Taking a Chance on Love by Mary Razzell Page B

throat. “Boys will be boys. I was one once, myself. All I’m saying is not to give yourself away. I promise you that you’ll never regret that decision.”
    I felt strange talking to Dad about this. But he was a man, and I wanted to learn more about how men thought.
    Later, I thought about what Dad said. He’d left out the most important reason for not giving a boy what he wanted. Pregnancy. I was determined to a least finish high school and even further, if I could. Pregnancy would cancel all chances for that.
    My first day back at Mrs. Hanson’s was hectic. The old guests were leaving, and all the rooms had to be cleaned and the beds made up fresh again for the new ones coming on the noon boat. The washing machine in the basement was kept running all morning as load after load of bed linen was washed and then hung out to dry in the sunshine.
    Edith gave me a two-dollar tip when she said goodbye. “For finding my cameo,” she said. “You know, next to my fiancé’s letters, that cameo is the most precious thing in the world to me. You are a dear.”
    Mrs. Hanson had me set out tea, coffee, cheese, fruit and biscuits in the sunroom for the departing guests. Checkout time was 11:00 a.m., and they had four hours before the Union Steamship returned to the Landing on its way back to Vancouver.
    All rooms had been booked. “We have a married couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary, two university professors, and a family of six from the Cariboo,” Mrs. Hanson told me, stacking my arms with fresh linen. “We had another call just the other day from a Vancouver family who wanted to book rooms, but I had to say no. The woman was quite insistent, but I don’t have any suitable rooms available. It was all very last minute — some sort of family thing, I gathered. I told her I was booked up solid until Labour Day. ‘People book ahead a year,’ I said. I didn’t much like her anyway. A bit pushy, I thought. Meg, as soon as you’ve finished with the rooms, you can start to make the salad. We’re going to have a hungry bunch come off the boat at noon, and they’ll be looking for their lunch.”
    As I was washing the lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions for the salad, Bruce came into the kitchen. I wondered if he would talk more to me now that we’d danced together.
    â€œI’d like a glass of water,” he said to me, leaning against the counter.
    My mother would have said, “What about a ‘please?’” Or, “Why don’t you get your own glass of water?”
    But he was my boss’s son, and I didn’t say anything, just ran the water, filled a glass and handed it to him. His shirt, unbuttoned at the top, gaped. I saw pink, healing flesh across his chest.
    â€œThe pain has changed him,” Mrs. Hanson had said. “He’s not the same. He’s angry a lot of the time.”
    Bruce saw me looking at his exposed chest. He turned away. When he faced me again, his shirt was buttoned.
    He finished the glass of water. “You’re not a bad dancer,” he said, setting the glass on the counter beside the sink.
    â€œI like to dance.”
    â€œYou’ve had lessons, I think.” He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go anywhere.
    â€œA few.”
    â€œDon’t say much, do you?” He smiled.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut you like to have the last word.”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œHmmm. Well, you’re a natural when it comes to dancing … How old are you, anyway?”
    â€œSeventeen.”
    Mrs. Hanson came into the kitchen, her face flushed and her eyes bright with tears. “I’ve just had a phone call from the brother-in-law of the family from the Cariboo who were going to be our guests. The whole family was killed in a head-on collision with a semi on the highway last evening. Dead. All of them. Four beautiful children. Merciful