Chapter 8

"Need a place to stay?"

At the mechanic’s words, Waneeta jumped. She was standing near the small door beside the big bay door. She spun. "I’ll need a place?"

The guy shrugged. "Yeah, unless you can find someone to come get you, but that storm that’s been forecast is still on its way. I’ll have to get a ski delivered here, and my parts all come from Ottawa. They'll deliver it in the morning if the weather holds." He eyed her coolly before adding, "My sister runs the inn. It's closed till spring, but she may put you up for the night. Want me to call her?"

She hadn’t been able to get through to anyone in Pembroke except her work to say that she couldn’t make it in. No one was able to come out to pick her up.

Her parents were out, so she left a message, and Kevin was at work according to his roommate. At least he was safe, though he hadn't appeared to show any concern for her, from what she gathered from his roommate. Waneeta lived alone, without even her own roommate from whom she could beg a ride. No one was up to the hour and a half long drive. Those at work were now short-handed, thanks to her.

Vaguely, she found herself nodding at the mechanic’s offer. "Um, what day is it today?"

"The 17th, all day. Saint Patrick's Day, isn't it?"

The day after she'd wrecked her Skidoo? How could that be possible? She'd spent two nights with Thomas.

Her head aching, Waneeta wandered to the window. Stafford Village was a tiny hamlet nestled in the hills southeast of Algonquin Park. It was solely supported in the winter by snowmobilers like herself. In the summer, people fished the stream that crossed under the village's only street. This place boasted the garage and gas station now holding her snowmobile, a restaurant, general store, and an inn. A few old houses and cottages filled the rest of the village.

Stafford Village. Thomas Stafford.

"She'll be here in a minute," the mechanic cut into her muse after he’d hung up the big black phone she’d just used.

"Thanks, Mr.—"

"Derkson." He returned to his parts manual and continued to write down out some numbers.

Waneeta swung back to the window. All around the village the trees threatened to swallow up man's presence. She half prayed Thomas would appear, right in this garage, to take her back. But a deeper part of her knew he wouldn't come. How she knew it, she couldn’t explain. It had settled in her like a lead ball.

Thomas felt like a dream now.

Waneeta gave herself a mental shake. What nonsense! She could still feel his warm touch, his smooth lips on hers, and her body's reaction to him when he stood close.

Yet when she and Thomas had been looking at the tree scorched by the meteorite, it looked undamaged.

The meteorite? Waneeta spun. "Did you hear about the meteorite?"

"The one last night?"

"So, it was only last night?" She caught the mechanic’s frown and hurried on. "Sorry, it felt like longer than that. Like two nights ago."

If her odd remark bothered the guy, he didn't show it. "I expect meteorite hunters will be all over the area soon enough, looking for the darn thing. Then we'll wish it was long ago. I don't care as long as they take it far away. It could be radioactive. Bad enough we have that nuclear lab over at Chalk River." The man returned to his work. Then he looked up again. "At least Doris won't mind. I bet she'll open her inn for them. Which wouldn't be a bad thing, I suppose."

Pensive, Waneeta just stared out the window. From the other end of the street, a heavy woman hurried toward the garage. Spotting Waneeta, she broke into a warm smile and waved. Waneeta lifted her hand and return the wave, not feeling the joviality she saw in the woman's face.

"Hello, I'm Doris Derkson," she said as she opened the small bay door.

Waneeta tried a smile back, but it felt watery, even to her. "I'm Waneeta Meadows. Thanks for opening up your inn for me."

The older woman squeezed her arm. "It's nothing, really. Stafford Village gets fewer visitors each year whether they're here on purpose or by accident. I’m glad for the company. Sorry to hear about your snowmobile. You must be in shock even, running into whatever it was that bent that ski." She shook her head. "Sorry, listen to me chatter! Come on. We’ll get you settled. Do you think you need to see a doctor?"

"No, I'm fine." She wasn't really. Not with a headache coming on, and the bruise on her side still aching. She wondered if she still bore the stain of Thomas' iodine. Not that she would check it here.

On the way to the inn, Waneeta couldn't help but glance back at the woods from where she’d come. Again, she hoped Thomas would rescue her.

From what? A dear old lady desperate for company?  A broken ski, and unreachable parents? A lonely life because you don't trust?

"Are you sure you're not hurt, dear?" Doris asked as she fell into step beside Waneeta. "You look pale."

Waneeta shook off her thoughts. "I'm okay. I had a bad spill in the woods. It spooked me, I guess."

"Then it's best you don't drive home today. I know I could use the company.  Besides, the Weather Network on TV says we’re still going to get that storm. It’s moving slower than they expected, that's all."

The inn was the biggest house in the village with a wide, welcoming front porch. An ornate feminine sign hanging from the verandah roof told visitors this was the 'STAFFORD VILLAGE INN'. Together they entered, and Doris hurried behind a small desk and pulled out a key.

"I'll give you the blue room." She handed her a room key hanging off a bright blue tag.

As she shrugged off her snowsuit, Waneeta asked how much it cost. Mrs. Derkson frowned at the sight of the credit card Waneeta then produced. "I only take cash this time of year."

Waneeta's face fell. "I'm afraid I haven't got any cash on me, Mrs. Derkson."

"Call me Doris, dear. I'll tell you what. In exchange for a room, you can help me out this afternoon at the museum, if you're up to it."

"Museum?"

Doris beamed, "Yes. For years I've petitioned the County Historical Society for some money to start it. I've been collecting memorabilia and things about the lumber industry all my life and I just got the break I was looking for."

"What was that?"

"I want to base the museum on the village as it was when it started. A man from the States donated some personal items that concern the village just a few days ago, in fact. I want to get those things sorted and the museum up and running before the summer. The reeve says if I can do that, the village will cover the building’s rent and upkeep."

"What kind of memorabilia?" Waneeta asked politely, not really feeling up to digging through dusty boxes, but for a night's lodging, she'd do it.

"Old letters and pictures. I hope to catalogue it all."

The work sounded boring, but she needed to keep busy. "What would you like me to do?"

"Mostly to clean."

"Can I could borrow a change of clothes, then? Just something to clean in?"

"Oh, yes. You'll need something warm. It's freezing in that building, but I don’t want to waste the hydro in case the reeve rescinds his offer."

An hour later, after a cup of tea and some muffins to restore them, she and Doris walked down to the river's edge. Waneeta stumbled to a stop halfway down the steep driveway behind the general store.

Beside the river stood an exact replica of Thomas' cabin!

"Amazing, isn’t it? It was the first building in the village," Doris informed her as she strode past. "In 1897, the lumberjacks built it to serve as schoolhouse for the local children. It's similar to a camboose shanty."

Doris busied herself unlocking the door. A draught of cold, stale air rolled out to greet them.

Not ready yet to see inside, Waneeta spun away from the threshold. In the nearby river stood the skeletal remains of the village's original bridge. The early spring melt had begun, with rushing waters spewing past it.

The noise was suddenly deafening, forcing Waneeta to turn and plow inside. Compared to the bright sunshine, the cabin was dark and chilly.

"Sorry for the cold," Doris quipped. "Like I said, I don’t want to waste the hydro."

The room was so different from Thomas’ cabin. There were boxes everywhere, some delivered up from the States, judging from the labels, some obviously been there for some time, and several old desks had been stacked against the far wall.

Under Doris’ supervision, and accepting the offer of a dust mask and latex gloves, Waneeta was soon pushing heavy boxes back against the fireplace. Soon her own body heat generated enough warmth for her, and before long, decades of dirt were cleaned away and a basic inventory was completed.

Doris commented on her diligence.

"I guess I have a lot of nervous energy to burn off," Waneeta answered. "And there couldn't have been better therapy than this."

By four o'clock, the whole cabin was spotless. They'd swept, scrubbed, and polished their way through decades of grime and countless generations of rodent droppings, with Doris constantly reminding her they’d scrub themselves clean later. "Anything to come back with us?" Waneeta asked when they were done.

"Only this box. I picked out a few of the more interesting items for it." Doris pointed to the one closest to the door. "We can root through it over supper."

"You don't have to feed me, too, Doris, I’ll just go down to the diner-"

"Nonsense! I'd love the company. And you can try calling home again to tell them you're safe."

After supper, the two of them delved into the box from the museum. They pulled various items out and laid them on the dining room table.

"These are wonderful!" Doris exclaimed. "Look, we have some letters, a school register, and here's a ledger book. Oh, Waneeta, look! There's an old school photo!" She turned it over. "Eighteen ninety-eight. We've hit the jackpot here! That man in the States was very generous." Doris rummaged through the box for more, dropping the new found treasures in front of Waneeta.

She picked up the photograph.

Oh no. The room began to spin. Her eyes dilated, making it hard to focus. Or was the photo just blurry? The man standing to one side of the children stared out at her across more than a century. He was so familiar, even with his sober, old-fashioned expression. Waneeta gripped the edge of the table to stop the world around her. She needed everything to stop. Needed everything to give her a chance to breathe again.

It was Thomas in that photograph.

Oblivious to her lightheadedness, Doris chatted on excitedly, "With all these items we'll have a right nice little museum."

She smiled at Waneeta, and leaned close in confidence. "I think Thomas Stafford would be proud of us."