Page 16 of Spark of Attraction

I drew a deep breath, steeling myself for that “Sorry, I have to cancel” message. Instead, I read,

Malcolm

“Sorry, running late. Be there in ten.”

When the doorbell rang minutes fourteen minutes later, the memory of answering the door and finding the police on the other side, wearing grim expressions, flooded back. My mouth dry, I opened the door to find Malcolm standing on my porch, his expression sheepish.

“I’m sorry, Ell. I didn’t think it would take me so long to walk here.”

Walk? Only then did I realize his truck wasn’t in the driveway.

“My truck is havin’…issues so I don’t trust it not to leave us stranded. We can hang around here, maybe order a pizza or some Chinese food from that new place that’s just opened?” His voice changed, grew less confident. “I’d totally understand if you want to cancel.”

Wow, he was expecting me to cancel because his truck broke down? Did women actually do that?

“I can drive us to Peterborough.” I mockingly narrowed my eyes at him. “Or are you one of those cavemen who insist that only men are capable of driving?”

I wasn’t sure if I was joking or not. But Malcolm readily agreed. As I pulled out of the driveway with Malcolm riding shotgun, I found myself surprised that he’d capitulated such control to me. Even since our first date, Gareth had demanded to drive every time. We always took his car, and he always drove. But Malcolm had settled into the passenger seat and made himself comfortable.

Driving to Peterborough took us along a winding two-lane highway, along the shore of Hawkeshead Lake, where we discussed how they had finally tamed the washboard effect over the causeway. With the lake behind us, we discussed the problems with his truck, and the difficulty of being self-employed and having to deal with unreasonable clients. The whole time, I was aware of Malcolm’s sitting beside me. He didn’t once clutch the door handle or hiss as I threaded through the early arrivals of traffic on Port Paxton’s streets or dealt with impatient tourists on the highway passing me on the double line so they could get to their cottages five minutes ahead of the next guy. With his casual manner and easy conversation, I found myself gradually relaxing.

As I slowed to drive through a pretty little village a tenth the size of Port Paxton, I gestured with my head to Ski Hill Road. “Do you still ski?”

He shook his head. “Not much now they’ve closed down both the lodges. I mean I could go to the hill in Kirby, or the one south of Uxbridge, but…”

“But you’re afraid you’ll break your leg again?” I teased. Malcolm had twice broken his leg—technically, he’d broken each leg once.

He snorted. “No. And I only broke my left leg because Gary Olsen cut right in front of me. He never should have been on that hill—it was way above his skill level.”

In that incident, Gary had ended up with a broken arm as well as a concussion, and blamed Malcolm for it still. But Malcolm was right. Gary had only started skiing that year and shouldn’t have been on the advanced slope.

As we approached the edge of Peterborough, we decided neither of us were hungry yet so I drove to the lift locks first. I’d been there once, as part of a school trip, and been bored silly at the time, but this time, walking along the river at the base of the lock, I found it pretty. Restful. Or maybe that was because I was with Malcolm.

We stopped to watch along the canal’s edge as, what the sign describing the giant rectangular water-filled bathtub called a caisson, slowly lowered two kayaks, a houseboat and a couple cabin cruisers—one twenty-footer and one closer to thirty feet with a pilothouse and flying bridge—sixty-five feet to continue their trek along the Trent River.

As we watched, Malcom’s hand touched mine, and our fingers entwined. The calluses on his palms showed a man who was not afraid of hard work, yet his touch was gentle. Warm. Comforting. Why did my heart rate jump? I had been married, was a widow before I turned forty. Yet here I was, grinning to myself that we were holding hands, as if I were still a teenager.

Aware of his shoulder brushing against mine, I asked, “Have you ever taken your boat through the lift locks?”

His parents had a small motor boat that his father used for fishing rather than cruising. “Nah. I’ve taken our boat through the locks at Fenelon Falls and Bobcaygeon, but it would take all day to get from Port Paxton to here and back again. Might be fun to do if I had a cabin cruiser or a houseboat and wanted to travel the entire length of the Trent.”

As the gates pivoted down, allowing the boats out of the caisson, and they began to manoeuvre their way past us, two buses sporting a church group banner pulled into the parking lot. They unloaded a mixture of seniors who slowly ambled along the walk, and younger families with school-aged kids who raced along the path toward us, hooting and hollering despite their parents’ admonitions.

The peace of the park broken, we decided to leave. It took us less than ten minutes to head back downtown. Peterborough’s one-way main streets, both of which followed the path of the Trent River, always confused me, even with the GPS. Which had sometimes steered me to drive down the main street the wrong way. With Malcolm beside me, keeping an eye out for street signs, I safely eased into the parkade and parked it on the second story. Malcolm hopped out and rounded my car as I did the same. He held out his hand and once again I placed my palm in his. We wandered along George, then back along Water St.

Malcolm didn’t complain when I tugged into one of the used bookstores. Nor did he grumble about the time I took to peruse the stacks. At some point I realized he’d wandered away but I found him in the mystery section checking out an older Louise Penny novel. By the time we stepped out of the store, we each had a bulging bag, mine containing an eclectic collection of mysteries, romances and several books for beginner gardeners. His contained several books, the one by Louise, as well as older titles by Linwood Barclay, Thomas King, and a battered copy of the history of Rome.

Even though it was still mid-afternoon, we agreed we were both hungry and we could avoid the dinner crowds if we ate now, so we headed to the restaurant we’d decided upon earlier. I ordered a poached pear salad while Malcolm ordered the pulled pork poutine and one of their craft beers, along with a spinach-and-cheese dip as an appetizer.

We picked at the appetizer as we discussed our reading preferences, about changes I wanted to make to the house that wouldn’t involve the electrical or plumbing, and he grossed me with tales of stuff he’d discovered in walls or attics as part of his job. I hadn’t laughed so much or been so relaxed and had such an enjoyable conversation in years.

He actually listened to what I said and asked questions without making me feel stupid. When the waitress brought him the wrong poutine, he politely pointed out the mistake. Where Gareth would have made a scene, demanded to see the manager to have our food comped, Malcolm waved off her apologies and told her how he’d worked at the Pancake Shack and knew what it was like dealing with the public.

Stop it! Stop comparing him to Gareth. See Malcolm for Malcolm. Appreciate him for who he is, not how different he is from your dead husband. Gareth is dead, gone. He’s not your problem anymore. Don’t let that asshole keep occupying your thoughts, commanding space in your brain.

“What?” Malcolm had put down his fork and tilted his head in question.

I stared at him in confusion. “What what?”

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