Cats in Clover

From CHAPTER ONE:

Three months later we stood at the gate of our new property on Adriana, a small island in the Strait of Georgia.

"There it is, two hectares of the best soil on the island." Ben beamed as he gave me a hug. "And look at that view!"

"Don't talk to me in metric," I said, "it's five acres." He was right about the view, though.

The land lay on the eastern slope of the central north-south spine of hills, facing the Strait. Fifty yards beyond the maples, cedars and Garry oaks fringing the bottom of our meadow, the sea sparkled blue and serene under the March sun. Robins and sparrows warbled. Crows flapped lazily across the sky and seagulls soared over the beach. The air smelled of new growth and salt sea. I looked at the dilapidated buildings and moaned.

"We'll have the place in shape sooner than you think," Ben said, giving me another squeeze.

The old two-story house was big - at least we could have plenty of company - and I loved the wide front veranda facing the island-dotted sea. I could see myself sitting out there every morning with a mug of coffee, watching sunrise spread gold over the water and listening to the sleepy chirping of birds while I scribbled immortal prose. But not until we fixed the cracked siding and completely renovated the interior. Then there was the back door, which faced the road where we stood and seemed about to fall off its hinges. The chicken house resembled a pile of rubble. The two-foot high lawn was booby-trapped with abandoned iron bedsteads and bits of wire. The orchard looked like it hadn't been pruned since the Second World War.

"I've got it all planned out," Ben said. "Renovating won't be a problem."

I thought he was as overly optimistic about the renovations as he was about my learning to love living on a farm. Mora Bay, the ferry terminal and main town on Adriana, was small and we'd probably have to go to Victoria for major supplies. The five miles of gravel road to Mora Bay, twisting through cedar-scented forest and a scattering of tiny farms, took fifteen minutes and the crossing to Victoria an hour. Add the amount of time it would take to drive to a building supply store, pick up materials and make the trip home and we'd blow a whole day just getting a bag of nails. I reminded myself that clocks didn't matter any more.

Ben had assured me, all through the purchase negotiations, that the house looked worse than it was. He said the structure and plumbing were sound and the only major expense, other than replacing the inner and outer shells, would be some electrical work.

Ben patted my arm. "Come on, Holly, quit worrying. The house is livable."

"Just barely." One burner was gone on the stove, the fridge motor gave a death rattle when it shut off and the linoleum was worn down to the backing. In the first glow of finding affordable land that pleased Ben and a view that consoled me - a little - for leaving the city, I hadn't paid much attention to these little problems. Besides, Ben kept consulting his cost estimates and telling me to look at the big picture. So I had. I'd looked at the meadow and the sea and dreamed of going back to the city. And shut my eyes to that disaster of a house.

But renovating, no matter how tough, had to be less of a pain than my years of being a legal secretary, where the only good thing was the salary. And Ben had agreed to my having one cat. A far cry from the six I wanted, but it was a start.