by Dave Butler
“Why? You weren’t ready to go, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t,” said Speer. “But let’s just say that this bullshit made me realize I had better things to do with my life than work for the federal government.”
“And what about me? I know my actions caused you grief. And I know it’s because of me that they’re sending you east and making you retire early. I’m sorry about that. I truly am. Although at the same time, I know I’ve been a pain in the ass to those above you on the food chain, and I’m not sorry about that at all.”
Speer laughed. “Jenny, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to you doing what you did. I knew you would do what you thought best, despite whatever I might say. While you did go off script, I had no way of knowing where it would lead. I understood that letting you loose was for the best.”
Willson sat back in her chair, appreciating the fact that Speer had not told Church about her connection with Mike Berland. “So I’m guessing you’re here to tell me, perhaps as one of your last official acts, that I’m going to have to find another job?”
“Not exactly,” said Speer.
“What, then?”
“The folks in Ottawa can’t figure out if you’re the hero in this for exposing the illegitimate scheme behind the ski area and saving their asses from huge embarrassment … or, if you win this year’s prize for the most insubordinate employee in the entire federal government.”
Willson smiled. “I’d be happy if both were true. So what happens?”
The two men looked at each other. With a nod from Speer, Church spoke. “What happens now is that we advise you that your request for the Namibian secondment has been approved, for up to twelve months.”
“Are you friggin’ kidding me? I assumed they’d never let me go after what happened.”
“I’m not kidding. You can look at it as either being banished overseas for a year, out of their hair and hard for the media to find … or as a reward for a job well done.”
Willson had worked for government long enough to know that it was never this easy. “What’s the catch?”
“If you accept the secondment,” Church said, “then I’ve been told to tell you that while you’re away, you should think about if and how you’ll come back to be part of the team, play by the rules, follow directions. In essence, to do as you’re told.”
“And if I don’t accept those conditions? As you both know, that really doesn’t sound like me —”
“Then I’ve been told to advise you that Namibia is off the table, and we have an opportunity for you to transfer to Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland. It’s not a voluntary transfer.”
“Wow,” said Willson. “They do want me to disappear. That’s about as far east as I could be sent while still being in Canada.”
Neither man said anything in response.
“Those are my choices?” asked Willson.
“They are,” said Church. “What do you say?”
Willson grinned. Really, she had only one option. “I say ‘Hello, Air Canada? I need to book a flight to Windhoek, Namibia.’”
* * *
As Willson drove toward her mother’s house to pick her up for dinner, she understood that she was in a no-win situation. Pulling to the side of the road, she stared out the windshield, her eyes unfocused. She knew going to Namibia was the best thing to do in light of all that had transpired. She needed to get out of the country for a while, away from the bigwigs who were trying to silence her … or move her. She needed time to think, to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, to come to terms with her professional and personal challenges. And while she would have that time if she accepted the transfer to Newfoundland, she’d be separated from her mother by almost the entire width of a very large country. And she’d still be dealing with the same federal government, the same people at the top.
For a moment, Willson thought about Mike Berland. The anger and betrayal of a few weeks earlier had been replaced by a sense of melancholy. It was less about what might have been with him than about that short glimpse she’d had of having a supportive, attentive person in her life. It had felt good, as if it might soften some of her edges and make her less cynical about the world around her. But Berland was not in the picture and never would be. She needed someone she could trust. And she needed to move on.
At the same time, she understood that her mother needed her more than ever now, that she’d be devastated by the news that her daughter might move away for up to a year, perhaps longer. Would going to Namibia be smart … or incredibly selfish and thoughtless? She thought about alternatives. Her mother couldn’t join her in Africa or Newfoundland; that simply wouldn’t work. Would she consider leaving Golden and moving closer to her distant cousin in Kamloops? That wasn’t a conversation they’d ever had.
Willson shook her head. She’d have to talk to her mother, lay out the facts as she saw them. Maybe they could come to a decision together. And because she had little time to make that decision, she’d have to start the conversation over dinner tonight.
A few minutes later, Willson pulled up to her mother’s house and parked behind the Honda in the driveway. She walked to the front door, knocked once, and walked in. “Mum?” she called, looking first in the living room and then the kitchen. “Anyone home?” The house was silent. After checking the empty bathroom, Willson opened the door to her mother’s bedroom. She peeked around the door and saw her mother in bed, the covers tucked to her chin, her thin greying hair spread across the pillow.
“Mum?” said Willson as she moved across the room. “Time to go to dinner …” Her mother did not move, did not answer. Willson touched her right cheek. It was cold. She moved her left fingers to her mother’s neck to check for a pulse. Nothing.
Willson gasped, stood up straight, and looked around the room. Her heart pounded but she was too shocked for tears. She saw the pill bottle on the bedside table next to a glass of water. The glass was nearly empty. As if in a trance, she reached for the empty bottle. Norpramin. Her mother’s antidepressant medication.
It was then that Willson saw the piece of paper on the dresser, neatly folded. She moved slowly toward it, frightened of what it might contain, terrified that it held a message from which there would be no return. Time stood still as she unfolded it. She saw her mother’s writing, the cursive letters perfect and even, bringing back memories of notes in school lunches.
My darling Jenny —
I am deeply sorry for the pain and trouble I caused you. I was searching for friendship, but I made the wrong decision. It broke my heart that I hurt you, and almost caused your death. I can never forgive myself, but I hope you can forgive me.
I love you forever and will always be proud of you,
Mum
And then the tears came. They flooded Willson’s eyes and ran down her cheeks, dampened her blouse. She slumped to the floor, her back to the dresser, her mother’s letter gripped tightly in her hand.
CHAPTER 40
MAY 22
The Golden library was filled with flowers, with their mingled scents, the colours of thousands of books overwhelmed by a rainbow of carnations and daisies, marigolds and sweet peas, exotic gardenias and heliconias and orchids.
Willson stood in a circle of her mother’s friends and colleagues, women whose children she’d grown up with. Her hands were wrapped around a mug of tea, despite wanting something much stronger. While she nodded her head from time to time, she wasn’t truly listening. The conversation around her was nothing more than voices in a dense bank of grey fog, faceless, shapeless people who were hollow in their awkward attempts at comfort. This gathering, in a place that had meant so much to her mother, was a celebration of her life, a tribute to the unassuming woman and the quiet, low-key role she’d played in Golden for decades. At her mother’s request, it was an afternoon tea party. No speeches, few tears, a story or two shared in small groups, friends meeting to recognize a life well lived.
But for Willson, her mother’s
absence was a massive, gaping hole. The most important person in her life was gone, the family of three she’d been raised in cut down to one. And it all came back to Stafford Austin, his deceitful attempt to start a ski area in Collie Creek, and the deadly chain of events that had followed. An innocent victim of a scam gone wrong, Anne Willson had paid the ultimate price for Austin’s greed. Willson tried hard not to think about what might have been if she hadn’t been so blinded by her own desire to stop the project. The guilt would be a permanent scar, deep and disfiguring, a constant reminder of the role she’d played in her mother’s death.
In the days since her mother had taken her own life, Willson had operated on autopilot, moving around town like an impassive cyborg. She had settled her mother’s legal and financial affairs, sold the Honda, and leased her mother’s house to Ben Fortier and the now-pregnant Courtney Pepper. And most importantly, she’d made decisions for herself, for her future.
Her gaze wandered across the room without purpose. She saw women stealing glances at her, clearly wondering whether they should approach her, unsure of what they might say if they did. Standing in the shelves of the fiction section, she saw Ben Fortier, Courtney Pepper, Albin Stoffel, and the mayor, Jo-Ann Campbell. Ignoring the sad, questioning eyes around her, Willson worked her way over to that group.
“You know how sorry we all are,” said Fortier, wrapping his strong arm around Willson’s shoulder. Pepper moved in and gripped her old friend around the waist.
“I know,” said Willson. “Thank you all for being here today. It means a lot to me.”
The mayor smiled sadly at her. “We were just talking about how this community has been impacted by Austin’s ridiculous idea. You and your mother paid the ultimate price, Jenny, there is no doubt. For that I am truly sorry. I’ve been thinking about it a lot these last couple of weeks, and I still find myself sad, angry, and confused. I feel like I should have taken the bull by the horns and shut this thing down earlier, as mayor. But in retrospect, I don’t think I could have. At no time did we have any control. That bloody application cleaved this town like a giant axe; it may never come back together again. Now we’re all left to pick up the pieces, find a way to heal. It’s not right.”
Willson nodded.
“You might think this inappropriate,” said Albin Stoffel, “and if you do, I sincerely apologize — that’s not my intention. But do you know who has benefited from this situation? The wolverines in Collie Creek. With the proposal disallowed, and the park legislation about to be changed, they will have the valley to themselves, hopefully for years to come. That’s a good thing.”
Willson thought back to the wolverine tracks she’d seen when she visited the Collie Creek valley with Mike Berland. She raised her mug toward the ceiling. “Here’s to wolverines and wilderness,” she said, “the only good news to come out of this whole friggin’ mess.” As she spoke, she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Tracy Brown from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Her dark, curly hair framing her wide eyes and dark skin, the American agent was dressed in jeans, a white blouse, a dark-brown leather jacket, and hiking shoes.
“Sorry I’m late, Jenny,” she said, after the two women had shared a long hug. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I’m happy you’re here, Tracy,” said Willson, staring into her friend’s eyes. “Thank you for coming this way so we could travel together.” She introduced Brown to her circle of friends and colleagues, explaining to them why they were heading to Namibia.
An hour later, Willson found Brown talking to Ben Fortier in a quiet corner of the library. Like many curious visitors to Canada, she was asking him about the RCMP, about whether he always got his man, about his red serge, his horse, his log cabin.
“We have to go, Trace,” said Willson, touching Brown lightly on the shoulder. “It’ll take about three hours to get to the Calgary airport. Our flight to Frankfurt leaves just before six.”
Willson turned to Fortier. In an instant, she was at a loss for words, not knowing what to say. She simply hugged him hard. Finally releasing him, she put her hands on his wide shoulders and stared into his eyes for a moment, long enough for it to be meaningful but not long enough to make him, or his fiancée, uncomfortable. “Saying thank you, Ben, is not enough. Meeting you and working with you meant more to me than you will ever know. I’ll miss you.”
“We’ll all miss you, Jenny. Safe travels.”
Willson turned and walked away. After saying a heartfelt goodbye to Heather, the head librarian, and sincerely thanking her for all that she’d done for her mother, Willson left the building, waved at Brown, who would follow her in her own car, and drove out of Golden.
As she headed up the hill to the east of town, she pulled over to a viewpoint on the side of the highway and climbed out of her Subaru. Brown steered in behind her, but stayed in her car.
Willson looked down at Golden, at the rushing milky waters of the Kicking Horse River that bisected the town, and the smoke rising from the mill at the north end. A train crawled northward along the main line. Cars zipped along the main street downtown.
At the southern edge of town, she could see the cemetery where, three days earlier, she had laid her mother to rest beside her father. A single tear fell down her cheek. She hoped they would both find peace in being together again, this time forever.
A warm wind blew at her from the west, and she could see towering cumulus clouds building and boiling and threatening there, signalling an oncoming storm.
As Willson stared down at her birthplace spread out below her, she couldn’t help thinking that the real storm had, in many ways, already passed through Golden. It was time for people to come out from behind closed doors and work together to rebuild the community’s confidence.
With her mother gone and her career with Parks Canada in question, at least for the next year, she recognized that the storm had passed for her, as well. There was nothing more to hold her here, and she had no role to play in the town’s healing. She was not sad about that — it was simply her new reality. It was as if she and the town had completely and inexplicably changed, as if they’d somehow grown apart. It was time for them both to move on.
Willson turned away, slid back into the driver’s seat, checked over her shoulder for traffic coming up the hill, and accelerated back onto the Trans-Canada Highway. As she entered the narrow valley of the Kicking Horse River, her mind was clearly focused on the road ahead.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is a privilege to continue to share the adventures of Jenny Willson. While writing is mostly a solitary endeavour, I’m fortunate to be surrounded by a growing group of cheerleaders — family, close friends, fellow authors, and readers — who support and encourage me in countless ways. I truly appreciated the frank feedback I received on early versions of this novel from beta-readers: my wife, Heather, Darrell Bethune, Stan Chung, and Ian Cobb. It is a better story because of their efforts. Thanks again to my law-enforcement adviser, Sergeant Chris Newel of the RCMP. Despite his great advice, any errors in law or procedure are mine.
Thanks to the team at Dundurn Press. Dundurn is a leading independent publisher offering Canadian books from across the country, and I’m pleased to collaborate with this passionate and hard-working group. Thanks to editor Allison Hirst, “Dundurn’s resident woman of mystery” (Quill and Quire), whose rigorous attention to detail and critical ear for tight dialogue and pacing make my writing stronger and more compelling. Thanks also to senior designer Laura Boyle, who creates kick-ass book covers! Special thanks to talented publicist Michelle Melski, who is patient and proactive and professional, and to assistant project editor Jenny McWha, copy editor Catharine Chen, and Beth Bruder, Margaret Bryant, and the many others at Dundurn.
I am in awe of libraries and booksellers across Canada, indies most of all, who strive to get good books into the hands of readers. I sincerely appreciate all they do for Canadian literature.
And finally, I would like to ackn
owledge that this novel was written and largely set in the traditional territories of the Ktunaxa and Shuswap First Nations.
I dedicate this book to my daughter Courtney and my son-in-law Curtis. You are amazing parents to Mason and Peyton, and you’re both shining examples of Canada’s accounting profession. Every day, I’m extremely proud of who you are and what you do.
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