Chapter Text
***June 21, 2025***
"So," Olivia Goren said, leaning forward in her seat as the Honda Pilot crept up in the line approaching the long, low brick-and-concrete structure, "will we see a real Mountie this year?"
"You saw them last year, Min," Robert Goren told his daughter from the driver's seat in front of her. "You can't expect them to look like Sergeant Preston."
"Who?" Olivia and her foster brother Randall asked in unison.
Alexandra Eames Goren, her dancing eyes hidden under her wide-brimmed sun hat as she reclined in the passenger seat, said, suppressing a laugh, "You're dating yourself, Bobby."
Amused, he continued, "Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was a television series from the 1950s that was rerun into the 1970s, one of the first '50s series filmed in color, and a radio series before it came to TV."
"Annotations," Olivia whispered to Randall, finishing with a smirk.
Bobby, undeterred, went on, "Most episodes were set in the wilderness, and in stories set in winter, he had a dogsled and wore furs. His lead dog was a big Malamute named Yukon King, and Preston's catchphrase at the end was always, 'Well, King, this case is closed.' And I made the point last year that those red serge uniforms are for dress only. Mounties wear those for special duties or ceremonies."
"They were only in red on posters last year," Olivia complained, fidgeting with her headband so her blond hair stayed away from her face.
Randall Shaw craned his neck out the window to observe men and women ahead who were definitely not in red uniforms; they wore blue trousers with a gold stripe on the outer leg, pale blue shirts with epaulets and gear in shoulder straps, and a visored "policeman's cap" with a gold hatband and central insignia. "They just look like everyone else," he commiserated.
"I'm sure there'll be some in dress uniform when we get to the tourist attractions," Alex said, straightening up and reaching into the glove compartment of the Honda Pilot. "They know visitors like to take photos with the Mounted Police."
Olivia glanced over her shoulder to the back of the Pilot, where their collie usually rode, and sighed. "I wish Sam and Bandit could have come with us."
"Too much paperwork, Min," Alex smiled, for she would miss the placid dog and the mischievous budgie, too. "It was hard enough getting a passport for Randall."
"I'm sorry," he said, still a default behavior, ducking his head so that his eyes were obscured under his thick, dark hair.
"Not your fault," Bobby said as he inched the SUV forward. "The rules are made to protect you."
"Remember Ana's story," Olivia reminded Randall, "about Cousin Donny and Scotty, the boy who was being trafficked."
Randall nodded. This was one of Luciana Serrano's favorites, about how she and her brother Carlos had helped Bobby rescue an eight-year-old boy whom sex traffickers had kidnapped; they found out only later that the young trucker who had rescued Scotty was Bobby's fugitive nephew. Donald Carlson had escaped an abusive prison years earlier, where he had been incarcerated based on trumped-up charges.
Randall's passport was the latest wrangle that Bobby Goren and Alex Eames had experienced with Connecticut's Department of Children's Services. Since he was a foster child and currently a responsibility of the state, at first, they did not want Randall to accompany them on trips. Bobby had argued, "Isn't it wrong not to take him to the same places as our daughter: Boston, Old Sturbridge Village, the beaches in Rhode Island, Strawbery Banke? Or to visit with Alex's family in New York? As a foster child, is he supposed to lose out on family outings, even though we've told him he's part of our family so long as he wants to be? Isn't that just telling him he doesn't belong?"
Ruth Dunbar, their social worker, wasn't "far enough up the food chain"--her words--to argue their case, so they had taken their concerns to her superior, Hannah Love, who had also kept a gimlet eye on Olivia before and after she was legally adopted. Bobby, whose persuasive tongue had talked down suicidal jumpers, people hell bent on murder, and even lethal prison guards, made Love concede that it would be a poor move for Randall's mental health. "Southern New England only" gave way to "New England," then further afield. "But the United States only."
Alex had sighed to Hannah Love two months earlier, "So, while we go out and have fun as a family, with family--Olivia's half-brother and his wife--you want us to leave Randall next door with Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren? Not that he won't have a good time with them, and with my cousin Phil and his wife Becky making do as more family, but again we'd be telling him he isn’t part of ours."
Phyllis Allyson, the children's therapist, had concurred. "Ms. Love, that choice will only contribute to Randall's feelings of inadequacy. This will negate any positive progress in his self-worth." (She would have stated, “That will make Randall feel bad,” but she knew Love responded better to jargon.)
They'd had to scramble to get Randall a passport in time while juggling the book premiere of They Called Me "Conchie," their former neighbor (and former owner of the home they had inherited) Bruno Volpe's Korean War memoir, which Bobby had edited and annotated. It came with a stipulation that Connecticut DCS be informed of any problematic incidents involving Randall, but had worked out in the end.
Now it was the day following the summer solstice, and they were next in line to cross the Canadian border on their way to visit Laurent Pepin and his wife Noémie.
"Good morning, sir," said the border guard, a tall woman with tanned skin and dark eyes.
"Good morning, Officer," Bobby responded, handing her the passports. It was indeed still morning; they had left the village of Milbury, Connecticut, at five thirty a.m. Around eight, they had reached Bellows Falls, Vermont, and stopped for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner-type restaurant, the Heavenly Egg. Olivia and Randall begged to go into the Rockingham branch of the Vermont Country Store nearby, so they had permitted the excited youngsters an hour and no more to explore. Their exploration clocked in at 49 minutes, and, although Bobby's faithful Seiko watch was ticking up the last few minutes before noon, they had managed the border by midday as they had hoped.
"Purpose of your visit?" was the crisp question as the guard examined each passport.
"Vacation and a visit to relatives," Bobby answered with a smile.
"It's my half-brother," Olivia volunteered, "and his wife. She's expecting a baby very soon."
"It's my first time in Canada," ventured Randall. "I've never been out of the United States."
Now the border guard smiled at them both. "Well, I hope you enjoy yourself and that the baby makes an appearance. Are you bringing any plants or animals into the country?"
"No, ma'am."
"We had to leave our dog and bird at home," said Olivia plaintively.
"That's probably best," the guard said. "They'd have needed extra vaccinations to enter."
Both children made a face, and the woman laughed.
"We did bring our lunch with us," Alex added. "Is that within the rules? If not, we’ll stop now and eat on this side of the border."
Olivia handed the cooler forward before anyone could ask, and the guard checked inside it. "Are these burritos?"
"Yes, ma'am, homemade!" Randall said enthusiastically, because Abbi Diaz had come running across the yard with the container just as they loaded the last suitcase. "Beef and onion, just the way I like 'em. And we have real lemonade, too!"
The guard laughed. "There's a picnic area and restrooms about four kilometers up the road. Enjoy."
"Are there any Mounties here?" Randall asked hopefully.
"Traditional ones," added Olivia with emphasis.
"Not usually here at the border," the guard told her. "But if you're heading for Montreal or Quebec City, there should be some there."
She handed the cooler back, and Olivia stored it next to her. "Enjoy your holiday!"
In a few minutes of driving along a four-lane highway split into north and south lanes by a verge of grass and wildflowers, and lined on either side with trees, Randall spied a royal blue sign with the number 55 on it, a fleur de lis, and the word "Nord" underneath.
"Is that the highway number? So we're in Nord? Is that a county or a town?" he asked. "And what's that pointy thing for?"
"That 'pointy thing' is a fleur de lis--the lily. It's the emblem of Quebec," Bobby told him good-naturedly.
"The 55 is the highway number. 'Nord' is north. All the signs in Quebec are in French," Olivia chimed in.
"How am I supposed to read them?" he asked in dismay.
Olivia grinned at him. "I s'pose I'll have to be your interpreter." She obligingly translated the next blue sign with the ubiquitous fleur de lis. "Tourist information. Eastern townships. Forty-three kilometers ahead."
"No miles either?" was the groan.
The rest area recommended by the border guard appeared, looking newly reconstructed, with a row of freshly-lined parking spaces outside a tan-colored concrete restroom facility at one end. A picnic area with a covered pergola stretching over a half dozen picnic tables was at the opposite end, and a sign designated it as "Zone de Repos."
Randall sighed. "I guess I'm gonna have to learn French."
"Mas oui," teased Alex.
. . . . .
A half hour for lunch, and then another ninety minutes brought them to Drummondville and the Trans-Canada Highway. The landscape was flat and farmland for most of the early portion of the drive eastward as Randall learned directions and street terminology. "Nord, Est, Sud, Ouest," Olivia chanted. "Rue is a street." "Trois rivieres" brought in numbers and landscape features. It was a relief when trees appeared along the highway again. After two hours, they reached a sizable interchange that transferred them from Autoroute 20 to A73 north, a sweeping left turn funneling them toward the Pierre-Laporte Bridge.
"We're crossing the Saint Lawrence River," Bobby said for Randall's benefit, going into what Alex teasingly referred to as "librarian mode," "and, along with the St. Lawrence Seaway, which begins in Montreal and extends to Lake Ontario, joins the Atlantic Ocean to the Great Lakes. It's a major shipping route for goods entering the northern United States and Canada. The whole system is about 2300 miles long."
"Thank you, geography professor," Alex said tartly from the driver's seat. "Mind piping down and letting me concentrate on traffic?"
"Yes, Captain Eames," Bobby said in a mock-obeisant voice, and there was chortling from the back seat. Traffic was thick, and negotiation through the city was tricky; Alex didn't want to miss the crucial turn to continue on A73 to Stoneham. Once at Stoneham, following Laurent's instructions, she made a left turn onto a local two-lane highway, which ran parallel to the expressway, then veered north. By this time, Randall's language lessons had ended; instead, he thumbed desultorily at his pocket gaming device while Olivia's eyelids drooped as she valiantly tried to stab a cross-stitch project.
"Almost there," Alex said eventually, noticing a particularly prodigious yawn from their daughter in the rear-view mirror. "Everyone on alert. Noémie said the street sign is very small."
Being on the driver's side, Olivia straightened, then poked Randall to bring him to attention, and Alex laughed at his eye roll. "What does the sign say, Mama?"
"Lane des Ėrables à Sucre."
"And that's..." Randall asked.
"Sugar Maple Lane," translated Olivia.
"Why is everything longer in French?"
At first, their route had been dotted with small businesses--garages and tiny stores--and homes. One busy intersection had a McDonald's. By now businesses and homes had dwindled. An abandoned 10-unit motel was passed. Compared to the flat landscape of the Trans-Canada Highway, soft hills had appeared, and thick groves of trees.
"There it is," Bobby said, checking the GPS on his phone and pointing ahead to where a kerchiefed woman on a bicycle had just turned left from a narrow lane to the main highway.
It was a neat blue metal sign with white lettering on a utility pole, and Alex turned left onto a long-ago paved road, dodging several formidable potholes. About a mile in, a gravel drive with a mailbox at its entrance bore a beautifully-carved wooden sign: Trois Sapins.
"Three..." Randall began, having mastered the numbers up to five.
"Three Firs," Olivia finished. "Fir trees. So many!"
"And sugar maples, too," Bobby agreed.
The gravel drive curved through trees and underbrush for half a mile. Juncos, boreal chickadees, and numerous other birds chirped around them, and once a squirrel sprinted in front of the car. Then the drive made a sharp left, revealing a clearing about half an acre square, surrounded by deciduous and evergreens. It had been leveled except for three massive fir trees, two bracketing the structure and one behind.
Olivia said in delight, "La maison est si belle!"
The house was indeed handsome, a rectangular stone structure in the style of a hunting lodge. Russet stone glowed in the late afternoon sun, the centered front entrance featuring paneled wooden double doors sheltered by a deep, open front porch with a lantern-like black iron lamp hung at center. Large, open-curtained windows set in darker dressed stone bracketed either side of the entry. The three-story home featured shallow bay windows on the second story, surrounded by darker stone, with a miniature carved pine tree over each window. A steeply pitched roof ensured snow would slide off, with dormer windows on either side. Just under the peak of the roof was a third carved pine tree. A tall, deep-grey stone chimney topped with a burnished copper chimney pot towered over the right side of the house.
Finishing the effect were well-tended holly bushes with glossy red berries under the ground-floor windows, trimmed in crenelated peaks. The front porch held four sturdy teak chairs, and several wind chimes overhead swayed in the summer breeze, playing a cheerful air. To the left of the home was a five-car brick garage connected to the house by an enclosed, screened passageway.
Randall was puzzled. "Weren't you here last year, before you brought me home? Is it different now?"
"Yes, sweetie, it is. We came by only once; there was scaffolding everywhere. We only saw photos of the inside. Laurent and Noémie were having renovations done, so he rented us a suite in the city for the four days we were here," Alex explained, then she broke into an elfin smile. "We were as surprised as they were when they first saw it. Marcel Pepin described this as a 'cottage.'"
"After his own family home and Maison Duplantier, I expect it was," Bobby said dryly. "Laurent did say it was larger than he expected." He indicated the structure to the home's left. "Last year, that was only a two-car garage in poor shape."
"The covered passage is new, too," Alex added.
"It must be nice when it snows," Olivia said, recalling their stormy winter.
The side door to the garage opened, and a tall man in his mid-thirties appeared, his hair nearly jet-black, and his eyes a particularly vivid shade of blue. He wore a short-sleeved button-down tan shirt, jeans, and work boots, looking like something from a home improvement store ad, a change from the expensive dress suits he had worn in his previous life. Alex had already stopped the Pilot in front of the house, and Olivia promptly unsnapped her seat belt and bounded from the car. "Laurent!"
"Ma petite soeur!" he shouted happily, squatting down to greet her.
In a moment, they were all indulging in hugs, and Laurent then produced a complicated remote to operate the center door so Alex could drive into the garage. The structure was spacious, with a long workbench against the back wall, which was covered with carefully spaced tools hung on pegboard. The two parking spots to her right were for the family cars, the one to her left filled with a compact, aged silver Chevrolet--"Madame Beauvais, our cook and housekeeper's car," Laurent told them--and the fifth spot held two snowmobiles and a snow blower, currently covered in tarpaulins.
"We could have left the car outside for now," Alex told him.
"It is better if it is inside," answered Laurent, and when Bobby cocked his head at him, the younger man grinned. "Ah, the detective never dies, eh? I will tell you more later. Here, we will go in through the front, so you will get the full effect. Hand me that suitcase, Alex, si vous voulez."
A few minutes later, they were surveying the central hallway with pleasure. Coffee-colored woodwork, which included paneled wainscoting, and cream-colored paint adorned the walls, with another blackened-iron lantern overhead. At the right side of the hallway was a walnut-finished staircase with a sturdy, gracefully curved newel post, and wildlife and landscape prints decorated the walls.
"I see you kept most of the lodge look," Bobby remarked.
Noémie appeared through the arched entranceway to their right. "This isn't a 'House Beautiful' type home, Robert." She pronounced it "Ro-bear" in the French manner. "I grew up hunting grouse and pheasant with my father, and fishing in the French Alps. All it needed was some softening, and that terrible deer's head off the wall over the fireplace. People who do not eat the prey they kill defile the animal."
Alex regarded her with alarm. "When did you say the baby was due?"
The dark-haired woman laughed, looking down at her considerably swollen belly under a pretty--and very snug-- blue-flowered shift. "My OBGYN, he teases me: 'yesterday.' As you can see, I’m carrying lower than in our last Zoom call, and I've had some Braxton-Hicks contractions. I was checked and sent home."
Olivia's eyes were like saucers. "Maybe you should sit down."
"Nonsense," Noémie protested. "Neither you nor Lauré will turn me into a child." Her face sparkled. "I will save the pampering for afterwards, when I am prepared to be treated like une reine."
Laurent smiled indulgently. "She will have a nurse if she likes."
"You and I will take care of our child, not some stranger," Noémie said briskly. "Now, mon enfants, attend: you can either share the larger room on the first floor, which has two twin beds, or you can each have one of the rooms on the second floor, where the servants used to sleep. Neither Madame Beauvais nor Reynaldo lives in. The rooms are all of the same comfort and there is a bain at the end of the second story passage."
"Is it okay?" Olivia asked Alex hesitantly. "Or...am I too old now?"
Alex bit her lip at the girl's oblique reference to what Olivia called les règles. Randall had already ducked his head.
"If you feel comfortable sharing," she advised. "And if you respect each other's privacy."
They saw Randall take a deep breath. "I would rather have my own room, please."
A hurt look flashed across Olivia's face, then she responded quickly, "May I still have the room with the twin beds?"
Noémie sensed something was amiss. "Of course."
Olivia lifted her chin in the air. “I shall use the other for a divan.” Without another word, she took her suitcase in one hand and the laptop case in the other and stolidly began to climb the staircase with its paisley-patterned red stair runner. Randall remained at the foot of the stairs, hands tightly gripped on his backpack and suitcase, his head down. Over his head, Bobby and Alex eyed each other with dismay.
Finally, Bobby squatted and said, "Randall...it’s okay. Sometimes a guy needs space."
Randall swallowed and sniffed, nodded, then began to plod up the stairs himself.
"That is funny," Laurent said quietly as soon as both were out of earshot, "I thought the anger would be in the opposite direction."
"Think of this as an eleven-year preview of the joys of adolescence," Alex said ruefully. Bobby threw his satchel over his shoulder, took a suitcase in each hand, and followed, Laurent calling after him, "You have the front room to the left. And there is lemonade and strawberry shortcake in the kitchen."
Bobby set the luggage into the indicated room, then proceeded to the one on the opposite side of the adjoining bathroom, attractively decorated in pinks, violets, and golds, with twin beds on either side of a window. Olivia had dumped her bags on one bed and was sitting at the side of the other, looking disconsolate. He cleared his throat, and she looked up, then asked unhappily, "Is it because...I'm a lady now?"
Bobby chuckled softly. "I think it's more likely, Min, that it's because he's twelve."
She seemed stunned. "What, Papa?"
"Your mother and I bought you and Randall books last September. My Changing Body, remember? And we asked that you read Randall's book, and he read yours, so there were no misunderstandings like the lies you see on social media?"
"And we did," Olivia replied indignantly.
Bobby had read them as well. "Then you know what it said about boys needing privacy..."
She turned pink. "Oh!"
Bobby leaned on the doorframe, watching her process the information.
Then her face brightened. "Maybe I'll stay upstairs after all, Papa. Can...you tidy up for me here? Please?"
"I will," he said, and backed out of the doorway as she grabbed her things and bolted out. "Tell Randall there's strawberry shortcake. I'll bring your other bags up later."
"Merci!" she caroled from the staircase.
Then he smoothed the spreads on both beds to pristine condition and made his way downstairs, pleased by her choice. In the meantime, Olivia more slowly mounted the upper staircase, narrower than the previous one, to a cream-colored hallway. The upper floor, intended as servants' quarters, had no wainscoting, just dark woodwork and two solid wooden doors open on either side of a hall hung with vivid paintings of the Canadian wilderness. To her right, she saw a tidy little room with an iron-framed twin bed and a night stand under the dormer window facing the door. The room to the left was a mirror image, except that it had green-and-silver striped wallpaper and matching bedclothes/curtains instead of blue-and-silver, and Randall was seated on the edge of the bed. His eyes shot up, startled.
"Just think," Olivia said brightly, standing between the two doorways, "no grownups to bother us here. We can have the doors open and talk way past bedtime. You'll be talking stars and profiling, I know." He regarded her sideways to see her mischievous expression. "Unless you...need to close the door."
Randall grinned back.
"Papa says there's strawberry shortcake," she added.
. . . . .
The most extensive renovations had been reserved for the rear of the house, a spacious kitchen updated with modern appliances, quartz countertops, and a walk-in pantry. After being introduced to the Goren family, Mrs. Beauvais had left for the day, leaving a slow cooker full of something delicious-smelling on the stove, and the table already set in the adjoining dining room. On the kitchen table, a white ironware pitcher held a big bouquet of fragrant dark purple lilacs--"Olivia said you love them. They bloom later here, and this is a midsummer variety," explained Noémie--that Alex was enjoying. Olivia and Randall were on the roomy deck, standing at the rail using it as a table, finishing the last vestiges of shortcake, then checking out the large stack of lumber and fittings laid in the yard.
"Next week the workmen will enclose the yard to make a play area for the bébé," explained Laurent as they sipped their lemonade at the hewn-wood kitchen table, "and of course something for us, perhaps the fosse à feu...firepit. I wanted them to do so this week, but no one is in the mood to work on the week of St. Jean-Baptiste Day."
"You’ll enjoy that through almost every season," Alex agreed.
"I’ve seen firepits that double as a grill," Bobby added, but his knees were bouncing up and down in a way that made Laurent bite back a smile.
"In any case," he said casually, "I wanted your auto in the garage because the neighbors have reported some type of prowler."
"Not the local wildlife?" Alex asked, having seen social media of bears romping in backyards.
"We both know bear tracks by now," Noémie explained, "and they leave"--here she pinched her nose and made a face--"signs. That is one of the reasons for the fence."
"Burglaries?" Bobby asked instantly.
"No homes or businesses broken into, but minor items stolen from outside, like a pillow a woman had put out to air, or a pie left cooling on a porch. People are still very old-fashioned here. While they will lock their homes now, porches and garages are left open."
"Does anyone have footage-"
Noémie laughed. "This is not the city with cameras everywhere. More like Milbury."
Laurent said, "We are thinking perhaps it is a hobo or some other homeless person. We are hoping to catch them to see if they are...nefarious? Or perhaps just in need of help."
"Patti was here earlier," Noémie told him, "I think she is concerned about it; the last week or so, she seems uneasy about something, but I could not tell quite what." She added for the family's benefit, "You might have seen Patti leaving? A woman on a bicycle? She often rides here, although her home is some miles away by the road."
Laurent regarded Bobby soberly; both of them were tired from driving, but he detected a certain weariness that was not just travel fatigue. "Mon ami Robert, you look très triste."
Bobby tossed Alex a wry smile. "I assume that means I'm finished in the interrogation room. My face gives away things too easily these days."
"A stranger would not notice," Noémie answered fondly. "But your family would."
Alex patted Bobby's arm. "One of his favorites at the veteran's hospital passed away a few days ago."
"Mr. Spinelli?" Laurent intended it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.
Noticing that Bobby and Alex had given him their full attention, Laurent chuckled. "Our Mignon is as faithful a correspondent at eleven as she was at nine. She knows what troubles you."
"If you need someone to talk to, we are here," said Noémie sympathetically.
"He knew it was bad going in, but I'd hoped he could beat it. Spinelli had stones enough for a platoon," Bobby said reflectively.
Alex had kept one eye out as the kids prowled the yard, taking in the lone, two-meter-tall glacial granite rock at the far end. Noémie had chattered about surrounding it with perennials. It sloped to one side, so that Randall scrambled to the top easily and shouted, "We can come out here tonight!" Then he looked down at Olivia. "It’s like the star-watching rock in Meet the Austins!" Bobby had read the book to them the previous month.
Laurent said wryly, "Having seen the weather forecast, I rather doubt there will be stargazing tonight. Perhaps later in the week."
They came trotting back, Randall with his head down and Olivia with her nose up, taking in the scent of pine from the firs and surrounding woods.
"And I predict..." was Alex’s playful statement as they crossed the deck to the kitchen door with bowls and utensils which were put into the sink with the others.
Randall didn’t disappoint. "Is dinner soon, Noémie? I’m starved."
She returned with a smile, "Didn’t you both just eat huge slices of gateau with whipped cream?"
"Welcome to boys’ appetites," Laurent said cheerily.
"Girls, too," Alex reminded.
"It smells wonderful," Olivia said, sniffing appreciatively. "Is it ragoût de venison?"
"You have a good nose, little one," Noémie teased.
"It was one of Papa Marcel’s favorites," said Olivia happily.
"What’s that?"
Olivia knew her brother by now and described it in terms he would be familiar with. "It’s like Papa’s beef stew, with potatoes and carrots."
Bobby sniffed. "A hint of burgundy. Shallots."
"Shallots and cabernet sauvignon," was Laurent’s good-natured response.
"And venison," Alex added.
"We’re eating Bambi?" Randall's jaw dropped.
"We’re eating an animal who lived a peaceful life in the forest, sired fawns, and died instantly instead of starving to death from overpopulation," Laurent countered. "I know the hunter. He is a responsible man."
Randall tried the meal with trepidation, but in the end was won over by the savory taste. There was also crusty French bread to dunk in the stew juices and, for dessert, maple pudding cake. By then, the star watching was postponed due to cloud cover, and instead they watched a favorite crime program of Noémie's, with a handsome, bearded detective and his dark-haired partner, then made it an early night.
Bobby still kept up the custom of nightly reading that had begun when he and Alex had brought Olivia home from France. The newest selection was an old book that Randall had found at an antique mall, a 1940s-era dog story. Bobby agreed to the purchase with the stipulation that it would be a bedtime book; Randall had wondered why until Bobby began the story.
"What's a 'quarter-breed'?" he asked. The story had started promisingly with an adolescent boy, Pierre, and his wolf/dog cross, Juneau, being left in the care of a Native American in an Alaskan cabin; Randall had paged through it, and it involved being snowbound and the boy being on his own with the dog.
"It's an unkind name for a person who's part Native--First Nations, as they say here--using the terminology of the time."
"Why?"
Olivia, sitting with legs crossed at the foot of Randall's bed, appeared sour. "It's in a lot of old books. Papa always explains them to me. People then had a trash idea that white skin was superior and people with darker skin weren't as smart. They even thought all redheads had bad tempers--that's why there was such a fuss about Anne Shirley's hair. They kept kids like Kenny Shepherd shut away in dirty asylums."
Randall considered his mentally-challenged classmate. "There was a lady in our apartment building like that," he confessed, leaning back on his pillow. "Mommy said she was old and didn't know any better, so we should be polite, but that the things she believed were wrong."
"Some parents want to hide these things from the past. We want you to know about them and understand what people back then endured," Bobby explained.
"I'll pay attention. Can we keep going to see what happens to Pierre?" urged Randall.
. . . . .
Just after midnight, Bobby ambled to the bathroom. A thin, waning crescent moon was peeking out between approaching storm clouds as he used the toilet. There were low-wattage security lights at the rear of the house and, as he gazed out the window at the silhouette of the tree line at the edge of the property, he spied a slight shadow detach itself from the darkness. At first, he believed it was an animal, but after a few minutes, he could discern something odd about its gait. It drew closer and closer to the house, never completely separating itself from the trees' shadows, but halted as the light grew brighter.
Finally, it retreated into the shadow of the trees. He remained leaning against the window for another five minutes, but didn't see movement again. Encroaching clouds then swallowed the moon, and rain splashed against the bathroom window. As he returned to bed, he hoped the 'shadow' was well undercover.
...to be continued...