In late april, Bernard Crowe volunteered to lead a few men north to survey the brush around Nagagami Lake. He left for Hornepayne days before the others, to see about lodgings and transportation. Years had passed since his wife’s death, but the need for solitude, a need that had come with her funeral, sometimes overtook him, and he often travelled to be alone.

On his first day in Hornepayne, he woke early and walked about the town’s black snow–gritted streets. He took the lake road halfway to the lake and then back. The walk was exactly what he’d wanted: bracing, the sun coming up to brighten the rocks and trees. There was more snow than he’d expected, snow coarse as rock salt, white beneath the trees but dark closer to the road. The trees were dense and green, or black and skeletal. He walked on grass that had survived the winter — or had not survived but stood up anyway.

On his return to the bed and breakfast where he’d rented a room, he was met by his hostess, Mrs. Vetiver, a large woman, her hair fixed so it was like a dun hat with grey threads. She wore a white pinafore with red and yellow sunflowers over a blue summer dress.

— Oh, Mr. Crowe, she said. I’ve made grits with maple syrup and back bacon. There’s freshly squeezed melon juice and a blackberry compote. I hope you like it.

— I’m sure it’ll be great, he answered. Thank you.

For the rest of the day, Bernard did little. He made certain that reservations had been made at the hotel for himself and his crew. He walked about Hornepayne, quietly pacing its dozen or so streets, and he was charmed by a snowfall, flakes wispy as dandelion fluff, melting as they touched his skin. The town was modest and plain, but as all places are beautiful immediately after a harsh winter, it was also beautiful.

At supper that evening, there were three people: Bernard himself, Mrs. Vetiver, and a pale woman, her brown hair held up by a black band, the down along her neck translucent.

— Mr. Crowe, said Mrs. Vetiver, this is Mrs. Andrews. She’ll be with us a few days. Almost as long as you, now I think of it.

Bernard, who had taken the chair beside Mrs. Andrews, said,

— Pleased to meet you.

Mrs. Andrews raised her head, turned toward him, and smiled politely. Three deliberate motions. Her eyes were lovely, though it was as if she had been crying recently or had recently awakened.

— Nice to meet you, she said.

They ate their meal in a quiet broken only by Mrs. Vetiver’s commentary on the day she’d had and the dishes she had prepared. Once they’d eaten and had coffee, Mrs. Andrews rose and, taking Bernard’s hand, wished him a good night’s sleep.

— Thank you, said Bernard.

He would have said more, but Mrs. Andrews looked away and left the dining room. Mrs. Vetiver insisted on clearing the table herself, so Bernard went to his room, and went up the stairs thinking of Mrs. Andrews’ eyes. They were somehow familiar: blue-green with long, light lashes.

Bernard’s room had once been a playroom. Its walls were robin’s egg blue, with a gold band running above the quarter-round. His bed was good, not too soft, and there was a large window that looked out on a rise in the land beyond which was the rough, darkening forest. He was not tired, but he felt a kind of peace, a near-absence of longing. For a few hours, he tried to read a book someone had recommended, then fell asleep without turning off the light on his night table.

The next morning, as he went out for a walk, Bernard saw Mrs. Andrews on the street before him. Quickening his pace, he caught up, and they walked together. Mrs. Andrews was as reserved as she’d been the night before. They exchanged few words until they turned back to Mrs. Vetiver’s and Bernard asked if she (Clara Andrews) were in Hornepayne on business. After a moment, Mrs. Andrews said,

— Yes. And you?

— Yes, me too. I work for the federal government.

— You must be from Ottawa, she said. My father was from Ottawa.