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finding someone to look after her, he’d be returning immediately. His intention then was to stay as long as it took, into the small hours, if necessary.
    The only thing that the plan didn’t take into account was his parents’ old minivan. It was sitting out in the hospital lot and his mother insisted she couldn’t leave it behind. Since chauffeuring her home in the van would make a swift return to town impossible, there was no alternative but to follow in his car. It was getting on to rush hour, so the trip on the winding Malahat Drive was painfully slow, all the more so because the new widow crawled like a zombie.
    The fifty-kilometre drive north to Duncan took an hour, with another twenty minutes to reach the spot, upstream on the Cowichan River, where the family had a small acreage. The entrance to the property was off a rural byway, the driveway curving though a stand of fir and cedar to an open area beside the water. There the Lothian house stood, fully exposed on the river side, but backed by the dense woods, out of which it appeared to have thrust its way.
    The vehicles arrived in time to intercept a figure coming around the building, from the direction of Walter’s studio. It was a woman, dark-haired and petite, probably in her late twenties, with round, open features that to Greg were vaguely familiar. She glanced at him as he got out of his car, but her main focus was on his mother in the minivan.
    Since Mary didn’t move immediately, the woman went to the driver’s door and opened it. The two stared at each other wordlessly. Communication must have passed, however, because the woman whispered, “Oh, God! Really?”
    Stony-faced, Mary nodded.
    â€œOh, Mary, I’m very, very sorry!” the other replied. Then his mother tumbled from the car, and they were holding each other hard.
    The newcomer turned out to be Lucy Lynley, whom Greg had known all his life but not set eyes on for years. Her parents had bought the adjoining property, downriver, and Lucy had been born there. As the only close neighbour, she had hung about the Lothian place, tagging along after Jill, who—three years older—had tartly tolerated her. Older still, Greg had had less contact with the irrepressible little girl. He remembered her for not being afraid of his dad—who, in turn, was far more tolerant of Lucy than of his own offspring. But at thirteen, she had been sent to school in Vancouver, and though she’d come home for holidays, Greg had rarely seen her after that. Now here she was, to him a near-stranger, though this was clearly not the case with his mother.
    After a long time, the women disentangled. With hardly a glance in Greg’s direction, they headed into the house. Feeling a trifle left out, he followed. Not till they were in the kitchen and, unbidden, Lucy was putting on the kettle, did his mother make introductions. “Oh, Greg, dear—Lucy,” she said briefly. “Do you two remember each other?”
    They both acknowledged that they did. Lucy, apparently very much at home in the house, smiled warmly. “I’m awfully sorry about your dad, Greg. It’s a terrible shock. I’m going to miss him very much.”
    Greg was astonished. He remembered Lucy as an unusually candid person—which somehow endeared her to Walter, who’d squelched any such tendencies in his own family—so he had to believe her sincere. But missing his father? That idea was novel, to say the least.
    As if reading his thoughts, his mother said, “Lucy moved back home when her own dad died, Greg. She’s become a wonderful friend.”
    â€œReally?” Greg said, realizing that surprise had blinded him to the solution of a major problem. “Lucy, it’s wonderful to meet you again, and I’m very glad you’re here. Listen. could you—er— stay with my mum for a while?”
    Lucy glanced at Mary, who shrugged. “Greg’s just