Annabel stared up into the dark of the ceiling and listened to the croaking of frogs, crickets. Canadian frogs and Canadian crickets. They sounded different from the ones she was used to. Evan snored quietly and erratically beside her. He sounded different too, now, and she studied his face, pressed against the pillow, lips open slightly. She felt distant from herself, from this place, far away from this sleeping man who was now her husband. Who is he? She wondered, and she didn't know. She felt far away not just from home, but from herself. As if, back in Tigris, another Annabel, the real Annabel, slept soundly in her own bed, with her duvet and comfortable pillow, while here with lumpy pillows and a musty blanket, only part of her was lying in this bed, a part she didn’t know, a frightened part.

Evan. Evan. She whispered his name several times, shook him gently by the shoulder. I'm sleeping, he mumbled, and then rolled onto his back and snored again. She hugged her pillow, pulled it close to her, curled up and squeezed it between her legs. She had felt like this before, many times even. She had felt like this on her two week mission to Bolivia, her first time away from home. Then, she had cried herself to sleep every night, missing her father, her mother, her own bed, the smell of the air in Tigris, the sound of the night creatures there. The hum of the highway that filled the night in their subdivision. She was young then, a baby, she thought. So long ago. Now she was a married woman.

Her first weeks in Indonesia had been the same thing: secret tears every night when she suffered from loneliness that she told no one about, though in emails to her mother she did say she missed everyone back home. Loneliness that was softened only with fervent prayer that transported her away from her own troubles, that gave her fears and uncertainty some focus. Jesus suffered on the cross and was buried, He suffered for her and her family, and for everyone's sins, her own sins. He suffered to save her and everyone who wanted to be saved. It was Jesus' gift to her. She took her own pains then, as small as they were in the face of the big universe and tried to transform them, as Jesus had, into something more, something greater: she transformed them into faith. That helped her to sleep at night in Indonesia. When she had gone to college, it took her months to get used to life in the dorm, the distance she felt from the other girls. But she did get used to it, eventually. In the end her mother was right: all it took was time and patience. After a while, everything was always OK. And everything will be OK this time, she thought. This feeling in your stomach will go away.

When she was younger she had dreamed of Jesus' suffering, wished that she too might experience something as wonderful as the suffering He felt – carrying the cross, the five wounds, the blood on that frail, godly body, and those long hours of agony on the hill, sacred agony, agony gave even the son of God his doubts, but that eventually, after three days with the dead, brought Jesus to God in heaven.

She pictured him sometimes, up there, his slender legs, alabaster, the blood than must have dripped from his hands, from his feet where the nails pierced his flesh, the crown of thorns on his head, sweat and blood blinding him.

She closed her eyes now, and willed her suffering to transform itself into something, just a little something, that would bring her closer to Him. It had always worked in the past…

Still, this time it felt different, bigger. In Bolivia, Indonesia, college, she reminded herself, she had looked back later on her experiences with joy and pride. Those moments of darkness, that she felt in the pit of her stomach, somehow made the experiences much better, looking back at least. They made her a better person. But now there was more than geography to deal with, there was Evan this husband in the bed beside her, this stranger, this man she loved. She had been so mad at him at first, that he didn't clear things up right away with his brother, that it took hours before Annabel was even they had a bed to sleep in that night. Where would they have gone? She had been furious with Evan for not organizing things at the start. He should have just told the brother the reason they were here – about their business plan and their plans for a congregation. That they would be here for months, maybe a year before they opened their new office and the Church itself.

She did not like the brother. He was rude and mean, and she could tell he did not respect Evan. And he just ignored her. The way he asked questions and then hardly listened to the answers, as if he didn't care what you had to say. And that dismissive tone. Oh, you met at Church? As if Church was some kind of bad word, as if they said they had met in the insane asylum, or a homeless shelter. Now she understood why Evan didn't like him. Annabel knew what people like Julian thought about the Church, she had met them before with their prejudices and discrimination. With their double-standards: any kind of perversion was fine: gays getting married, free abortions, pornography on the Internet, sex on television, and worse in video games. But as soon as you say you believe in God they just smile at you funny, and look down their nose at you, like you had mental problems. It made her so mad to see that look on people's faces.

But they were here because of the kind of world that people like Julian had made, to save people from it. They had come here to bring faith to people who needed it. People who were watching as the world, everything that mattered, fell apart around them in a sea of immorality. The Chosen had always been persecuted.

She'd almost thrown her spoon at Julian the way he answered Evan at the table: I'm writing, he said, as if they were dirt for interrupting him, as if his writing was more important than anything they might be doing. Writing what? She wondered. It didn't matter: Evan had as much right to this house has he did. More even. After all Julian lived less than two hours away and it took him a year to even come out here. Why didn't he tell Evan he was living out here -- she was getting very agitated now – when they spoke on the phone? Julian said he never came out to the house and all of a sudden he decides to live in the place when we're about to set up the most important thing in our lives, when we need focus and total concentration and all of a sudden here he is getting in the way, saying you can stay as long as you like, as if it was his decision.

Evan snored louder than ever. It would be a night of insomnia, she knew it now, her mind was spinning and spinning with nerves. Could she really do it? Could she really live with Evan, here, in Canada? Could she get anything done here, out in the country? With that brother here? Did she even want to? Maybe her father was right, maybe Canada was a bad choice. What would happen if she told Evan she wanted to go home now, back to Tigris, back, at least, to California? But they couldn't do that: they had that check from Pastor John Dawes and the New Hope Church of Christ. They couldn't give it back.

No.

She had made up her mind, they had made up their minds to come and build something here, and that's what she wanted to do. She was just feeling lonely and scared and homesick and she was being stupid, a stupid scared little girl. This always happened before she started a big project, this overwhelming fear. But she did miss her mother now, and her father. She longed to have her father hug her, hold her tight, tell her everything was OK. She touched Evan's head, moved a little closer to him, but he flicked her hand away, pulled the sheets over himself and rolled further away from her to the other side of the bed.

Faith.

She must have faith in Evan, her husband. Faith in Jesus to guide her, to keep her strong, to help her help Evan, to help her love Evan. She didn’t want to wake him, he was tired and nervous too, he had told her that before he fell asleep, and she should just let him get some rest, all of this would be better in the morning.

She crept out of bed, knocking over an empty glass of water on the bedside table as she stood. Shoot, she whispered, and Evan asked, barely conscious, What's the matter, but started snoring again before she answered. She put on her dressing gown, took her knitting, and crept towards the living room.

It was cold out of their bedroom, and she snuck carefully along the hallway, feeling her way along the cedar panels of the walls. Her toe grazed the sharp corner of the baseboard heater, and she said a silent prayer for having the wisdom to move so slowly. She could make out a faint light coming from the sky beyond the big picture window, light from the stars and the thin sliver of moon. She felt along the wall, for minutes it seemed, until she finally found the light switch, a round dimmer switch. A soft yellow light poured down from the chandelier made up of little lanterns hanging from a huge old wooden wagon wheel suspended from the high, sloped cedar ceiling. She dimmed the lights. The front of the house here was mostly open, with the two rooms, kitchen and living room, separated by a half wall, adorned with fishing gear and paintings that looked like American Indian designs.

She sat in a chair by the big stone fireplace, thought about starting a fire, though she wouldn’t have known how. She spied a big blanket sitting on a wooden chest by the window. It was red, made of heavy wool, with a black stripe along one edge. When she wrapped it around herself, and settled into her knitting, she found the blanket, though itchy, had a certain weight to it that she liked. She tucked her feet underneath herself and started knitting, feeling the stress of the day receding with each click of the needles. Purl, knit, knit, knit, purl. She knew that she and Evan could do it, they could, they would succeed in their project.

Tomorrow they would start with a list. Evaluate things and plan them out again, now that they had seen things on the ground. That's what she liked: planning things. There was so much to do, and she couldn't wait to get at it all. They needed to find a place to rent for weekly worship service for the public, but before that there were so many meetings to set up. Pastor Dawes had provided them with a long list of potential contacts, business men, politicians, associations who were friendly to their cause. They had supplies to buy, and the basement office to set up. Cleaning. She would start with cleaning, arranging of furniture. There was painting to do, too. They were not in a hurry, but they had a big job here, an enormous job. A biblical job, saving the souls of everyone in the province of Quebec, in the country of Canada.

She smiled to herself. She liked to dream of their success, a big… no, a huge church out here in the country, beside a river and big pine trees with a bright white fence out front and a congregation of thousands. A compound for retreats, maybe even a College out here, why not? And she imagined Evan, older, greyer, and in a fine suit, grown into the man she knew he would be: a good man, a leader, just and strong, beautiful, even-handed and doing everything he could to build the Church for God, not taking no for an answer when he knew that yes was right. She imagined John Dawes visiting here, seeing the progress they had made, this great new front in the war for people's souls, all under Evan's control. And she imagined herself at his side. Their kids. Would they have three, or four? She wanted four, she decided. There would be visiting scholars, pastors and leaders. Dr. Dobson would come, and others whom she would invite. Maybe someday, she thought, a president would visit their church.

She was getting ahead of herself. One step at a time. First they had to clean the basement.

The sound of the French door opening woke her from her slumber. A string of drool connected the side of her mouth to her shoulder. She wiped at her mouth, as she pulled the blanket around her. Oh, she said, hello. Hi. She was confused for a moment and wasn't sure what time it was, where she was, what she was doing here, why she was sitting out here with the light on. She recognized Julian, and then the puzzle pieces slotted into place, the long trip in the car with Evan, the house in the mountains, Julian, the basement, knitting.

Just doing some knitting, she said, embarrassed. She added, by way of more explanation, I couldn’t sleep. She pulled the blanket tighter around her. She felt indecent in her pyjamas in front of Julian. Though she was fully covered by the red shroud of the wool blanket.

Julian smiled at her for a long while before he whispered, Sorry to wake you. But I didn't think I could stay out there all night. It was getting cold! He pointed at the big window. I was looking at the stars, he said. Sometimes I can't sleep either. He had a kind, interested look on his face, completely different from the face he had at lunch. Annabel didn't know what to think about that. She felt her cheek muscles sore from smiling, though she didn't know what she was smiling for. Why was he standing there like that, observing her? Studying. Again she cinched the blanket tighter at her neck. Well, he said, good night. And then turned and walked towards the stairs. She was relieved to see him go. Annabel's mind had cleared by now and she looked down at her knitting. He may have a sweet smile now, she thought to herself, but he is a jerk. He was a jerk to me and he was a jerk to Evan. He shouldn't have treated us like that, he should apologize for that.

Annabel, he whispered.

She was surprised to hear his voice again. He had turned around and taken two steps towards her. Annabel, he said, again.

She realized she must look ridiculous. With dried drool on her face and her knitting sitting on her lap and this big red blanket drooped all over her, peering up at him like a little girl. Yes? She said.

He looked uncomfortable, but resolute. I wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I was … I wasn't very welcoming. I'm sorry about that. You know I haven't seen Evan for many years. There's thirteen years between us. I hardly know him. I never really knew him. I didn't even know …

What a difference, Annabel thought, from this afternoon. But something in her told her not to trust this man. Still, it seemed important that she understand what he was saying, and it was the first time that he had really addressed her. He stared at her when he finished his sentences (he had the same eyes as Evan), waiting maybe for some kind of acknowledgement. She found herself listening intently to what he said, as if he were conspiring with her. It must be the whispering, she thought. She leaned forward to hear him better.

He crouched down on his haunches. He was not nearly the beauty that Evan was, she thought to herself. She was happy to think of her husband, with his blond hair, asleep in the other room.

I wanted to apologize to you, he said, so softly she had to concentrate to hear. She asked him to repeat what he said, and he smiled at her, spoke a little louder. I have been writing intensely lately, alone up here, and I've been in my own world. I get focused when I write, at the best of times. And this project is … different. More important. Much more important.

She wondered what he was writing, but she didn't feel like talking about it now. She liked the way he almost bowing before her. She felt like a queen for some reason, with a lowly subject prostrate and pleading for her intercession.

I'm not making excuses, Julian continued. But I just wanted you to know you are welcome, and I am sorry for the way I was when you got here. It was a big surprise. But I'm … happy you are here. Happy you and Evan are here in this house. She should feel uncomfortable, she thought, but she didn’t. Thank you, she said. I appreciate that.

Good night, he said. He disappeared up the stairs.

For two days straight she scrubbed and cleaned, moved furniture, organized and arranged the basement office. She found three dead mice, caught in mousetraps, long since dried out like little bearskin rugs. She threw them in the garbage bag, trap and all. It wasn't an office yet, really, and it never had been. Evan said no one had ever really used it as an office, but it had potential. There was a desk, a musty old file cabinet, an office chair, and rough shelving containing twisted, bleached tree branches, rusty antique farm tools, an old license plate, and a few shells and polished stones.

Evan helped with the cleaning as much as he could, but he was busy with trips to town and phone calls. The new phone line wasn't installed yet and he had to use the old black rotary phone upstairs. So many calls to make, he said. But such encouraging response from his conversations.

Over the next few days, they barely saw Julian at all. He was up before they were, and when he wasn't out working in the garden, they could hear the typewriter clacking away through the whole house. They watched him as they ate their lunches, frozen meals of lasagna and cannelloni Annabel prepared for them, leaving left-overs for Julian to eat between writing and gardening.

He's obsessed, Evan said, watching one noon-hour as Julian tore down the remnants of the wire fence and prepared to install a new one.

I'd help him, he said to Annabel, but I just don’t have time.

Annabel agreed: We have our own garden to grow, she said.

Evan left to pick up the paint while Annabel did the last of the prep work in the basement. He was back three hours later, and came down to see the last of the cleaning. Looking good, he said, hugging her.

He placed the buckets of paint and the brushes and rollers on the floor.

Is that going to be enough paint, she asked?

It'll be fine, Evan said, popping the lid from one of the paint cans.

Evan instructed Annabel on how to avoid dripping, how to corner properly. Hold the brush like so, he said, showing her with his own hand, and then holding hers, adjusting the brush in her hands. You see?

He was very sexy like this, she thought, authoritative, an expert in painting, a task at which she too had her share of expertise. She kissed him, said she'd painted before, and wondered if they might have time for very quick sex right there in the basement, among the paint cans, before they started. He kissed her, while she imagined the two of them with the cold, slippery paint on their bodies, rolling in it as they made love.

Evan pulled away: No time for that, he said with a good-natured laugh. We have work to do!

A half hour later, the phone rang upstairs. Evan excused himself, he was waiting for a call, and thundered up the wooden stairs to catch the phone on the fourth ring. Annabel finished the last of the ceiling cornering work herself, and ten minutes later she admired the room, outlined with new fresh paint, the skeleton of what it would soon be. All that remained was the rolling, that would be quick, another coat and the office would be ready to be filled.

She started rolling, and it was so satisfying, watching this new universe of an office reveal itself to her. Maybe it was just the paint fumes, but she was turned on for some reason by her painting. She was looking forward to tonight, in bed, with Evan. Or maybe even this afternoon … while they were waiting for the paint to dry.

Annabel, baby. Evan was at the door. Good job. You want a bit more paint on that roller, he said. He took the roller from her. See, like this?

You're sexy when you paint, she said.

Well, you'll just have to keep that image of me in your head, he smiled at her. I have to go out. It was the real estate agent calling, and he's got something interesting, just around the corner from us here. I'm going to go take a look, are you OK to finish up here alone?

Don't you think it’s a bit early to be looking at land? She asked.

I just want to see what the prices are like, he said. I'm not planning on buying anything. This is going to be a big, exciting project, he said. It's going to be amazing. Once you get this office set up we're going to be unstoppable. He kissed her, squeezed her bum, told her how cute she was. He was a beautiful man. I'll be less than an hour, he said.

She finished the painting the first coat, then went upstairs. With Evan gone, the house was silent except for far-away sounds of Julian digging fence holes in the garden out front.

She made coffee, enough for three cups.

Would you like some coffee? She called to Julian from the balcony. He looked up from what he was doing, shielded his eyes from the sun, and said, What?

She brought a mug down to him at the garden, along with a bottle of water. He was sweating, his brow covered in dust, his T-shirt wet with his efforts in the sun. His hands and forearms were covered in grit and dirt, which he wiped on his pants.

Thank you, he said, taking the mug from her. He was quiet, and surveyed the garden. Putting in a new fence, he said. Keeps the deer out. Lots of deer here.

Annabel nodded, said she'd seen them in the morning and evening, frolicking out by the field in front of the house.

Well, Julian answered. As long as they stay away from my lettuce, I'll be all right. How's the project coming?

She told him she was waiting for the paint to dry.

Exciting, isn't it? He said. It was the first joke, the first bit of humour she had seen or heard from him in three days, the first time she had heard him say anything that wasn't somehow weighed down with thought and mental process.

Yes, she said with mock-seriousness. I love watching paint dry.

When he finished his coffee, she took the mug and walked back towards the house. She expected to hear the sound of his shovel scraping, but all was silent, she could hear no movement. She wanted to look back at him, to see what he was doing as she walked away from him, but she didn't until she got to the balcony, and there she turned.

He was still standing where he had been, by the fencepost. He called out, Thanks for the coffee! again, then threw his shovel into the air, as if to say, back to work, caught it, and strode to the other end of the garden to continue his work. Had he been watching her as she walked away?

Inside, the house seemed dark and cool after the bright sun outside. The smell of wood was soothing, and she wandered around the big living room, looking at the knickknacks, an impossibly old pair of skates, she supposed, rusted metal, a wooden base, and leather straps. Surely no one could have skated on those! She'd already had the tour but she felt like looking around again, in more detail at this house where Evan had spent his summers as a boy. She looked in the closets on the ground floor, with their towels and bed linens – the peculiarly rich smell of old cotton textile confined in a wooden space, a religious smell she thought, like nuns maybe. She fondled the towels absently, dreaming of home, and was surprised to find a bottle of brandy there, a small little glass bottle hidden under a towel. Was that a mickey? She supposed it was. It looked old this bottle, only a quarter full, and she wondered whose it was, what it was doing with the towels.

Looking down the hallway she could see out the picture window, saw Julian straining against some tool in the ground, digging his holes. She shut the door of the closet absently and peeked into Evan's boyhood bedroom. A big birch tree rustled outside the window, but the room looked almost like a museum exhibit. She imagined Evan as a boy playing here, and she opened the closet to find an old orange life jacket, a green boy's rain coat, billy boots, a book called Tin Foil Craft on a shelf, and a folded, baby blue electric blanket. Artifacts of Evan's boyhood, preserved in time here for her to study. She pulled a tin box off of an upper shelf, opened it to find toy cars and plastic soldiers, and action figures. Old enough to be Julian's toys, she thought. She had trouble imagining Julian as a boy; Evan was easier to picture, with his fair skin, blond hair, the way his cheeks flushed when he got excited. But Julian … what was he like as a boy? Probably one of those know-it-alls, always reading, telling his little brother what to do. Freckles and braces.

She closed the box and wandered out of the dark little room. Still another half hour before she could paint the second coat, and Evan not yet back. She wandered out into the living room, then found herself walking up the stairs, her fingers dragging on the wooden banister. There were paintings on the wall going up the stairs and she looked at an old ink drawing of a church, or a university, Trinity College, Dublin. A few steps later she studied an old-fashioned drawing of woodpeckers in a tree. Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers, said the caption. Two more steps and she was looking at something she hadn't noticed the first time she'd been up these stairs, with Julian and Evan, on the grand tour when she first arrived. It was a drawing of a young, naked girl, plump, proud breasts pointing at her, a huge flowery hat on her head, long curly tresses of hair falling about her shoulders, high heels and nothing else. Pubic hair exposed, cheeks flushed, a smile of joy on her face. "Fille nue," was inscribed underneath the girl in a fine precise script. The French, she thought, typical. She would ask Evan about it, ask him to take it down. It was disrespectful. The girl's breasts were so round, buoyant, unrealistic. No one's breasts look like that, she thought. She walked the last steps to the top of the stairs. There was a little mezzanine balcony looking out on the living room at the top here, then a room on the left, with nothing in it except for a tiny single bed and an old chest (empty, she checked); a bathroom, or rather a toilet with a sink, but no shower or bath; and then another room, Julian's room, with a closed door. She turned the handle, quietly, and pushed.

The room was tidy, the bed made. A big old black typewriter sat on a little desk by the window, and on the floor beside it a pile of typed pages. I shouldn't be here, she thought. She stepped into the room, leaving the door open. There was no paper in the typewriter, and she pressed on a key, watched as the letter came up to hit the cylinder, quietly. She tapped the key harder, and was pleased with the sound. She'd never seen an old typewriter like this up close.

She looked down at the typed pages on the floor, and suddenly felt guilty for where she was, what she was doing. She should not read those pages. She would not. She straightened. What was he writing? Evan hadn't said, maybe he hadn't even asked. She hadn't asked either. She would, she decided. She would ask, but she would not look. That was the honest thing to do. She stood up straight, patted her thighs, and strode out of the room. She shut the door gently, and then went down the stairs, to the basement, and started on the second coat of paint.

You missed a spot, Evan said, pointing at the wall. Over here. See?

There wasn't enough paint, she answered. It was six-thirty, and he had just arrived back from his tour with the real estate agent, four hours after he'd left.

Sure there was, more than enough. Let me see that. He opened the can, and picked up a brush from the corner. He ran the brush around the inside of the can, and strode over to the missed spot. He dabbed the brush against the wall. There, he said.

I was only able to do one coat on the ceiling, she said, and Evan told her that there was no point in doing two coats on the ceiling. More than enough paint, he said. If you know what you're doing.

I know what I'm doing.

She was hungry and tired. She was close to swearing. I know what I'm doing, she wanted to say, and I did it, which is more than I can say for you. But she didn’t say it, and she was glad she didn't.

Another spot, see? He said, dabbing the brush against the wall. You weren't putting enough paint on the roller.

Evan, there wasn't enough paint. I told you.

Sure there was, more than enough. It's fine. Here's another spot.

Have you been smoking? She asked. He smelled of smoke. No, no, he answered. The real estate agent was. And his car stank.

That night Julian ate with them. He'd finished putting his fence in, he said, he was happy with progress in the garden. Annabel was still angry, and she decided to talk with Julian, and not her husband, tonight. She answered Evan with one-word answers; but Julian got the smiles, the attention. Most infuriating, Evan did not even seem to notice. He was pleased with his day too, he said. We finished painting the basement, he told his brother. All ready to get that office up and running.

He'd gone to buy some furniture, he said, he'd chosen some very nice stuff at a store in Cowansville, they'd be delivering on Thursday.

Oh, you went furniture shopping? Annabel asked. While I was painting, she thought but did not say.

Yeah, he answered, it was on the way. Sort of. I got pretty excited looking at that land. We should go take a look together in the next couple of days.

Why don't we get the office set up first, she answered, before we start looking at real estate investments that are not in the business plan.

That was delicious, Julian said to Annabel, standing up. Thank you.