“Wine Time!” shouts Sister. The clock has struck noon and again we all reach into the cupboards and take out the crystal long-stemmed glasses. The red wine from the bottle with a high-end label sloshes halfway up to the rim. Sons begin snapping beer can tabs and we tuck the fold-out chairs under our arms. Off we march down the path to the river behind Sister, who follows the path without seeing what’s around her. This routine has become all too familiar. She has walked this path far too many times.

We toast the sunset from last night. The sunrise of this morning. The horses. The camp and the meds that will deworm the horses. We toast the fact that I’ve worn white pants to camp, something that Sister has frowned upon, making the invisible cloak of shame hang heavily off my left shoulder. I have managed to embarrass her in front of her campmates. I have managed to make her seem unsuited for deep country life. It’s always been like this, though. First the hair and weight comment in the Jeep, and today she has summed up all my inadequacies in a pair of white pants. I let the comment go as we toast Sister for hosting us instead. The river shouts and dances its approval of our merriment until the sound of boots behind us breaks the mood. Everything stops. The laughter fades; even the river seems to quiet itself. It’s him. It’s Wilhelm.

“Well, look at all of you,” he says as he walks toward Sister.

She stands up and yells from beside her chair, “Hey, Sweetie!”

Wilhelm grins and looks at all of us as though he’s walked into a pow-wow. He walks to the centre of our lawn chair circle and slowly turns, looking each of us in the eye as he extends his very white hand. In his starched white shirt and white cowboy hat, he grins at each of us. I can see his reflection in his shining black cowboy boots and a belt buckle that must have cost him a small fortune. He is the kind of man who can purchase pricey belt buckles. He’s not the cowboy who has earned one.

I feel his soft spongy hand squish into mine and hear that inner voice that we all carry say, “You won’t get along.” I sense darkness in him. One of those short kinds of men with an even shorter fuse.

“Little early in the day for the grape juice, isn’t it?” he asks Sister. Sister wraps her arms around his well-trimmed neck and her polished nails send glitter into the air. He kisses her cheek a little too formally.

“A toast to Will!” shouts Tom and again all the glasses are raised and again we drink to something of little consequence.

Sister shares her wine cup with Wilhelm, then hurries off to find another folding chair. We are left alone with a stranger and now we have to talk.