€œMmmm?”
    â€œDid you know that someone lived on Rain Island once?”
    She was silent for a moment, contemplating the far shore. “How did you discover that, honey?”
    â€œI’ve been kind of exploring it. For something to do. There’s part of an old cabin there. Do you know whose it was?”
    She glared at me. “I thought I told you kids to stay away from there. The underwater rocks are treacherous.”
    â€œI’m old enough,” I said. “I’ll be sixteen soon.”
    â€œSix months into your fifteenth and already you’re sixteen, eh?” She looked out over the lake, thinking. “Still, I guess you’re right. You’re old enough.”
    â€œSo, who lived there?”
    â€œWell,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “People around here don’t know too much about her, you see. She was kind of a mystery woman.”
    â€œHer?” I asked in amazement. “You mean a woman lived there?”
    She nodded. “Her name was Frances Rain. She moved up here around 1911 or ’12, or thereabouts.”
    I scrambled to my knees. “But why did she live on the island? Was she a prospector? Did she live alone? What did she look like? When did she die?”
    Gran laughed and poked me. “Too many questions. She was from Alberta somewhere and she moved up here to be a teacher in The Pas. That was when there was a big rush of mining going on. In the summer she prospected. I don’t suppose there’s anyone left around here who remembers her ...” She looked as if she was going to add something, but then said, “Funny, all she ever wanted was her privacy. She succeeded too well, maybe.”
    â€œHow do you know? Did you know her? How come you never told me about her before?”
    â€œShe died before I moved up here to live for good,” she said. “But no one really knew her.” She gazed in the