Still Waters by John Moss

Author:John Moss
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC022000
ISBN: 9781554886173
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2008-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

9

Carp

The next day Miranda and Morgan had lunch on an open verandah projecting over the Elora Gorge. Below them the river ran silent and deep, cutting through layers of sedimentary rock millions of years in the making. The restaurant itself had been a large mill. Five storeys of fieldstone, with dressed limestone at the corners and around windows and doors, it appeared to be held together by the generous application of cement, not pointed between the stones as in a more formal design but smeared thickly across the walls so the stone pressed through in a rustic patchwork that made Miranda homesick for Waterloo County, for all the old Mennonite and Scottish-built farmhouses and the rare stone barns like the one down from Waldron on the way to Galt.

“It’s beautiful here,” she said.

They were the only ones eating outside. Cool air rising, lifted by the September breeze pushing through the gorge, carried the scent of the river, sending a shiver through Miranda.

“You want me to get your coat from the car?” Morgan asked.

“I didn’t bring a coat, Morgan. Thank you, really. It was a nice thought.”

“This is another world. A stone’s throw from TO.”

“You’ve travelled through Europe …”

“When I wasn’t much more than a kid. I know. I’ve lived in London, hung out in Rome. You would love Italy. Siena’s the most beautiful city in the world.”

“You were in love in Siena?”

“It’s possible. I remember sitting in the Campo. It’s a huge cobbled catchment for rainwater. It dips to one edge. There’s a system of cisterns under the city. I remember sitting at a café, day after day, watching tourists, trying desperately not to be a tourist myself. I don’t remember if I was alone or not.”

He did; he wasn’t. But it seemed inappropriate to mention a woman whose name he couldn’t even recall.

“But you’ve never travelled near home?” she asked.

“When I first joined the force, I’d go to New York for the weekend, Chicago, New Orleans a couple of times, San Francisco. Just to make sure they were there.”

“What about north?”

“It’s big and empty.”

“Absolute nonsense! Have you ever been to Muskoka? It’s a ninety-minute drive.”

“To see where Rosedale spends the summer? Never had the need.”

“Do you know why?”

“Just didn’t.”

“No! Everyone goes there. It’s beautiful. Goldie Hawn has a cottage in Muskoka.”

“No kidding, Miranda. Kate Hudson’s mother? Kurt Russell’s life partner? I’m astonished. Let’s drive up this afternoon.”

“Go to hell!” She smiled.

Morgan had hated it when they had to deal a couple of times with movie actors. He liked movies. When he was a kid, he sneaked into the big downtown theatres through the fire exits. And when he was a student, he spent more time at films than at pubs. He watched DVDs at home. Movies were life in the perpetual present. He liked that. They were parallel worlds that made sense if only because they had limits. Actors as people, especially celebrities, undermined the illusion. He was fascinated by how people made movies, not how movies made people.

“I’d like to go to Muskoka,” he said.

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