“You’re one fortunate young man,” he said, as he sank into a soft leather chair across from Quentin’s desk.
Quentin stopped before he sat. “I am?”
“Yes, for one so young, recently minted as a lawyer, you have a wonderful workplace, tastefully decorated.” He ran his hand across the armrest. “And expensive,” he added. “I’m guessing neither the rent nor that desk came cheaply. But then, your number one client is Kurt Steffensen.”
“Are you doing an appraisal of young Canadian lawyers?” Quentin sat heavily in the chair.
Kevin laughed. “No, no, not at all.”
“So what can I do for you today?” Quentin wanted to get to the point.
Kevin realized immediately that the young man sitting across from him emulated Kurt Steffensen in many ways. He also became quickly aware that Kurt had gotten to the young man and warned him of what was to come. “I guess you’re aware that I spoke to Kurt on Friday about a land development plan that I’m proposing. I’m a member of a group called Winterberry Development.”
“Yes, he mentioned that to me.”
“Then you familiarized yourself with our plan?”
“No. I wasn’t asked to.”
“I’m sure he’ll be interested. And a word from you would go a long way. I’ve heard you described as his advisor.”
“By whom?”
“That doesn’t matter. But I am hoping you’ll look it over. I have an additional copy here, if you wish.” Without waiting for a response, he withdrew a file folder identical to the one he had given Kurt and placed it in front of Quentin. “I understand that Kurt has looked out to you since your parents died. Helped you through law school, that sort of thing. You must feel that you owe him.”
“I work for him.” Quentin was momentarily surprised but was careful not to show it. “He’s been very good to me, and we’ve become close personal friends. He has a high work standard. No doubt you’ve heard that already. I admire that, and I try to meet his standard.”
“From what I hear, you do quite well in that regard.”
There was a lull in the conversation. Quentin waited. “Anything else?”
“Quentin, I’ll be honest with you.”
“You mean you haven’t been so far?”
Kevin laughed. “Fair enough. As I said, I’m interested in land development. We buy and sell real estate, develop some of it into residential areas, retirement villages, guest homes, that sort of thing. We’re looking to make inroads into the province. Everything I’ve read suggests that, despite the collapse of the fisheries, there’s going to be a boom here with oil development and mineral exploration in Labrador. The city will be the benefactor. So it looks like this is the place to be.”
“We live in hope. It’s been our mantra for some three or four hundred years since Sir Humphrey Gilbert came through those Narrows,” he explained, waving his hand over his shoulder to indicate the harbour.
“It may be your mantra, as you call it, but, frankly, your tone seems cynical,” Kevin observed with a smile.
Quentin sat forward and rubbed his face with both hands. “Perhaps so. I’d prefer that we made our own plans.”
Kevin wanted desperately to say how much he agreed with him. Instead, he chose not to commit his opinion and to let out more about himself than was necessary. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
“How so?”
“I am wondering about the extent of Kurt’s land holdings. I have read about him, that is, what is public knowledge. But I’d like to know more about his interest in property.”
“C’mon, Kevin, you know I’m not going to tell you anything about my client’s business interests.”
“Of course. I appreciate that. But all I’m asking is whether his investment interests include land.”
“And if it is, and I’m not saying that it is, why would he be interested in selling to you? Why not develop it himself?”
“Because as you know, there’s a difference between owning land and developing land. My company, the people I am associated with, we develop land. I would see it as an investment for Kurt. He has the financial resources to buy up vacant land right now. And this is the time to do it, I’m told. He would reap a substantial part of the profits. Surely Kurt Steffensen, the businessman that he is, wouldn’t turn away from such an opportunity.”
“Do you know how many similar offers and proposals come at him on a regular basis?” Quentin sighed loudly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Gillis. If you want to find out about Kurt’s property holdings, you’ll have to ask him directly.”
“I did meet with him. He was not forthcoming. But I assume that was because he would like to have his staff, people like you, check me out before he makes a commitment. It makes perfect sense. I get the impression that he has very protective people around him, suggesting, perhaps, that he has something to hide.” He quickly held up his hand to gesture that he knew what was coming if he allowed Quentin to speak. “No need to warn me, Quentin. I’m just speculating. We all do that from time to time. As I say, I wish I had the protective staff around me that he does.”
Quentin smiled. “Live in hope, Kevin, live in hope.”
Kevin leaned forward. “I’ll leave my proposal with you. I’ll contact you in a few days. I’m heading out of town to check out some property on the northeast coast.”
Quentin mindlessly opened the cover and saw a photo of a familiar house. “The Sinclair house on Forest Road. I wasn’t aware that it was for sale.” He didn’t indicate that he already knew of Kevin’s interest.
“It’s not,” he explained, “but it has the potential to go on the market, and I’m hoping to be the first to make an offer.”
“Then you’ve met with Ms. Sinclair?”
“I have. But I prefer to keep what we discussed between us.” Kevin shifted in the chair. “Quentin, I would like to ask you something, and I promise it won’t violate your client confidentiality.”
“Okay.”
“Jeanne seems to be quite loyal to her father. I would like to know more about him. What can you tell me about Charles Sinclair?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Kevin shrugged. “It’s personal curiosity and . . .” He hesitated. “I like to dabble in freelance writing. I have published profiles of entrepreneurs and their accomplishments. I’m thinking about putting together something on the Water Street businessmen here in years gone by. Of course, I realize that the past might not have much appeal to today’s readers, but I’d like to compare their style to what we have today, to the Kurt Steffensens of this world, so to speak.”
Ah, Kurt’s instincts were right, as usual. There is more to this. “There’s not much for me to tell you, Kevin. I didn’t know him very well. He was a businessman, a prominent one, back in the 1940s and ’50s. He made money, some good business decisions, and left what he had to his two daughters.”
“How did he treat his employees?”
Quentin shrugged, weighing his every word. “Like you would expect him to for the era. They deferred to him, grateful, I s’pose, to have work, until times got prosperous and unions came along. Things changed after that. Joining Canada had a big impact on business here, the competition, and the way things were run.”
“Would you say he wielded power?”
“I don’t know how one measures power, Kevin, especially in another era.”
Quentin ran his hand through his dark straight hair and stood to show out his visitor.
Kevin hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you’d review my plans and then the three of us can get together. I’d also like to include Kurt’s son. I understand that Joe is a highly recognized renovating architect.”
“He is.”
“Thank you, Quentin. It’s been a pleasure.” He stood and extended his
hand. “I’m sure we’ll be meeting again soon.”
Quentin tried to read his face. He didn’t have Kurt’s instinct in observing people and, while he had more information now, he was still convinced that he did not have the whole story. He wondered what it was and, more importantly, why he was keeping it to himself. He decided to walk Kevin to the front door.
“So, are you from Halifax?” he asked casually.
“I’ve spent most of my life there.”
They had reached the door, and before Quentin could follow up with another question, Kevin smiled, nodded his head slightly, and said goodbye.
Back at his desk, Quentin casually flipped through the business proposal. Big old houses into fancy inns. Seems harmless enough, though perhaps risky as a business venture in this part of the country. Still, he’s apparently done a marketing study, and that’s his worry, not mine. He closed the file, but for the remainder of the day, he had a nagging feeling that Kevin Gillis had much more in his plans. And Quentin hated to be nagged.
* * * * *
After a long day and so much on his mind, Kevin decided that a walk would refresh him. Instead of returning to the hotel, he headed down Duckworth Street to City Hall and turned down Water Street. Many of the stores he once knew when he visited in the ’60s were gone. He whispered their names. “The London, New York and Paris, Ayre’s, Bowring’s, Bon Marche.” At the corner of Water Street and Prescott Street, he stopped and turned back to look west. For a moment, he closed his eyes and remembered the area as it was when he was a young man. Distant memories. Water Street then was the city’s only retail area. He shook his head at the memory, hoping it would release the sadness that came with it. He checked his notepad that he held in his pocket and tried to match locations to stores that used to be. After a few minutes, he turned back and walked up the short hill, right on Duckworth, and back to the hotel.
The warmth of the hotel felt good but made him sleepy. Inside his room, he tossed his jacket and case on the end of the king-sized bed. From the window he could see an oil rig supply vessel just docking. If only my father were here to see that. What would he make of this place now? He loosened his blue paisley tie and unbuttoned the top button of his pristine white shirt. He flicked on the bathroom light and ran the water to wash his hands. He dried them with a white hand towel, left it on the side of the sink, and headed back to the bed. He piled all the pillows on the bed on one side and sat back on them and reached for the television remote, looking for the sports channel. Mindlessly, he pulled the third file folder off the chair next to the bed and opened it. A collection of very familiar items faced him. The file was labelled: Charles Sinclair.
* * * * *
Jeanne picked up two catalogues and a home furnishing magazine from the pile on her coffee table. She was pouring a glass of wine when the phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was her half-sister, Emily.
“Hello?”
“Jeanne, it’s been a while. You haven’t called.” She sounded offended.
Jeanne took her glass and sat in the armchair in the corner of her living room. “No, you were travelling and I didn’t know if you were back.”
“I’m home in Wolfville now.”
“Apparently,” Jeanne responded, rolling her eyes. “You had a nice vacation?”
“Oh yes. Lovely.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I’m calling to see if you’d like to visit for a while. I think we should talk.”
“Talk? What are we doing now?”
“I mean face to face. We haven’t really spoken at length since you met your mother and her daughter. I’d like to hear more about them. And I feel this is not something we should talk about over the phone.”
Jeanne dropped her head in frustration. “There isn’t much to tell, Emily. By the way, her daughter is my sister, a half-sister, like you.”
“Of yes, of course, but the relationship is hardly the same. After all, you and I grew up together in the same house. You met this person only a few months ago. What’s her name?”
“Carrie.”
“Yes. Anyway, would you consider flying up for a few days?”
Jeanne shivered at the thought. Her relationship with Emily had never been warm, a feeling made worse by their father’s passing and the inheritance of his estate. “Perhaps later in the month, Emily. I have company coming this week.”
“Oh?”
“Hannah and Carrie are coming to town.”
“I see.” She paused so long that Jeanne wondered if they had been disconnected. “Jeanne, I must caution you.” Her tone became deliberate. “You hardly know these people and, while I know that Father left her some money, they may be anxious to get more, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. But I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“I knew this would happen. You are so . . . generous, so giving.” Emily wanted to say gullible but knew it would only increase the tension between them. “I wouldn’t want you to be taken advantage of.”
Jeanne sat back, closed her eyes, and wondered how Emily could have grown up with her and still not truly know her. “Thank you for your concern, Emily. I wouldn’t worry.”
There was silence again on the end of the line. Finally, Emily spoke. “Have you made a decision about the house yet?”
“A decision?”
“Yes, have you put the house on the market? I understand that summertime is the best time to sell. And I hear there’s a good market now.”
“No, I haven’t given it much thought.” She chose not to mention Kevin Gillis and his interest in the house. Above all, she wondered about Emily’s sudden interest in the housing market.
“You really should, Jeanne,” she said, in a tone that surprised Jeanne. “You really should. It serves no purpose to you, sitting there empty.”
“Emily, I’m surprised that you’d want the house to be owned by someone else.”
“I don’t see why you are surprised. You’ll recall I was anxious to sell it when I thought it was mine. I’m just saying that I believe it’s a part of our lives that we should let go. We have memories of Father that we’ll carry forever without the aggravation of the house to worry about. My advice is to sell it as soon as someone comes along who is willing to make an offer. It’s best for all of us . . . to get it out of our lives. That house has been trouble from the beginning.”
Jeanne looked around the room, puzzled by what she was hearing. It was the first time, as she could recall, that Emily had started a sentence with “my advice is . . .” to Jeanne. As she had done with Caroline earlier, she chose to ignore the advice and changed the topic.
“Was the weather nice in South Carolina?”
“Warm. The trees and flowers were blooming.”
It was enough to spark Emily’s account of her travels. Jeanne let her ramble on about her vacation for the next fifteen minutes before she hung up. As she slowly walked upstairs to her bedroom a short time later, she wondered again about Emily’s unexpected forcefulness. The invitation to visit, she decided, was nothing more than a ruse. Emily’s real purpose for calling was to push her to sell the house. Jeanne had no idea why.
Meanwhile, alone in her living room in Wolfville, Emily had not moved from her living room chair since the phone call ended. She squeezed her eyes shut and considered the consequences if the truth came out. “You have to get rid of that house, Jeanne,” she whispered. “You have to. Before you and everyone else find out that it was never Father’s house to begin with.”
CHAPTER 3
June 1937, St. John’s
Hannah’s left index finger traced the raised leaf pattern on the armrests of the old, red cloth armchair. She had never experienced exhaustion like this before. Her body ached each time she moved. Despite Dr. Hamlyn’s advice, she longed to be up and about. More than anything, s
he wanted to be home. She wondered if it would be better for her to be moving around instead of lying in bed, but she dared not question a medical doctor. After all, what did she know that he didn’t about childbirth?
Eighteen-year-old Hannah had spent the last two weeks in bed, waiting for her baby to be born. Alva Green, the Sinclair housekeeper, had brought her a book to relieve the boredom, though she was not much in the mood for reading. It was a collection of poems with a blue tattered cloth cover and a ravelling-out spine. Hannah struggled to read the poems. She understood the words, but when put together their meaning was unclear. Still, they sound beautiful. Like hymns. She remembered the poet’s name, Emily Dickinson.
On Saturday evening Charles had come to see her, the first time in weeks. She was weary and did not want to talk, so he read to her as she nestled under the blankets and closed her eyes. When she heard him say the words “disappointed tide” from one of the poems, she tried to picture the rocky shoreline of Falcon Cove, obscured and revealed by the rising and ebbing tides. She fell asleep wondering how a tide could be disappointed.
Sitting there today, a week later, in her small bedroom on the third floor of the Sinclair home, she thought back to the words of the poem and Charles’s gentle voice pronouncing them so distinctly. Sadness overwhelmed her. The tide around Falcon Cove would be disappointed in her, and everyone who knew what she had done would be disappointed in her. Her parents. Her grandmother. Even the Blessed Saviour would be disappointed in her. After all, the father of her baby was a married man. To keep from crying, she focused on the horse chestnut tree visible from her bedroom window, the dew on its broad drooping leaves glistening in the bright sunshine. She closed her eyes and pictured home, the pathways, the landwash, and the wildflowers. She longed to be back in Falcon Cove at a time before all of this had happened. She wanted to see Adelia and confide in her. Adelia would understand. The fond memories of her childhood made her smile momentarily. During their summers, she and Adelia would run out of their houses in the early morning and spend the day doing messages and laundry for families in the community, enough work to buy a small bag of candy in the late afternoons. Then, in the still of summer evenings, when the wind was out and the sun was setting, the two best friends would find their favourite flat rocks among the tall grass and fireweeds behind Hannah’s house. They’d nestle away for an hour, the only spare hour their mothers would give them, looking out at the lighthouse, fiddling with blades of grass, and musing about the lives they dreamed of.
All Good Intentions Page 7