by Gail Bowen
* * *
Not surprisingly when I drove to the airport to meet Taylor and pick up Mieka, Charlie D and their family, my younger daughter was still very much on my mind. I spotted Taylor in the terminal before she saw me, and for a few moments, I had the odd sensation of observing her from the perspective of a stranger.
She was striding towards the arrivals area unhurriedly but deliberately. Taylor had inherited Sally’s long-limbed beauty and her father’s brown eyes, dark hair and chiselled features. She was a striking young woman, and more than a few heads turned as she walked by. When she noticed me, Taylor’s face brightened. “Hey, there you are.”
Her smile was broad and open, and Lizzie’s words about my daughter and Vale being consigned to hell because of their love hit me with the force of a slap. I reached out to Taylor and drew her close. Her hair smelled of rosemary and mint. “Everything okay?” she said. “That’s a very warm welcome for a daughter you tucked in last night.”
“Just thinking how lucky we are to have you,” I said.
“That goes both ways,” Taylor said, and then she glanced over my shoulder. “And look — here comes our clan!”
After a round of hugs and excitement, we claimed the Dowhanuik-Kilbourn luggage and headed for the parking lot. When everything was unloaded at Mieka and Charlie’s and the bags were carried upstairs, Taylor ordered pizza for all, and Madeleine and Lena began texting friends to announce they were home.
“If nobody minds, I’m taking off,” I said. “There was a fire last night at the production studio. No one was hurt, but Zack’s with Georgie Shepherd and Nick Kovacs dealing with the aftermath, and I want to be at home if they need me.”
“No problem,” Mieka said. She glanced at her husband. “Charlie has been the soul of discretion, but I’m aware there are complications with Sisters and Strangers. Mum, if it gets ugly, promise you’ll back off. You’re the only mimi the grandkids have.” She tried to lighten the mood. “Besides you haven’t seen the fourteen hours of New York videos the girls made.”
“I promise I won’t take any chances,” I said. “And we’re all getting together at Pete and Maisie’s tomorrow afternoon. There’ll be plenty of time for me to get into that New York state of mind then.”
Mieka and I hugged each other goodbye, but when I moved towards Charlie D, he said, “Let me walk you out. We need to talk about that fire, and there’s other news.”
When we got to my car, I said, “I can’t tell you much about the fire beyond what I told you in the text I sent last night. All we know so far is that it started sometime around midnight, and it appears that the firefighters got it under control relatively soon. What’s the other news?”
Instinctively, Charle D and I both kept our voices low. “Julian Chase uncovered some facts about the company that produced the series Gabe knocked out of the way to get the network to green-light Sisters and Strangers. It’s called Aunt Nancy Productions.”
“Anansi,” I said. “That’s clever: Anansi the Spider, the spirit of all stories.”
Charlie smiled. “You misheard. Not Anansi, the spirit of all stories — Aunt Nancy as in an aunt named Nancy.”
I laughed. “Not as inspired as ‘Anansi,’ but solid and reassuring. No matter what, Aunt Nancy will always be there with milk and cookies.”
Charlie D raised an eyebrow. “Not quite,” he said. “Aunt Nancy’s had her ups and downs of late. A year and a half ago, the owner decided to retire. The company’s reputation was sound, and it sold quickly. Work on the six-part series — which incidentally was called At the Algonquin — was going well, and Julian says the change in ownership shouldn’t have mattered. The script was locked, the actors and director had been hired, the pilot was being shot and the network was prepared to sign on as the streaming service.”
“Then Gabe brought Sisters and Strangers to the network and they decided to go with it rather than the other series.”
“That’s what we thought,” Charlie said. “But that wasn’t the way it happened. When Gabe approached the network, Aunt Nancy had already pulled At the Algonquin because of ‘creative differences.’”
“Is that usual?”
“No. Not at that stage. At the Algonquin appeared to be home free, but I guess something happened, and Aunt Nancy decided to pull the plug before the network did.”
“And Aunt Nancy’s announcement about ‘creative differences’ was just a way to save face.”
Charlie D shrugged. “Apparently. But whatever the circumstances, Aunt Nancy was decimated. The rent on its offices has been paid until the end of the year, but it’s now just a shell company — no employees, no customers, no products, no services.”
“But the company still exists,” I said. “And someone out there does not wish Sisters and Strangers well. It’s hard not to suspect a connection.”
Charlie D’s hazel eyes were troubled. “It is. First the rumours about what happened to Roy Brodnitz on that island and now the fire. When I told Julian about the fire, he said he’d worked in MediaNation’s entertainment division for ten years and his Spidey Sense tells him this is going to be a big story. Anyway, we agreed that he’ll keep digging for answers in New York, and I’ll do the same in Regina.”
“Why do I suddenly feel a chill?”
“Probably for the same reason Julian and I both did when I told him about the fire,” Charlie D said. “Something bad is happening. Jo, promise me you’ll take Mieka’s words to heart. If the situation starts getting weird, back off.”
“Okay, but only if you’ll make the promise too,” I said. “Your mum and I waited thirty-four years for you and Mieka to find each other, and we’ve always counted on a happy ending.”
* * *
On Sunday, when Zack and I arrived at the Kovacs’ to pick up Taylor, she and Chloe met us at the door. Taylor had brought her a paint-by-numbers set, and Chloe was fizzing with excitement about the picture they’d painted together. “Wait till you see it,” she said. “The girl in our painting has black hair like me and a cat like Taylor’s.” Chloe turned to our daughter. “I forget the kind of cat.”
“It’s a tortoiseshell,” Taylor said. “And our painting is already hanging in its place of honour over the mantle.”
I kicked off my boots, and Zack and I followed the girls into the living room, where Nick and Georgie were waiting by the fireplace. Nick was wearing the cashmere pullover Georgie had given him for his birthday, cornflower blue “to match Nick’s eyes” Georgie had said. After we’d admired the art, Taylor and Chloe went upstairs to get Taylor’s overnight bag, and Zack wheeled closer to Nick. “Anything new on the fire?”
Nick shook his head. “Nothing concrete, but Fire Protection Services is interested in the fact that the damage was so contained.”
Zack’s tone was even. “Jo said it was ‘a very considerate fire.’”
Nick frowned. “Fire Protection Services share Jo’s opinion. They say the limits of the fire were almost ‘surgically precise,’ but there’s no evidence of arson, so for the time being, we’re in limbo.”
No evidence of arson. It seemed that Danny Kerrigan was off the hook. I felt my nerves unknot. The teachings of the Church of Bountiful Gifts were cruel and punitive, but Kyle Daly had told me Danny’s heart was in the right place, so there was hope that Danny might find his own answers. Relieved, I turned my attention back to Nick’s explanation of the next steps the company could take in the aftermath of the fire.
“Living Skies has a good credit rating and a promising financial future,” he said, “so I’m going to meet the director of photography this afternoon. We’ll write up our wish lists, and Ainsley can handle it from there.”
“Isn’t she planning to take Roy’s ashes to Massachusetts sometime this week?” I said.
“She’s leaving for New York tomorrow morning,” Georgie said. “She and some friends are driving to a columbari
um near Lennox to place Roy’s ashes in the niche with Lev-Aaron’s. Ainsley and her friends are going to stay at Roy and Lev-Aaron’s summer place until Thursday, and she’s flying back here on Friday.”
“Ainsley has a tough week ahead of her,” I said. “But the production studios are intact, so we should be grateful for small mercies.”
At that point, Taylor and Chloe returned, and Nick’s face softened. “Not to mention being grateful for blessings like these two.” He smiled his transforming smile.
“An exit line if I ever heard one,” Zack said. “Time to hit the road.”
As they stood together in the doorway, seeing us off, Nick with his arm around Georgie’s shoulder and Chloe in front, close to them both, they were a handsome trio and a happy one. “Nick looks ten years younger,” Zack said. “He told me once that every morning he hopes this will be the day when he’ll find a way to forgive himself for ruining Chloe’s life.”
“The person who blew the red light and T-boned Nick’s car is the one who should be seeking forgiveness,” I said.
“But Nick was the one who undid Chloe’s seat belt when she complained it was too tight,” Zack said. “They were almost home, so Nick figured she was safe.”
It was a sobering observation, and the three of us were silent, absorbed in our own thoughts until we passed the city limits and reached the prairie. Zack’s car window was partially open, and when the air drifting in became fragrant with the scent of moisture and warming earth, Zack inhaled deeply. “Spring,” he said, and his tone was blissful.
“Not yet,” I said. “Kurt Vonnegut says that for people who live in climates like ours, Spring is May and June. Summer is July and August. Autumn is September and October, and then comes the season he calls ‘Locking.’ Vonnegut says that November and December aren’t winter. They’re Locking. January and February are winter, and then come March and April, the Unlocking months when the earth warms and opens and new life begins.”
Zack reached over and rubbed my leg. “I like that warming and opening part.”
Taylor coughed theatrically. “You do realize that I can hear you, don’t you?”
* * *
Maisie Crawford and her twin sister, Lee, had grown up on a farm seventy-five kilometres south of Regina. The girls had always done everything together, but when they enrolled at the University of Saskatchewan their paths diverged. Maisie entered the College of Law, and Lee began work towards a Ph.D. in Animal and Poultry Science. After she was called to the bar, Maisie stayed in the city, but Lee returned to the farm to continue the breeding programs begun by the guardian who had raised them. When shortly after Peter and Maisie’s wedding, Lee died, the newlyweds moved into the farm to continue her life’s work. The decision had been made in haste and grief, and two years later, I suspected that neither Peter nor Maisie was certain that their choice had been the right one.
Maisie was pregnant with their twin boys when she and Peter married, so the first order of business was to convert a farmhouse that had been built before World War I and was solid and well maintained into a home that could serve the needs of a young family and a doting grandfather who was paraplegic. Change was necessary. A new wing was added on the main floor and except for the parlour where Maisie and Lee had done their homework and practised piano forty-five minutes a day, every room in the house was extensively renovated. The result was a home that was bright, warm, welcoming and child- and wheelchair-friendly.
Taking up Lee’s work was a perfect fit for our son, and he reveled in the fact that except for chores, his work was flexible enough to accommodate raising two little boys. But the fit was not perfect for Maisie. She was a gifted trial lawyer, but the demands of criminal law are punishing. Maisie and Peter were deeply in love, and Maisie loved their sons. But she was most fully alive during the hours when she was preparing a case or in court, and she was frank about feeling restless and unfulfilled as a stay-at-home mother. Falconer Shreve had an excellent on-site child-care facility and so far Peter and Maisie had managed to balance their commitments, but their respective careers were growing, and so were their sons.
My late husband’s mother was a wise and realistic woman who told me that a mother-in-law’s role is to keep her lips closed and her arms open. That was my policy too, but I had noticed the strain that had begun marking Maisie’s face and Peter’s, and I was counting the days till June 11, when Strangers and Sisters would begin shooting and I would be free to lend a hand with the boys. Until then, an afternoon in the country with our kids, their kids, newborn animals, chicks, poults and a field of crocuses was just what I needed. When we pulled into the driveway to the Crawford-Kilbourn farm, it appeared that Vince Treadgold had decided that an afternoon in the country was exactly what he needed too.
“What the hell?” Zack pointed towards the red Mercedes parked beside Charlie D and Mieka’s Volvo, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Do you see what I see?” he said. “That’s Vince’s Mercedes. Your little chat at Nick’s party must have convinced him to trade it in for a tractor.”
When Peter came out to greet us, Vince was with him. Both wore rubber boots, blue jeans and sweatshirts. Peter’s said “World’s Best Dad,” Vince’s bore the name of a pharmaceutical company. Both men looked as surprised, delighted and apprehensive as two people who had agreed to pool their resources to fund a start-up after meeting twelve hours earlier at the croupier’s table of a casino.
Zack grinned. “I’ll bite. So what’s going on?”
Vince and Pete exchanged a quick look, and Pete began. “In broad strokes, Vince called me yesterday morning, said that he’d told Mum he was interested in farming, but he had no idea where to start, and she’d given him my contact info. He asked if there was a time when he could see our operation and I told him to come ahead.”
“Pete was kind enough to let me follow him around all day. He even let me lend a hand. It was the best day I’d had in a very long time,” Vince said. “We had dinner with Maisie and the boys and after Colin and Charlie were settled for the night, Pete and I went upstairs to his office. I told him that I wanted to work towards having an operation like his and asked him where I should start. And we came up with some answers.”
“Which we can talk about after lunch,” Pete said. “Right now, I’ll just say Vince and I have a plan that should work and we’re both pretty excited about it.”
Vince went over to Zack and clapped him on the back. “In the thirty years we’ve known each other, this is the first time I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words,” he said. “That alone may have been worth changing my life for.”
* * *
That afternoon at the Crawford-Kilbourn farm was filled with memorable moments. Lena, for reasons known only to Lena, had decided to make certain that Vince felt included in the gathering. To that end, she sat beside him at lunch, told him that her favourite part of her trip to New York City was seeing the SpongeBob SquarePants musical at the Palace Theatre, and asked if he’d seen it yet. When Vince confessed that he hadn’t seen the musical, and in fact, didn’t know who SpongeBob SquarePants was, Lena pulled her chair closer. As she began describing the life of the happy-go-lucky sponge who lives in a pineapple in a community known as Bikini Bottom on the ocean floor, Vince looked confused, so Lena piled on the details. She told Vince about Mr. Krabs, SpongeBob’s boss at the Krusty Krab, a single father who is devoted to his adopted sperm whale daughter Pearl but is sometimes mean to SpongeBob, telling him he’s just a simple sponge who somehow doesn’t seem to absorb very much. When that didn’t do the trick, Lena persevered, telling Vince about Sandy Cheeks, the clever karate-trained squirrel in an astronaut suit who is SpongeBob’s friend. Vince was still confused. But when Lena described SpongeBob’s starfish sidekick, who asks questions like “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Vince laughed, and Lena clapped her hands in triumph. “I knew you’d get it,” she said.
There were other nice moments, Zack as al
ways stationing himself between the twins at lunch so he could encourage them to try the lentil soup by taking spoonfuls himself and smacking his lips. It always worked, and that day, Colin and Charlie cleaned their bowls. After lunch, the twins in matching red rubber boots, followed the men out to the barnyard to do chores, while the womenfolk snapped photos to send to the boys’ Uncle Angus in Calgary.
Every year when we went to see the first crocuses, I told our children and later, our granddaughters, the story of Demeter and Persephone. This was the first year Charlie and Colin were old enough to join us on the climb up the hill, and Madeleine asked if she could be the one to tell the story of the daughter who went to the underworld to comfort the spirits of the dead and of the mother who missed her daughter so much she decided that nothing would ever grow again.
The ground was damp, so we’d brought blankets for the kids to sit on. After Taylor set out the blankets, she, Madeleine, Lena, the twins and, at his request, Charlie D, sat in a circle and Madeleine began. When she reached the part of the story where Demeter said she was so lonely she wanted to die, Madeleine’s face was grave and Charlie and Colin looked anxious.
Madeleine picked up on the boys’ uncertainty and rushed to the happy ending. “But guess what? When Demeter thought she would never be happy again, a ring of crocuses pushed their way through the dirt.” Madeleine pointed to the crocuses on the ground in front of them. “The flowers Demeter saw were just like these, and guess what else? They were whispering to her. Taylor, Lena and I will show you how to put your ear close to the ground so you can hear what the crocuses say.” When everyone was in position, Madeleine whispered, “Can you hear them? They’re saying, ‘She’s coming. She’s coming. Persephone is coming.’”