“That library is creepy,” I replied. “I can’t put it into words. It’s more than the fact that the professor died there. It’s as if the room has… an attitude-a negative attitude. It doesn’t want strangers.”
Raphaella nodded as if everything I said made perfect sense to her. “I see. And that makes you uneasy-and a little scared.”
“Yeah.”
I poured a dollop of peanut oil into the wok and flipped on the range hood fan. “Hold your breath,” I warned. “This may make you cough a little.”
Raphaella got up and opened the window that looked out on Mom’s flower beds between the house and garage. I dumped the spices into the hot oil. Instantly, the sharp savoury aroma of sizzling chili, garlic, and ginger filled the kitchen. Coughing, I added the shrimp and tossed them with a metal spatula. As soon as the shrimp had turned pink on both sides I scooped them onto a plate and set it aside. Next, in went the vegetables. I stir-fried them for a few minutes, then poured in some chicken broth, sending a cloud of steam into the air, and clapped the wooden lid on the wok.
While the veggies cooked, I drained the noodles. “Okay, here we go,” I announced. “The moment of truth.”
I removed the lid from the wok, dumped in the shrimp and then the noodles, blending the ingredients quickly, adding fish sauce at the last minute before turning off the stove. Raphaella scooped steamed rice into a bowl. While she set it on the table I poured the stir-fry onto a huge platter, then set it down next to the rice.
“Ready!” I yelled, pulling the strings of my apron.
Mom and Dad came into the kitchen, each with half a glass of red wine, Mom with the bottle. “Smells wonderful,” she commented.
Dad waved at the air, wrinkling his nose and pretending to be offended by the spicy aroma. “The fire extinguisher’s under the sink,” he remarked, grinning at Raphaella. Then he pulled out a chair. “Come on, Annie. No shilly-shallying. Let’s strap on the old feed bag.”
“Shilly-shallying?” Raphaella said.
As we ate, Raphaella told us about MOO. The cast had had its first run-though and the rehearsal schedule was set. Raphaella would be busy most nights. The dramatic and music directors were married-to each other.
“I hope the rehearsals won’t all be like our first meeting,” Raphaella said, popping a shrimp into her mouth. “The directors bickered over every point. And the guy playing Josh Smith thinks he knows more than both of them put together. If by some miracle we can pull the production together and do a good job, there’s a chance we’ll be invited to perform at a conference opening at Geneva Park on the same weekend. And,” she added, giving my father her most winning smile, “the musical ensemble is short one flute player.”
Dad shook his head. “Don’t even try,” he said. “I can’t perform in front of people. My mouth gets all dry and I can’t pucker.”
“But you teach flute,” Raphaella argued. “Garnet says you’re a great player.”
Dad looked at me. “You said that?”
“I may have been exaggerating.”
Mom got into the mix. “No, you weren’t, Garnet. Gareth is a fabulous flautist,” she said to Raphaella.
Dad beamed and blushed at the same time. “Well-”
“But he’s chicken,” Mom said.
II
NEXT MORNING, I paced back and forth in my room, mentally rehearsing what I wanted to say. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to make the deal. A three-year lease at no cost! The biggest expenses in starting up a business, Dad had advised me more than once, were equipment and plant-the rental or ownership of the workplace. Mrs. Stoppini was offering the second for free, a huge boost to my plans.
But I didn’t want to sound too eager, because I had a condition of my own.
Okay, I told myself, it’s showtime. I keyed Mrs. Stoppini’s number into my cell, took a deep breath, and pushed the Talk button.
She answered with a coldly formal “Good morning. Corbizzi residence.”
“Hello, Mrs. Stoppini. It’s Garnet Havelock.”
Her voice warmed up a degree. “Good morning, Mr. Havelock. How nice to hear from you.”
“I said I’d phone and give you my decision about your offer.”
“Ah.”
“Er, I’m willing to meet your two conditions.”
A little more of the frost melted away. “Excellent.”
“But I have one of my own.”
A pause. “Indeed.”
I waited her out, chewing on my lip.
Her voice had iced over again, like a pond in winter. “May I know what you have in mind?”
“I have a friend. She’s very reliable. And honest. I want to bring her along from time to time to help with the books.”
“Mr. Havelock, I did stress that our business arrangements and all the attendant details, along with information personal to this household, must remain strictly confidential.”
“She’s very discreet. And I know from experience that she can keep a secret. Forever, if necessary.”
“But-”
“I need her help, Mrs. Stoppini.”
“Did you say she?”
“Raphaella is my girlfriend,” I said.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Stoppini said again, stuffing as much distaste as she could manage into the two syllables.
Girlfriend. I hated that word. It sounded trivial, as if Raphaella was a buddy I went to the movies with every Saturday afternoon. But how could I explain our relationship to a stranger? And why would I? Especially a cold fish like Mrs. Stoppini. Raphaella and I were soulmates.
“She’s my best friend,” I added.
Silence.
“My companion.”
More silence. Then, when Mrs. Stoppini spoke, her voice took on a neutral tone, as if she had made up her mind.
“Raphaella. An Italian name. It means ‘She who heals.’ I shall take that as a good omen. What is her surname?”
My turn to hesitate. “You’re going to investigate her.” It wasn’t a question.
“I must, Mr. Havelock. But I shall be just as circumspect as before.”
“Skye,” I said. “With an ‘e.’ ”
“Fine. Let us agree on the following: provided my lawyer has no objection, I shall consent to your condition and allow your… companion to assist you in your work and, to that end, come and go as she pleases.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“I shall have the contracts drawn up. And one more thing, Mr. Havelock.”
“Yes?”
“May I say how pleased I am that you have accepted.”
I almost shouted, “Me, too!”
III
WHEN I WAS IN GRADE NINE I went out with a girl named Sandy Mills until I found out I was her reserve boyfriend-the guy she dated as long as her real love interest hadn’t asked her out first. Sandy tore away the last shred of my already tattered self-confidence, and I wondered if any girl would ever give me the time of day. I was so desperate for ideas that one evening while my parents and I were washing the dinner dishes-we only used the dishwasher if we had company-I made the mistake of asking them how they met.
They agreed on the first part. Dad was an Orillia boy and Mom met him at the farmers’ market one summer Saturday while visiting friends who owned a cottage on Lake St. John and had brought her into town to shop. From that point on, my parents’ versions of their relationship story varied.
“She chased me all over town,” my father called out from the living room. He had finished washing and left Mom and me to sweep the floor and put the dishes away. “She wouldn’t let me alone. It was embarrassing. I’d turn a street corner and there she’d be. I married her just to put her out of her misery.”
“Not true!” Mom contradicted, directing her voice toward the living room as she swept. “You were so smitten you phoned me once a day and twice on Sunday. Your phone bill was bankrupting you. I only agreed to your proposal because I felt sorry for you.”