I'm struggling with PTSD from the trauma of having my brother gunned down and then narrowly escaping death myself in a mall shooting.
My house on the bluffs overlooking Lake Ontario is guarded by security cameras, a state of the art alarm system and Jules, my deceased brother's dog from the RCMP canine patrol.
To say I'm anxious is an understatement, especially considering the motion alarms going off last night and Jules and I patrolling the remote property during a snowstorm.
But it's all good, I tell myself. I made it through the night intact without using my billy bat or can of Mace or testing to see if Jules would really stop a bullet for me.
He did just that for Si and his nose is stuck to my knee today like velcro so I have no reason to doubt his allegiance.
Still, I’m feeling a little rusty while eating breakfast and almost jump out of my skin when the front doorbell rings.
I'm quickly reassured though when I open the door to a smiling girl with strawberry blonde hair and huge brown eyes.
She certainly doesn't look threatening—actually, she looks like a beautiful dream.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you’d mind if I set up my canvas outside and paint your house?”
“Really—you paint in the cold?”
“Sure. I just wear thin gloves and an extra layer of clothing. I’ll probably just be sketching for the first few days though.”
“Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk about it?”
Her smile is enchanting. She hangs her ski jacket on the coat stand and sits down on the red velour love seat in the front room.
“Can I offer you coffee and toast?”
“No thank you,” she laughs, “I began my day some time ago.”
I colour. “I’m a writer, and tend to stay up late… and get up late.”
“I won’t disturb you," she reassures me, "I’m used to painting outdoors. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Well, that’ll be a shame,” I say, “I don’t get many visitors and you’re welcome to drop in and chat.”
“I’d like that,” she smiles.
Suddenly, the sun comes out and lights up the room. I take that as a good sign.
Over the next few days, I get to know more about the girl. Her name is Celeste Warren and she’s researched the house and learned quite a bit of its history. I find that intriguing—or perhaps the truth is, I find her enchanting.
As we spend afternoons by the fire chatting and relaxing she tells me all about the bluffs and draws me into her passion.
“I’ve got an idea,” she says, eyes dancing with excitement. “I’ll take you on a tour and show you all the house’s secrets, if you want.”
How can I resist?
It doesn't occur to me she's already gotten behind the first lines of my defences, and If it did, would it really matter?
I've been alone and fearful for so long that she's a welcome breath of fresh air.
I may be blurring across some lines here, but on the plus side, my tiny world is expanding. That's got to be good, surely.