It wasn't fine. Ami's mother, Helen, met them at the airport.

"Ami, it's so wonderful to see you. The family is so excited about meeting Col." Helen Bassingdale gave her daughter a big hug and looked around excitedly for Ami's husband. "When you turned thirty this spring, we'd pretty well accepted that you were not going to marry. What a happy surprise it was when we got your phone call last month."

Ami pulled out of her mom's hug and wrapped an arm about a tall woman who stood quietly behind her. "Mom, this is my wife, Colette Dumont. Colette this is my mother, Helen."

"Hello, Helen. It's very good to meet you." Col put out her hand to shake Helen's but instead she ended up using it to steady the poor woman and guide her to a chair.

"Steady breaths. Ami, would you please get your mother some juice, or something?" Ami nodded and hurried off, leaving Col to steady her mother-in-law.

Wide eyes turned to look at the tall, trim person who squatted beside her. "You're a woman."

Colette smiled. "All my life. I'm really sorry Ami didn't let you know. We've been away on a combined honeymoon and business trip and really only got home in time to grab our bags and head down here."

"But Ami said she was married."

"We are. Gay couples can marry in Canada."

"Oh."

Ami came hurrying over with a small bottle of juice and sat beside her mom. Col took the bottle, twisted the top off, and offered it to her mother-in-law.

"Here, have a few alps of this. The sugar will help with the shock."

Helen nodded, still looking like a deer in the headlights. Ami wrapped an arm around her mom.

"It's okay, Mom. We love each other very much and Colette is a wonderful person. You'll see."

Helen nodded dully and took another swig of the juice. "I've invited all the family for Christmas evening to meet your husband."

"That will be great," Ami said.

Helen and Colette looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. She shrugged. "Well, they have to find out sooner or later."

"I need to make a phone call," Ami's mom said urgently, getting to her feet with Col's help.

"I'll come with you, Mom."

"No! You stay with Colette. I-I'll be back in a minute, honey. I-I need to phone your father."

Colette watched as Helen walked off, looking none too steady on her feet. "Well, that went well," she muttered.

Christmas Eve

The four of them sat in the living room. Ami's mother was a charming woman, pear-shaped and motherly. Despite her shock at her new daughter-in-law, she'd offered all the usual southern hospitality with a stoic, polite smile. Ami's father, Frank, was tall and slim and had the weather beaten look of a man who enjoyed the outdoors. He ran a pecan orchard and a successful spin off business making related products such as pecan wood souvenirs, bagged pecans, pecan cookies and Christmas cake. A plate of Christmas cake sat on the coffee table now as they drank a coffee. Ami's mother was managing, with considerable effort, to keep the conversation going. Her father sat in stunned silence staring at Colette with a look that bordered on murderous.

"So, how did you meet?" Helen asked with forced cheerfulness.

Ami laughed and looked at Colette, who rolled her eyes. "We met in Quebec. That's where Colette is from. I just fell head over heels in love with her the first time we ran into each other."

Col explained, "I was skiing at a local resort. Ami ran into me and broke my leg."

"Oh no. Did you hear that, dear, Ami broke Col's leg.".

"I heard. What do you do for a living?" demanded Frank.

Helen got up. "Ami why don't you help me get dinner ready?"

Ami got up and followed her mother out of the room giving Col a sympathetic look as she went by that read, Sorry, you're on your own.

"I paint."

"Paint?"

"Yes."

"You work with a company or something?"

"No. I'm in business for myself."

"A business, good. So what do you paint? How many do you have working for you?"

"I paint pictures, sir. I'm an artist."

"An artist?"

"Yes, sir."

"Shit. You can make a living at that? How many pictures did you sell last year?"

"Five."

"Five!"

"It was a good year. I had a show in New York," Colette said, wondering how she was going to explain her work using colour and textures in a visual rendering of light and form.

"How are you going to support my daughter painting pictures?"

"First, Ami doesn't need me to support her. She's a very independent woman and a visiting professor of art history at McMas-ter. She's doing very well. But I think I can manage to care for her, sir. There were some rough years starting out. I actually got my education through a military scholarship because my family wasn't in a position to send me to university. I started to paint while I was still in the service. Now I've established myself, my work is selling well. I can usually expect to clear $50,000 on a sale."

"Shit. What kind of a damn fool would spend $50,000 on a picture?"

Bedtime

"Shhh, my parent's room is right next door."

"I'm just getting into bed," Col whispered back. "It's not my fault the springs squeak."

"Well, don't move," Ami said, slowly slipping in beside Col.

"Can I breathe?"

"Only softly, and no gasping," Ami said, reaching a hand over to tease Col's nipple.

Col grabbed Ami's hand and kissed her fingers. "You're wasting your time. I think I just heard your father pass wind and I don't think I'll ever be in the mood again. Talk about a turn off."

Ami giggled.

"Don't do that. They'll think we're up to no good," Col whispered in mock panic.

"Wait until we visit your parents."

"They won't care."

"How do you know?" Ami sat up in bed. "You've brought women home before, haven't you?"

"Ahhh, yes."

"I'm not going to sleep in a bed that you and some bimbo shared."

"Shhhh. And I never slept with bimbos."

"That doesn't make a difference. Col, how could you?"

"I didn't know you then. Okay, okay, I'll replace the furniture, paint the walls, and have the room fumigated. How's that?"

"I'll think about it," Ami said, lying down and turning her back on her wife.

Col sighed and turned off the light.

Christmas Morning

"I thought you were a man so we got you a shirt and tie for Christmas," Helen explained, handing Col her present. "But the tie is silk."

Colette smiled politely. "That's great. I sometimes wear a shirt and tie to openings. It was very kind of you."

Frank was eyeing the wrapped parcel that Colette and Ami had given them. Helen came and sat by his side and unwrapped it. Colette looked at Ami, then at the two stunned faces of her in-laws.

"It's one of Col's paintings," Ami explained. "We wanted to give you something special."

"It's special alright," Frank started and Helen jabbed him in the ribs.

"My it's colourful and — and lumpy. What is it a picture of, Colette? Something in Canada?"

Colette's smile was thin but still holding. "It's not of anything in particular. I use colour and texture with a mixed palette to create images of light. This one is part of my summer series."

Frank held it up and took a closer look. "Not much in the way of summer in Canada is there?"

"Dad!"

Colette laughed. She couldn't help herself. "No summer is short in Canada. You might want to insure the painting though. Look on it as a little investment for your retirement years."

Frank looked over the frame at Colette. "What's it worth?"

"It's one of my earlier works which are now sold out. I think at an active art auction in, say, New York or LA, you could expect to make about $80,000 — $100,000."

"Shit!"

"Frank. Language," Helen reminded her husband. "Colette it's lovely. Ami, dear, could you and Col take down the print we have over the mantle and put up our present. Does it have a name?"

"No. I don't like my work defined."

"Oh well, we'll just call it Col's picture then."

Frank frowned. "Could be a picture of her insides, I guess."

The Family

The man who cornered Col in the hall had a beer belly and a receding hair line. He wore a suit that was well tailored but flashy. "Bill Fairdale is the name. I'm a cousin of little Ami. I'm in car sales. If ever you girls need a deal on a second hand car you just let me know." He winked.

Col smiled and took a step back to extend her personal space. "Thanks."

"What are you driving now?"

"A Lamborghini."

"Well, I'll be damned. Now that's one honey of a car. You must be doin' all right in this art business." He gave Col a poke in the ribs.

Col managed a weak smile as she took another step away. "I do okay."

An arm shot out and pulled her aside into the corner in a conspiratorial way. "Listen, you're a woman of the world, er, man, well, whatever you call yourself. I hear that women really know how to please other woman. Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? Now I love my wife, but a man needs a little on the side, if you know what I mean. Even a guy like me hitting his more mature years. So I was wondering what dykes like you would suggest to make a young thing happy?"

Col slipped around the obnoxious man and gave him a wicked smile. "Go back to your wife and leave her alone?" she suggested, before walking off.

Col stood in the kitchen, pouring herself a Southern Comfort and talking to an older couple who had just introduced themselves as Elsie and Marlow Bassindale, Ami's grandparents.

The old guy looked at her suspiciously while his wife kept her distance as if Col might be contagious. "So you're the queer Canadian."

Col took a swallow of her drink. "Yes."

"You don't sound Canadian. You gotta funny accent," the man accused. "I used to go up to Canada hunting in the fall. I know Canadians and you don't sound like one."

Col laughed. "You're from Georgia and you think I have an accent?"

"Well, you do."

"I'm a French Canadian," Col explained.

Grandpa Marlow looked shocked. "French. Elsie, she's French."

"French Canadian," Col corrected.

"I suppose you're against war like all those mandy-pandy French politicians."

Col tried not to roll her eyes as she started to edge toward the door. "Does anyone think war is a good thing, sir?"

The old guy stood straighter. "I fought in Vietnam and was damn proud to serve my country."

Col looked him straight in the eye and answered honestly. "I served in Afghanistan and was damn glad to survive."

As she headed out of the kitchen she could hear Granny Elsie calming her husband. "Now, Marlow, she meant no disrespect."

"Damn, queer Frenchy."

Col found Ami in the living room clutching a glass of wine in one hand and a bible in the other. She raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"Cousin Sally gave it to me with some passages marked in the hope I'll see the errors of my ways. Seems our relationship has damned me to the lowest part of hell, but she wants to save me."

Col rolled her eyes.

Ami laughed. "How's it going, hon?"

Col gave her the summary as she stood beside her wife looking at the crowd of Bassindales milling around the room.

"Your Uncle Bill wants some pointers on how to please women."

Ami did the eye roll this time. "He's such a slime ball."

"Your Grandad Marlow wants me dead because I'm French and don't think war is a neat sport."

Ami patted Col's arm and looked sympathetic. "You're only French. You'll never understand."

"Your Uncle Wally is fascinated by gay women doing it. I just want you to know if he suggests a threesome I'll probably have to kill him."

Ami laughed. "I don't think my Aunt Mai would mind. She's threatened to off him many times herself."

Boxing Day

Helen Basindale looked frayed. The visit of the relatives on Christmas evening had strained even her legendary hostess skills. Still, she had gotten through it. Ami and Col were flying out in the afternoon and they had managed the holiday without ending up lynched or in jail. She considered that quite a triumph considering Ami had brought home a wife for the family to meet.

It was a shame, she thought. Collette was a perfect husband for her independent and intelligent daughter. Considerate, talented, wealthy, and polite. Why did she have to be female? Even now, it was Col who was making the coffee and toast while she sat at the kitchen table in what she felt might be shell shock.

Frank came in with the morning paper and sat down. Col passed him his coffee.

"Thanks."

"Morning all." Ami had arrived. She gave Col a kiss.

Helen blushed. Frank disappeared deeper behind his paper. Col smiled and Ami got out the butter, jam, and marmalade, placing them on the table with the pile of toast that Col had made. They all sat down.

"So, thanks for inviting us, Mom and Dad. I know this wasn't easy for you, and I really appreciate your support and understanding. I thought last night went well, considering."

Frank stayed behind his paper. Helen managed a weak smile. Col laughed. "Always the optimist. I too appreciate all you did for us, Frank and Helen. It must have been an awful shock."

Frank came out from behind his paper. "Pearl Harbour was a shock. This was an event of—"

Helen cut in quickly. "What Frank means is that we were surprised you two just went off and got married so suddenly."

Ami swallowed her toast. "We'd planned a spring wedding with the family. But, Mom, Dad, we've been waiting to tell you: I'm expecting."

"Oh Jesus! She's one of those transvestites!" Frank cursed, throwing down his paper.

"No, I'm not."

"Don't give me that. I know where kids come from."

"Dad. Col and I decided we wanted children so I had artificial insemination. The sperm was from a sperm bank. It usually takes some time, so we started the process early. I'm thirty and I didn't want to wait too long. But I got pregnant right away. Col insisted we get married immediately. She's kind of old fashioned that way."

"My grandchild came from a test tube?"

"It's done a lot now, sir. I promise you that our baby will have two very caring, supportive parents."

Tears ran down Helen's face. "Oh, Ami! I'm so happy for you. I never thought I'd be a grandmother."

"Jesus," Frank muttered shaking his head. "Come on, Col, I'll show you around the business. You might need a real job now that you're going to be a daddy, mommy — whatever the hell you're going to be."

The Flight Home

Ami smiled at her partner as Col sighed and leaned back in her plane seat. Helen and Frank had seen them off at the airport.

"That was some Christmas, huh?"

"A classic."

"Next year, will be our baby's first Christmas."

Col smiled. "That thought makes it all worthwhile."

An Arctic Story

Jane looked around. For as far as she could see there was a flat landscape of ice and snow. Here in Auyuittuq National Park, three degrees above the Arctic Circle on Baffin Island, it was hard to tell where land met sky. A white sheet-world gradually blurred into the distance and became infinite space. That was the Arctic, infinite space. It made you feel very small.

A large section of Auyuittuq National Park was ice cap. It was to this region that Nowdlak had brought them. It was strange that in the years she'd know her partner in the south, she had always called her Dale, her European name. Now here in the north, she found herself calling her Nowdlak, her Inuit name.

She thought she knew Dale Nowdlak. Moody, quick tempered, and a loner, she'd been shunned by the other students in the biology department until Jane Askin reached out to her. A few months later, they had become lovers.

Jane had promised Nowdlak, that after they graduated, she would visit the Arctic and see if she could live and work there. At the time, it was an easy promise to make. The future seemed far away. Now it was here and Jane was not at all sure if she wanted to live in the arctic. It was the Christmas season and she was missing the shopping, lights, and parties. Santa might live in the Arctic but there didn't seem to be any Christmas joy here.

They'd flown from Toronto to Frobisher Bay and then Nowdlak had rented a Piper Cub for the flight into the park. They planned to meet some of Nowdlak's mother's family, who had moved out of the hustle and bustle of the small community of Frobisher Bay to live on the land. A sudden, violent snow storm had caught them unprepared, however, and Nowdlak had been forced to make a dangerous emergency landing in the wilderness. Then everything changed.

For two days, they huddled inside the wreckage of their tiny plane, clinging to life in a swirling world of white. On the third day, the storm stopped as suddenly as it had started and they crawled from their cramped cocoon of twisted metal to look about them. To Jane, the wilderness was desolate and terrifyingly unpredictable. She'd never in her life been as scared as she had in the last two days.

Nowdlak had made a bumpy, but safe, landing but the arctic winds had battered and tumbled their small, light craft about,

finally smashing them against a wall of ice and nearly burying them in a snow drift. Nowdlak had held her in her arms, wrapping them in sleeping bags and canvas to keep them warm. Unable to leave the plane in the appalling conditions, they'd used the tail section as a washroom and eaten frozen soup from a can. Standing now in the brilliant sunlight, her eyes scrunched up and nearly closed against the glare, she felt exhausted and worried.

Shock was the only way she could describe her feeling when she looked up at her partner and saw Nowdlak grinning with delight as she looked about her. "You must put your goggles on, Jane. Otherwise you'll develop snow blindness," Nowdlak said gently, pulling the goggles from Jane's pocket and handing them to her.

Cold, hunger, and fear made Jane explode in frustration, where at other times she would have been grateful for the advice. "We're half frozen, our plane is wrecked, and we're lost in the damn arctic wilderness, and you are worried about snow blindness! That's the least of our problems! How long do you think before a rescue helicopter will get here to bring us out to Frobisher Bay? We'll be back for Christmas, right?"

Nowdlak shrugged. "Snow blindness is a major concern," she responded patiently, slipping Jane's goggles in place. "We were blown way off course. Nor will the authorities know that we're missing yet. They'll assume the storm delayed our call-in to verify we reached our destination. Today, I'll try to make contact with them. Because we're so far from our original flight plan, even when they start to search for us it will be like trying to find a needle in a hay stack. They'll search for three weeks and then stop."

"What? Are you telling me we're hopelessly lost and that we'll probably not be found?" Jame wrapped her arms around herself and stomped her feet against the cold that had seeped into her bones so that she felt cold from the inside out.

Nowdlak smiled. "Maybe they'll find us, maybe they won't. If I can get the radio going they'll find us soon. We're not lost. I know where we are. It's a good place."

Jane looked around at the frozen landscape. "I know where we are too, in the middle of a wasteland. Damn it, Nowdlak, what are we going to do?"

Nowdlak looked hurt. She'd wanted Jane to see the beauty of her world just as she'd strived to see beauty in Jane's world of pollution, noise, and crowds. Was Jane like all the others after all? "There's no need for concern. I'll try the radio," she responded

stiffly and crawled back into the twisted craft to see If anything could be done.

Jane stood for a minute in the cold and then crawled back inside, snuggling against Nowdlak's body. Even through the thick parka, Jane could feel the heat of her partner's body. "Aren't you cold?" she said.

"It feels good. I feel alive again," the Inuit woman replied, as she examined the broken pieces of the radio. "I can't fix this, the circuitry has been damaged."

"Great, now what?" Jane asked, giving into exhaustion.

"We'll walk out. It'll take several days to prepare and then several more to walk to my family's camp. We'll be fine if the weather holds."

"And if it doesn't?" Jane heard herself ask from far away. She was nearly asleep.

"We'll have an adventure then, to tell around the fire. Wake up, Jane, there's much for us to do and you'll feel warmer for activity," Nowdlak said, in organisational mode, as she gave her partner a reassuring hug, then squirmed past her to slide out onto the plane's wing and down to the ground. Jane sighed and followed reluctantly. This was not what she'd in mind when excitedly she had planned to meet Nowdlak's family. It was supposed to be fun. Her Christmas in the arctic was to be a cultural experience that she could tell her friends about over drinks on Friday night. It wasn't supposed to be scary, cold, and isolating.

"Jane, do you see where the snow is cracked and crumbled? That's the shoreline. Take this camp shovel and walk along there and look for low, long drifts. If you clear the snow you'll find driftwood sometimes. There's always a lot of drift wood along the shore this time of year. It can travel for thousands of miles. Look for pieces as far away from the water edge as possible. They've been thrown there by storms and the wood will have dried. Keep your gloves on. Your skin would stick to the wood because of the moisture," Nowdlak finished with a warning.

Jane nodded dully and headed off where Nowdlak had pointed. She couldn't imagine ever being warm again, never mind warm enough to take her mitts off. She could not see what her partner saw. Snow was snow as far as she could see, which at the moment was all the way to the horizon. She was surprised then when, having walked only a short distance, she came upon snow that was cracked and uneven. Another few minutes of searching and she found a long, silver-grey branch buried in the ice and snow.

With a sigh, she started hacking away at the surrounding ice. She thought she knew her moody, quiet lover but up here Nowdlak seemed so different. More confident, more alive. She smiled. She loved Nowdlak's funny little ways, how she coped with the industrial world of which she'd had no experience. She remembered the look of horror on her dad's face when Nowdlak, finding no space left in the driveway, had simply parked her car on the front lawn. Or the time she'd shocked everyone by stirring lard into her tea instead of sugar. Jane had managed to break through her lover's prickly facade by patiently helping Nowdlak understand the ways of the south. Now their roles were reversed and Jane was not sure she liked it. She felt stupid and useless, as well as cold, and so very small in this vast, barren landscape.

Despite the cold, sweat was now dampening the flannel shirt she wore under her sweater and polar jacket. Wisely, she unzipped her jacket to let the moisture escape. She could remember Nowdlak telling her that keeping dry was very important to prevent freezing. It took her a good hour of hard work to finally loosen the branch from its spot. To her surprise, it was not too heavy to lift. Nowdlak had been right. The water saturated branch had freeze dried once it had been thrown clear of the ocean. She turned and looked out. She could see now how the snow turned to pack ice stretching out miles into the ocean. Only close to the horizon could she see open water. She would never have known that their crash site was close to the shore if Nowdlak hadn't told her.

The branch was long, over twelve feet she estimated, and about six inches at its widest end. With difficulty, she managed to half carry, half drag it back to the plane. To her surprise, Nowlak was just cutting the final blocks for a small igloo.

"Wow, neat!" she exclaimed, dropping the log and running over to have a look at their new shelter. She hoped the camera still worked. Wait until she told people back home that she'd spent a few nights in a snow house.

"No, a necessity. It's clear and will be very cold tonight," Now-dalk said. "We've been lucky. The snow here is good for building an igloo. Such snow can be hard to find."

Jane looked at her friend with puzzled interest as the Inuit shaped the last snow block and fitted it into place. The igloo was built in a spiral shape, each piece carefully shaped to curve into a dome held together at the top with a keystone slab of snow. There was a short, low tunnel to crawl through to get inside. "I guess I hadn't considered that the texture of snow varied and would be used for different things," she said at last.

Nowdlak nodded. "In our language, we have many words for snow. There is snow that is good for building igloos, snow good for snowshoes, snow better used with dog teams. You see that snow over there?" Jane nodded. "That's ice that was pushed by storm waves high on the beach. The sun has melted the surface and it's refrozen many times. Old ice is good. The salt has settled to the bottom and so the ice can be melted and the water is sweet to drink. You see, it's a clear blue and shines in the sun. New ice is grey and milky in colour because of the salt."

Jane looked closer. Now she could see the ridge of ice that her lover had pointed out. Looking back, she could clearly see the shoreline now where she had searched for wood. The world was not a flat waste land stretching to the horizon as she'd originally thought, but a landscape of varying and subtle landforms. In the other direction a range of magnificent mountains rose up to the sky. How much more had she not seen yet?

"Should I break this branch up and stack it inside?" she asked, wanting to show her partner she could be of use.

"We'll have to build our fire out here. An oil lamp is good in an igloo, but a fire would cause it to melt. We'll take the coals inside later to give us more warmth. You need to take the fire axe from the plane and strip off the outer layer of the wood. It will be damp and won't burn, but the core will be good. This is good wood, it will burn well and long once we can get a fire going. You did well."

Jane smiled, pleased that Nowdlak had appreciated her efforts. "I'm glad to see you remembered to undo your jacket if you got hot. Never let the moisture build up against your skin. It will make you colder later," she said.

Jane nodded. She realized now that there was much to learn and doing so would be a unique and rare opportunity that would bring Nowdlak and her even closer. "Nowdlak, don't you find it oppressive? I feel so small in all this vast space. I don't think I knew what silence really was until today. In my world, even late at night, there's always the sound of the furnace, the clock ticking, the fridge coming on, a siren in the distance. Here silence is like a blanket over everything."

Nowdlak looked around in amazement. "But there are all sorts of sounds," she protested. "Listen, the ice squeaks and complains because the ocean is breaking it up and drifting it away from the land. The wind still whispers and ice flakes giggle as they are bounced along. Do you not hear the seagulls calling that they have found fish?"

Jane looked at her lover. Never had she seen her look so happy and animated. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Nowdlak and felt her respond, pulling her closer into her arms and dropping a kiss on her head. "I think I'll have to listen more closely," she said.

They went back to work, Jane stripping the branch down to dry wood and chopping it into kindling and Nowdlak building a sled out of pieces of the wrecked plane. Jane found herself enjoying the fresh air and manual labour. She felt warm enough to undo her coat again and sometimes she would stop and listen to the sounds around her. Now and again, Nowdlak would imitate a sound, incorporating it into a rhythmic beat that resonated from deep in her throat. Throat singing Nowdlak called it. She told Jane that it was better when a group sang together telling a story of activity with the sounds they created. She promised Jane that when they visited her family, they would show her how it was properly done.

"Wood's cut," Jane called. "Where are the matches and I'll get a fire going and see what I can do to cook us a hot meal. We have enough canned food for a few days. Then we'll have to do without."

Nowdlak took off her glove with her teeth and dug deep into her pocket to pull out a tin cylinder of matches. She tossed it over to her partner with a smile. "I might be able to catch a few arctic hare. It's easy to catch a rabbit. They run then stop. Then they'll bolt either right or left. So when the rabbit stops you run to the right. Fifty per cent of the time you'll be there to catch the rabbit. Rabbits and caribou are grazers. They eat the moss and lichen that we can't digest. Traditionally, we would eat the contents of their stomachs first. The lichens and mosses would already be broken down enough that our systems could digest them. That's how the Inuit got enough vitamin C to avoid getting scurvy."

Nowdlak saw Jane's eyes widen in horror and smiled. "I don't think we're in danger of getting scurvy so we'll just eat the meat if I catch one. Jane, don't blow on the fire to get it going. The moisture in your breath will freeze on the wood as a thin veneer and then the wood won't burn. Fan the fire instead with your glove."

Jane smiled at her partner. "There's a lot I need to learn to live here," she said.

Nowdlak's face broke into a wide smile. "You'll learn to love it," she promised. "As I do."

Jane smiled back and then let her eyes scan across the undulating beauty of the arctic. The snow wasn't really white but an amazing variety of subtle blues, greys, and greens. The land was

not flat either but a complex pattern ground down by glaciations and moulded by snow, water and, wind. It was a pristine world filled with the sounds of nature. She could feel herself becoming more aware, more alive each minute. She nodded softly. Nowdlak would never belong in her world, she realized that now. But that was okay because she knew that she could come to love this land and to know it as well as her lover.

Now the days of the storm did not seem cold and terrifying. They were an adventure, experienced and endured. Nor did the cold vastness of the arctic intimidate her anymore. It was liberating, beautiful, and pristine. Jane smiled and looked back at Nowdlak, who watched her with serious, concerned eyes. "Is it true that the traditional Inuit slept naked under fur to share their body heat?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

"Lovers do," Nowdlak responded with a flash of a smile.

"I'm going to love it here. It'll be the best Christmas ever." She grinned, and the two women turned back to their work, their future together now a certainty.

All of Them

"You still okay with this, hon?"

Caren smiled and flashed her mom a smile. "I should be asking you that."

Jean Harris sighed. "Filled, of course, with various serious apprehensions but still willing to forge ahead. And you?"

Caren shrugged. She was scared, but there was no going back. Not now. "About the same, I guess."

The outboard boat they were in rocked gently on Georgian Bay. It was a huge body of water and the roll of the waves was more like the ocean than a lake. They were pretending to fish. In actual fact, they were spying. Jean preferred to call it an investigative recognisance. As a journalist, she was well aware that there was a fine line between investigating a story and snooping. She'd crossed the line more than once, although she did try to maintain a sense of professional integrity.

But this mission had nothing to do with professionalism. She had deliberately broken all the rules, using her position as a well known and respected journalist to gather information and share it with her nineteen year old adopted daughter. That made this investigation personal and Jean's nervous system was raw with emotion.

Caren sat staring up at the house on the cliff about a half mile off, her fishing pole forgotten in her hands. Jean reached forward and shoved the lid off a small Styrofoam container.

"Want a coffee?"

"I'd love one. Thanks." Caren took the flask from her mom, twisted the cap off and carefully poured the hot coffee into two cups. She sealed the flask again and passed it back to Jean to return to the container and then handed her a cup of coffee.

Jean held on to the warm cup with a sigh of contentment. There was a Fall nip to the air but she was looking forward to the two weeks they were going to be on holiday together, even if part of their time was going to be spent doing investigative recognisance. "It's going to be hard to get up there."

"Yeah."

"We could try over land."

Caren sighed. "I was hoping there'd be a dock. They sure don't make it easy."

"I guess that's understandable. Don't you think?" Jean asked gently.

Caren looked up sharply. Her eyes flashed with anger. As Jean watched they calmed to dark pools of chestnut. "I guess."

Jean reached over and patted her daughter's knee reassuringly. "She doesn't know us so we can't expect she'll trust us. You can see why she'd guard her privacy so closely. You've read her books."

Caren nodded moodily and looked back at the house on the cliff. "I wonder how messed up she is emotionally?"

"Her books show amazing insight into the human psyche. I don't sense the anger in her later work. In fact, there seems to be a great deal of compassion."

Caren nodded. She needed to believe this. Yes, she'd read the book about Patricia Allen's childhood. Patricia's parents had been killed in a car crash when she was eight and she'd been raised by an uncle who was strict and narrow in his religious belief. The cane was the solution to any transgression, however small, or any questioning of the religious dogma to which her uncle adhered.

When she was fourteen, Pat had realized she was gay and tried to run away from home. When her uncle got her back he tried to beat the devil out of her and when this failed he allowed his friend to rape her to show her what a real man could do for her. She eventually escaped from this life of hell and staggered bleeding and wailing onto the highway. A trucker had taken her to a local clinic. From there, it had been a slow, painful recovery. All the way the country doctor, Gale Houghton, had acted as a guardian and friend to Pat. Eventually, Gale won the right in court to be Patricia's guardian.

At the age of twenty-five, Patricia Allen had written her autobiography, The Closet Within. It had sent Shockwaves through the literary community. Two years later, she had written her second best seller, Martin. Since then there had been four other novels, all of them haunting, powerful, and sensitive. Caren had read all of Allen's books many times. She knew her mother had as well.

They sat for a few more hours, each taking turns watching the house, fishing pole in hand, while the other read. Once they saw an older woman come out onto the balcony and shield her eyes with her hand to look out across the water at them. Satisfied, they hoped, that they were fishing she disappeared again. They speculated for a time as to whether it could be Dr. Houghton then fell silent again.

The cloudy afternoon darkened and the rolling of the water intensified. It was time to call it quits for the day. Tonight at their motel, they would discuss their options in trying to find a way to talk to Patricia Allen. Caren slid back to the gas tank and pumped up the pressure while Jean pulled up their anchor. It took several pulls of the cord on the old outboard and some delicate encouragement with the choke before the engine caught again with a good deal of blue smoke and noise. Not a moment too soon, Caren brought their stern to the waves and headed them on an angle back towards the shore and to the harbour several bays to the north.

Jean did her best in the rocking boat to stow their gear and then held on tight to the gunnels as the bow smashed through the growing waves. They were both getting very wet and water was starting to accumulate under their sneakers. They had come within fifty feet of the shore when the wave hit them broadside. They crested the wave and slid down the trough in what seemed like an agonizingly slow slide. The boat filled with cold water, things floated away, and the engine vibrated, choked and stalled.

Neither of them talked. Jean grabbed the fish bucket and started bailing and Caren madly worked to get the engine going. The next wave sent them both over the side as the small pleasure craft over turned. They came up gasping in the cold water. "Stay with the craft or try to make it to shore?" Caren asked, as she bounced like a cork in her red life jacket.

Jean considered. It was late in the season. It could be sometime before anyone realized they had not returned. They were both strong swimmers. "Head for shore. We won't last long in this cold water. We'll have to keep moving." Caren nodded and the two of them headed off, swimming awkwardly in the bulky rented life jackets.

Pat stood looking down at the two of them. There was no expression on her face but Gale was not fooled. She was well aware that Pat's stillness was a sign of deep emotional distress. She would not like having strangers in the house. "It's them. Isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"They were out there fishing."

"Maybe."

Deep brown eyes looked up. "They were spying on us?"

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"Curiosity?"

The eyes darkened in thought, then looked back at the two wrapped up on their guest bed. "They're reporters," she stated as if that conclusion solved everything. "I need to go shower and change. I'm wet and cold."

Gale watched Pat go with worried eyes and then brought her attention back to her two patients. It had been Gale who had seen the two struggling swimmers in the water at the cliffs edge but knew she was too old to pull them to safety. She had called for her thirty-six year old adopted daughter and Pat had used a boat hook to grab their jackets and bring them to a safe ledge of rock. There, they'd been fished from the water nearly unconscious and suffering from hypothermia. Pat managed to lift each of them to the inclina-tor that carried them up the steep incline to the house. They had been stripped, dried, placed into the same bed to share body heat and covered with an electric blanket. They were now both asleep, exhausted from their ordeal.

After Pat left, Gale sat down beside the bed. She hadn't been completely open with Pat. She knew one of the women. She'd met Jean Harris only once years ago. Now here she was with her daughter, Caren. She wasn't sure if this was a blessing or the makings of a disaster.

Jean woke groggily and then started awake as realization hit. Turning, heart pounding, she saw Caren asleep beside her and closed her eyes in relief. They had made it.

"How are you feeling?" a voice whispered.

Jean's eyes popped open again, suddenly aware of Gale Houghton sitting quietly on a chair by the bed. "Pretty cold and worn out."

Gale nodded. "It's been a long time, Jean. I was so sorry to hear about the death of your partner." She kept her voice low and gentle so as not to wake Caren.

As always, memories of Kaila caused Jean's heart to twist in pain. She'd died five years ago in early December. That first Christmas had been hell without Kaila. She and Caren had really struggled to come to terms with her death and the hole it had left in their lives. Jean was sure that was the catalyst that had finally given Caren the courage she needed to seek out her birth mother. "She was always so healthy and vibrant. I never thought I would lose her to cancer, or anything else for that matter. It was very hard on Caren. She adored Kaila."

The aging face, yet still with clear blue eyes, shifted to the sleeping figure curled up behind Jean. "Is that why you're here?"

"Partly, yes."

Gale nodded, a frown on her face. "This could be...difficult. You were out in the boat watching us."

Jean blushed. "I'm afraid so. We were looking for a way in and hoped there would be a dock. We tried to contact Pat through her publisher but got stonewalled. But...we also wanted to get a glimpse of her. Caren...well, you understand."

"Yes. It was Pat who pulled you two from the water and carried you to the trolley we have for going up and down to the lake. Then she helped me get you dry and put you to bed. Do you remember?"