Chapter ONE Amanda smiled as she watched the speedboat swoop playfullyup the bay. Once it drew closer, she could make out the gleam ofantique cedar and brass. A lone man sat in the cockpit, one handon the wheel and the other trailing in the water. He leaned intothe curves, grinning as the boat carved up the bay and left curlsof froth and ripples in its wake.She was sitting on a granite rock at the edge of the parkinglot, and she rose for a better view as he pulled back on the throttleand aimed the powerful boat toward the nearest slip. Surelythis wasn''t George Gifford. She had pictured the kayak outfitteras a rough outdoorsman piloting a dented aluminum runabout.A beard, cargo pants, and khaki jacket with a half-dozen pocketsand rings.
While she''d been waiting, there had been no such boat onthe bay. In fact, it being late May, there were almost no boats atall. A few luxury yachts bobbed at anchor and a couple were tiedup at the docks, but most of the summer cottagers'' boats werestill stored in hangars or under tarps inland, awaiting the summercottage invasion. Cottage season didn''t truly hit its peak in Georgian Bayuntil the July 1st weekend, when cottagers and tourists pouredin from the crowded cities farther south to set up stakes on thespectacular islands and bays that formed its coastal fringe. Overthirty thousand islands had earned the eastern coast the distinctionof the largest freshwater archipelago in the world. Althoughit had once been overrun by the logging and fishing industries,most of it had now reverted to nature and provided an unspoiledgetaway for kayakers, campers, birdwatchers, and hikers duringthe long, warm summer. In May, however, the ice was barely out, and only the mostintrepid were willing to brave the mosquitoes, blackflies, andchilly winds that still swept across Lake Huron from the west.Amanda was there on a scouting expedition for her family kayakingadventure in July.
She had chosen the historic cottagevillage of Pointe au Baril as the rendezvous point with her outfitterbecause it was located in a deep, protected inlet near themidpoint of the archipelago. She and Kaylee had been waitingat the village dock for George Gifford for almost at hour, andshe was beginning to wonder whether she''d been stood up. She''dthrown the dog''s ball at least a hundred times, and her arm wasgrowing numb. On his website, George Gifford had seemed like a reliableman. His company wasn''t big and flashy, but he was afourth-generation Georgian Bay native who had thirty years''experience in the guiding and outfitting business. He had kayakedall over the world from the roughest Pacific seas to the mostserene Ontario lakes, and he claimed to know every tree andshoal on the eastern Georgian Bay coast. She had been countingon him to help her choose the perfect itinerary for her group ofeager but utterly inexperienced adventurers. The man in the speedboat was standing now as he guidedthe boat into one of the slips and killed the engine.
Morningsunlight glinted off his windblown hair, burnishing it to honeygold as he leaped cat-like onto the dock and tied up the boat. Onthe phone, George had the gravelly bass of an older man, andan internet check of his credentials had turned up a man with asteel-grey buzz cut. Not George Gifford, then. Amanda felt a twinge of disappointment,which quickly changed to frustration. The man wasnearly an hour late for their very first meeting, which didn''t bodewell for his reliability during the intricate coordination of thesix-day kayak trip to the offshore islands. She sneaked a peek at her phone. No messages either. Andwhere was Chris? Even if he was late leaving Newfoundland, heshould have texted his arrival details by now.
Unless he''d gottencold feet. Not that she would blame him. He''d expressed excitementabout coming on this scouting expedition, and there''dbeen a palpable thrum of electricity between them, but what didshe really know about him? No matter how much he was in herdreams, they''d spent barely two weeks together in the past eightmonths, most of it dealing with crises. The stranger stood on the dock, shielding his eyes from thesun as he scanned the parking lot. He too glanced at his phoneand frowned. Kaylee, delighted at the possibility of a new playmateand oblivious to his dark mood, snatched up her ball andbounded down onto the dock to drop it at his feet. Amanda was about to call her back when the man''s frowndissolved into a smile. "Well, what do you want?" he asked,bending to pick up the ball.
Kaylee danced expectantly, and theman looked up at Amanda. "Can I throw it?" "She''d love it!" Amanda exclaimed. The man curled back hisarm and shot a beautiful high ball far up onto the road behindthe parking lot. The little red dog was off like a shot, and the manlaughed as he strolled up the dock. "Beautiful dog," he said. "It''s a Nova Scotia something,isn''t it?" "Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. Don''t worry, no oneever remembers the whole name." Kaylee came bouncing back to drop the ball in front of him.
"Look at that focus!" he said. "Does she like the water?" "Part mermaid! They''re bred for it. I warn you, though, she''llretrieve until your arm falls off." "This is my kind of dog," he said, bending to pick up the ball."We just got a Lab puppy, but I think they left the brains out ofthe package." Amanda laughed. "All puppies are like that." She tried to callKaylee over so that she would not pester the man yet again, but thedog was too excited.
"You have a beautiful boat. Is it an antique?" "It is. It''s been in the family -- well, my wife''s family -- forsixty years. It''s temperamental, but it''s my favourite." He tossedthe ball again and then looked up to scan the road behind theparking lot. His frown returned. "You haven''t seen a woman anda baby anywhere around, have you?" Amanda looked around. There was only one vehicle inthe parking lot, an SUV from Michigan parked next to herlime-green motorcycle with its custom-built dog trailer.
Most ofthe traffic that had driven by in the past hour had been contractorsin pickup trucks. "There''s construction on the highway," she said. She''d beengiving herself the same excuse for George Gifford''s delay. He grinned. "There''s always construction on the highway."At that moment the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires heraldedthe arrival of a car. They both turned expectantly just as asilver Audi slewed into the parking lot and jerked to a stop. Thedoor was flung open and a woman leaped out.
Amanda noticedthe skinny white jeans and the gold wedge sandals first beforetaking in the mass of platinum curls, the huge sunglasses, andthe cherry-red lips. Not exactly a country look. In that instant, Amanda felt every inch of her frayed jeans,baggy T-shirt, and flip-flops. In anticipation of Chris Tymko''sarrival, she had washed her long, light-brown hair and pulled itinto what she hoped was an attractive ponytail, but she''d clearlyfallen well short of the mark. "Her usual grand entrance," the man muttered before headingup toward the car. "I''m sorry, I''m sorry!" Cherry Lips exclaimed. "The traffic outof Toronto was insane, and I had to stop four times because --"An outraged screech from inside the car stopped her short, andshe clutched her head. "Omigod, Benson, he''s been like that thewhole time! He just won''t settle! I tell you, you''re a lifesaver.
If itweren''t for you, I''d be murdering the kid!" Benson strode toward the car. "Well, let''s get the little guyout." He opened the rear door and bent inside, crooning babytalk. The woman seemed to notice Amanda for the first time.Her gaze flicked over the baggy T-shirt, and a faint frownpinched her face. Amanda tried a sympathetic smile, which thewoman ignored. Benson emerged with a baby in his arms, now miraculouslyquiet. He tossed the little boy into the air and then buried hisface in the boy''s belly, making him burst into giggles.
"Benson, I have to go. I''m so late!" The woman opened thetrunk and began to dump suitcases, half a dozen bags, a car seat,and a stroller on the ground. "If he gets colicky, push him aroundin the stroller.""We''ll take you for a motorboat ride, won''t we, Tommy?" "Thomas. It''s Thomas." Benson grinned at her, and Amanda suspected they''d playedthis game before. "Would you like to spend a few days with UncleBen? And all your cousins?" He tossed the boy again before tuckinghim comfortably in the crook of his arm. "And if he won''t eat, all the instructions from the doctor arein this binder here.
His whole routine. He needs his routine." "Candy, we''ll be fine. Danielle is a miracle worker withbabies. Don''t worry, go!" "I guess you can always get Kaitlyn to help out as well. If youcan get her out of bed." A frown flickered across his face. "She''s only fourteen,Candace.
"Candace looked about to contradict him but checked herself.She stood on tiptoe to kiss her son and then paused, her headtilted to gaze up at Benson. Her eyes softened as she touched hisarm. "Thank you," she mouthed.He bent his head to kiss her forehead. "Have fun. Getsome rest."Then Candace was gone with a squeal of tires and a littlewave of her red-tipped fingers out the window.
Benson turnedtoward his boat and paused to eye the mountain of luggage onthe ground.