All Good Intentions

by Trudi Johnson

  Kevin smiled and nodded. “And dinner on Tuesday night. A fascinating lady.”

  “Oh, she didn’t mention that when I saw her last night.”

  “A wonderful evening. She’s willing to show me the Sinclair house tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to that. It’s what’s known as Queen Anne Revival architecture, isn’t it?”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, there are still a few houses here in that style.”

  “I must say you did a wonderful job designing the front. I’d like to see what you could do with the rest of it, to turn it into an inn.”

  “Thanks. We’ll talk about that when it’s yours,” Joe replied.

  Kevin hesitated. “I have to say, Joe, I enjoy your mother’s company. I don’t know your father that well or what he was expecting for a wife, and I haven’t met his current wife, but I’m surprised he didn’t appreciate what he had.”

  “One man’s opinion,” Joe quipped with a grin and realized how much he sounded like Quentin.

  “I’m sorry.” Kevin chuckled. “I don’t want to get into the middle of your family. It’s just an observation. She’s a formidable force, that’s for certain. Frankly, she’s not what I expected.”

  Joe glanced at him. What you expected? “Kevin, you don’t know either of my parents well enough to understand their relationship. And you’ve only been in Mother’s company twice. It might be best to reserve judgment until you really get to know her.”

  “Agreed. Perhaps you could tell me more about her?”

  “Oh no, that’s not happening.” He raised his hand for emphasis. “You’ll have to find out all on your own. And the best of luck with that.”

  Kevin remembered that Kurt had wished him luck as well and Jeanne had advised him that the two men were very much alike. He also realized something about himself. He was becoming more protective of Jeanne.

  When they reached the road into Planter’s Bight, Kevin directed Joe to turn onto the first narrow unpaved road on the right, up a hill overlooking the community. Large billowy clouds lined the horizon and small boats dotted the harbour. Two large sailboats, owned by summer visitors, were heading out the bay. A chilly wind blew off the water as they made their way down a path of two deep ruts to a garden partially enclosed with a fence that had seen better years. There were remnants of a house foundation and what appeared to have been a root cellar. The grass was tall and intertwined, the result of years of neglect.

  Joe surveyed the property. “As I recall from the measurements you gave me, your land goes back to the trees over there.” He pointed to a line of spruce trees.

  “Yeah, to the far end of the black spruce, the smooth rocks on the right side, and, of course, to the water’s edge over here.” He pointed to the rocky beach. “It’s almost three-quarters of an acre. The house stood there, the one I showed you photos of. I’d like a replica of it, or as close to it as possible.” His voice carried a noticeable tone of sadness.

  “Fine, we can get that done,” Joe assured him. He watched Kevin closely as he walked around, stopping momentarily to kick the rocks and pull up blades of high grass. He turned to look out over the ocean and appeared to be deep in thought. From where he stood, Joe was convinced more than ever that Sandi’s speculation was accurate. The land was part of who he was. He knew it well. He was home.

  * * * * *

  Jonathan Hamlyn’s assistant interrupted him at his desk to say that Jeanne Sinclair was on the phone. Although she was one of his more lucrative clients and he held personal feelings for her, he reluctantly answered.

  “Jeanne,” he said, feigning enthusiasm. “It’s good to hear your voice. What can I do for you this morning?”

  “Two things, Jonathan. First, I’m interested in seeing my father’s collection of papers.”

  “His personal papers? You already have them.”

  “No, his business papers. I know he kept meticulous records. He proudly showed them to me a year or so before he passed away. I remember seeing boxes of them at the house after he died, and I assume you moved them to safe storage.”

  It was an unexpected request, and Jonathan worried where this was going. “Yes, we did. But, Jeanne, they’re rather boring, to say the least. I hardly think . . .”

  “Perhaps so, but I want to know all I can about the house. I know that he had it renovated over the years. I remember it vaguely, but I’d like to know more about those renovations.”

  “It had to be maintained, and they changed the furnishings fairly regularly.”

  “Yes, of course. But I’m thinking more along the lines of structural work.”

  “I understand. The papers were put in special archival boxes and stored. Don’t worry. It’s a heated storage facility. We hadn’t discussed what to do with them.”

  “Of course. As soon as you can retrieve them, that would be great.”

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Jonathan sat up in his chair and adjusted his sleeves. “Perhaps I could save you some time and find it for you.”

  “No,” Jeanne answered with a sigh. “I guess I’m feeling a little sentimental, that’s all. I’d like to read them.”

  “It’s just business items, Jeanne. Nothing of interest, I’m certain. Records of sales, invoices, contracts, that sort of thing.”

  “Still I’d like to see them,” she insisted, wondering why he wasn’t being more compliant. She walked back and forth across the kitchen while she spoke. “Could you have the boxes delivered to my house?”

  “Certainly. I’ll take care of it this week. Was there something else?”

  “Thank you. Yes, one other thing. Have you ever heard about a group called Winterberry Land Development? I believe they are located in Halifax.”

  “Winterberry?” he repeated. “Yes, I have.” Again, he was nervous about the direction of the conversation.

  “Someone from Winterberry is interested in Father’s house.”

  “Yes, Kevin Gillis. He dropped by my office for a few minutes last week and asked me whether the house was on the market. I told him it wasn’t. I didn’t bother calling you, because, frankly, I thought it was going nowhere. I’ve had a few inquiries over the past few months that never amounted to anything.”

  “I’ve met with him twice. He’s interested in seeing it, having an appraisal done, and making an offer.”

  Her comment was met with silence. Jonathan took a few moments to collect his thoughts. “Really? The market’s good now in the city, but more for newer homes than older ones. I expect that if it did go on the market, there would be some interest. Unless, of course, someone in your family plans to move in.”

  “That’s not likely.” Jeanne dismissed his comment. “In the meantime, would you get that information for me as soon as possible?”

  “Certainly, and please contact me if you need advice about the sale.”

  “I’ll make a decision soon. Perhaps we can talk about it at length?”

  Jonathan answered eagerly. “Of course. Just say the word. Over dinner?”

  “That would be fine. We’ll talk soon.”

  Jonathan hung up, swivelled his chair, and slowly sat back. Despite his plan to leave his office early, he realized he would have a late day. He needed to retrieve Charles’s personal papers and decide what he wanted Jeanne to see.

  * * * * *

  The Ocean View Café in Planter’s Bight could seat no more than twenty people, but its white wooden tables and chairs and colourful tablecloths created a welcoming atmosphere. Shortly after noon, Joe and Kevin opened the door to the aroma of cod au gratin.

  “Have you eaten here before, Kevin?”

  Kevin shook his head as he looked around. “No. But I certainly plan to come back.”

  They chose the corner table, ordered lunch, and chatted about the house. “You mentioned that
this is a personal project. Are you planning to retire here?” Joe asked, taking notes.

  Kevin shrugged. “I’m hoping to continue working, but I need a retirement plan. I’d like to have a summer place, although nothing has appealed to me until now. I’ve looked at a few areas in Nova Scotia that I guess would be more convenient given that I live in Halifax. But, then, this isn’t too far away.”

  Kevin poured an overly generous helping of ketchup on his cod, scooped most of the butter from the small white serving dish, and plopped it on the two steaming-hot toutons. He waited until the butter melted and ran down the sides of the golden touton to meet the plate and then zigzagged molasses across them. He divided the first one into four small pieces and began to eat. “This is marvellous. I wonder who first thought that fried bread dough would taste this good. Believe me, Joe, I don’t normally eat like this, but it’s irresistible.”

  Joe nodded in agreement as he took his first mouthful of cod au gratin. Over the next half-hour, they discussed the availability of local contractors and a schedule for renovations. He laid down his pen and reached for his coffee mug. He chanced a question that had been on his mind since they first entered the community. “Kevin, you seem very comfortable here, if you don’t mind my saying. This land, this area, they’re not new to you, are they?”

  Kevin wiped his mouth with a small paper napkin. He decided there was no harm in answering the inquiry. “How could you tell?”

  “You seem familiar with the land. Like there is a connection to you.”

  “Okay.” He sipped his coffee. “I was born here, but I moved away when I was a teenager.”

  “I thought so,” Joe responded quietly and reached for the small glass milk jug.

  As Kevin looked around the room, the display of locally made woollen mitts and socks revived memories of his mother. “Don’t think that I’m embarrassed to admit it. I’m not. When I was a university student, I worked as a researcher for a professor for several years who became a mentor to me. One valuable piece of advice that he gave me was to keep my private life confidential. He said that people make judgments when they know your background. When I went into the business I’m in now, a colleague told me the same thing. I don’t know if it was because I’m a Newfoundlander. I’ve wondered that. Anyway, I’ve just gotten into the habit of keeping things to myself.”

  “No problem.” Joe handed his empty dish to the waitress and sat back. “It’s really none of my business where you’re from. As I said, it seemed that you were quite comfortable standing on that land.”

  “I didn’t think there was much Newfoundland left in me,” he commented and looked over the café curtains at the visitors walking by. “But, strangely, it all came back when I visited a few months ago.” He laughed. “That day in March we had torrential rain and high winds. It was all I could do to stand upright. Although it wasn’t very inviting, it didn’t matter. I thought the memories had been safely tucked away forever, but I was drawn to the place. I still am.”

  Joe guessed that “safely tucked away” meant that the memories were not all positive. There was something painful about this place or about his youth, something that defined this man. Consistent with his father’s reservations, and Quentin’s comments that there was more to Kevin Gillis than was readily apparent, Joe was beginning to see the man in a very different light.

  An hour later, as they returned to the car, Kevin took advantage of the apparent ease of communication between them. “Joe, although you’re not interested in the Sinclair house for yourself, I’m wondering if you’d give me an assessment of its structure from an architect’s perspective. Do you think it would make a suitable inn?”

  “I’d be happy to. I can put something together for you, in writing, if you like. I think it would make a fine inn.” Joe started the engine, turned around in a small driveway, and headed back to the highway. “It was very well built. Some of the original parts have been replaced, like the staircase, for instance. In my opinion, what’s there now is better. It’s quite the piece with its ten-inch newel and balusters, all hand-crafted. The carpenter must have taken days to complete it. According to the drawings, they were copied from a design from a staircase in an old Edwardian-style home in the Boston area.”

  Kevin turned to look at Joe as he signalled onto the highway. “Yes, yes, it is indeed,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too anxious. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment to the carpenter. Do you know who he was?”

  “No idea. Mother might know if you ask her. I understand the stairs were built in the early ’50s.”

  Kevin sat back and closed his eyes. He wanted to scream the truth. And he would, once the deed of the Sinclair house was in his hands.

  * * * * *

  In Jeanne’s driveway, Carrie shook her grey car mats and fitted them back on the car floor. As she popped the trunk to tidy the shopping bags to make room for their two small suitcases, she heard a car. She turned to see Jeanne pulling into the driveway.

  “Where’s Mother and Lauren?” she asked, as she took smaller packages and stuffed them into one larger Sears bag.

  “Lauren had her car, so she and Hannah stopped at Terrace in the Square for a few minutes. Hannah wanted to pick up something to bring back to Adelia. Would you like some lunch before you go?”

  “I’ll wait for her. But you go ahead, if you like. I must finish packing.”

  Inside, Jeanne asked Leah to make salad and sandwiches for the three of them. She went into the sunroom, picked up her day planner, and quickly jotted down Kevin Gillis’s name. She took out his business card and placed it in the side pocket.

  “Busy weekend ahead?” Carrie asked, entering the room behind her.

  “It’s shaping up to be. I promised Kevin that I’d show him the house.” She tucked her planner back in the small book rack beside her chair and reached for the tea pot. “Now that Joe has emphatically stated that he’s not interested in the house, I guess the next step is inevitable.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him,” Carrie commented, but immediately regretted her words.

  Predictably, her comment was met with a quick response in a nasty tone. “Many people would love to own the place.”

  Carrie hesitated. “Perhaps,” she said with a shrug. “We drove by there yesterday. It’s such an old place. I think that Joe and Sandi would want something new and bright, a place that’s their own.”

  Jeanne tidied up the side table and placed some magazines on the shelf next to her. “Precisely why I suggested renovating it. I can understand that they would like it to be updated, but it’s a beautifully crafted house.”

  Carrie placed her suitcase and purse by the entrance to the hallway. She ignored Jeanne’s assessment. “They seem really interested in getting that house on Waterford Bridge Road. I think you should just let them do what they want. If Joe wants to live near his father, that’s his choice.”

  Jeanne rested her chin on her hand and looked out the full length of windows to the garden beyond. This is not what I signed up for when I brought these people into my life. I already have one sister telling me what to do. “So now you’ve decided where Joe should live as well.” She did not make eye contact.

  Carrie sat down with a sigh. “Jeanne, I’m sorry for being so direct. You just seem so angry. I don’t think it matters where Joe lives. What matters is that he doesn’t take your advice. They have to decide for themselves.”

  Jeanne’s upheld hand signalled her to stop her tirade. “Carrie, please, your profession is showing.”

  She heard the front door open. It was Hannah.

  “We’re back here, Mother,” Carrie called out.

  As Hannah walked into the sunroom, she immediately sensed all was not well. “Time for lunch?” she asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “Of course,” Jeanne replied as she stood. “I’ll see th
at it’s ready,” she added, leaving the room.

  “How was your visit with Alva?” Carrie asked.

  “Very nice. She’s doing well. We had a grand chat, and she invited me back again. I’d like to spend more time with her. There are things I’d like to know.” With that, she left to follow Jeanne into the kitchen. Alone in the sunroom, Carrie wondered what it was that her mother needed to know. She doubted that Jeanne would invite them back, and more than anything, she questioned whether she would even want to return.

  * * * * *

  For Quentin especially, Friday night dinner with his three friends was a ritual born of the need for continuity in his life. In the past three years they had added a few others to their circle. Lauren and Alan, when they got married, and, more recently, Sandi and her brother, Jordy. The evening was not about food. It was about relaxing and venting and sharing the week’s events. And nothing, in Quentin’s view, stopped the routine of Friday night.

  At the end of a very busy week, Quentin arrived home shortly before 6:00 p.m. He changed quickly into more casual clothes and had started the Parmesan cream sauce for the pasta when he heard someone at the door. Glancing at his watch, he headed down the hall. He was surprised to see Sara, usually the last to arrive, letting herself in.

  “I hope you have my favourite,” she declared, as she hung her light green jacket in the hall closet. “I hate dental cleanings, and I deserve a treat.” She followed him to the kitchen.

  “Yep. Pasta and salmon in cream sauce in progress. I was late getting home, so I need your help.” In Quentin’s mind, Sara’s sparkling brown eyes and face had not changed since they were in kindergarten. He often teased her that she hadn’t grown much either. She was the one person that he depended on for everything, although she would admit that the opposite was true. He gave her the support she needed during her recent divorce.

  “Would you like to make a salad?” he asked. “I’ll cook the pasta.” He pulled fresh pasta and salmon wrapped tightly in parchment paper from the bottom of the refrigerator.