Free The Island of Doves by Kelly O'Connor McNees Page B

but it was a pleasant, familiar feeling, her physical connection to dozens of winters giving way to spring, to mud, to sap pooling in tin pails that would boil to syrup after a long day over a fire. She felt her son was trying to take away the comfort of these things she had always known, since long before he was born. Ani barked and raced up the beach, leaving her alone. When she could avoid it no longer, Magdelaine raised her eyes.
    The house stood two stories high, white clapboard with glass windows and
four
brick chimneys that jutted rudely into the path of the diving ospreys who built their nests on the bluffs. The hipped roof would hold against any storm the lakes could brew, and the house promised heat all year long and kitchen enough to cook for a whole army. A long stone path led from the beach to the front door. It was a sturdy slab of oak with iron hinges. Lanterns mounted on either side of the door were lit, wastefully, for the evening sun still shone brightly, gleaming off the white paint. Next door was her beloved Ste. Anne’s, little more than a cabin beside a fenced-in yard of gravestones.
    Jean-Henri smiled at her from the porch of the new house, his arms outstretched. His dark hair stood out against the white paint, and though he wore a coat and collar in the French style, his nose was the same as hers, the same as her Odawa mother’s: wide and flat and brown from the sun, even in March.
    She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned on her heel and strode back to her canoe. With her knee, she shoved its nose back toward the water and splashed in after it, hoisting herself roughly over the side. The canoe pitched back and forth, nearly tipping over, but Magdelaine hardly noticed as she paddled hard with her anger’s rhythm. Behind her she could hear Ani barking in confusion on the beach. Her shoulders burned as she moved through the icy lake, back toward her camp on Bois Blanc. The water peeled away from her vessel like an animal’s skin.
    “Mother—wait!”
    Magdelaine didn’t stop paddling or even look back to where Jean-Henri stood, calling to her from the beach, the garish empty house behind him. She could hear him scramble, his steps uncertain and sliding on the beach, and although she didn’t turn around to look, she knew the sand must be flying up behind him as he moved down the shore toward his own canoe. She imagined him pushing it into the water and leaping over the side, his paddle moving before he sat down. Magdelaine was strong for a woman, but she was no match for a young man of twenty-six. The distance between their canoes shortened, until he no longer had to yell to be heard.
    “Mother, please. Wait.”
    “Let me be,” she replied, panting. She lifted her paddle, held it across her lap for a moment, and took a few long breaths. Icy lake water dripped down her shins.
    “You haven’t even seen the inside.” Jean-Henri was crestfallen. He seemed incapable of understanding why the house upset her.
    Magdelaine shook her head and began to paddle again, ignoring the pain. Jean-Henri sighed. With little effort he increased his speed and stopped her canoe by pulling out ahead, then turning his boat sideways. His mother turned to the right to avoid him.
    “Do you really want to tire yourself out this way?” he shouted. “You can’t outpaddle me—I learned my technique from you. And my stubbornness.”
    Magdelaine ignored him and skimmed silently through the water, just missing the bow of his canoe. He sighed again, then turned and caught up with her. They paddled alongside one another for several minutes, the waves splashing rhythmically against the birch bark. Magdelaine’s heart pounded with her exertion and she was afraid her muscles would give out, but Jean-Henri was right—she
was
stubborn—and she wouldn’t let him make her stop if it killed her. Bois Blanc moved slowly toward them. It was pristine and undeveloped in the way Mackinac had been a long time ago. The cedar