Contingency Plan Read online

  CONTINGENCY

  PLAN

  LOU ALLIN

  Copyright © 2012 Lou Allin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage

  and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission

  in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Allin, Lou, 1945-

  Contingency plan [electronic resource] / Lou Allin.

  (Rapid reads)

  Electronic monograph issued in multiple formats.

  Also issued in print format

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0115-8 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0116-5 (EPUB)

  1. Readers for new literates. I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads (Online)

  PS8551.L5564C65 2012 428.6’2 C2012-902564-X

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938192

  Summary: Sandra Sinclair realizes she’s made a terrible mistake in

  marrying into an abusive relationship, putting herself and her

  twelve-year-old daughter in grave danger. (RL 3.8)

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  With many thanks to Carolanne Papoutsis,

  Vancouver Island’s best eagle-eyed reader.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nothing attracts attention like a dead whale.

  A dozen people peered at a huge black carcass beached at low tide. Seagulls shrieked and dipped. Andy and I had loved picnicking at Aylard Farm Park. From here we would gaze across the glorious Strait of Juan de Fuca. Only two years ago. It seemed like ten.

  Shortly after retiring early and moving to Vancouver Island, Andy was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Never a complainer, he’d been ignoring the symptoms. Half a year later he was ashes for our climbing red rose. The way he’d suffered, I was glad for his release. “Let go, love,” I’d said, holding his hand on that last morning. “Jane and I will be fine.” He squeezed back until my fingers ached. Then he was gone.

  The mighty whale, collapsed under its own weight, lay on the exposed tidal shelf. People were circling, even touching it. One teen was using a sharp rock to cut off pieces of skin. What the hell was wrong with some people?

  I headed back through the bushes to the main path. Why had I thought coming here would cheer me up? Tears blurred my vision. I shoved my chilly hands into my pockets. One foot caught on a gnarly root. I would have gone sprawling, but a hand grabbed my arm.

  “Whoa! Watch that first step. It’s a killer,” a deep male voice said.

  I’d ripped my tights, nothing worse. Still kneeling awkwardly in the weeds, I looked up at my Good Samaritan. The sun backlit his head like a halo. By his side was a border collie pup that began licking my face. It had a heart-shaped black mark on its white muzzle.

  “Scout, watch your manners. Not every lady likes doggy kisses. Up we go,” he said, pulling me to my feet. I braced myself against a gigantic Sitka spruce. “Anything sprained? Can you stand?”

  I cleared my throat, feeling like a fool. Then I noticed a burning, prickly feeling on my hand. “Ouch,” I said. I shook it to relieve the discomfort. “What did I land in?” A spindly plant surrounded me.

  “Stinging nettle. Let’s see,” he said, taking my palm and examining it. “Wash it well with soap and water. It’ll only bother you for a day or so. Not like poison ivy.”

  “Lucky me then,” I said. I frowned. Acting crabby in front of a complete stranger.

  “My name’s Joe Gillette. There are some moist wipes in my car. I always plan ahead. Coffee too, if you take it black.”

  His brown eyes sparkled, honest as a calf ’s. A stranger looking at me like this was a new experience. I felt girlish and shy, despite my age. I’d been married for the last fifteen years. The last time I’d dated before that…one pathetic, forgettable evening with a friend’s brother. All he could talk about was his mother’s pot roast.

  Five different answers raced through my mind. None of them sounded right. An eyebrow arched and Joe looked off at Scout chasing a seagull. “If you’re okay, then…”

  “Sorry,” I said, blushing. “Coffee would be super.” I almost added “kind sir.” Soon I’d be curtsying. Wet wipes? Did he have a child? Was he divorced? Few people came here alone. The coastal trail was a place for serious hikers, while the park attracted families.

  I followed him to his shiny black X-6 with a 1-LGL-EGL plate (one legal eagle?), parked near my rusty Neon. Given the soothing towelette, I wiped my hand. The prickly sensations eased.

  “Feel better?” he asked. A corner of his expressive mouth rose.

  I nodded and looked around. “There’s a place we can sit.”

  At a nearby picnic table, we talked over the excellent Kona coffee he’d had shipped from Hawaii. Joe was a lawyer, he said, working with the elderly. “I’m no hot-shot criminal attorney like in the movies, but I feel good about what I do. Estate planning takes plenty of care. Elders are so vulnerable. Meet the King of Loopholes. Every penny counts for those folks. I can chase a deduction faster than a ferret after a mouse.”

  His friendliness was relaxing me. “Hey, liking your job is important. If you can help others, bonus.”

  “And yourself ? Sounds like you care too. Social worker? Teacher? You can’t be a nurse or doctor. They know about nettle.”

  It sounded more sincere than patronizing. I liked the fact that he was assuming I had a profession.

  “I worked with my husband Andy. He… passed last year.” I gave a few brief details. A story told too many times. Poor pathetic widow. Andy made me swear not to waste the rest of my life grieving.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Joe said, the lines around his mouth deepening in concern. A moment of silence followed. “Andy must have been a special man. What business were you in?”

  “We owned a motorcycle and snowmobile shop. Quads, too, and boats in the summer. Dawson Creek.”

  He gave a low whistle and a mock shiver. “I like to go to the snow. Not have it come to me. Some Canadian, eh? What’s it like way up north, bush woman?”

  That made me laugh. The unfamiliar sound amazed me. Who was that woman? “It’s funny, but I miss the snow. It made everything clean and bright in the winter. Cross-country skiing, snowshoeing.”

  “Some people can’t take the dreary rain from November to April, but remember that you—”

  I finished his sentence. “—don’t have to shovel it.” That bond had us both grinning.

  Scout bounded back with a stick and dropped it, his rear end up and wiggling in play mode. Joe tossed it again and again. Finally the dog flopp
ed down, panting with his long, comical tongue. “Usually I get tired before he does.”

  At last I had to check the time. Swimming at the rec center ended in twenty minutes. I hoped he didn’t hear me sigh. “I’d better go. I have to pick up my daughter.”

  He smiled and cocked his head. “But you’re so young. Day care?”

  Even if he was teasing, I was flattered. I’m thirty-six, hardly a teenager. Somehow it coaxed a chuckle. My smiling muscles almost hurt from lack of use. “She’s twelve. And look who’s talking. You’re the one with the towelettes,” I said.

  “Semper paratus. Always prepared with a contingency plan. I was an eagle scout. Won every medal. Even cooking. And by the way, you haven’t told me your name,” he added.

  “It’s S-s-sandra, Sandra Sinclair.” I’d never stuttered before in my life.

  “And your daughter?”

  “Jane.” I was glad there was no S in her name.

  He nodded. “Sweet and old-fashioned. Good for you. My aunt’s name was Jane. There are way too many Brittanys and Brandys.”

  “And Lindseys and Nikkis,” I added, joining in the entertainment-industry game. “Scarletts, Angelinas. I think we’re dating ourselves.” More confident by the minute, I gave him a more assessing look. A brush of gray at the temples of his chestnut-brown, razor-cut hair. Fresh-shaven face with a strong jawline. I pegged him in his early forties. Flirting was coming awfully easily.

  “Dating myself was not what I had in mind,” Joe said. “I wonder if I dare ask for your cell number. If you like to visit Aylard Farm, we have something in common already.”

  I felt my face blush when I answered. Should I have asked for his? Would he really call? And then what? This was happening all too fast, like a dam bursting. A quick check of his left hand showed no ring. Even so, some married men didn’t wear them. Or he could have removed it. Was I naïve or optimistic? My head was turning every which way and loose.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A week later, cooking Jane’s favorite chili, I was surprised to get a call. “Sandra? I hope you won’t consider this too bold, but would you like another encounter with stinging nettle?”

  “Joe, it’s great to hear from you.” I put down the spoon. “I’ve had enough acquaintance with that plant, thanks. Are you joking?”

  “It will be far more pleasant. This time you will be in charge of the introductions. Trust me. I can pick you up about nine on Saturday. The city is so busy and noisy with tourists now that summer is nearly here. I usually drive into the country on weekends.”

  I hesitated. People might think a twelve-year-old daughter was old enough to be left alone, but I’d grown extra cautious since Andy died. My girl was precious. “I’m not sure I can find a sit—”

  “Not to worry. Jane is invited. That’s why I chose this place. Lots for kids to do.”

  A minute later he had my address, and I was marking my calendar for my first date since I was twenty-one.

  * * *

  That Saturday we took the Island Highway out of Victoria and up the scenic Malahat. We drove to a farm set up like a county fair. “This is the best time of year for stinging nettle,” Joe said, keeping us guessing.

  “I didn’t know that,” Jane said politely from the backseat. “I brought my plant guidebook. There are so many different plants down south.” Natural sciences were her favorite subject. She had identified over one hundred plants for a school project. Back in Dawson Creek, the seven-month winter had left little time for botany.

  We could hear her turning pages. Then she said, “Hey, young nettle is a double for spinach.”

  “You’re on the right track, professor,” Joe answered, flashing a wink at me.

  After parking the car, Joe got tickets for our lunch. We toured the exhibits and bought jars of fireweed honey and lemon verbena jam. In a century-old apple orchard with picnic tables, our feast began. Green Goddess nettle soup followed by nettle salad with quinoa, chicken and nettle pesto with orzo. For dessert, a nettle cobbler. Who would have thought?

  Kids were stuffed with veggie hotdogs, milk and brownies, which suited Jane. She used her best manners with please and thank you. I was so proud. She seemed to appreciate that Joe had made an effort to involve her.

  An older teenager from the farm came over to the tables. He held a small gadget with a screen. “Hey, kids, let’s go find some caches with the gps.”

  “Cool,” a youngster beside us said. Several others got up to follow, including Jane. I was pleased to see a rare smile on her face as she waved at me. Andy’s little tomboy princess. Instead of a Barbie doll, he’d given her a Swiss Army knife and a small ax for Christmas when she turned nine. Then they went camping up near Watson Lake by the Yukon border. They built their own shelter, and he shot a couple of grouse to roast on the fire. Andy had a First Nations grandfather who taught him everything. Jane told me how Andy had skinned the birds by standing on the wings and pulling. Video games and designer clothes didn’t interest her. That was fine with me. Girls needed to get close to nature, not study to be beauty queens.

  I found myself telling Joe about growing up in Vancouver. My parents had died in a car crash ten years ago. My surviving grandmother was in a nursing home in Alberta. He told funny stories about law school and a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the sea being “a good start.” The afternoon passed so quickly that I hardly realized when five o’clock rolled around.

  Jane came back talking about “travel bugs” and trophy coins, interested in getting a gps to hunt caches around Sooke. That was the first time she’d asked for anything other than a new bike. “We’ll check online, honey,” I said. Sounded expensive.

  After fish and chips at Salty’s in Mill Bay, Joe drove us back to our Sooke townhouse. There was my rattletrap Neon, pouting. I missed the comfort of our big commercial truck. We’d sold our GMC 3500 4x4 when we left the North.

  In Joe’s backseat, Jane’s head was pillowed on the plush leather. She was fast asleep, seat belt and all.

  “Thanks, Joe,” I whispered before I woke her. “It’s the first fun she’s had in…far too long. She’s only started to make friends here.” Jane was a bit shy and studious. Life near a major urban area was more complicated than in small-town Dawson Creek.

  “Losing a parent can be rough,” Joe said, turning off the motor. “My dad died in a tractor accident when I was only eight. I have something in common with Jane.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “And your mother?”

  “She and my sister still live on our family farm in New Brunswick. They lease out the fields and run a B and B. I don’t see them very often, I’m sorry to say.”

  “So your mom never remarried?”

  He lifted a small, pearl-handled knife from the console. “Dad gave me this the year he died. He was only a farmer, but he was a prince to her. I guess she knew she’d never find another like him. Sometimes I wish she had. Not for my sake, but for hers.”

  I didn’t want the evening to end. It was refreshing to talk to an adult. “Would you like a coffee? I can—”

  Joe cocked a thumb toward the back. “We’d better get this little sleepyhead to bed. I have a really early day tomorrow too. And I’ll be out of town in Toronto for a few weeks. But…” His smile lit up the night as he leaned forward. I could smell his citrus cologne. “I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

  “I’d like that.” Something seemed different, I’d been thinking. Now I realized what was missing. “Hey, where’s Scout?” I asked. Most outdoor venues on the island admitted dogs.

  He firmed up his mouth and shook his head. “I took him to work when I could, even to the park twice a day. He didn’t like staying alone at the condo. Howled until the neighbors complained. Guess it was stupid to think I could take care of such an active breed. The shelter told me he’ll be easy to adopt. Border collies are popular. A nice family with two kids was already looking at him.”

  I was sorry about Scout. He was probably right. A family would
appreciate a young dog. Our old shepherd Freya had gone to Rainbow Bridge the year Andy was diagnosed. Jane missed her.

  There was a greenbelt around the townhouse with plenty of walking territory along the creek…maybe a dog might help Jane.

  One step at a time, Sandra.

  * * *

  Andy’s Aunt Bonnie had been the main reason we’d moved to the island. A retired bookkeeper, she lived in a cottage nearby on the Sooke Harbor. When we were there a few nights later for dinner, she noticed my happy mood. I told her about the date.

  “About time, girl,” Bonnie said with an understanding nod. “Nothing like a new man in your life to make those eyes sparkle.”

  “Come on, Bonnie. He’s hardly in my life. One afternoon.” In spite of my caution, happiness welled up inside me. It had been such a long time. I realized how self-pitying I had been in my rut.

  “Andy’s been gone a year. You know that you promised you’d jump back into life. You’re moving slower than a banana slug,” she said, peeling potatoes.

  I looked out the window. Jane was playing on the flats with two boys from the T’Sou-ke reserve.

  “How does Jane feel about him?”

  I sipped the cider. Sweet and tart. Like Bonnie, the old doll. “She hasn’t said anything pro or con. Is that a good sign?”

  “I like the fact that he included her.”

  “He did make an effort.” I snagged a carrot stick from the veggie tray and munched. “Think I should call him?”

  “Chase after a man until he catches you. It’s simple. I’m old fashioned enough to think that two parents are better than one.”

  I chuckled. “You would have been a super mother, even single.”

  She wagged a spoon at me, frowning. “I turned down three proposals, I’ll have you know. I was very particular. There was my job. Pretty soon twenty years had…” Bonnie wrinkled her nose. “Oooh, what’s going on?”

  I smelled something burning. When she opened the oven door, smoke billowed out. “Dang. I was sure I set this at three twenty-five, not four twenty-five,” she said.

  “That happened to me once,” I said, bringing her the oven mitts. “I think we can rescue the casserole. Scrape off some of the top and add more milk.” Her King Ranch Chicken was a favorite.