Sharing Spaces

She followed the directions he’d given, and drove cautiously up a narrower road that appeared to be bereft of human habitations. She wondered, after a few kilometers, if the boy had been pulling her leg. There were tire tracks, to be sure, and she could see the gleam of the lake through thick stands of black spruce from time to time. But no houses.

Senna stopped the car and turned off the ignition, rolling down the window again. She listened intently in the silence and heard eerie, undulating wails reverberating through the forest. Wolves, and not that far away. She felt a tingle of excitement at the thought of actually catching sight of one. There were wolves here, and one of the biggest caribou herds in the world, and the native people were called Innu and Inuit. She knew as much from reading the literature on the Air Canada flight this morning. What she didn’t know, as she sat in the rental car and listened to the wild howling, was why her grandfather had chosen to live out his last years here, far removed from the Navy’s elite social circles and manicured golf courses. Why had he chosen to live in such a remote land and why had he named her as his executor? She was hoping she’d find some answers when she reached the house, but even if she didn’t, seeing a pack of wolves or a herd of caribou would definitely make this journey north worthwhile. Her mother had been right.

As usual.

She started the rental car and crept cautiously forward, keenly scanning both sides of the road and hoping for a glimpse of the wolves she’d heard. She caught the flash of lake water and a bright opening up ahead in the forest of spruce. Sunlight spilled into a clearing. There was a building and a truck. Make that two buildings and two trucks. She stopped again, assessing the place. This had to be her destination, since the road ended here. The big building was somewhat of an architectural oddity, grander than many she’d seen since her arrival and resembling one of Maine’s old Rangely Lake houses. With its big center chimney and gabled roof, log construction and a spacious porch that faced the water, it had all the earmarks of a tranquil lakeside retreat.

A second, smaller structure nestled back into the trees, was also built of logs, but had a broad, low Alaskan-style roof with deep eaves. Perhaps that was the place where John Hanson lived, since the admiral, possessing an ego the size of the Atlantic, would surely have lived in the bigger of the two cabins.

Senna stared, trying to take it all in. The lake was vast. She couldn’t see the end of it by a long shot. There was a dock that jutted into the water, and a float plane was tethered at the dock’s T-junction. The wolves were howling again, but even as she sat there, engine idling, the noise faded. She drove a little closer, feeling foolishly timid. She had every right to be here, after all.

There didn’t appear to be any phone or electric lines anywhere near the place, and the property looked neglected. Upon closer inspection she could see trash scattered here and there. Beer cans and bottles. She cut the ignition again and immediately the whine of hungry mosquitoes filled the silence. That, and the rhythmic wash of lake water against the dock pilings and the gravelly shore. She got out of the car, closing the door quietly and standing for a moment, swatting at the mosquitoes and wondering if it might not be a good idea to retreat to Goose Bay and come back early in the morning. She was tired and the land was unfamiliar to her. She’d like to get something to eat and read through the stack of legal papers Granville had given her.

First, though, she wanted to make some connection with her grandfather, whom she hadn’t seen since her father’s funeral and would never see again. Besides, in this northern latitude the sun was still high. She had plenty of time to find her way back to Goose Bay. She kicked a Labatt can out of the way as she walked up the path, climbed the weathered steps and opened the screen door, entering onto the porch and peeking through a window that could have stood a good polishing. It was dark inside, and gloomy. Senna hesitated before trying the front door, glancing around and trying to imagine her grandfather living like this. The porch was littered with pizza boxes, paper napkins, cigarette butts, more beer cans and bottles. The boy had mentioned that the wake had been a good one, but it would have been nice if they’d tidied up afterward.

She knocked sharply at the door and predictably received no response. The doorknob turned easily and she stepped into the entry hall. To her left was a living room with four big double-hung nine-over-six windows looking out on the lake and a handsome stone fireplace. A staircase in front of her ascended presumably to the second-floor bedrooms, and she glimpsed a large kitchen through the doorway to the right. She closed the door on the whine of mosquitoes and almost immediately became aware of another noise, far deeper and much more ominous than the frantic hum of hungry insects. Senna stood quietly for a moment, analyzing the rumblings, which sounded very much like loud snoring being rhythmically and robustly delivered from upstairs.

She hesitated again. Could she possibly be in the wrong house? Could the smaller cabin belong to her grandfather? She glanced around furtively while upstairs the snores resonated like thunder. There was only one surefire way to find out. Senna crept into the living room, feeling a bit like a criminal, opened a corner desk, riffled through a stack of papers and spied several bills and correspondence with her grandfather’s name on them. She breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least she was in the right place, but if this was her grandfather’s house, then who was upstairs? Could it be that John Hanson had drunk so much hooch at the wake that he’d been unable to make it back to his own cabin?

She stood at the foot of the stairs and thought about calling out, but couldn’t bring herself to deliver more than a tentative, “Hello?”

Her voice sounded woefully feeble, and she got no reply. If the snoring was being generated by the admiral’s business partner, a man probably well into his seventies or better, he might be completely deaf. She crept up the stairs. At the top were two bedroom doors, one opening to the left, the other to the right. She froze with uncertainty, heart hammering against her ribs, then peeked cautiously around the left-hand door from whence the hearty snoring noises emanated. Senna noted the small bedroom, the double bed with a brightly colored Hudson’s Bay candy-stripe wool blanket laid atop, dormered window that looked out on the lake. Pine bureau, mirror, chair, braided rug. There was a simple, rustic charm to the room. On the bed, sprawled upon its side, was an enormous furry dog. Some kind of northern breed closely related to a wolf, by the looks of it, old and grizzled, paws twitching in the midst of some lively dream, and snoring with deep and absolute contentment.

She backed quietly out of the room, relieved, and drew a deep breath. The lawyer hadn’t mentioned animals, but that husky certainly looked like it belonged on that bed. Senna peered warily around the other door, preparing herself for another wolf-like creature, and nearly gasped aloud when she saw what was lying on the bed in the second bedroom.

Definitely not a dog, and most definitely not her grandfather’s elderly business partner. A man was sprawled crosswise on the mattress. He was face down, head and shoulders hanging over the edge, arms dangling, knuckles brushing the floor. Naked to the waist, blue jeans, bare feet.

Silent and unmoving.

She took a step forward, studying his form for any signs of life even as the newspaper headlines flashed through her imagination.

Executor Discovers Body in Bedroom of Deceased Grandfather’s House.

But no. There was movement. The man was breathing. Not snoring, like the dog, but sleeping with the same deep stupor. This bedroom, however, in stark contrast to the first, was a mess. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, clothing was flung everywhere. The bureau drawers were ajar, the top cluttered with more trash and paraphernalia, and the mirror so plastered with pictures that hardly any glass remained exposed. She studied the chaos for a moment in disgust, then glanced back at the unconscious man, unable to squelch her curiosity.

She couldn’t see his face, but his hair was dark, glossy and tousled. His back, shoulders and arms looked strong; smooth well-knit muscles tapered into a lean waist. In spite of the fact that the man was completely relaxed in sleep, she sensed enormous power, the same power she’d once witnessed in a mountain lion dozing in the sun on a rock outcrop in the mountains of Montana. Senna swallowed a nervous laugh. What a thing for her to be doing, standing here staring at a strange man sleeping in her grandfather’s house and comparing him to a mountain lion. What on earth was the matter with her?

More to the point, what was she to do? This man could be a mass murderer, for all she knew, and this place was remote enough to make her uneasy at the thought of confronting him without some means of defending herself. She backed out of the room, returned to the kitchen, and picked up first thing she saw that would qualify—a cast-iron frying pan on the stovetop with about an inch of bacon fat solidified in the bottom. Returning to the second floor, she cleared her throat and knocked briskly on the door frame, neither of which had any effect in rousing the man.

“Excuse me,” she said in her most professional Do-not-argue-with-me-I’m-the-sales-director voice—which had an equal lack of effect.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, louder this time.

One dangling arm twitched and she tensed for the ugly confrontation, but all the man did was shift slightly, groan as if the effort cost him, and then resume his sleep.

Senna lifted the frying pan and rapped it against the door. The sharp gunshot of noise was impressive. “Hello!” she said. “You need to wake up, please. Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in my grandfather’s house.”

The man thrashed weakly, moaned and rolled over. One arm flung out, hand groping blindly for the pillow to bring it over his face to shut out the daylight…but not before she caught a glimpse of a dark, unshaven jaw and a rugged profile. “Goway,” a deep voice rumbled, muffled beneath the pillow.

On his back now, baring his broad chest, flat stomach, dark line of hair disappearing into the belt line of his jeans. Arms and shoulders definitely well-defined with muscle, hands strong and calloused as if he worked hard for a living. Sexual, in a very primal way—not that she was noticing.

“Look, mister, I’m warning you right now, you’d better vacate these premises. This is Admiral Stuart McCallum’s house, I’m taking possession of it, and if you don’t leave right now I’ll call the police, or the Mounties, or whatever you call them up here.”

“Goway.” The man’s second gruff utterance was an echo of the first.

Senna heard a noise behind her. A stealthy sound, soft and menacing. As she turned her head she saw that the large and grizzled husky, who moments before had been snoring quite loudly on the bed in the other room, was now standing in the doorway behind her. Its eyes were yellow and its stance was rigid and threatening. Senna realized that in the great beast’s eyes she was the stranger here, the trespasser, and she remained very still.

“Easy,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry and her grip tightening on the frying pan. “Good boy. Nice dog. Easy…”

“Chilkat, down.” The man’s voice, muffled by the pillow, was nonetheless authoritative. The husky immediately hunched to the floor, but its eyes never wavered from Senna. She swallowed and glanced toward the bed. The pillow was no longer over the man’s face but his eyes were closed tight on a pained expression.

“He’s lying down now,” she said, wincing at the quaver in her voice.

“Uh-huh.” Spoken as if he already knew.

“Is this your dog?”

“Uh-uh.” Uttered as if she should know that, if she had half a brain. One hand lifted, rubbed his face, then he shifted sideways and squinted up at her. “Who the hell are you, and why are you threatening me with a frying pan?” he said, speaking slowly, as if the sound of his own words caused him great suffering.

Senna’s chin lifted. “My name is Senna McCallum and I’m the admiral’s granddaughter. Who are you, and what are you doing in this house?”

“I’m John Hanson, I live here, and I’m trying to get some sleep.”

Senna was shocked. “But you can’t be my grandfather’s business partner. You’re not old enough.”

He made a noise that could have passed for a groan. “If it’s any consolation, I feel very old right now.” He struggled onto his elbows. “I don’t suppose you could make some coffee and bring me a cup? Coffee’s in the lower cupboard to the left of the stove. And you better put that damn frying pan on the floor before Chilkat grabs it out of your hand. He’s the pot licker around here and you’re driving him crazy.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE ADMIRAL HAD KNOWN he was sick long before he was diagnosed with cancer. His energy levels had been dropping steadily, and the pain that he used to hold at bay with handfuls of aspirin began to cripple him up. He’d finally sought professional advice. Aside from announcing to Jack with blunt matter-of-fact realism, that the doctor had told him he wouldn’t live out the year, McCallum never spoke of his illness. The two of them carried on as if by ignoring the bad news, eventually it would go away. This was fine with Jack. He’d come to like the admiral very much in the eight years he’d known the man, so he’d just as soon avoid any discussions of the unfair and untimely fate that awaited his friend.

Jack knew the admiral came off as a cold-hearted bastard to the multitudes who had dealt with him in the military, but he had an advantage that most people didn’t. He knew the admiral was a dyed-in-the-wool fly fisherman who lived and breathed to cast his lines upon some of the greatest fishing waters in the world, so when Jack’s commanding officer had asked him eight years ago for some advice about where to take his father fishing, Jack never missed a beat.

“Labrador,” he said. “That’s one of few places left on this continent where fish are still the size God intended them to be, and the wilderness is still wild.”

His commanding officer wanted to know more, and Jack was happy to provide any and all information. When his CO asked if he’d like to come along as an informal guide, all expenses paid, Jack could scarcely believe his luck. “Yes, sir,” he’d said, immediately. “I’d be glad to.”

“My father’s an admiral,” his CO had warned.

“I know he is, sir. I’ll be on my best behavior,” Jack promised.

Jack’s CO was Stuart McCallum, Jr., son of Admiral Stuart McCallum, the Sea Wolf, who had long been known as the toughest, meanest admiral in the fleet. But if he was a genuine fly fisherman, Jack was sure he’d find some common ground with the crusty old man. He’d been prepared for the worst, but on that trip with the two McCallums he’d made a good friend of the old admiral. They’d fished annually in Labrador until his CO died in a plane crash and the admiral retired that same year. Two years later Jack had taken a midnight phone call on board a ship in the middle of the Persian Gulf.

“McCallum here,” the gruff voice said. “I’m in Labrador, looking at a piece of property, and I need your advice.”

It took him a while, the Navy being the way it was about unscheduled leave and all that, but the old sea wolf, though retired, still had some pull. Two weeks later Jack was standing on the shore of Grand Lake, a major jumping-off point to all of Labrador’s intriguing wilds, and the admiral was saying in his raspy voice, “I want to retire here, Hanson. I want to build a place right on this lake, and I want to build a fishing lodge in the interior that’s only accessible by float plane for people who care enough to make the effort. I’m looking for a business partner, if you’re interested. How long can you stay?”

Jack stayed as long as he dared, being as he was only a captain himself and not ready or willing to be court-martialed, but when he left, the admiral was already beginning construction of his retirement home. One year later, Jack’s marriage was over and he decided to end his naval career as well. True to his words, the admiral readily allowed the younger man to buy into his Labrador dream.