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“Where were you working before you came here?” I ask him.
“I wasn’t,” he says, giving me a soft smile. “I was on sabbatical.”
“Oh. Well then, is it good to be back to work?”
He nods. “Yes. Especially here. It’s a lot easier to do the job when you’re on an island in the middle of nowhere.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the middle of nowhere.”
“Compared to England, yes. But that’s not an insult. I love the peace and quiet here. Gives me time to think about my next moves.”
“Are you going to stay with them the whole time they’re here?”
“Probably. But I’m not sure where I’ll go after that.”
“Why were you on a sabbatical?”
Another quick smile; this one doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a long story. But we all need a break sometimes, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t agree more. Being a teacher is perfect for that, even though I still have a lot of work to do during the summer to prepare for the upcoming school year.
I decide not to pry any further, and we go around the side of the house, down a set of stairs that leads to the back hillside, and follow the sloping path down to the dock where the yacht is tied up.
At the end of the dock are a couple of Adirondack chairs with throws over the back and a log-stump table in between them. It looks like a gorgeous spot to just sit and relax and watch the world go by.
Except now I’m noticing that there are quite a few boats out there. Little speedboats and Zodiacs that are just sitting on the waves, not going anywhere. Odd. There’s a lot of traffic at Scott Point, with the ferries heading out of Long Harbour or out of Active Pass, sailboats, fishing boats, and whale watching tours heading in all directions between Salt Spring, Galiano, and Pender Islands. The difference here is, these boats aren’t moving.
I’m just about to say something to James about it when a speedboat comes roaring out from around the corner, the same speedboat I saw when they all first moved in. The boat cuts right in front of the dock, between us and the waiting boats, and it’s only then that I realize that it’s Harrison behind the wheel.
If he’s noticed me at all, he doesn’t show it. He handles the boat with grace as it zips past and does a quick turn, getting closer to the waiting boats this time.
“What’s going on?” I ask James as we stand outside the yacht, the dock now moving underneath us as the waves from the speedboat crash against it.
“The press,” James says with a sigh. “They’ve been awakened with that newspaper article.” He glances at me. “I assume you’ve seen it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Well, news travels fast, especially online. I have a feeling that these are our dear British tabloids that have finally shown up, late to the game and doubly frustrated that they can’t get close to the house.”
Monica pokes her head up from inside the powerboat, looking tiny against its massive size. “Piper,” she says. “Come aboard.”
She’s smiling as always and seems cheery, so that relaxes me somewhat. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like all of this is my fault, however.
I get on board, while James walks to the end of the dock and sits down on one of the chairs. Harrison is still going around in the speedboat, though he’s slowed down now and the wake isn’t so bad.
Monica waves me inside the boat, and I follow. The interior is slick but a little cold and austere, with zero personal touches. “Nice boat,” I tell her.
“I’m not a fan,” she says, and then laughs when she sees my expression. “It’s okay, it’s not our boat. We chartered it for the time we’re here. It was the only one this big that was available for such a long time. Here, have a seat. Want some wine? I’ve at least got that. And please, don’t decline because I’m pregnant. I need to live vicariously through someone. I am missing wine like I’m missing a limb.”
“Well, in that case, yes, please,” I tell her, sitting down on one of the plush chairs by an oak table. “You know, I’ve heard doctors say that it’s okay for pregnant women to have a glass of wine every now and then.”
She pulls a bottle from the fridge and laughs. “That applies to most women, but I don’t fall in the ‘most women’ category. Word would get out somehow, and then my unhealthy habits would be splashed across every tabloid across the planet. When my child grows up, if there’s anything less than perfect about them, then you can guarantee a million fingers will be pointing my way, and at that one glass of wine.”
“You’re right,” I tell her as she plucks a wineglass from the shelf and brings the bottle over, filling the glass with a generous amount of pinot blanc. “I never thought of that.”
