Prologue

My name is Nolan Hunter and I edit a twice-weekly local newspaper as well as doing some reporting. It's one of those doorstep free papers that rely on advertising to survive, and survive is truly the key word. The Comox Valley Clarion was a money pit in my opinion. However, it gave me a modest income and something to do in my spare time. My current (unpaid) occupation involves the writing of the "Great Canadian Novel." In all honesty, the novel is going nowhere so far. My other task involves finishing a very unusual house that I had been given.

That's right, I had been given a house. A friend of mine, Lewis Rawlings, had originally built the house and we had spent many weekends together, working to complete his forever unfinished home. I had met Lew at college where he was a guest lecturer. For some reason, and despite my youth, we became very good friends. Lew was almost a surrogate father to me, mine having died in a freak skiing accident when I was eighteen. Regrettably, Lew contracted cancer and died just before his 68^th birthday. Life is very unfair. I had lost two fathers.

No one was more surprised than I was when his will was read and I had inherited both the house and his thirty-two foot sailboat, along with his chocolate lab, Travis. Lew, unknown to me, was a very wealthy man despite his reasonably humble surroundings. I shouldn't have been surprised at his wealth. He had a master's degree in economics and had been a consultant to big business for many years. He had left much of his fortune to his second and third ex-wives and a handicapped daughter in New York. Lew had been married three times, all three unsuccessful unions.

Lew also left me a letter, which he had dictated to his third ex-wife when he became too weak to write. He told me how much he valued my friendship and my youthful perspectives on a variety of topics. He'd never had a son and he had "adopted" me when we had become friends. I've kept that letter for the thirty months that he's been gone, and I will continue to keep it. He'd been confined to his living room on a hospital bed in his last weeks. A nurse and his third ex-wife, Allison, were with him constantly, making sure he was comfortable, while she dealt with the various tubes and bags. To the end he kept his spirits up, telling me more than once he wasn't afraid to die. I often wondered if that was true.

I was over on the mainland visiting my mother at Christmas when Lew died. Back home on the 28^th I immediately phoned his house to see if I could come over. No one answered. I left a message and a few hours later Allison phoned me to tell me Lew had passed away the day before my return. The funeral services would be on Friday with interment at the Courtenay cemetery in the afternoon. It took all the joy out of that Christmas for me. I knew it was coming, but even then, I wasn't ready for it.

I still stop by to visit Lew's grave now and then. I don't talk to him or anything like that. I just mentally pass along my thoughts and regrets at his passing and happiness that I knew someone I admired, and possibly even loved, like Lewis Rawlings.

Shortly after I graduated from university (journalism), I had the good fortune to win a lottery prize. It wasn't one of the big mega-millions prizes, but two million and change was nothing to sneeze at. I gave half to my mother, even though I knew she probably didn't need it. My father had been an architect and had made a very handsome living. He designed a lovely home out by the University of British Columbia on the endowment lands where Mom still lived. She seemed to be happy with her life, at least, that's what she told me. There was no sign of any men in her company, but I wasn't there that often.