When Hazzley called Cass to tell her she’d be in Toronto, Cass had said, “Good. I’m glad you’re going off to the big city.” And added, mysteriously, “Who knows? You might have an adventure.”

They’d both laughed.

“Just wait and see,” said Cass.

From the Toronto train station, Hazzley hired a taxi and checked into her hotel at Bloor and Avenue Road. The magazine staff had booked the Swede, whose name was Meiner, at the same hotel. Hazzley met Meiner in the lobby the evening of her arrival. He was in his late sixties, perhaps four or five years younger than she—a tall man, heavy-set and fair-skinned, with brownish hair and a neglected greying beard. A bit rumpled, perhaps, but energetic and entirely comfortable with himself. In a large family he would be everyone’s favourite uncle, she decided. Or great-uncle.

Hazzley was drawn to his personality and glad of his cheerful company. Glad to discuss research and language. Glad to be in any situation that could remind her of the existence of a world outside her increasing isolation at home.

The two sat for a while in the lobby and exchanged information. They met later in the main restaurant of the hotel, which was on the top floor, overlooking the city. They agreed to work in the business centre on the mezzanine level the next morning after breakfast. After dinner, Meiner would drop off revisions she had not yet seen; he told her he would bring them to her room.

While at the table, over dessert, he reached across a saucer of profiteroles, picked up her hand, held it in his two large ones and told her he would like to sleep with her. Hazzley was semi-amused and slightly tipsy; she began to laugh. They both laughed, but he assured her he was serious. He escorted her to the door of her room and told her he’d be back with the revisions. Twenty minutes later, he appeared wearing a deep-pocketed overcoat over a hotel bathrobe. He had his manuscript in one hand, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the other, and a long-stemmed glass in each of his deep pockets. Meiner lived large.

Hazzley invited him in, not really believing they would have sex. Irresolute, she was thinking, mainly of herself. Showing or feeling hesitancy; sixteenth century—must be Latin—irresolutus, not loosened.

She wouldn’t know what to do, anyway—so much time had elapsed since she and Lew had been intimate. Since his heavy drinking began, she reminded herself. Since we stopped going anywhere. Since we stopped travelling, discussing, having fun, having SEX. She banished Lew from her mind.

She and Meiner did not discuss the editing until the next day, but they did spend the first night in her bed. “Never mind Saskatchewan,” Meiner told her. “Never mind the Qu’Appelle Valley or Manitoba or the million Swedes who immigrated to North America. We’ll deal with those hearty souls after breakfast in the morning. Hearty or hardy? What should I say?”

“I think you could use either.” Hazzley was laughing.