Reluctantly, he spoke, 'I was stationed in Beirut and walked down the wrong street.'
Petra waited but it was clear that Geoff wasn't going to say any more. 'And then what happened?'
He supposed it was fair, her asking him questions that he didn't like to answer. But the fairness of the situation didn't make the reply any easier. 'A bomb went off that blew my leg apart and killed the guy next to me.'
'Did you know who he was?'
'No, but we spent several hours together buried under a building that had fallen over us. I guess you could say,' his voice was wry, 'that we did have a chance to get acquainted.'
'And then what?'
Geoff glanced at her. 'And then we were dug out and I was taken to a hospital where they attempted to put me back together.'
'Will you ever walk without a limp again?'
It was plainly and brutally put. Most people edged around that question, sidestepping the painful issue. Even his parents and brothers hadn't dared to ask Geoff if he was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life. His fierce scowl and obvious reluctance to talk about his leg had put everyone off except Petra. 'I don't know,' he finally said. 'Maybe.'
'That's too bad.'
But her voice was completely devoid of sympathy, and it made Geoff wince inside. It also made him wonder about his own interviewing technique. Did he come across as so uninterested? So carelessly probing? So idly curious? He had asked any number of people, including Petra, some hard questions. Some people were evasive, others were diplomatic, a few were even honest. But in his long and distinguished career, he'd never particularly cared how the questions had made his interviewees feel. The need to get the story had always been so strong that the end had justified the means, and he'd been willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to achieve it. Now, with the tables turned, Geoff was finding that experience painful and unpleasant.
For a long time, the two of them were silent. Petra had turned over so that she was lying on her stomach and Geoff was, once again, staring out across the lake. Then she spoke, 'Do you like it here?'
'Surprisingly, I do.'
'Why is it a surprise?'
'I thought I'd be bored.'
'I love it up here,' she said with more enthusiasm in her voice than he'd ever heard before. 'It's so peaceful and quiet.'
'Don't you like teaching?'
Petra hadn't seemed to notice that he'd done the forbidden and asked a question. She picked up some sand in her hand and let the grains sift through her fingers. 'I love teaching but when the school year is over, I'm just as glad to get away from school as the kids are. And then,' she added with her first smile of the morning, 'when summer's over I can't wait to get back.'
Geoff was quite struck by that smile. It was spontaneous and warm and happy, and he'd never seen Petra anything but cool and controlled before. Oh, she was affectionate with Sunny and Joe, but there was always a part of her that seemed to be carefully watching herself, monitoring her emotions, gauging just how far she should go. He wondered if she were different in the classroom where she was only being judged by the uncritical eye of small children.
'Well,' he said carefully, not wanting to alter the tentative peace between them and knowing he had to stay away from dangerous ground, 'I always hated school. I never wanted to go back.'
'Oh, one of those.'
'I was a terror in the playground, too.'
'Were you?'
'I was wild at times,' he said ruefully. 'I have this embarrassing memory of spitting in the water fountain to get a couple of girls mad. They told the teacher and I had to call my father and tell him what I did.'
'And that cured you?'
'Yup. Never spat in another water fountain in my life.' Petra had put her head down in her arms, but Geoff could have sworn that she was smiling. Encouraged, he kept on, 'Of course, being one of four brothers didn't make it easy. We were all rambunctious. We were always wrestling, fighting and playing tricks on one another.' He paused, savouring a memory. 'I'll never forget what we did to Alex, my youngest brother, when he was about eight. He was the kind of kid who abhorred cleanliness. He never used soap in the shower and only brushed his teeth when stuff started to grow on them. Tom and I were babysitting him once, and we decided that he was going to have clean teeth, once and for all.'
'Uh-oh,' said Petra, turning her head to look at him. 'Poor Alex.'
'Yeah, we were pretty sadistic. We told him what we were going to do and dragged him bodily up the stairs to the bathroom. All the way, he kept screaming, "You can't make me!"
"That's what you think," we told him. Anyway, we got him into the bathroom, forcibly held him down on the toilet seat, and pinched his nose shut. When he opened his mouth to breathe, zap! In went a heavily coated toothbrush.' Geoff took a quick glance at Petra, saw that she was actually laughing this time and went in for the punchline. 'The kid was lucky to have his molars left when we were done.'
'Oh,' said Petra, taking a shaky, laughing breath, 'the cruelty of children.'
'Of course, he squealed on us, the rat. We got him for that, too.'
'I didn't have any brothers or sisters.'
Her voice was wistful, and Geoff said, 'The grass is always greener. I spent years wishing I was an only child.'
Petra had propped her chin up on her hands and was staring off into the bushes. 'You would have hated it.'
He was careful not to look at her, not to make his voice seem eager or obtrusive. 'I don't know,' he said in a tone of idle speculation. 'Think of the advantages. One hundred percent of your parents' love and attention, not having to wear hand-me-downs, no one sneaking through your things and stealing your favourite toys.'
'It wasn't like that at all,' she said vehemently. 'It was…' And then she stopped, throwing a startled look at Geoff. 'Well, that was clever of you, wasn't it?' she added acidly.
'What?' His voice was innocent, but he knew what she meant, and he was thinking: damn and double damn.
Petra was sitting up now, bending over and hurriedly putting on her sandals. Her pose gave Geoff a clear view of curved amber breasts, lovely and soft. 'Don't ask the questions, but soften up the victim and she'll talk all day.'
'Petra, that wasn't what I…'
She stood up, her towel over her arm. 'But the victim isn't as stupid as you think,' she said coldly.
'I didn't…'
But she was gone, her sandals slapping against the bottom of her feet, punctuating the silence with an angry staccato sound. Geoff watched her figure disappear into the bush and then he stretched out on his towel, sighing heavily. He had thought that talk of his family was about as innocuous as he could get, but instead it seemed that he'd trodden on some dangerous territory. He could only surmise that there was something in Petra's background that made her so sensitive. Something that might or might not have to do with her swimming. Geoff curled his fingers into the sand and wondered how much he should dig to find out what it was. A good reporter would leave no stone unturned; a compassionate person would respect the fences that Petra had erected around herself.
Geoff spread his fingers and watched the grains of sand fall back on to the beach. Compassion wasn't one of his virtues, never had been. It was a quality that hadn't got much nourishment in his family. Oh, they all loved one another, he supposed, but in the rough and tumble of his childhood, it had been each boy out for his own. Mistakes weren't tolerated, clumsiness was ridiculed, and even the most momentary weakness could result in a loss of status in the family pecking order. The Hamilton brothers hadn't left much room in their lives for compassion.
And it didn't fit into his profession either. In fact, it would be an albatross around his neck. Compassion didn't generate great stories, wonderful scoops or penetrating interviews. Geoff had a reputation as a journalist who went for the gut, and he was proud of it. He'd never let compassion get in his way before, and the idea of tip-toeing around Petra Morgan's sensitivities and vulnerabilities thoroughly disgusted him. Geoff put h
is head down in his arms and thought that she'd be a fool if she expected him or any other reporter to be so understanding. Swimming Lake Ontario was a public event and a media affair. It made her fair game for the curious, the sensation-seekers and the celebrity hunters. He might not care a damn about the swim, but the rest of the world would want to know the whys, the hows and the wherefores of what seemed to most people to be an act of supreme torture. And if he didn't sift through Petra's life to find the clues to that swim, someone else would.
A good reporter would probe and dig and examine; a compassionate person would avoid the tender spots in Petra's psyche and walk carefully in a territory that was clearly explosive. But Geoff had never been one to shy away from danger. He'd walked into a booby-trapped street in Beirut, knowing full well that one small error in judgment could mean his death. And if the mistake meant that he would limp for the rest of his life? Well, the risks were part of the job, and they didn't detract from his enjoyment of it. Hell, they even added to the thrill of it all.
A good reporter or a compassionate man? Geoff flipped over on his back, closed his eyes and let the sun's rays warm his chest and face. It wasn't a choice that would leave him in agonies of self-doubt or caught on the horns of a two-pronged dilemma. All his life, Geoff had known precisely what he wanted to be.
The best damned reporter in the world.
Petra had learned early in life that she had a thing for animals and they, in return, had a thing for her. Dogs wagged their tails in ecstatic joy when they saw her, and they were apt to jump up on her shoulders, lick her face and follow her around. Cats were more restrained but equally affectionate in their own way. They crawled into her lap and purred. They liked to weave around her legs. Several cats of her acquaintance even went so far as to lie on their backs when she was around in the hopes of getting their stomachs scratched. And, of course, Petra gave in. She was one of the world's best tummy-rubbers, ear-scratchers and all-round petters that she knew. At least that seemed to be the consensus of the animals she knew.
Rembrandt and Renoir were no exception. Renoir had immediately deserted Sunny on the evening of Petra's arrival, and Petra had been awakened in the middle of the night to find herself nose-to-nose with a curious cat. When she'd sleepily turned over, Renoir had climbed up on to her back, stepped down into the valley created in the blankets by her bent knees and settled in for a nice snooze. It was all very comfortable and cosy except that Petra had been periodically aroused by Renoir who purred like a buzz-saw badly in need of repair.
Rembrandt, who slept outside, had taken to not only following Petra around on land but also pursuing her in the water. He usually accompanied her on at least one or two laps of her training swim, After that, he cheerfully flopped down on a rock by the shoreline and, lowering his great black head on to his paws, watched Petra until she was done. Then he followed her into the cabin where he hung around while she had lunch. And Petra always shared a bit of her meal with him, being totally incapable of resisting the appeal in those huge, brown and mournful-looking eyes.
'You're such a sucker,' Sunny said. 'Honest to Pete, that dog knows when he's latched on to a good thing.'
'I can't help it,' Petra said, munching on a ham sandwich that was missing most of its ham while Rembrandt was enjoying his share under the table.
Sunny was busy making an apple pie, rolling out the dough on to a floured board. 'You're so crazy about animals that I've always wondered why you didn't have a pet of your own.'
The question caught Petra unawares. 'Oh, I… well, it's my mother, you see.'
'She doesn't like pets?'
Petra looked down at her sandwich. 'No.'
Sunny was one of the few people in Petra's acquaintance who had actually met her mother and understood the family circumstances. Now, she glanced sympathetically at Petra's bent head and said, 'How many months has Sheila been in the hospital this year?'
'Five, so far.'
'And what do the doctors say?'
Petra gave an unhappy shrug. 'They don't say anything except that she's a chronic case and there isn't a cure for… what she has.'
'What is the diagnosis?'
'Depression, instability, mental illness, schizophrenia. Every doctor says something different, but it doesn't really matter what label they put on it. She's sick, that's all.' Petra took a bite of her sandwich, discovered that it had turned tasteless and passed it under the table to Rembrandt.
'Is there anything they can…?'
'She looks terrible, too. She's lost weight and she's very shaky. I don't know whether it's the drugs or what, but every time I see her, I get worried. But they tell me that she eats a bit, and she doesn't seem to be too unhappy, but how can I tell? It isn't as if she'll talk very much to me.'
'Oh, Petra.' Sunny reached over and put her floured fingers on Petra's clenched hands.
But the words wouldn't stop coming as if they'd been building up inside her and fighting to break loose. 'Sometimes, I'm not even sure she knows when I'm there. She stares at the wall or the ceiling or the floor. And she makes this peculiar little twisting motion with her fingers, over and over again.' To her horror, Petra heard her voice crack and felt tears dampen her lashes. It wasn't the first time she'd cried over her mother, but she had never broken down in front of anyone before. Quickly, she pulled her hands away, blinked again and gave Sunny a small, wavering smile. 'Anyway,' she added, her back quite rigid and her voice now held to a monotone, 'the flat's too small for a dog and the super doesn't like cats.'
There were any number of things that Sunny could have done then. She could have followed her instincts and taken Petra into her arms and comforted her. She could have offered her a Kleenex and tea and soothing words. But, if Sunny had any urge to supply Petra with the mothering she needed, she was smart enough not to show it. She carefully moved away from Petra and went back to her pie dough, pummelling it with an unusual show of fury. 'Well, there you are,' she finally said, clearing her throat. 'It was stupid of me to ask in the first place. Now, what are your plans for the afternoon?'
Silently thanking Sunny for the chance to regain her composure, Petra stood up and felt Rembrandt's wet nose sneaking into her hand. 'I thought I'd drive into town. Is there anything you need?'
'Mmmm—let's see. Milk, butter, fruit if there's anything available, Joe wouldn't mind a newspaper and some aspirin, please.'
'Sure.'
'Oh, and Petra? Take Jennifer along, will you? The child's suffering from cabin fever and has been begging me for a trip into Mercy.'
Petra glanced down at the dog at her feet. 'And I don't suppose Rembrandt can be left behind, can he?'
Sunny gave her a pleading smile. 'Poor Remmie would be miserable,' she said. 'He thinks a car ride is hid God-given right.'
Rembrandt occupied the entire back seat of her small Toyota. He liked to sit with his head out of an open window, his tongue lolling, his ears streaming in the wind. Jennifer sat in the front with Petra, who would have preferred her human companion to be as mute as her animal one, but of course she wasn't that lucky. Jennifer liked to chat during car rides. All the way to town, Petra was the unwilling listener to a long story about how the students in Jennifer's Grade 10 class read The Merchant of Venice, went to see it at the theatre and then acted out the parts themselves. That story, in turn, led to a description of Jennifer's English teacher (he's great), her best friend (we've been close since we were five, isn't that neat?) and her high school (divided between two cliques; the punks and the preps). Petra smiled, nodded and put in the appropriate word or exclamation when the situation seemed to demand one. But she was relieved when they finally reached town and she pulled into a parking spot.
'Here we are,' she said. 'And Toronto, it isn't.'
Jennifer glanced dubiously at the six shops that lined both sides of the dusty street, the pick-up van parked beside them and the one overhead traffic light that blinked yellow at periodic intervals and said, 'What do they call this place again?'
<
br /> 'Mercy, Ontario.'
Jennifer grimaced. 'As in "Have mercy on our souls"?'
For the first time, Petra found herself liking Jennifer. 'That's it,' she said with a smile.
Jennifer pointed to the drug store where a sign advertising a sale of bandages covered most of the window. 'Do you think they'll sell make-up?'
Petra looked at Jennifer's big, brown eyes, naturally pink cheeks and flawless smile. 'You want to buy makeup?' she asked. One of the best parts of a sojourn at the cottage as far as Petra was concerned was that such urban necessities as make-up and stockings could be ignored.
'Oh, yes,' Jennifer said. 'I really want to look a lot older.'
It took Petra one hour, three shops and four errands later to figure that remark out and then she winced. Jennifer's crush on Geoff seemed to be escalating. It had started with lovestricken looks, moved into shy attempts at flirtation and was now branching out into the realms of appearance. Petra couldn't help wondering how Geoff would feel when Jennifer approached him in full cosmetic regalia. Would he notice the thickened eyelashes, coloured mascara and lips glistening with newly applied lipstick? Or would he treat her with the same casual friendliness he'd managed for the past week? Petra had to hand it to Geoff for his talents in the how-to-handle-adolescents department. Jennifer's attempts to gain his attention were so blatant and so painful that Petra had wanted to take her aside, pat her on the head and explain the hard facts of life to her. Grown men of thirty-six were rarely interested in girls of thirteen and, if they were, one couldn't help thinking there was something peculiar about them. Jennifer needed to understand that boys wanted girls while men wanted women.
Men wanted women. The phrase brought Petra back to that morning two days ago when she'd joined Geoff on the beach. It was a memory that she had quite deliberately and successfully put out of her mind. It wasn't the conversation that bothered her so much any more, although she still was convinced that his efforts to get her to talk were underhand. No, it was something else that had hung in the air between them. She had felt Geoff's eyes on her breasts, assessing them and, for the first time, assessing her as a sexual being. She had known quite early on in their relationship that Geoff didn't find her attractive. Not that there was any concrete evidence to support that belief, but Petra had sensed that Geoff had examined her and found her wanting. It didn't bother her as much as it might have bothered another woman. After her bad love affair, Petra found his indifference to her more comforting than disturbing. She didn't want to attract men; she hadn't wanted Geoff to be sexually interested in her at all.
Love is a Distant Shore Page 5