Nadia Nichols - Sharing Spaces

He acted as if she hadn’t spoken, kicking open the cabin door and setting the buckets on the floor by a deep laundry sink. The cabin brimmed with all the paraphernalia of an arctic expedition. Several dogsleds were suspended from the purlins, except for one which was on a work bench apparently having some maintenance done. Snowshoes, pack baskets, fly rods, two large canvas canoes, sacks of dry dog food, two big chest freezers, countless five-gallon buckets, shelves filled with tools and paint cans… Senna gazed about her in awe as Jack washed his hands at the laundry sink, wondering at this secret life of her grandfather’s.

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should start over,” Senna began again as he reached for a towel. “I’m a very good cook….”

He leaned his rump against the sink as he dried his hands. That grin of his kick-started her heart again. “Is that so?” he said, his gaze holding hers a little too closely for comfort.

“I’ll fix supper for you,” she said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. “You’ll feel much better with some food in your stomach.”

His grin broadened. He turned and hung the towel back up then went to one of the chest freezers and lifted the lid. “How are you with wild beasts?”

She moved to stand beside him and peer into the dim recesses. Half of the freezer seemed to be allocated to blocks of dog meat, the other to packages wrapped in freezer paper. She picked one up. “What kind of wild beasts?”

“The smaller packages are caribou. The larger are moose. Your choice. The cuts are written on the package.”

“I’ve never had caribou.”

“Have you ever tried moose?”

“I’m from Maine, Mr. Hanson. Of course I have.”

“If you liked moose, you’ll like caribou even better. And please don’t call me Mr. Hanson. Jack works just fine for me.”

Senna lowered her eyes. “How many packages?”

“Two if by caribou, one if by moose.”

Senna chose two of the caribou steaks. “Caribou it is, then, and whatever else might be in the kitchen.”

“No promises. Your grandfather was particular about his fare, but he didn’t eat much in his final weeks, and I haven’t paid much attention to the larder since he died. My guess is that the wake cleaned the cupboards out.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What day is it, anyway?”

“Tuesday,” Senna said, and then, wondering, asked, “What day did you have the wake?”

“It began Saturday afternoon, right after the service,” Jack said.

“Did many people attend?” Senna asked, curious as to what kind of friendships her grandfather had made in this faraway place.

“The church was packed. There were some hymns and singing, and the preacher said all the necessary words. Then John Snow Boy spoke. Too bad no one could understand what he was saying because I’m sure it was better than the preacher’s spiel.”

“Was he drunk, too?”

Jack uttered a short laugh. “John Snow Boy doesn’t drink, but he speaks English, Inuit and Innu fluently. Trouble is, he mixes them all up into his own language. We call it Innisht. Very colorful but way beyond interpretation. Afterward, there was a pot latch, that’s traditional in this neck of the woods, and then we all came here for the wake. Goody made sure all the kids were herded back home by midnight, and to tell the truth, I don’t remember much after that.”

Senna held the two icy packages of caribou and followed Jack as he left the cabin and headed toward the lake house. “Mr. Granville mentioned he had a sister named Goody.”

“Goody Stewart. Kindest soul that ever walked this earth. She lost her husband eight years ago, and then fell in love with your grandfather. Would’ve married him, if he’d only asked.” Jack never slowed as he spoke, just strode along in that big way of his that Senna was beginning to learn.

“Why didn’t he?” she asked, struggling to keep up as he climbed the porch stairs and opened the door.

“He said she deserved to be happy,” Jack replied, giving her the briefest of glances as he passed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. He gave the room a quick three-sixty and shook his head. “By God, if Goody ever saw the place like this, she’d skin me alive. Those steaks should thaw quick enough if we put them in cold water. Meanwhile, I’ll take you out to the lake where we can begin discussing our new partnership.”

He held out his hand for the packages of caribou, sealed them up tightly in a plastic bag, then placed them in a large kettle of water on the countertop. Chilkat watched all of this with his intense wolfish expression but remained plastered to Jack’s side.

“There’s no partnership to discuss,” Senna said. “I’m selling my grandfather’s half of the business, and I have two weeks to get everything in order.”

“Two weeks,” Jack said. “That’s not much time, considering what you have to see and do. You’ll change your mind about selling the business when you see it. Bug juice.” He handed her a can of mosquito repellent as he headed for the door. “Be liberal with it.”

“What exactly is there to see?” Senna hurried after him, aware that her heart rate was way above normal. Undoubtedly she was stressed about this executor stuff, but she guessed that Jack Hanson’s insufferable arrogance might have a little bit to do with it, as well.

“You’ve met the dogs,” Jack narrated over his shoulder as he strode toward the dock, “you’ve seen the gear, the supplies, the houses. I’ll show you the plane, and maybe tomorrow, first thing, I’ll fly you out to the river to see the lodge. It’s accessible only by float plane or boat.” He was stepping onto the weather-bleached boards of the dock, and she was right on his heels.

“You’re a licensed pilot?”

“I’m legal, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”

“How far away are these places you want to show me?”

“Far enough so’s you’ll know you’re away from it all.” His eyes glinted with something akin to daring as he came to a halt and gestured to the plane tethered to the end of the dock. “The plane’s good to go, if you are.”

Senna teetered beside him as the dock rocked beneath her feet. She stared dubiously at the aircraft. “It looks ancient.”

“She’s a sweet old girl, a four-passenger Cessna 195. They don’t build ’em like this anymore,” he said, giving the bright-yellow wing that overhung the dock an affectionate slap, as if it were a favorite work horse.

“What year is it?”

“Nineteen fifty, sporting a Pratt and Whitney 985. Beautiful motor.”

“Dear God, that’s older than ancient. And my grandfather owns half of it?”

“The half that never breaks down,” he said with a grin. “So. What do you think of the view? This lake’s four miles across and forty miles long.”

Senna looked across the lake to the far shore. “It’s a big lake,” she said, thinking that this land was lonely and isolated and more than a little forbidding, yet compelling in a way that made her want to see much more of it. “A big land. Are there any towns out there?”

Jack squinted across the distance and nodded. “Standing on this dock we’re looking almost due north. About a thousand miles in that direction there’s a village called Kangiqsualuiuaq, on Ungava Bay. Across the Hudson Strait is Baffin Island, and there a few native settlements on that, as well.”

“You mean to say that the nearest town to our north is a thousand miles from here?”

“Could be a little closer as the crow flies,” Jack admitted. He grinned again at her expression. “Most folks up here follow the waterways, and they seldom run in a straight line. Ever read about the Hubbard expedition?”