ISBN: 9781483508177

CHAPTER 1

Vancouver, Canada

The Year 1915

It is Sunday afternoon on a clear and warm spring day and a large number of people are promenading around Stanley Park, enjoying its amenities and attractions. Men and women, dressed in their Sunday best, stroll about, many arm-in-arms, the paths and promenades, while children run, chase, flitter, make noises, and scamper about the grownups, the trimmed shrubs, and bright flowers. The day’s air is light. Butterflies are fluttering.

Seen now are three young maidens, late teenage girls, holding hands, skipping, jumping, cavorting, running in and around the others of the park. One breaks away from the other two and jumps up onto a park bench, while nearby a gentleman looks up from his newspaper. She jumps to another bench, then to another, then hops up on its lean back, and here takes her shoes off, tiptoes slowly across its top, then jumps down to another bench, stops, and slips back on her shoes, then afterwards moves briskly back into the promenade and joins the other two. She playfully pushes one of them to the side and says teasingly, “Vi, get with it, it’s Sunday, and it’s such a beautiful day.”

Vi pushes back, laughs, and says, “Joyce, you’re being so silly, carrying on so. Why, what will people think?”

“Oh, fiddle, what do I care what people think.” Joyce now breaks and runs ahead to a circular fresh-water pool, a fountain, shooting water high into the air. She stops at its railing, looks about, finds a rock, pitches it in, and watches it splash the water and sink.

Vi, holding hands with the other girl, now runs up, and says, “Oh, Joyce, you shouldn’t throw rocks into the fountain. The fountain’s for wishing.” She turns to the girl at her side, “Isn’t that so, Jane?”

“Yes,” Jane says, then breaks away, goes over to the railing, and stares into the water.

“Well, how else will I see the big splash, Sillies,” Joyce says.

“You should throw a penny in and make a wish,” Jane says.

“I don’t have a penny,” Joyce says.

Jane turns to Vi, and says, “Vi, do you have a penny?”

Vi pulls from her dress pocket a small pink purse, opens it, and says, “I have a nickel.”

“Oh, a whole nickel,” says Joyce. “Well, you don’t want to throw a whole nickel into the fountain.”

“Yes, I do,” says Vi, and throws the nickel and it hits in the middle and splashes the water.

Jane looks at the splash, at the expanding ripples, then turns to Vi, and says, “Okay, Vi, now make a wish.”

Vi lifts her chin, faces the fountain, and closes her eyes. Her lips move slightly, as others in the park promenade around her. Joyce looks on, then speaks, “No, out loud. You must say your wish out loud!”

“Well, no, I –”

“Oh, you must!”

“Well, I wish for the Great War to be over,” she says, pausing. “And I wish that Papa didn’t have to work so hard. And I wish Mama didn’t have the pain she has in her tummy. She says it’s from having her three children.”

Joyce looks at Vi, and says, “Yes, the War, and all our handsome young men in it – it’s, well, terrible.”

Jane looks at Vi. “So why does your papa work so hard?”

“Oh, it’s his business,” Vi says. “He’s a joiner. He works all the time. He never eats on time with us. He always comes home late. Mama leaves a plate of food out for him.”

“What’s this about children and pain in your mama’s tummy?” Joyce asks.

“Well,” Vi says, looking at Joyce, “Mama says, maybe having us three girls cracked her pelvis, so now she has this pain to live with.”

Joyce now looks at the pool. The ripples are gone. She says to Vi, “Your nickel is gone. It’s like you never had a nickel.”

“Yes, but I have my wishes, my three wishes,” Vi states.

“Oh, fiddle,” Joyce says. She turns and looks ahead, grabs Vi’s hand, pulls her forward, and says, “Oh, look! There! The flower garden! Let’s go see the flowers.”

Joyce has Vi’s hand and Vi has Jane’s hand and the three run forward through the meandering visitors to the flower garden with its bordered shrubs and arborvitae, and they go in, skipping, with Joyce leading. Many visitors are about in the garden. They walk, give pause and reflect, as they check and look at the flowers and note their names on marker labels. With cameras, they take close-up pictures of the flowers, and, then smiling, they pose, take pictures of family, of scenery, of the landscape, of the background, and in a while, change film, and make notes.

Joyce and the other two move around the people to the flowers. Joyce then stops abruptly, and stoops down, observes and admires closely a run of various colored gladiolas. Vi and Jane with her stop also and admire them. Then, off again they go, holding hands with Joyce leading and pulling forward the other two through the people on to the daffodils and here they stop. They look, admire, then go off again, as Joyce leads and pulls the other two, holding hands, going around those strolling, among mothers and fathers, baby carriages, and waddling tots. Suddenly, Joyce stops and stoops down at a run of pansies, looks and admires the flowers, their varied colors. Vi and Jane stop, too, stoop down, admire, as well. Then Joyce says abruptly, “Oh, pansies are not so interesting.” She stands, looks ahead, and says, “Oh, look over there at the roses!”

She grabs Vi and Jane and pulls them forward in the park though others, walking, milling, standing about, until they arrive at the runs of roses. The runs are of white, purple, yellow and red. The three girls stoop down and in a moment of quiet admire the beauty and splendor of the roses. They look in awe. Joyce now looks around and quickly, surreptitiously reaches out, snaps away a large red rose, and tucks it inside her jacket.

Seeing this, Jane says, “Joyce, my goodness, you aren’t supposed to do that. That rose belongs to the park.”

“Now you shush,” Joyce says, as she secures the rose inside her jacket. “The other roses won’t miss this rose at all.”

“Oh, my,” Vi states, “it’s a very pretty rose. But really, Joyce. . . .”

“Oh, fiddle,” Joyce says. “You’re both a couple of ole sticks-in-the-mud.”

With her rose secure, Joyce takes Vi’s hand and pulls forward and Vi takes Jane’s hand and the three skip through the flower runs, along the shrubs and arborvitae, then leave the garden, and beyond, pass between two large brick entrance monuments, leave Stanley Park, go out onto the street, and cross over to the other side. They meander now down the sidewalk along the street. They pass storefronts while cars on the street pass by. Shortly they come to a streetlight at the corner curb and Joyce then breaks away, runs to the light, and swings around on its pole.

“Joyce,” Jane remarks, “you’re acting so silly.” She looks at Joyce, then at the people walking by on the sidewalk, then to Joyce she says, “People are staring. What do they think?”

“Oh, fiddle, I don’t care what people think,” Joyce says. She swings around the pole, stops, leans sideways, looks at Vi, and says, “Now, Vi, admit it, it’s fun, don’t you like to have fun?”

Vi smiles. “Yes, I do. I like to have fun. I’m having fun.”

The girls continue holding hands and meander, run, and skip down the sidewalk between pedestrians. While so, a car out on the street, a convertible with its top down, follows slowly and tracks along the curb behind them. Three boys of late teens are in the car. Two are up front. Another is in the back. They stare at the three girls, skipping, cavorting about the sidewalk. They follow in the car closely alongside.

“Hello, Ladies,” the driver of the car says to the three girls. The other two boys in the car look on, smiling.

Joyce, startled, stops, and looks at the driver. She cocks her head to the side. She looks sideways at him, from the corner of her eyes. She says nothing. She throws her head back, smiles flirtatiously.

“Let’s pretend not to notice,” Jane says, to the others.

“Joyce, don’t speak to them,” Vi says. “My mama says not to speak to strange boys.”

“What do you want?” Joyce says to the driver. She holds a suggestive smile.

“Joyce,” Jane speaks, “we shouldn’t.”

“Why, we’re admiring the antics of three most beautiful young ladies here, walking down the street,” the driver says, then adds, looking around at the other two boys in the car, “aren’t we, Guys”?

“Yes,” the other two say, with smirks, chuckling. They look on at the three girls.

The car with the three boys continues, moving slowly along the curb, tracking behind the three girls. Joyce slows her pace with the moving car, eyeing the driver. Vi and Jane, befuddled by the happening, look at each other, then at Joyce. They also slow their pace. Joyce is engaged seemingly, if only by eye contact. Other pedestrians walking on the sidewalk, now being obstructed in their way, walk around the three girls, and continue on.

“And where might you charming young ladies be going?” the driver asks, looking at the three girls, but focusing his attention on Joyce.

Joyce now saunters over to the car, pauses, throws her chin up, and says to the driver, “And who wants to know?”

“The driver looks at the other two in the car, then at Joyce, smiles, and says, “Randal.”

“Oh, Randal who?”

Jane pushes herself up to Joyce, and says, “Joyce, really, you shouldn’t.” Vi nods concurrence.

“Randal Easthope,” the driver says.
“Randal Easthope,” Joyce comments reflectively. She casually looks about the car, and at the tires, and then says, “Nice whitewalls.” The driver holds a smile, nods to Joyce, and says nothing.

Joyce pauses, looks at him. “Nice fancy car that you’ve got here.”

“Yes, isn’t it,” the driver agrees.

Vi pushes in next to Joyce and says, “Joyce, really, we should move on to the station down the street and catch our trolley for home.”

“Oh, Vi,” she answers. “We have all day yet, and it’s such a fun day.”

“But these boys, I fear they’re up to shenanigans.”

“Oh, fiddle, Vi.”

The girls saunter along the curb and the car moves along with them.

The boy in the back of the car, at the side near the curb, speaks with upbeat voice to Vi, “We’ll take you there.”

“Take us where?” Vi says to the boy.

“To your trolley stop.”

“Oh, I think not,” Vi answers indignantly.

“Shush, Vi,” Joyce says, nudging Vi, “they’re harmless. You can see. They’re mama’s boys.”

Joyce looks at the driver, and asks, “This fancy car of yours, what kind is it?”

“It’s a Vauxhall Roadster, top of the line. And only a limited number of these have been made.”

“Is that so? So, this is daddy’s car. It’s not your car.”

“Well, I’m driving it, as you can well see,” he says with a pause. “So, on this nice sunny day, can we give you ladies a ride? To your trolley station?”

Joyce moves her chin around in the air and at the same time looks for a response from Vi and Jane. Jane looks at Joyce and says, “Joyce, I think that –”

“Sure, but only to the trolley station,” Joyce says to the driver, “and that’s because I’ve never ridden in a fancy car like this before, a fancy Vauxhall Roadster.”

The driver stops, and opens the car door. The door remains open, and he waits, as the three girls now are engaged in a close huddle, discussing the situation. They gesture among themselves and occasionally look up at the three boys. The boys wait patiently, while the girls in their huddle talk, and then Joyce looks up, turns, and says to the driver, “Okay, we’ll ride in your fancy car but only to the trolley station.”

“Good, to the trolley station, it is,” the driver replies. The boy up front with the driver then moves to the back. Two boys now occupy the back seat. The driver gives Joyce a nod to the front seat. She then sits in front with him but holds her distance away. The driver then motions for the other two girls to slip into the back and sit on the laps of the two boys. Both of the girls at this are at first hesitant, but then do so, though appear awkward, sitting now as they do on the laps of the two boys.

Vi wiggles a little on the first boy’s lap. She then turns, and says, “I’m Violet Wilkins. Everyone calls me Vi for short.”

“I’m glad to meet you Violet, ah, Vi. I’m Timothy Masters. No one calls me Tim, but only Timothy,” he says with a reserve and confident smile.

Jane, next to them, now turns her head and says to the boy whose lap she is sitting on, “I’m Jane, Jane Kendal.”

“Bruce here, Bruce Hargrove,” he says, not in a strong voice.

Jane now shifts uncomfortably on Bruce’s lap. “What’s that hard thing?” she asks him.

Bruce responds, “What?”

“That hard thing I’m sitting on. What is it?”

“What? Oh, ah, that’s my . . . my pocket knife, yes, my pocket knife.”

“Well, can you move it?”

“Yes, yes, of course . . . . How’s that.”

“That’s better.”

The driver looks over at Joyce and asks, “And do you have a last name?”

“Kendricks.”

“Kendricks, Joyce Kendricks, that’s a nice name.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” She smiles, teasingly.

“Well, you’ve heard of me, that is, my family?”

“I have? Are you in politics?”

“No, but you’ve obviously heard of the Easthope Engine.”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“The marine engines, for boats, the Easthope Marine Engines. It’s our business, my father’s business, one of the biggest in Vancouver. The engines are small-boat engines, like for fishing boats. I’m sure you’ve heard of them?”

“No, can’t say I have. I don’t have a boat.”

The driver, though disappointed, smiles and continues to drive down the street. Soon they approach a theatre where people are line up at the ticket booth, purchasing tickets, and going inside.

Joyce looks at the theatre marquee, then turns her head around to the girls in the backseat, and says, “Oh, Vi, Jane, look it’s that movie, the one we wanted to see, with Charlie Chaplin, in The Painter. It’s playing here.”

“Oh, how nice, Joyce, we’ll have to see it sometime,” Vi comments.

“Yes,” says Jane, as they get nearer.

The driver, Randal, offers, “It’s starting now. We can see it. We’ll stop and see it. Ladies, shall we?”

“Oh, well,” Jane says, “I really don’t –”

“It costs nine cents to see the movie,” says Joyce. “Who has nine cents?”

“Joyce, I think we should be getting on home,” Vi replies.

“We have nine cents. Don’t we, Guys?” Randal says, turning his head to the two boys in the back. “We’ll treat you ladies to the movie.”

Vi and Jane protest, but only a little. Eventually, the boys win the girls over. Randal then drives the car around and parks it behind the theatre. Shortly, the three girls, each paired up with an escort, are in line to get theatre tickets, soon go inside, and inside, stand at the concession counter for popcorn, and thereafter go through the curtains to sit down for the showing.

Two hours later, the feature being over, the six leave the theater when Jane remarks, “Oh, he was so funny, Charlie Chaplin, when he fell off the ladder into that lady’s flower garden.”

“Yes,” Vi remarks “and when the paint can with all that paint fell on his head – ha, ha, ha – it was just funny.”

“Well, what about when he was painting inside and the dog was chasing him around the living room,” Joyce states. The three boys with them smile, chuckle, laugh. The six are now outside from the theatre and walk pass an ice-cream shop. Randal stops, steps over, looks through the ice-cream shop window, then turns to Joyce and the other two, saying, “Ice cream, Ladies, how about an ice cream?”

“Oh,” Joyce says, “they cost five cents, a nickel apiece.”

“It’s our treat, Ladies,” Randal comments, looking to the other two boys. They give nods and all go inside. Shortly, the boys order ice-cream cones and afterwards each with ice creams gets into the parked car and it proceeds down the street five blocks to the trolley station. Here, the girls step from the car, and smiling, holding their ice creams, wave goodbyes to the three boys, then walk up to the station shelter.

“So, do you think you ladies might be at Stanley Park next Sunday?” Randal speaks out, as he shifts the car in low gear, starts to pull away from the station.

Joyce turns her head, throws a flirtatious smile back to Randal, and says, “Maybe.”

The car now drives away.

Shortly, a trolley car comes into the station, moves into the turnaround, its wheels squealing on the rails, turns about, and stops. The three girls board the trolley car. It soon leaves.

CHAPTER 2

Three Months later

Vi alone this day strolls in Stanley Park on a promenade within the shrubs and flowers. In a while, she passes the fountain. She stops here, reaches into her pocketbook, retrieves a penny, and throws it out into the water. For a moment, she closes her eyes, and makes a wish. Then she continues, goes into the flower garden, and sees the gladiolas, daffodils, pansies, and roses, in their yellows, purples, and reds. She lingers a moment, reflecting, enjoying it all. Afterwards, she leaves the flower garden and goes back onto the promenade to the park entrance at the two six-foot high brick monuments each side. She notes their bronze labels, naming the park, crediting those in the making of the park, and endowing the park to the citizens of Vancouver.

Vi stands still for a moment, looks around, then moves behind the brick monument on her right, back into the encroaching shrubs, and here takes away a loose brick, and from behind it removes a small folded note. Then she replaces the brick, takes the note, tucks it in her pocketbook, then goes back around the monument to the two at the entrance and thereafter leaves Stanley Park to the street, crosses over, and walks five blocks to the trolley station. Soon a trolley comes. She boards it, takes a single seat for home. She sits quietly for a while, as the trolley moves down the street. She then opens her pocketbook, takes out the note, and reads it:

Dearest Vi,

I think of you all the time. In fact, from the first day I met you I think of you. I miss you. I want you to be my one and only. Will you? I do hope so. I can hardly wait until I see you at Stanley Park on Sunday. Forgive me, but I think I love you.

Yours,

Timothy

Vi smiles to herself, as the trolley proceeds along down the street, cling-clanging, as it starts and stops for passengers.

Later, at her home Vi is seated at a large dining-room table. Her two older sisters are seated across from her. They have set the table and a large loaf of bread here is waiting to be sliced. Mrs. Wilkins, their mother, now takes from the stove a platter of potatoes and sets it on the table. She then sets on a container of beef. Finally, she sets a bowl of green beans and a pot of hot tea down, and takes the chair at her end of the table. The chair at the other end is empty. Vi’s two sisters now sit whispering, giggling.

Mrs. Wilkins speaks, “We have here plenty of boiled potatoes, and they taste very good with the broth I’ve made. There’s one piece of beef apiece. With rationing, that’s all we can spare. We have a few green beans to go around. They’re not in season yet. As usual, your father will be in late. So, leave enough for your father. He’ll be hungry when he comes in.” She starts to eat but then, being distracted, looks across the table from Vi to her other two daughters, and says, “Sarah! Winifred! What is all this giggling going on here at the table? This whispering, we don’t whisper at the table. We talk. We talk to each other. That’s what civilized people do. They talk to each other. Now what’s going on with you two?”

The oldest, Winifred, still giggling but suppressing it somewhat, smiling, lifting her chin and looking at Vi, says, “Vi has a fellow.”

Mrs. Wilkins motions for the potatoes to be passed to her. She receives the potatoes, dishes some onto her plate, and says, “Oh, I see. Is he from around here, this fellow?” Vi doesn’t respond. Sarah giggles, looks at Vi, and then at her mother. There is silence. Mrs. Wilkins looks at Vi, and asks, “Is he from around here?” Silence prevails, while Vi eats. “Does he go to our church?”

Vi answers, “No, Mama.”

“No what, he’s not from around here or he’s not from out church?”

“He’s not from our neighborhood, Mama. He doesn’t go to our church.”

Mrs. Wilkins thinks for a moment, then says, “Well, I guess that’s not too important. It used to be in the old days. But in these times young people have so much freedom. Well, I hope he’s a gentleman. That’s important.” She pauses, and then asks, “Is he a Christian?”

“I don’t know, Mama. I didn’t ask him.”

Mrs. Wilkins nods to herself in thought, then she asks, “Is he nice?”

“Yes, Mama, he’s nice.”

There is now the sound of the outside door opening and then heavy boot steps entering the foyer. The hallway closet door squeaks open, as a coat is put inside. The sound of boot steps now approaches the kitchen. Then Vi’s father, Mr. Wilkins, square jawed, weathered, sporting a bushy mustache, appears at the doorway and enters the dining room. He greets his three daughters with a smile, a nod, gives Mrs. Wilkins a peck on the cheek, and takes his place at the table. He has a newspaper under his arm that he puts to the side. He looks about the table at the food. Vi, Sarah, and Winifred now pass him plates of food, bread, and the pot of tea. He dishes food onto his plate and at the same time scans the newspaper headlines.

“The Kaiser and his bloody war!” he says. “When is it going to end? It looks like the French are in the thick of it right now.” He continues to peruse the newspaper.

Mrs. Wilkins speaks to Mr. Wilkins, “Well, now why don’t you try and relax and eat. You can read the newspaper later.” She adds, “And please take your dirty boots off in the house.”

Mr. Wilkins removes his boots, eats several mouthfuls of food, and continues to peruse the paper. “And look, they want us Canadians, our young men, to get more into that fracas over there. I’d say let the Brits and the French take care of it. No need for us to get involved,” he says. “Well,” he continues, as he looks up at his three daughters, “thank goodness I have daughters. To be sure, I won’t have to sacrifice any sons in the trenches over there.” He eats more mouthfuls of food, and then flips the paper, pausing, reflecting on certain items. “Oh, and the stocks did well today. The Toronto Exchange is up over a half percent. Mining shares are carrying much of the volume. Yes, they’re doing well. Gold mining and commodities, they’re doing well.” He pours a cup of tea, adds a sugar cube, then helps himself to more beef, boiled potatoes, and, with his mouth full, chews well, works his mustache, and sips his tea. He finishes eating, uses his napkin, pauses, then looks at his wife, and says, “The house will be finished in about three weeks. All I need now is for the plumbing and the wiring to be complete. I’ve already got an offer, five thousand and five hundred dollars.”

“Oh, that’s a good price, isn’t it?” remarks Mrs. Wilkins, as she takes away the dishes, but then she stops, stands, at and looks at her husband, waiting.

“Yes. Yes, it is. I’m going to accept it,” he says. He then adds, “There are two other vacant lots in town, which I want to put a price on. One is close in. The other one is out a ways. If the lot owners accept my prices, I can start clearing the ground on the one closest for the new house and start the footings and building in a month.”

Still standing, with plates in her hand, Mrs. Wilkins remarks, “Well, that would work out well. The weather has been good. And the money?”

“Well, we can get you those things we’ve been holding off on. As soon as I get the money, you and the girls, you go ahead and get those things you want.”

Mrs. Wilkins seems pleased and assumes an air of gratitude. “Yes,” she says. She turns and places the dirty plates in the kitchen sink.

“You know Sheldon, don’t you,” he says to her.

“Your broker?”

“Yes,” he says. He reflects for a moment, then continues, “I stopped by to see Sheldon this week, just to see what’s going on in the market. Sheldon is telling me that a new mining company has been doing some test drilling and sampling up in the Atlin area. He’s telling me that they’ve block out reserves of over ten years of gold deposits. It’s a placering operation. He said, it’s high grade. They’re moving in the dredges and equipment now. They’re going public. They’re offering shares of a dollar a share. I’m thinking, with the money we get for the house, we can take a thousand dollars of it and buy a thousand shares. Sheldon’s telling me that it’s a ground floor deal, and can expect that the stocks will double in five years.”

Mrs. Wilkins looks at him cautiously. “Atlin, that’s south of Whitehorse, isn’t it?”

“I think you’re right.”

“That’s in Yukon Territory. It gets mighty cold up there. It’s a right short summer, if that.”

“Well, those men, the miners, they’re a hearty bunch. They’ve been working their trade in the cold in other mining sites of the Yukon and Alaska.” He looks at his wife and continues, “So, I’m going to study the situation. But that’s what I’m thinking.”

“Well, dear, you know best. You’re in charge of the money.”

Mr. Wilkins sets his paper down and looks at each of his daughters. “You young ladies are very quiet tonight.”

“We’re waiting for dessert,” Sarah remarks. Winifred giggles.

“We’re having chocolate pudding, as soon as I can get it out of the icebox,” Mrs. Wilkins says. Shortly, she puts pudding in the middle of the table, and then turns to Vi, saying, “So, do you want to tell your father.”

“Tell him what, Mama?” Vi remarks.

Mr. Wilkins, looking at Vi, waits in silence.

Winifred blurts out, “Vi has a fellow.”

“Oh, is that right. Well, now.” Mr. Wilkins with a smile looks at Vi. “And is he a nice looking fellow.”

“Yes, Papa,” states Vi.

“And what’s his name?”

“Timothy. Timothy Masters.”

“I see,” he says, smiling. Then he assumes a serious look. “He’s a Masters. And what does Timothy’s father do?”

“I don’t know, Papa.”

“Hum, you don’t know. Well, I would hope he has a good trade,” he says. There is silence, as Mrs. Wilkins serves the pudding. Picking up a spoon, he begins to eat his pudding and, in a while, says, “My youngest daughter, she now has a fellow, and my two oldest daughters – well, I’m not even sure if they like boys.”

Mrs. Wilkins looks at her husband. “Now, Arthur, that’s not nice,” She says, scolding him.

“Well, if Sarah and Winifred are going to be spinsters –”

“Arthur, how you talk!”

“Well, we have to be – what’s the word – cognizant of, well, the situation. If,” he says, then pauses and defers a fatherly smile to Sarah and Winifred, and continues, “neither of my two charming daughters here, choose to get married, then they’ll have to have a good profession. Yes, nursing, teaching, maybe secretarying – these are good professions for young ladies.”

“Arthur, we don’t have to discuss this right now, not while the girls are having their dessert –”

“Well, if they are not to be homemakers, they have to, well. . . .” Mr. Wilkins, not finishing his sentence, places his napkin to the side, then stands up from the table, picks up his paper, turns, and retires to the parlor.

Mrs. Wilkins puts the dirty desert dishes into the sink, fills it with water, and speaks out to her husband, “Oh, by the way, did I tell you. I was over to see Mrs. Delaney this afternoon. You know she is the woman down the street with the three young children. Her husband works the ships. . . .”

“Yes?”

“She has tuberculosis.”

CHAPTER 3

Two Months Later

Early on this August morning the sun breaks through the trees, the firs and pines, on the hillside, as the Vauxhall Roadster and its six occupants come into the park entrance of Grouse Mountain. The Vauxhall Roadster continues until it reaches an open parking area and here turns onto a gravel area and stops. The doors open. The occupants now get out.

Randal slips from the driver’s side and says to the others, “Well, we’re here, Folks, and what a nice day.” He looks up into the sky, up to the hillside, and to the site where the trail begins. “Hey, the trail starts over there. Everyone, you see, over there.” He steps around now to the rear of the car, lifts the trunk lid, and pulls out his boots. Shortly, he removes his shoes, puts on his boots, and laces them up.

Joyce at this time slips out from the passenger side of the car onto the ground. She stands tiptoed and stretches. She lifts her arms high into the air, emphasizing the snugness and tightness of her blouse, the protrusion and fullness of her breasts, and tautness of her skirt about her body. She now remains tiptoed, standing, stretching, then relaxes, and walks about the gravel.

Timothy in the back now pushes the front seat forward. And Vi, in a button-down calico dress with flowers, gets up off his lap and steps from the car onto the gravel. She goes to the back of the car and from the trunk retrieves a small hiker’s pack, removes her boots from it, sits on a rock, and takes off her shoes and puts on her boots.

Timothy gets out of the car, looks over at Vi, and asks “What did you bring for lunch, Vi?”

“I have peanut butter sandwiches, in small squares, for all,” she says, looking around. “I also have apples. They’re cut up.” She looks at the others. “And water, who brought the water?”

Timothy, now with his pack at the rear of the car, answers, “I have plenty of water, three quarts of water. And I brought some hard peanut caramel for snacks. And I have a small first aid kit, for scrapes or scratches that one may get. I also brought a picnic spread.”

“Well, we’re here,” Joyce says. She concludes with a look to Timothy. She then looks over at Jane and Bruce, both out of the car now, standing on the gravel, looking around, getting their bearings. “And what,” she says, “did you two vagabonds bring?”

Jane, as she goes to the back of the car, turns, pauses, then speaks to Joyce and the others, “Well, I have some cheese squares. It’s a hard cheese, a Gouda Cheese. It’s very old cheese, very sharp and tasty.”

“And smelly, too, I’ll bet,” Bruce says with a tease, smiling.

“No, no, really. It smells, all cheese does, but not smelly,” she replies. “I also have some blueberry muffins. I baked them last night. I’ve tried them. They’re good.”

“And, Bruce, how about you, what did you bring?” asks Jane.