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tomorrow, I suppose.” I inched towards the issue.
    “I still read the papers. I see our feckless leader has sent the NDP packin’. I held out little hope for a coalition but it would have been interestin’. I’m just not sure it would have been good for the country.”
    “Well, I figure it’s a moot point now. The GG will probably drop the writ tomorrow and it’s back to the polls we go, whether the voters like it or not,” I said. “What I still don’t know for sure is who will be the Liberal candidate in Cumberland-Prescott.” I took in a breath and held it.
    “Well, laddie, if you’ve no big plans tomorrow, let’s have Muriel over for lunch and we’ll put an end to it all.” He swept his hand over the
Globe and Mail
on the floor, opened to André’s article. “We can meet with the university later in the week, but I think they’ll be fine if we both return. I foresee no problems.”
    I exhaled, relieved. It seemed I really was slipping out of the noose. His demeanour suggested I should drop the subject. I’ve learned the hard way to go with his demeanour. My mind flashed to the university life about to welcome us back.
    When I returned to the boathouse, Lindsay was already asleep. I find confirmation in my feelings for her when I watch her sleep. It’s hard to explain. A face at peace – free of stress, joy, angst, or happiness. A face at rest. Perhaps it’s knowing what the face can reveal and convey when awake that holds my eye and my heart. I was still watching her sleep when I heard Angus slip into the workshop below.
    DIARY
    Thursday, December 26
    My Love,
    I’ve made it through by the skin of my teeth. I cursed theChristmas traditions we created together as they fell silent for the first time without you. I don’t mean that how it sounds. But it fair tore me up these last few days. My saving grace, beyond incessant thoughts of you, was having Muriel, Daniel, Lindsay, et al. over for Christmas dinner. I fear I’d still be deep in the abyss were they not there with me.
    I also had some time to tidy up
Baddeck 1
after what the damn papers are calling “its historic run up the river” a couple of weeks ago. Pap and hyperbole. The paint is now done and dried and the varnish kicks off a mighty sheen. I’m now only waiting for an electric starter motor to arrive from Cordova, Illinois, so I can start her from the comfort of the cockpit rather than yanking that cursed pull-cord astern. And then she’s done.
    As to my current dilemma, I’ve gathered the clan and will tell them tomorrow. But I think you already know … AM

CHAPTER TWO
    I found Muriel Parkinson sitting with her coat on in the main lounge of the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence. That morning, she looked every one of her eighty-one years. Politics takes its toll, and Muriel had given herself completely to the Liberal Party, running in five consecutive elections in a riding that had never, ever gone red. That is until three months ago.
    The curved wall of windows overlooked the frozen reaches of the Ottawa River where a windless day lent the scene the stillness of a photograph. Her eyes were glued to the TV in the corner where the top CBC news anchor and the parliamentary bureau chief were killing time before cutting live to the Governor General’s residence.
    Muriel sensed me behind her and held up a trembling index finger to preempt me, her eyes still fixed on the screen. I reached for her hand, and we both focused on the talking heads.
    “Well, Peter, the negotiations went irrevocably south a few days ago. The two leaders emerged awash in a sea of bitterness and recrimination. Our backroom sources quote the Liberal Leader describing the NDP Leader as a ‘washed-up Marxist with forty-year-old ideas’ before he stomped to his waiting car,” the bureau chief commented.
    “And what did the NDP Leader have to say for himself?”
    “Well, he was much more succinct, Peter, declaring the Liberal Leader to be ‘an