The Spy I Loved

by Dusty Miller

  The Spy I Loved

  Dusty Miller

  Copyright 2014 Dusty Miller and Long Cool One Books

  Design: J. Thornton

  ISBN 978-1-927957-69-1

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About Dusty Miller

  Chapter One

  Lindsey was cleaning the kitchen in Cabin Fifteen. The place smelled of booze and stale tobacco. She had the windows open and a fresh breeze coming through. The place had been shut up for two months now. The ice fishermen who rented it last must have been real pigs. They had heaped up the dirty pots and pans and left them to harden by the sink. They had used every cup, knife, fork and spoon in the place without giving them as much as a rinse. Going by the track of built-up mud coming and going from every room, they had left their boots on at all times, except for possibly when they were asleep. Even the bedding smelled of fish. There were one or two fish scales on the bed sheets.

  The shower enclosure was the cleanest place in the house. Her conclusion was that they hadn’t used it.

  She had her first year down. Lindsey was studying history at the U of T. School was her ticket out of Godforsaken Espanola, if she kept her nose clean and did the work. A summer of grunt labour at Uncle Dale’s fishing camp was a necessary evil. There were many of those in life, as Dale often said, faded blue eyes glazing over as he launched into yet another long and seemingly pointless story.

  Just when she thought she’d heard them all, he came up with another one. She’d accused him of making them up one time, and the hurt look he gave her still raised doubts. They might be true, after all—he’d operated the camp for quite a long time. It was back in the late eighties when he quit his job as a fireman in Kitchener and bought the run-down old place with his life savings.

  It might be a wonderful dream. What might be his dream was not Lindsey’s dream.

  His old war stories were the worst. They were often the prelude to a big drunk and a good cry.

  There were some things you never got used to.

  She had grown up there, after her parent’s death in a hotel fire in Vegas. She was six years old when that happened. What a sad little girl she must have been. Those memories were the strongest, her memories mostly fantasies—the fantasy that it was all just a mistake, and that they would come back to her one day.

  She knew their names, at least, and some people didn’t even have that.

  Her dad played the piano and her mom sang. Her mother had a voice like a nightingale. That’s all Lindsey knew. They had become fading photos in a handful of albums, her early childhood memories treasured but indistinct.

  It was a painful subject and it was best not to probe. At one time, decaying VHS tapes of her parents had fascinated her. She hadn’t looked at them in years.

  Today was looking like a very long day.

  She knew the job. For the most part, people were good. They were patient and understanding. Most people would be friendly enough, and nice enough. There would be one or two stinkers. There would be one or two big tippers and one or two real assholes. There would be some real gems in there and that helped to make life interesting moment by moment.

  At the end of a very long and winding road through the boreal forest of the Canadian Shield, the park was a microcosm of a larger community. It was a model. It was isolated, self-contained and having much of its own infrastructure. All of this cost money. It had to be tended with effort and attention, some of which took brains, and a lot of which was hard on the back.

  Some of it was a pain in the neck.

  Next came the bathroom, with a ring of ashes stuck to the floor by what must be dried pee around the toilet. It grated at the sponge as she scrubbed. Smokers weren’t her favourite people. These ones had been drinkers too, and particularly slovenly by the evidence left behind. There were no caterpillars burned into the floors and the rugs and that was something.

  They clearly didn’t worry too much about what staff thought of them and that applied probably every place they went. If nothing else, such folks were usually pretty good with the tips.

  Hopefully Mark had done all right.

  Making up a short mental list, for there didn’t appear to be too many of the usual household cleansers under the kitchen sink, she headed for the main lodge to get her cleaning supplies.

  The first guests were expected this weekend, the big May Two-Four, and it was almost upon them.

  She had her work cut out for her.

  ***

  The main lodge had its own kitchen. Their personal living quarters were on the back of what was the largest building in the camp. She found oil soap for the floors, clean sponges, the glass cleaner and the dish detergent. Mark, their winter caretaker, was partly to blame for the mess in Cabin Fifteen. He had left them with nothing, not even a washcloth. You couldn’t always blame the customer. She pulled the sponge mop out of the broom closet and headed for the lobby and the front door.

  There was a noise as she rounded the corner.

  A little squawk came when she ran right into what was a fairly tall man with a very hard, wide chest. In that brief contact, she noticed his aftershave, and the smell of male sweat. There was nothing else quite like it. He smoked a pipe, she knew that instantly.

  “Excuse me, Miss?”

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry.”

  He was unusually well-dressed, in a charcoal blazer, white shirt open at the neck and dark grey trousers. She approved of the soft, chocolate brown loafers. Grey shoes would have killed it. The gentleman stood dangling expensive salmon-stalker sunglasses from one hand, his car keys in the other.

  “That’s all right. I didn’t hear you come in.” There was a bell over the door, swinging on a hook.

  It had been disengaged, snapped back out of the way of the door, but Mark had been alone for much of the time in the off season. She did the same thing herself sometimes. Going over, she reached up and fixed it.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Well. My name is Kimball. Liam Kimball. I have a reservation…” He smiled slightly, face dimly perceived, backlit by the glare of the front and south side windows.

  He had a deep voice but spoke gently, in a cultured English accent. His look into her eyes was not exactly ingenuous. There was some real character visible there in spite of his age or lack of it. He had an athletic appearance. That
youthfulness stemmed more from the posture, the way he padded about like a big cat. He took in the contents of the store at a glance, those glinting hazel eyes curious about everything. He was older than he looked. There was a hardness there, one not often seen…not by her, anyways. Maybe it was confidence, but confidence of a different kind.

  Turning to her left, she put her cardboard box down on end of the reception counter. She propped the mop against the end and went in behind the cash register. The book, which should have been on top of the counter, wasn’t there. She cursed Mark inwardly. The counter was an all-glass display cabinet with maps, brochures and a few rather tacky fishing-themed gifts and cards priced at what she knew to be a ludicrous rate of mark-up. Changing the display was one more item on her list. The store, still darkened as he wandered about stretching his legs, was in need of a good dusting before restocking the shelves for opening.

  “Shit.” Mark and her uncle had left everything to her and that included behind the counter.

  There were open shelves, above that the pigeonholes and key-hooks, and then a row of cabinets. She opened door after door. Not seeing it at first, she dropped down and had a look on the bottom shelves. It struck Lindsey that the fellow was pretty quiet. She snuck a look but he had his back to her. This was a slight relief. Some males, away from home and the wife, were inveterate prowlers and she wasn’t in the mood right now. Some of them could be downright grabby. She’d felled more than one with a drop-kick to the centre of their existence. They might not know she was underage, but she sure had at the time.

  It was the sort of thing Dale didn’t need to know about and she had figured out an appropriate response all on her little lonesome.

  “Ah.” Pulling out the registry book, she blew off a thin cloud of dust and then gave it a quick wipe with the heel of her grubby palm before Kimball turned around.

  Clad in her usual informal garb, it struck Lindsey that she was wearing a halter top, skimpy cut-off jean shorts. She had a red bandanna round the neck, along with narrow-strapped doeskin sandals.

  Damn, how her heart fluttered. The sandals were an indulgence, a luxury, as well as being a bit of a temptation. Some of them old fishermen had some very good-looking sons and nephews and brothers and sons-in-law.

  A little eye candy went a long way towards bringing them back from year to year.

  There was always that contradiction, wasn’t there?

  Look but don’t touch.

  She felt terribly foolish all of a sudden, with this attractive professional coming in here and she swallowed a lump in her throat. She’d met all sorts of guys in school. Some of them left quite an impression, one which didn’t always reflect well on the male gender in general terms.

  More specifically, some of them were real creeps.

  Kimball seemed distant, quite frankly tired-looking. She’d read the list of reservations on the computer screen, but the book was a tradition. The computer took a moment to warm up. You couldn’t allow guests to rummage through the computer. They could look at the book and see where famous hockey players or one or two others, soap stars and the like, some otherwise unremarkable people on CBC Radio, had signed it years ago.

  “Yep. Here you are, Mister Kimball.” He was a bit unusual in that he was a foreign citizen but he had a plastic Province of Ontario Outdoors Card and a current fishing license.

  He had his small boat training certificate.

  That took time and some foresight to acquire. Mister Kimball might have been planning this for a long time. The Pines had been featured in several sporting and fishing magazines over the decades, although not so much recently.

  He had made the usual deposit, and there was a note that he might be extending his stay. This was problematical. Their small resort couldn’t exactly live on cancellations. They couldn’t always quickly fill suddenly-empty cabins. Prospective guests wanted firm dates and a clear yes or no. Hopefully he understood that, but she didn’t bring it up. A hundred percent occupancy rate over their short summer season was an unattainable dream, but they did what they could.

  He paid the balance with a credit card and the transaction went through. His wallet had a few cards in there and a thin wad of cash in fifties and hundreds.

  Other than that, she knew nothing.

  Blinking under her grave scrutiny, he gave her a nod and put it away.

  Nothing unexpected there, and she lifted the key off the board. They had reserved Cabin Seven for him, which was luckily in pretty fair shape as she’d already done the heavy cleaning.

  Coming from the starkly contrasting shadow of the veranda into the strong light of morning, her mouth opened in appreciation.

  “Whoa. Cute car.”

  His head swung and he gave a nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “What is it?”

  He grinned at that.

  “It’s a nineteen fifty-four M.G. T-C.”

  “Wow. It’s…it’s very red.” She gave him another quick look, but he was pleased by the attention.

  She admired the long lean lines, the swooping front fenders and the tall, narrow chrome spoke wheels. It was strangely boxy on the back end, and yet there was no angle or view that didn’t intrigue.

  “Never heard of it. What’s the M.G. stand for?”

  “Morris Garages.” He lifted the trunk lid, where there were one or two small but rather expensive looking sports bags. “A little English company.”

  “Huh. Nice.”

  Inside the car, hulking large under the soft low top, was a navy blue duffel bag. She took the smaller items while he dragged that out.

  “You drove all the way from Montreal in that thing?” She shook her head in mock amazement. “You’re one hell of an optimist.”

  “I’ll take you for a ride sometime, if we get a chance.” It didn’t sound overly flirtatious.

  It was just nice.

  “Sure.”

  He laughed.

  To be fair, the thing gleamed, with just a few bugs and the usual stains on the windshield and front end.

  He gave a little grunt, and heaved the load up onto his right shoulder as one of their resident blue jays sat on a branch and made squeaky-pulley noises. The hum of a solitary boat-motor down the river somewhere gave an audible scale to things.

  Bent under the weight, he followed her the short distance to Cabin Seven.

  She put down the smaller two bags, one of which obviously had a laptop computer in it judging by the feel, and took out the master keys. She opened it up for him and then showed him around after they had everything inside.

  “You have hot water. It’s a tank-less system so it takes a minute or so before the hot water begins to flow.” She showed him how the propane stove and the microwave worked.

  He nodded in approval at the bathroom, (after a moment), with its lacquered knotty-pine décor, walls and ceiling. She stood there, grinning slightly at his first impression. Opening up the back door, she showed him the mini-bar and the barbecue on the small stone patio at the rear.

  “Okay. Up at the store, we have frozen dinners, sandwiches, ready-made; slices of hot pizza, ice cream, personal care items. We have ice, live bait, books and magazines, video rentals, snacks, pop, chips…” She stopped. “If there’s anything you need, please just let us know.”

  He looked at her. He took another look around the living room, which was on the front of the cabin. It had an old-fashioned mahogany hi-fi stereo system, a1970s blue shag rug and pole lamps. There was a small, conical sheet-metal fireplace and stovepipe, and then there was the seven-foot big screen TV mounted on the wall. She lifted the lid on the console and showed him the modern controls. All the remotes were stored in there as well. Those disappeared with depressing frequency. There were some nice homey touches in each of the cabins, and even some art. In this cabin there were a couple of nice hooked rugs, hand-made, bought at church bazaars over the years. They set off the narrow boards of the maple floors nicely. On the end wall was a varnished cedar plank pain
ted in the northwest Pacific native motif. There were eagles and salmon and other creatures all over it. The sinuous lines and strong stylizations that had always reminded her of something else—the only problem being that she knew nothing about art and would have felt stupid asking the question. It was pictorial and abstract at the same time, the symbolism complex and no doubt holding great meaning to its original creator.

  There was a certain savagery there as well, one well suited to a blood sport. She’d seen enough fishing to know that it was a kind of cruelty, and what alternative could one possibly suggest? The idea that everyone in the world should become a vegetarian and live solely by agriculture simply wasn’t feasible. It was never going to happen. She liked her meat, her fish and poultry just fine—when you didn’t have to directly confront the issue of where it came from or how it was procured.

  “Very nice.”

  She laughed.

  He appreciated antiques, and that was something. This particular cabin had its own outdoor hot-tub, and there was a sauna up the road that guests could reserve in one-hour blocks, which was about all anyone could stand anyways. It was a mix of the old and the new. Dale’s business had grown by providing all the usual amenities. While there were guests who would fish eighteen hours a day, they did have wives and children too, and a smart operator took that into account. People were on vacation and wanted some place to spend their money. Choices were limited with only three or four camps located within a twenty-kilometre radius, and word soon got around.

  Mister Kimball seemed pleased with the accommodations.

  “I wasn’t quite done prepping the bedroom. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be back in a moment with some fresh towels and pillowcases and things.”

  “Thank you.” Mister Kimball handed her a fifty-dollar bill and stood looking around, mostly out the front window at the view across the lake as she took a quick look around to see what might still be needed.