KERRI'S WAR (Volume 3 of The King Trilogy)

CHAPTER 42

Muskoka. Tuesday, Jan. 2, 2002.

Dressed only in his underwear, Steve jumped from the warmth of his duvet and raced to the thermostat. He dialed up the maximum his electrical baseboard heaters could deliver, hoping its radiant heat would soon moderate the damp biting cold. He hurried to his tiny kitchen, filled his pot-bellied stove with chopped maple, kindling chips, and crumpled newspaper, then set it alight. The first priority of his day was to write a letter to Kerri, to thank her for everything she had done for his mother, to explain to her why he ended his marriage to Christine so abruptly, and to salvage whatever vestige of their budding relationship, if any, that remained.

He dressed in his well worn blue and white University of Western Ontario track suit, fetched a pen, a pad of writing paper, and an envelope, then sat at his wooden kitchen table and tried to write. "Dear Kerri;" was the extent of his progress. Words, no matter how well written, or brilliantly conceived, seemed inadequate. Kerri had made an indelible impression on him, one requiring some special form of communication, ideally verbal and private. His problem, however, was that eyeball to eyeball conversation with anyone was the last thing he wanted. What he really wanted was to escape from everyone, not necessarily to start a new life, but to look at things from the outside in and attempt to understand why, after thirty-five years of his life, he had essentially nothing. He tore the sheet from its pad, crumpled it, and threw it to the floor.

He picked up his telephone receiver and started to dial Kerri's cell phone number. His finger stopped after pressing the fourth digit. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted, then picked up his pen and again started to write. He continued, painstakingly diagnosing each sentence until he was satisfied that he had put into words exactly what he wanted Kerri to know.

He folded the letter, inserted it into an envelope, addressed it, then applied the required postage. He put on his heavy tan colored work boots and his dark brown leather jacket and headed outside to his truck. He put the envelope in his glove compartment, then started the motor. It was time for his final trip to The Monster. He knew it was final because very soon it would belong to Jamie Stewart.

The weather, even for this time of the year in Muskoka, could best be described as miserable. The joys of summer were long gone. The sky was overcast with a thick unbroken layer of dark grey clouds. It was cold and wet. The temperature hovered just above freezing. It didn't matter how much clothing one wore, it was defenseless to the penetrating cold damp air. The deciduous trees were devoid of leaves. The forecast was for worsening conditions. Silence prevailed. A combination of rain and wet snow made driving hazardous and being outside, uncomfortable.

The deteriorating weather conditions were in sympathy with Steve's mood as he turned his green Ford onto the graveled parking lot of The Bass Lake Tavern, a rustic but cosy restaurant located on an isthmus separating Lake Joseph and Bass Lake. He put on his red Monteith Homes baseball hat, raised the collar of his jacket, and stepped from his vehicle. With his head lowered, he ran to the shelter of the restaurant. He was greeted by a loud chorus of cheers, hoots and whistles as he entered. A group of eleven local good old boys occupied the stools and high tables to his right. The tables were covered with beer bottles, a clear indication that happy hour had started. Happy hours were frequent, not confined to late afternoon, and an occupational hazard for good old boys in Muskoka.

"Hey, Monteith!" one local shouted. "What the hell are you doin' here? Aren't you supposed to be on a honeymoon?"

Steve forced a smile. "Change of plans, boys," he said, in no mood to explain his changed circumstances to a group of beer drinking hooligans, all of whom he knew. He continued to the rear of the restaurant, took a seat in the corner booth, and gave an expressionless stare to Tom MacDonald, best man at his doomed Naples wedding, and also a sales associate at Muskoka Lakes Realty.