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your luck that you didn’t contract a life-threatening illness.” Had I actually expressed that last thought out loud? Think, then speak.
    His icy stare was remarkably intimidating, but eventually, his face softened to an almost plaintive countenance. For the second time that day, I felt the need to change the subject. I stood up to eye the books on the east side of the room. The six-shelf bookcase harboured what looked to my amateur eyes to be a rather comprehensive collection of feminist theory, literature, and criticism, both popular and academic. Betty Freidan, Susan Brownmiller, Kate Millet, Simone de Beauvoir, Gloria Steinem, Andrea Dworkin, and many others in the pantheon of the women’s movement, were all represented. I even saw what looked like a first edition of John Stuart Mill’s
The Subjection of Women
. The entire bottom shelf showcased the dozen or so books of Marin Lee, including, coincidentally, the classic I’d seen in Muriel Parkinson’s lap earlier that morning. I was puzzled, which is not an infrequent condition for me.
    “Impressive collection. I didn’t think engineers were allowed to have feminist literature.” Out loud again. Clearly that whole “think before you speak” mantra really wasn’t working for me that night.
    “Kind of you to promulgate a popular but not universally valid stereotype,” he intoned, eyes closed, from his horizontal position of authority on the couch.
    I winced. Damage report, Mr. Scott. “I apologize. I simply meant that engineering students have a very onerous course load with few academic opportunities to expose themselves to more enlightened and progressive social attitudes.”
    He smiled. He actually smiled. Then, he chuckled; at least, that’s what it sounded like. With his brow at last furrow-free, he took on a completely different appearance.
    “A clunky but well-meanin’ recovery, Dr. Addison, but you should choose yer words more carefully. No one in their right mind when talkin’ about engineering students would use the phrase ‘expose themselves.’ It strikes a wee bit too close to home.” He took a long draw on the Lagavulin then continued in a more sober vein.
    “The books you’re lookin’ at belonged to my wife. She succumbed four months ago to breast cancer.”
    “I’m so sorry. I knew you were widowed but had no idea it was so recent,” I said, hoping I sounded as sympathetic as I felt. “It must still be a very difficult time.”
    “Aye, it is and I fear always will be,” he conceded.
    The conversation was losing altitude fast. I thought another abrupt topic change would be inappropriate, so I tried at least to ease back on the stick and slow our descent. “I see she was a fan of Marin Lee.” I motioned towards the shelf full of her works.
    Angus smiled. “Yes, my wife seemed to agree with everythin’ she said and wrote.”
    “I actually heard Marin Lee speak at a student conference,” I babbled. “She certainly made a compelling case for equality. And she graciously signed my copy of her last book.” I watched the ground racing up to meet me.
    “She would be pleased to know that a fan was livin’ in the boathouse,” he concluded.
    On instinct, I nodded in sympathy and then proceeded to process his last sentence. I hit Rewind and played back his comment. It still seemed like a non sequitur to me.
    “Sorry?” was all I could manage. His smile then turned wistful.
    “I was married to Marin Lee, and she loved that boathouse. You’re lookin’ at her bookcase. Mine is over here,” he said, pointing.
    I was thunderstruck. Stunned into silence, I searched for a thoughtful and respectful response. I found it but, instead, went with, “No shit! That’s amazing!” Damn.
    “Yes, Dr. Addison, it was – for nearly four decades.”
    I was relieved that he seemed almost chuffed by my reflexive enthusiasm. “Forgive me, I just had no idea. I’m very sorry for your loss. She was a remarkable woman, who made an enormous