by Gail Bowen
“Come over to the house when you’re through. No rush. It can wait.”
“I was just about to take a break,” she said, “but I’m spattered in paint, and I’m a hazard to furniture. Could you come to my studio? We can sit outside.”
When Taylor had been away, Zack and I had had no reason to go to her studio, and I’d forgotten how inviting its small flagstone patio was. A few years earlier, at summer’s end, Taylor had rescued two Muskoka chairs left on the roadside. She sanded the chairs and painted them in neon colours. When Zack saw them, he’d been delighted. “Add a few parrots and you’ll have Margaritaville,” he said. The Jimmy Buffett reference blew right past our daughter, but when Zack showed her images of Margaritaville on his phone, Taylor added the parrots.
She was sprawled on one of the Margaritaville chairs when we arrived, but she leapt up to give us careful paint-free hugs.
“Okay if we stay out here?” she said. “I’ve been inside for hours and the sun feels so good.”
“It does,” I said. “Taylor, Jill Oziowy and Kam Chau, Charlie D’s producer, just left. They’re curious about Thalia Monk, and we wondered if you’d remembered anything else about her.”
Our daughter shrugged. “Pretty much just what Gracie and I told you. I always said hi to Thalia in the hall, but after the cohort started that rumour about my tragic frigidity, I decided Thalia wasn’t exactly BFF material.”
“I get that,” I said.
“I knew you would,” she said. “I’ll text Gracie and ask her to call. There’s something I wanted to talk to her about anyway.”
When her phone buzzed, Taylor checked the text. “Gracie’s in class,” she said, “but she’ll be out in ten minutes and she’ll call then. Can I hang out with you guys for a while?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Zack said, “you can hang out with us till doomsday.”
“I’m not making my doomsday plans yet,” Taylor said, “but I have made some decisions about where I’ll be in the immediate future.”
Zack turned his wheelchair to face her. “We’re all ears,” he said.
As she rubbed at a spot of turquoise paint on the back of her right hand, Taylor’s expression was thoughtful. “I don’t want to travel,” she said, “at least for a while. I’m tired of living out of suitcases, and I need time to make art. For me, that means settling down. I want to stay in Saskatchewan. All the people I love are here, and I need you guys. But I also need distance because I have some growing to do.
“So, here’s my plan. I’m going to stay at Lawyers Bay till Thanksgiving, and after that I’m moving to Saskatoon. Gracie has a condo on the riverbank, and she says she needs a housemate.” Taylor dimpled. “She doesn’t, of course, but that’s Gracie. She’s always there when I need her, and she knows I need her now.
“The location is perfect. Gracie says when she squints, she can see Sally’s old studio across the river. And by a stroke of serendipity, the studio is now permanently vacant. The university has ended its artist in residence program — ‘budgetary restraints.’ Anyway, the studio is now mine to sell or use.”
“And you want to use it,” I said.
“I do,” Taylor said. “When my relationship with Vale fell apart, I wondered how I’d ever put the pieces of my life together again. And now . . .”
“And now the pieces are falling into place,” Zack said. “As a client of mine used to say, ‘I’ve been ciphering out your words.’”
“And what have you concluded?”
“The only way I could be happier with your decision is if you moved in next door to us,” he said. “But I can live with this. It will take fifteen minutes to get to the airport from Gracie’s condo; the flight from Saskatoon to Regina takes forty-five minutes, and we live ten minutes from the airport. Allowing for traffic, you and Gracie are an hour and a half away.”
Taylor went to her father, stood behind his chair and kissed the top of his head. “You’re taking this like a champ, Dad. I’m proud of you.”
We were all still laughing when the phone rang. It was Gracie. Taylor picked up. “I’m with Jo and my dad,” she said. “Can I put you on speakerphone?”
The moment Gracie heard that Taylor was about to become her housemate, she let out a whoop of joy, and for the next five minutes she and Taylor rattled on happily about the adventures awaiting them in the Bridge City.
When they were barely out of their teens, both young women had suffered punishing blows, and it was a joy to once again hear effervescence in their voices as they talked about the future.
“Time to focus,” Gracie said briskly. “Taylor’s voice message said you have some questions I might be able to help with.”
My account of my meeting with Alison Janvier that morning was brief, but Gracie picked up on the fact that Alison and I both felt that Thalia Monk had manipulated the podcast proposal so that Alison’s only option was agreeing to an arrangement that would have Harper working closely with Thalia.
“And Ms. Janvier is concerned that her son and Thalia might develop a personal relationship,” Gracie said. “From what I’ve seen and heard of Thalia, Harper’s mother has every reason to be concerned.”
“Anything else we should know?” Zack said.
Gracie paused to consider. “I’m pretty certain I told you everything I knew that day Taylor and I found the photo of Farky Farquhar on your phone,” she said finally. “I wish I could be of more help.”
“Talking to you always helps,” Zack said. “Gracie, I hope you know how happy we are that you and Taylor will be housemates.”
“I’m happy too,” Gracie said. “And I know how happy my Dad would be to know I won’t be alone anymore.”
Zack flinched at the reference to Blake Falconer’s death, but he continued. “Gracie, I’ve known you since the day you were born, and you never disappoint.”
“That’s good to hear. My dad was always my one-man cheering section,” Gracie said. Her voice caught. “I miss him so much.”
“So do I,” Zack said.
It was a tender moment, and after the call ended, the three of us remained silent. The deaths of Zack’s law partners were still an open wound for him, and Taylor and I had learned that the only way to reach Zack was to push forward. That day, Taylor took charge. “I’m in need of some time with Desmond and his sisters,” she said. “How would you feel about me inviting Charlie, Mieka and their kids out here for lunch on Sunday? I’ll be the host, and I’ll handle everything myself.”
“I think that’s a terrific idea,” I said. “Zack?”
Zack managed a smile. “Sure, let’s do it.”
“That’s settled, then,” Taylor said. “Back to work for me.”
* * *
In the way of weekend weather in cottage country, on Saturday, the day upon which we had virtually no plans, the sun shone; the breeze was gentle, and the sky was clear. Zack spent Saturday morning indoors at the partners’ table, working on a file that was proving troublesome, and Taylor and I drove into Fort Qu’Appelle to shop at the farmers’ market for Sunday lunch.
I’d lost count of the number of times I’d taken first my children and later our grandchildren to farmers’ markets. The pleasure of watching young faces as they discovered the earthly delights of the garden, the orchard, the kitchen and the smokehouse never diminished. But the joy I felt that morning as Taylor and I wandered from stand to stand heaped with vegetables, so fresh they still carried the scent of earth, and freshly picked fruit, vibrant with ripe beauty, was of a special order. I’d believed moments like this with our younger daughter were a thing of the past, and as I watched Taylor select the homemade borscht, pierogi, golubtsi and sausage that were on our menu, I couldn’t stop smiling.
Taylor felt my joy. “There really is something special about markets,” she said. “When Vale and I were with Rosamond Burke in London last Christmas, sh
e took us to her favourites. They were amazing. The one at London Bridge had stalls all along the banks of the Thames. At night the stalls were lit, and their light reflected in the river. Leicester Square had a Ferris wheel, and after dark, the view from the top at was unbelievable.” Taylor’s eyes were dancing. “Borough Market had mulled cider and gingerbread and choirs singing holiday songs. Apple Market, which is near Covent Garden, had all these great shops: antiques, artwork, jewellery. I did most of my Christmas shopping there. I bought . . .” She paused at a memory and then hurried on. “I bought some bracelets there. After we’d seen Covent Garden, we went next door to the Royal Opera House to see The Nutcracker.”
“Do you remember going to The Nutcracker here when you were six?” I said. “You and I found the perfect poufy dress, and every morning you put stickers on the kitchen calendar, counting off the days.”
Taylor’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t remember seeing The Nutcracker at all.”
“Well, we didn’t stay long,” I said.
“Why not?”
“At first, everything was fine — better than fine. I’d splurged on the seats, so you were able to see the orchestra. You waved at one of the French horn players, and when he waved back, you were beside yourself. Then the lights went down, the music started, the curtains went up and we were at the Stahlbaums’ Christmas Eve party. It was a sparkling production, and when you saw the tree and the lights and the dancers, you leaned forward in your seat, and I leaned back in mine and then you crawled up on my knee and threw up.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. The people sitting around us were not impressed.”
Taylor groaned. “You must have wanted to die.”
“Pretty much, but I bundled you up, barf and all, took you home and gave you a bath.”
“Was I sick?”
“No, you were perfectly fine — just excited, but I stayed in bed with you in case you were upset. You were smiling when you fell asleep, and that smile is one of my best Christmas memories.”
Taylor set the shopping bags filled with our purchases on the ground and put her arms around me. “I love you so much, Jo.”
“I love you too.”
We were both teary, and we stood in the middle of the aisle between the stalls, embracing and snuffling until Taylor murmured, “We’d better break this up we’re starting to draw a crowd.” With that, we picked up our groceries, walked to our car and headed for home.
* * *
Sunday morning I awoke to the staccato patter of rain on the roof. I slid out of bed, stepped over Esme, shrugged into my robe and walked to the patio doors. When I peered through the rain-spattered glass, I saw that the sky was the colour of pewter. “This rain is not going to let up,” I said.
Zack pushed himself up to a sitting position. “So, we don’t get to take the grandkids for a boat ride around the lake?”
“Seemingly not,” I said. “But Des is a week old. He’ll handle it. Besides, it’s never too early to learn that the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley.”
The rain continued unabated, but we pushed on, and by the time Mieka, Charlie and the family arrived, the borscht was simmering, the golubtsi and sausage were in the oven, the pierogi were ready to boil and we were ready to party.
Taylor had chosen the russet earthenware dishes that we used every day in the fall, but set against the red-gold woven placemats she’d unearthed from the bottom of a cedar chest, the old dishes suddenly seemed to be making a statement. As we were leaving the market, Taylor had purchased sunflowers from a woman who’d sold everything except the strays in her bucket. The woman was eager to head home, so her sunflowers were now arranged in a glossy redware pitcher on the partners’ table.
It was always a joy to see Mieka, Charlie and the grandchildren, but as we sat down to our Ukrainian feast, the mood was restrained. We all praised the praiseworthy food and ate heartily, but except for Desmond, who cooed and gurgled contentedly, the Kilbourn-Dowhanuiks seemed preoccupied.
When we were cleaning up, I learned the sources of the preoccupation. After we’d started the dishwasher, Taylor took me aside. “Madeleine and Lena saw a picture of Vale with Etienne Simard on the cover of one of those magazines at the supermarket checkout. The banner on the cover said ‘Switching Teams? Vale’s New Lover.’”
I muttered Zack’s favourite curse word. “Are the girls upset?”
“They are,” Taylor said. “And they have questions. If you don’t need me for anything here, I’m going to take Maddy and Lena over to my place, so we can talk this through.”
“Are you ready for that?”
My daughter’s smile was rueful. “No, but Madeleine and Lena are ready for answers.”
Mieka and I handed the girls their slickers and wellies, and watched as they raced across the lawns to the cottage that Kevin Hynd had deeded to Taylor shortly before his death.
Zack and his law partners always referred to their places on Lawyers Bay as “cottages,” but they were not cottages. They were spacious, architect-designed, handsomely appointed dwellings that could be lived in year-round. The cottage Taylor now owned had been built by Kevin’s parents in the mid-1950s. It was a solidly built log cabin with a screened porch, a living room, a large kitchen, where the family had taken their meals, three small bedrooms and a bathroom with a flush toilet and a shower but no tub. It was a true cottage, and Taylor loved it as much as I did.
As soon as the girls were inside, Mieka turned to me. “Mum, I’ve asked Charlie to tell Zack that I need some time alone with you. There’s something we should talk about.”
* * *
Mieka and I sat in the matching club chairs flanking the fireplace in the family room. Zack and I had chosen the chairs because they’re upholstered in Zack’s favourite colour (red) and because, although Zack seldom leaves his wheelchair during the day, he’s insistent about our family and guests being made comfortable. That afternoon Mieka was far from comfortable. Her body was tense and her expression uneasy. “Have you talked to Jill lately?” she said.
I nodded. “She and Kam Chau, Charlie’s producer, came out here Friday afternoon. There was a situation at MediaNation that she and Kam were concerned about.”
“Did she tell you about our disastrous encounter at MediaNation?” When I nodded, Mieka slumped. “I feel terrible about what happened, Mum. No excuses. I just freaked. I was picking up Charlie because we were taking his father to the airport, and we wanted Howard to have some time with Des before he left for Toronto.”
“That’s understandable. Howard’s going to be teaching for the next three months; babies go through some major changes in three months.”
“It’s not that simple,” Mieka said. “Charlie’s relationship with his father is still uneasy, and Howard hasn’t exactly thrown himself into the grandfather role. I was hoping spending time with Des might stir Howard’s grandparental feelings and that he and Charlie might finally start to bond. That’s where my mind was and then — out of nowhere — there was Jill, and I froze.”
“Jill told me that Mark Evanson thought you’d forgotten who Jill was, and he tried to smooth over the awkward moment by reminding you that Jill was Ian’s chief of staff.”
“Mark didn’t stop there. He was holding Des and when Mark said he knew Jill would want to hold Ian Kilbourn’s grandson, I went ballistic. I ripped Des out of his arms before Jill could touch him. Mum, I’ll never forget Jill’s face. I might as well have plunged a knife into her heart.”
“Jill doesn’t blame you, Mieka.”
My daughter’s grey-green eyes met mine. “I blame me,” she said, and her voice was heavy.
“I thought you might. You’re a good person, Mieka. I don’t remember ever seeing you intentionally hurt someone.”
“I hurt Jill.”
“Are you still that angry at her?”
“No. Whe
n we found out what she and Ian did, thinking about it made me sick. I hated them both. I threw out every picture I had of either of them.”
“So did I.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Mum.”
“I didn’t feel like me. But, Mieka, it’s been almost twenty years since Ian died, and so much has changed. I adopted Taylor. I married Zack. I watched you and your brothers grow into fine people who make good decisions about their lives.”
“There’ve been a lot of changes in my life too,” Mieka said, “and most of what’s happened has been better than anything I could have hoped for: giving birth to the girls and watching them grow up, marrying Charlie, giving birth to Des, being there for everything we’ve shared with you, Zack, Pete and Angus. My life is full. I don’t have room to carry the pain of what happened years ago.”
“Jill is still carrying that pain, Mieka. For the past three years, her life has been defined by her guilt about what she did to our family and her fear that she can never repair the breach between us. On Thursday, Jill told me that she’s finally faced the fact that she will never be part of our lives, and she’s leaving Regina at Thanksgiving.”
“Because of what I did,” Mieka said miserably. She was silent for a long while. “Mum, you know that if I had a chance to undo that, I would.”
“Do you want that chance?”
“Yes, but if I had it, I don’t know what I’d do with it. When I was young, I loved Jill. I can’t remember when she wasn’t part of my life.”
“She was your godmother.”
“She was more than that. She was a friend who was always there for me, and she always knew what I needed. When Brent Nichols broke up with me, I thought my life was over. You were in Weyburn with Pete and Angus for a hockey tournament, so I called Jill. She came over with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and she and I talked for hours.”