The noisy chatter of birds and the distinct increase in traffic sounds poured into his ears with a continuous insistence; even the thick pillow could not deflect their annoying din. Morning had arrived far too soon. He kicked back the sheet and propped himself on his elbows, squinting his eyes at the sunlight painting the room.

On the desk by the window sat the computer, a grey plastic cover draped over its components like a funeral shroud, prompting a twinge of remorse. Two years ago, he had come to Ashton Hills to stay with his aunt and pursue his dream of becoming a playwright. Reluctantly following her advice, through a labyrinth of manipulation, deceit, and a dearth of marital integrity, the dream had culminated in an unbelievably successful endeavour, however short-lived.

Downstairs he could hear the kitchen noises of Victoria going about her daily chores, and wearily dragged out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. After dawdling in an overlong shower, and delaying getting dressed, he finally summoned the nerve to go downstairs and face a new day with his aunt.

"I didn't expect you before lunch." She said rather tersely, as he clumped into the atrium. He mumbled something about being really tired, and sagged into a chair at the table. "Do you want me to fix you something? There's coffee in the pot."

He shrugged. "Coffee's fine. I'll get it."

"Oh you just sit there and mope, I'll get you something." She pulled some bread from the package and dropped a couple of slices in the toaster then poured a mug of steaming coffee.

"I'm not moping." He said unconvincingly.

"Yes you are. You are definitely moping." She set the mug in front of him with a carton of milk and pushed the sugar bowl closer. "Nigel, the great playwright mope."

"Victoria!"

"Get over yourself, nephew. There's a much larger world out there. I thought we decided that last night." She brought his toast and her own mug to the table and sat staring at him. Avoiding her eyes, he nibbled at the toast, considering her comment.

"You know Nigel, your problem has always been this you against the world lack of self-confidence." She fluttered a hand, "I mean, you were always eager. God, I'll never forget the day you first showed up, bubbling on about publishers and such, but you've never really been quite sure of yourself. You never grabbed the wheel and did the steering. Always the uncertain passenger."

"I made the decision to go to Toronto." He said defensively.

"Yes, and didn't that work out well. Even after the success of the play, you still couldn't accept the credit for what you accomplished."

"You mean through deceit." He pouted.

"There you go again," she snorted derisively. "The moral young man with blinkered righteousness. Good heavens, Nigel, wake up and smell the world's impiety."

He gave her a bleak look, pushing his crusts around the plate. "I just can't be that- that . . . cynical."

"Cynicism is the path to discovery, my son. A true cynic mines his pessimism for the truth."

"Truth! That's the very element I ignored back then." He stood and strode to the window, hands jammed in his pockets.

"Oh really." She studied his rigid back with an overwhelming sympathy. "If that's what you truly believe, Nigel, then go and prove it."

"Prove it? What do you mean, how?" He turned impatiently.

"Go and see these people for yourself, talk to them, don't take my word for it. Ask them if your actions irreparably ruined their lives."

He stared, struggling for a thread of intelligent argument, hearing instead a sneering little voice inside his head that said, yeah Nigel, are you as concerned as you say, or do you just want someone to feel sorry for you. Shit or get off the pot.

*****

A mild breeze stirred the leaves on the trees along the boulevard next to the park, and a discarded Kleenex tissue, tumbled helplessly along the boulevard grass, before clinging desperately to the base of a stalwart mailbox. Across the sloping lawn leading down to the picnic area, he could see the Woogen Tour Boat tied to the dock on Ashton Pond, its peeling, painted hull a sad and bleary testament to indifference. He wondered if it was still running mini tours and if Captain Rajflsak was still the operator.

Nigel wandered down the slope toward the water taking in the smells of the flower gardens and the several lilac trees that dotted his path. Beyond the pond, the concert pavilion sat patiently, a glowing white in the morning shadows, a kitschy wedding cake of a structure awaiting its cue to give prominence to whatever event unfolded upon its stage.

He found a bench in the sun and sat, stretching his legs out in front, closing his eyes and giving his senses over to the warm rays on his face. The faint sounds of children playing with a barking dog overlaid the muted noise of the traffic on Main Street; their laughter a tinkling wind chime in the otherwise quiet park. He sighed mightily, absorbing the solitude and thinking of Victoria's admonitions.

"Stainway? Nigel Stainway? Is that you?" The sound of the voice jarred his reverie and he opened his eyes cautiously, peering about. "Geez, it is you. How the hell are ya?" Ross Preston flopped down on the bench next to him, offering his hand.

Nigel sat up and took the proffered hand, releasing it quickly. "Ross! Fine, I'm fine. How are you?"

"Great. What are you doin' back here? I thought you were in Toronto kickin' ass in the theatre." Wincing, Nigel offered a weak smile and explained that he was just up visiting his aunt."

"Victoria, yeah. So, so how's the writing going?" He gave him a light punch on the arm. "Any Pulitzers yet?"

"Oh, you know..."

Ross sat forward suddenly. "You're here to do another play!"

"NO! No. Nothing like that." Nigel felt a wave of panic sweep through him. "I thought I'd pay my respects to the anniversary of the playhouse."

"Oh right, right. That's right, it's twenty-five years this year. Yeah, that should be a good bash. You should be one of the honoured guests," he said, suddenly inspired.

"Oh no, I just- I didn't- I don't . . ."

"You know, Nigel," Ross cut in, settling back on the bench, "that summer was one of the best I ever had in this town. It sure brought a lot of things into focus for me."

"How do you mean?" Studying Ross more carefully, he sat up and faced him, eager to hear.