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the Malahat isn’t too bad, I should be there in an hour.”
    â€œOkay. But drive safely. Your mother needs you in one piece, and I’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œThanks, Lucy, You’re very kind.”
    â€œNonsense. I’m just doing what anyone would. See you when you get here.”
    â€œYes. Goodbye!” Then, with a gesture that gave him uncharacteristic satisfaction, he made a U-turn right in the middle of sedate Oak Bay Avenue.
    â€¢ • •
    He arrived as the last reflections of sunset were fading on the Cowichan River. Briefly he sat, staring at the house, a fresh layer of reality surfacing as he realized that his mother would now be living here alone.
    The place had started as a log cabin, one of the first homes on this section of Riverbottom Road, built before the Second World War. Later owners had added a frame addition on one side, and cleared the land to give a better view of the river. Walter Lothian had acquired the property in the 1970s, when his paintings were beginning to gain national attention. Growing prosperity had allowed him to add yet another wing, a post-and-beam structure with a more-than-passing resemblance to a Coast Salish longhouse, plus a substantial studio, connected to the main building by a breezeway. The resulting agglomeration had mellowed with time and weather into a pleasantly harmonious whole, a fitting abode—as noted in arts supplements—for an important Canadian painter. In his youth, Greg had disliked the place, with its artsy clutter, and hated the isolation. Only later, after he’d created his own orderly space in Victoria, did he occasionally miss it, though nothing would have induced him to live there again.
    Now, in the dying day, it looked, paradoxically, both brooding and cozy. Light glowed through the living room windows and in the front hall. Greg got out of the car, crossed the broad front deck and entered quietly. His mother must have awakened, for her voice could be heard from the kitchen. Greg headed in that direction, then paused. Though he couldn’t make out what was being said, something about the tone made him apprehensive—and feel almost as if he were eavesdropping. He retreated to the front door and slammed it, calling loudly, “Hello! I’m back.” Only then did he walk into the kitchen.
    His mother and Lucy were sitting at the table, a pot of tea between them. Both women looked around as Greg appeared, and he stopped short, caught by their expressions. Mary looked stricken, her face matching the tone that he’d heard from the hallway. What stunned him was Lucy. Gone was the sedate young woman he’d met yesterday and later talked with. The person who confronted him now was pale with shock and some deep emotion.
    Greg had only a moment to register this, for Lucy composed herself and rose swiftly.
    Forcing her features into the caricature of a smile, she came to him, impulsively taking his hand. The contact was brittle with tension. “Oh, good, you’re here at last,” she said quickly. “Your mother will be so relieved.”
    â€œYes. But what . . . ?”
    â€œNow I must be off,” Lucy continued, without pause. “Mary, I’m so sorry about everything. But Greg’s here now. If there’s anything more I can do, please let me know. Goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”
    Lucy let go of Greg’s hand, using it to literally launch herself in the direction of the hall. A moment later came the sound of the front door closing.
    Her departure was so instantaneous that Greg was at a loss for words. What had caused Lucy’s manner to change so dramatically? It had to be whatever Mary had been saying when he arrived. But what could be so dreadful as to cause that reaction? Instinct told him that he didn’t want to know. And when he turned back, he was relieved, albeit freshly surprised, to see his mother calmly pouring more tea.
    â€œDid you get