He nodded. “Until now. Because Jeanne, as you know, is not a Boland. Royston Boland built it and passed it on to his son, Clarence. Clarence gave it to his daughter, Virginia, when she married Charles Sinclair. Then, of course, with the help of Quentin here, Jeanne got it from her father.”
As they walked down the next fairway, Quentin glanced at his friend, who appeared preoccupied with something other than golf. “What do you think, Kurt? Should Jeanne sell the place while she can?”
Kurt shrugged. “She has a golden opportunity to get rid of it now with Kevin and his company interested in it. It would be a sure sell. But then, I really don’t know if she wants to part with it.”
“As I recall, when her sister thought she owned it, her plan was to put it on the market. Emily didn’t waste much time. Any reason you can think of?”
Kurt shook his head. “I dunno, Quentin,” he said, lining up his ball on the tee. “But I’m willing to bet that house holds more secrets than the Sinclair sisters want to come out.”
* * * * *
On Monday morning, a grey band of fog atop the Southside Hills burned off within an hour after sunrise. In his hotel room, Kevin caught the latest news on Canada AM, then pressed the off button on the television remote. He sipped his coffee and sought another packet of sugar from the counter, snapping it open and dumping the contents into the mug. He laid the mug near the edge of the table and reached for a legal-size folder on the chair. Just looking at the photo energized him as no other investment ever had. He should be used to it by now, even bored. But this was different. The house was different. The motivation was different.
The label on the file: the sinclair house. He noted the address, reached back for a map of the city on the night table, and quickly determined that it was not far from the hotel. Within minutes, he’d splashed cool water on his face, towelled off, and adjusted his blue paisley tie. With a glance out the window, he grabbed his sports jacket hanging on the chair and his camera from the bed and closed the door behind him. As he waited for the elevator, he reflected on his conversation with Kurt on Friday. Damn, there’s something about that guy that’s intimidating. Sighing heavily, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets. While he wasn’t naive enough to think that Kurt Steffensen wouldn’t question the motives of everyone who walked into his office, he had hoped at least for a spark of interest. I can get Kurt to bite. The man’s no fool, especially when it comes to money. Perhaps having his son on my side might help. The elevator door opened and he stepped out into the lobby. His mind turned to Jeanne Sinclair and what the day would bring. He realized that twice on Friday morning he’d been warned that Jeanne Sinclair was a formidable force. Their descriptions had not been consistent with what he already knew about her. Surely a divorced woman in her late fifties would be more pliable?
The front desk was busy with weekend guests checking out. A large tour bus blocked the view in front of the revolving exit door. He approached the young man standing at the concierge desk. Remembering the familiarity that Newfoundlanders seemed to share, he called,“Good morning, Jeff!” He greeted him with his best ingratiating smile.
“’Mornin’, sir! Nice day.”
Kevin leaned on the counter. “I’m looking for a particular house on Forest Road. Is that near here?”
“Oh, yeah. Just a few minutes up the road. You can walk it.”
Kevin wondered if he looked in need of exercise as he watched Jeff outline the directions on the city map in front of him “I see. The house I’m interested in is owned by the Sinclair family.” He spoke not so much to inform him as to see if he would comment.
“Oh, that big old place,” he replied, dismissively. “It’s huge. But I don’t think anyone lives there now. The old couple that lived there for years is gone now. Both died. Mr. Sinclair passed away last year. I remember them well. He and his daughter, Jeanne, were regulars here for dinner on Sunday evenings.”
“Very good. Thank you.” He understood fully why the congenial young man was hired for the job. “Hopefully, his daughter will be interested in selling, depending on how much renovation it needs.” He tucked the map in an outside pocket of his leather case.
“If it’s renovations you’re looking for, sir, Ms. Sinclair is the right one to talk to. Her son is one of the best architects there is, so they say. ’Specially at renovating those old houses.”
“Oh?” Kevin adjusted his jacket and pretended to only half listen.
“Joe Steffensen,” he announced proudly, like he was his own son. “Don’t know how he does it. To be honest, my mother would say, ‘put a match to the place.’ But no, this guy turns an ol’ dump into a million-dollar mansion. He’s only a young guy, but he’s got talent, so they say.”
“Thanks, Jeff, that’s good to know. You’ve been a great help.”
Outside the revolving door, Kevin shook his head. Seems like the Steffensens have their fingers into everything around here. You can’t walk ten feet without hearing the name in glowing terms. I wonder if Jeanne Sinclair shares everyone else’s sentiment. It’s time to find out.
* * * * *
Lindsay Martel, Sandi’s mother, returned from a morning walk around Quidi Vidi Lake with Mollie, the family’s lively tricolour collie. She paused in their driveway to pick up some wayward litter, tossed the doggy-doo bag in the garbage can, and looked up at their green two-storey house. From the first moment she saw it three years ago, she wanted it to be their home. She loved the sun porch and the back garden, and it was so much bigger than their house in Halifax, where they had lived for thirty-two years. She finally had her own special place for her sewing and crafts. This was home, or almost home. Home for Lindsay and her family, the Mackenzies, was in Corner Brook, on the west coast of the island. Even after all these years, Steven teased her when she insisted that Humber Valley was by far the most beautiful part of the island. He swore that nothing could beat the view from Signal Hill overlooking the province’s capital city.
For most of their married life, the Martel family had lived in Nova Scotia, first in Truro, then Dartmouth, and then on a quiet street off Joseph Howe Drive in Halifax. After thirty years of teaching primary school, Lindsay chose to retire, but she missed the little ones. So much had happened since their decision to move to St. John’s when Steven was offered a better position as an engineer to work for the provincial government. Jordy, their son, had accepted a scholarship to do graduate work in business at the local university, and Sandi had only recently accepted a faculty position there. Now Sandi was getting married and life was changing rapidly, more quickly than Lindsay wanted it to.
The gusty wind made her glad that she had chosen to wear her L.L.Bean hoodie with a heavy T-shirt underneath. Her memories of days in Halifax were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into their driveway. Mollie ran enthusiastically to greet Sandi.
“Were you two out for a walk?”
“Yeah, I walked Mollie around the lake. The wind’s supposed to pick up this afternoon, so I wanted to get in a walk before we ended up on the other side of the ocean.”
Sandi locked her briefcase in the trunk and followed her mother into the kitchen. “Joe’s coming by. We’re going to look at that house on Waterford Bridge Road that I told you about.”
“Your father and I drove by there yesterday but we didn’t see a ‘for sale’ sign on any house.”
In the kitchen, Sandi grabbed an apple cinnamon muffin from a bag on the counter and placed it in the microwave. “No, it’s not on the market yet. But it’s right next door to Joe’s friend, David, and he said he was talking to the owner, Dan Maddox. According to David, Dan is waiting for a job transfer to come through. That should be soon, and then he’ll put it up for sale. We’re going to drop by there this morning to see it. Joe says it’s a beautiful piece of land.” She settled on a kitchen chair. “By the way, Carrie and Hannah are coming to town on Wednes
day. Joe and Lauren will meet their grandmother for the first time.”
“Where are they staying?”
“To everyone’s surprise, they’re staying with Jeanne.”
“Really?” Lindsay responded, guardedly. “That should be interesting. But I guess since Jeanne stayed with them at Easter, it’s only fair. Besides, they’re all family.”
“Hmmm . . . not sure they’ve got the mother-daughter thing together yet. Joe and Lauren are anxious to see Hannah and Carrie, but I don’t know where Jeanne stands on familial relations. I’ll have Joe bring them by while they’re here so that you can meet Hannah. She’ll likely ask about Grandma MacKenzie, since she went to school with Hannah’s older sister, Frances.”
“If they’re staying at Jeanne’s, they’ll be close by.”
Sandi heard Joe’s car and met him at the door. “Good timing,” she said, as she kissed him gently. “I was just telling Mom that Hannah and Carrie are coming on Wednesday.”
“’Mornin’, Lindsay. Yeah, a grandmother I didn’t know I had. This will be interesting.”
“Have you got time for coffee?”
Joe shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m on a tight schedule.” Sandi stood next to him with her jacket. “I’ll be sure to tell Hannah and Carrie to drop by.”
“By the way, have you two totally ruled out the Sinclair house?”
“Yes,” they answered in unison and laughed at the chorus.
“Any idea what your mother will do with it, Joe? Will she try to sell it?”
“I really don’t know. It wasn’t easy for her to get ownership of it, so she might not be anxious to sell.”
“It’s a beautiful old home, if you like that kind of thing.”
Joe shook his head. “Lindsay, when I look at that place I think of the miserable experiences I had in it. We didn’t visit often as kids, but when we did, Lauren and I were not welcomed. The last time I was there when my grandfather was alive was the worst Christmas Eve of my life. I hope someone buys the place and renovates it so that it no longer can even be called the Sinclair house.”
Lindsay walked out behind them, holding Mollie back from leaving as well. “Joe, do you think it will be hard for you to talk to Hannah about Charles, given what you think of him?”
“I doubt she’ll mention him to me, Lindsay. I’m sure Mother has already told her how I feel, and I’d rather not bring up such a sensitive subject.”
“Of course. Just remember that she might not be as enthusiastic as you and Lauren about meeting. After all, the events of the past few months have dredged up powerful memories, and you and Hannah probably see Charles from very different perspectives.”
Joe nodded. “I’m sure we do.” He glanced at Sandi, knowing they were likely thinking the same thing. If Sandi’s brother, Jordy, were here now, he would advise Joe that he was getting one of Lindsay’s invaluable life lessons. “We’ll take it slow, Lindsay. Thanks for the advice.”
* * * * *
Kevin turned right onto Forest Road and looked for the number of the Sinclair house. When he saw iron gates, he knew he had reached his destination. He had only driven by the place once in his visits to St. John’s. Now, he pulled into the long driveway, parked his rental car, and sat for a moment, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. Though the house was empty, the large imposing structure appeared to be well maintained. It’s certainly big enough for an inn, and it looks like some work has been done recently. He stepped out of his car and walked around the house, taking in every feature. He took some photos of the pediments and bay windows and measured potential space for parking. When he stood in the garden at the back of the imposing house, he realized for the first time the significance of where he was.
Back inside his car, he pulled out the address of Jeanne’s house and a street map of St. John’s. After a few moments of determining the best route, he headed toward Elizabeth Avenue and turned onto Exeter Avenue. Leah, Jeanne’s housekeeper, was enjoying tea at the kitchen table when she heard the doorbell. The man was unfamiliar to her, and she was cautious. “May I help you?” she asked, without opening the door too wide.
“Yes, I hope so,” Kevin said, with his most ingratiating smile. “I’m looking for a Jeanne Sinclair, or is it, perhaps, Steffensen? I’m sorry, some women do revert back to their maiden name, but I’m not sure . . .”
“Ms. Sinclair.”
“Fine, then, yes, is she at home?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I ask who you are?”
“My name is Kevin Gillis. I’m interested in her house. Not this one. The Sinclair house. Do you live here with Ms. Sinclair?”
“I work for her. I’m her housekeeper.”
“I see. Well, then, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was hoping to have a chat with Jeanne . . . Ms. Sinclair. When do you expect her back?”
“She went downtown this morning. I expect since it’s now lunchtime, she’s having lunch at the hotel. But Ms. Sinclair is a very private person. I don’t know if she’d be willing to talk to someone she’s unprepared for.”
Regrouping, he smiled again, hoping his charm would work. “I understand completely, and I appreciate it. I’m a very private person myself. I’ll check back when she returns after lunch. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.”
“You’re welcome,” Leah replied, as she closed the door, without realizing how much help she had been.
* * * * *
Having only an hour for lunch, Lauren Steffensen hurried to her car in the Churchill Square parking lot, tossed her package on the back seat, and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Just enough time to go home and have lunch with Alan.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into their driveway on a cul-de-sac off Waterford Bridge Road. Her husband, Alan, met her at the door. “I made you a spinach salad with avocados and strawberries. It’s on the table. I didn’t think you’d have a lot of time.”
“Thanks so much. You’re right. I have meetings all afternoon at the Confederation Building, and they start in about an hour.” She pulled off her jacket and tossed it on the bench in the front hall. “What are you doing today?”
“I’m getting ready to head into the university archives to do some research. By the way, your mother called. She wanted to know what you are serving on Thursday evening for supper when Hannah and Carrie are here.”
Lauren stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “Why?”
“No idea. You know your mother,” he said, retrieving the homemade salad dressing from the refrigerator. “She doesn’t explain herself to me. I told her I wasn’t sure, but I thought you mentioned salmon.”
“Yes, if I can get some.” She sat at the small table in the kitchen and sprinkled vinaigrette over the mixed greens. “I’m looking forward to seeing Carrie again and meeting Hannah, of course, but frankly, I have no idea how Mother will react to all of this. You know what she’s like. To be honest, I’m anxious about Thursday night.” She paused from her meal. “I ran into Brittany Kavanagh in the Square this morning. She said her parents are back from Florida.”
“She can’t be too pleased about that.”
“No. I certainly wouldn’t be. Not with the way Caroline nags her all the time.” Lauren reached for her glass of ice water and sipped it. “I told Brittany about Hannah and Carrie. The whole story.”
Alan laid down his sandwich, reached for his mug of coffee, and sat back. “Well, now, that brought quite a reaction, no doubt.”
“Yep. You know Brit. I think she’s probably still standing in the middle of Terrace in the Square with her mouth open in shock. Anyway, I figured it was time, Alan. The word’s going to get out anyway. It’s only a big deal for us. No one else cares. She may as well hear it from me. I’m certainly not going to be embarrassed about having Hannah as my grandmother. For one thing, she’s a hundred per cent
improvement over the woman I thought was my grandmother.”
“Does Brittany’s mother know?”
“No, or at least if she does, she hasn’t told Brittany. Telling Caroline something is like publishing it in the Evening Telegram.”
Alan wiped his fingers in the napkin and reached for bottled water in the refrigerator. “My advice is to let your mother know as soon as possible that Caroline and Brittany know. Otherwise, she’ll be blindsided, and you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Lauren nodded. “Good point. I’ll call her when I come home this evening.”
But it would be too late.
* * * * *
Shortly after noon, Kevin walked through the revolving door of Hotel Newfoundland, looked around the busy lobby, and approached the concierge desk. “Jeff, sorry to bother you again.”
“No bother, sir. Did you find the Sinclair house?”
“Yeah, I did. Thanks.” He feigned a slight chuckle. “It seems I’m supposed to meet someone today for lunch, and I can’t remember where it is. When I asked the person’s assistant, she simply said, ‘the hotel.’ Now, forgive me, I’m from away, I should have asked . . .”
“That’s here.”
“Sorry?”
“The hotel. She meant this hotel. You see, most people in St. John’s, at least the older residents, refer to this place as the hotel.”
“But surely there are other places to stay in the city.”
“Oh yeah, lots. But the Newfoundland Hotel, or Hotel Newfoundland, as we call it now, was always the place to stay back in the day, so that name stuck.”
“Oh, I see. Okay, then. Perhaps I’ll find her in the restaurant.”
“Yes, sir. The Cabot Club, likely. Although it may be The Bonavista, out here in front. The Cabot Club is fancier.”
“Thank you kindly,” Kevin responded, guessing that Jeanne Sinclair would eat in the fancier place. He paused near the glass doors and recalled that Kurt had wished him luck. Now he wondered how he would approach this woman without offending her. She was, after all, on her own territory. His thoughts were interrupted.
All Good Intentions Page 5