“Kevin.”
“Kevin, some issues would best remain out of the public purview, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But if you will share them with me, I will promise you that I won’t damage anyone’s reputation.”
There was another prolonged pause. Kevin remained seated, bewildered.
Finally, she spoke. Her tone was terse. “Let me be frank,” she said. “If you don’t stop investigating the Sinclair and Boland families, I will phone Jeanne and insist that she does not sell the house to you. Since Jeanne and I are sisters, and you are a veritable stranger, I’m certain that she’ll do as I ask.”
Startled by the threat, Kevin searched for a response. He doubted Emily’s influence on Jeanne, but until he could be certain, he would promise Emily nothing. “Do whatever you wish, Emily,” he said quietly, and hung up.
* * * * *
On Monday afternoon, Kevin turned into the semicircular driveway of the Steffensen home on Waterford Bridge Road and was immediately impressed with its surroundings. Quite the place, he said to himself as he pulled in to the edge of the interlocking brick path that led to the front door.
He rang the doorbell once before Kurt opened it.
“Kevin, nice to see you again,” he said, extending his hand, “please come in.” He directed him to the far door on the left of the hall. “We’ll be comfortable in my study, and we have some tea waiting. Unless you’d prefer something else?”
Kevin looked around the study lined with books. “No, tea is fine. Thank you.”
Kurt motioned for him to sit in one of two leather wingback chairs in the corner near a large desk topped with a computer, files, and an antique lamp. He pointed to a tray nearby. “Please help yourself to tea.”
“Perfect.” Kevin poured tea into a china mug and sat back with his notepad and pen. For the next thirty minutes or so, he asked Kurt about how he had started in the business and expanded over the years. Kevin could tell his responses were well honed. This was clearly not his first interview.
“So, in many respects, Kurt, you have your maternal grandfather to thank for your success,” he said with a faint laugh.
“My grandfather was a wonderful man. He worked hard all his life and was devoted to his family and friends. I learned a great deal from him.” Kurt shifted slightly in the chair. “But I do like to think I had some part to play in my success over the years.”
“Of course. I’ve been told that you hire well.”
“I’ve been fortunate.”
“Quentin says you’re an astute judge of character. He claims that’s the secret to your success, although frankly, he added, it’s not a secret.”
Kurt laughed. “I’ve been lucky to find people who are willing to make a commitment to what we do. That’s becoming rare with each passing day. The younger generation is schooled in the notion that they will change jobs many times in their lives. Fair enough, I guess, but that’s very different from the past. When I started my business, I committed to it and never thought of an alternative. Fortunately, I’ve found people who think much the same way.”
“And how do you buy their loyalty?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, that was a bit blunt. It’s just that I’ve been interviewing some people who worked years ago in the prominent downtown retail outlets. It’s been quite interesting to hear them talk about how much they were ‘taken care of’ by their employers. They got occasional bonuses, had company picnics in the summer, card parties, and special occasions that were celebrated, like weddings and birthdays. Despite what they did for their employees, they still paid low wages and fired them without cause. From where I sit, it was a fascinating combination of generosity and control. An interesting strategy.”
“Interesting analysis. No doubt some would judge those times as paternalistic. Today’s workplace is much different. We have the benefit of human rights and unions. I have no issue with deference being a thing of the past. It’s hardly fair to apply those standards to today.”
“Agreed,” Kevin conceded. He took a deep breath, unsure of how to proceed. The easy part of their conversation was over. “Kurt, there’s one person you haven’t mentioned, and that is your former father-in-law, Charles Sinclair. Surely, he, too, can be credited with advising you and contributing to your success.”
Kurt peered at Kevin with interest. He had anticipated the question and had prepared for it. “Charles and I rarely talked business. He and I had very different approaches. But I am sure, given your connection to Jeanne, you are aware of that already.”
“She mentioned that neither you nor your son had little that could be considered positive to say about the man.”
“I prefer that Jeanne keeps the memory that she has of her father. Those are good memories for the most part, and I don’t care to do anything or say anything that would change that. But I assume by now you have an impression of the man.”
It was a comment he wasn’t expecting. “Frankly, you don’t sound like a vindictive ex.”
“Kevin, I have nothing to be vindictive about. Look around you. Why waste my time or energy?”
“Jeanne has talked about her father. She’s answered my questions. But I didn’t know the man. You did. I just bought some land from him, that’s all. It was a good deal.”
“Indeed it was, from what I hear. The Charles Sinclair I knew rarely lost on a business deal. So, tell me, Kevin, what persuaded the man to sell you prime real estate in Planter’s Cove for such a bargain?”
Kevin shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I just took advantage of it. I assumed he was anxious to get rid of it. At least, that’s what his lawyer told me.”
“His lawyer?”
“Yes, Jonathan Hamlyn.”
“Of course.” Kurt wondered at the vague response. He felt it was unlikely that he would get clarification if he pressed for it.
Kevin leaned forward. “Kurt, I realize that this is off topic, but something happened that I’d like to ask you about. I wonder if I might ask you a question about your former sister-in-law.”
“Emily?”
“Yes. You are probably aware that it was Emily who put me on to the Sinclair house in the first place.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’ve only spoken to the woman once. But she phoned me at my hotel room last Friday night. From Wolfville.”
“Emily!” Kurt remarked incredulously. “What ever for?”
“To ask me not to research the house or the families associated with it. She said it was personal and she didn’t want the details to come out. She went so far as to threaten to advise Jeanne not to sell it to me.”
Kurt sat back with a smile. Hesitant to share his own experience with Emily, he simply asked, “What did you tell her?”
“She wouldn’t give me a reason, at least, nothing that made sense. Kurt, if I’m successful in purchasing the Sinclair house, then I have every right to do with it as I please. I need to know its history if I want it to be an inn.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, Kevin, I can’t help you. It is strange, but I have no idea why Emily would make such a request. Have you mentioned it to Jeanne?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“Good.” Kurt glanced at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, Kevin, I’d like to spend some time with the family. My daughter and son-in-law are coming by.”
Kevin stood to walk with him. “Of course.” They found Jaclyn in the living room, reading. She stood. “All done?”
“Yes.” He stopped. “And I appreciate your hospitality. By the way, I understand that Joe and Sandi are looking at a house in this area. Close to here.”
Kurt nodded. “They’ve put in an offer recently.”
“I looked at it on the way along. It’s a beautiful home and a
great piece of land. It makes me wonder if it would make a nice inn!” He grinned. “Thanks again!”
Closing the door behind him, Kurt turned to see Jaclyn’s look of alarm.
“Tell me he wouldn’t,” she said, her eyes widened.
“Put an offer in on the house? Nothing would surprise me, my love. Nothing.”
“But why? He knows Joe. Joe’s doing work for him, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes,” Kurt responded, walking with her to the kitchen. “But just think how many points he’d earn with Jeanne if he could thwart Joe’s attempt to live so close to me.”
* * * * *
Shortly after 4:00 p.m., Jeanne took her glass of iced tea to the sunroom and settled back on the wicker sofa, resting her feet on the matching stool. She reached into the box next to her sofa for the final folder in a box labelled 4 that held papers on the Sinclair house. When she opened the file, she saw newspaper clippings of photos taken in the 1960s of an elaborate social function held in the house. The photo identified the premier, several cabinet ministers, the lieutenant-governor, prominent judges, and familiar faces. She smiled. I’ll have to read this in detail. The article began with an elaborate description of the attendees and the house. She laid it aside to read later. The next file held what appeared to be statements of work done on the house in the 1950s and 1960s. They were neatly organized in chronological order. She flipped through them, stopping periodically to see what had been done.
The word staircase caught her eye. She remembered Kevin’s attention to it and his comment that it was exceptional construction. She had only a vague memory of it being built. The sheet was dated August 22, 1952. She looked at the bottom and saw her father’s familiar signature. Then, as she flipped to the second page, she stopped suddenly at the name of the carpenter who was paid for his work: Mr. Edgar Gillis.
She dropped the paper on her lap and looked away. “Gillis,” she whispered aloud. “Gillis.”
CHAPTER 7
August 1952, St. John’s
Edgar Gillis stepped aside for two shoppers laden with parcels to move by him as he hurried around the corner of Prescott Street onto Water Street and braced himself against the cold, easterly wind whipping up from the harbour. A change in wind direction was all it took to preview the long winter to come. Heavy drizzle forced him to turn up the frayed lapels of his brown overcoat around his neck. He glanced down at his feet and wished he had better shoes. But then, he thought, as he quickened his pace, what would Mr. Sinclair care? Or even notice? I’m nothing more than a labourer to someone like Charles Sinclair. He probably thinks I’m lucky to be working.
Two blocks down, he looked up at the Sinclair store, a three-storey grey building with small windows and the date of opening chiselled in the top right corner. Edgar was anxious about his meeting, although he didn’t know why. After all, he deserved to get paid for his work, and the payment was due. His plan was to get in and out of Charles’s office quickly, with the money he was owed safely tucked in the breast pocket of his coat.
The familiar smell of old wood and salt water met him when he pushed open the door. Two floorwalkers dressed in neatly tailored suits acknowledged him. He muttered “good morning” under his breath and tipped his hat. He walked quickly around the chairs and sofas in the furniture department toward the largest of the few offices in the building, the office that belonged to its owner. He was relieved to see the door open.
Charles was sitting behind a large desk studying sales receipts. He looked uncomfortably warm in his grey tweed suit, white shirt, and tie that appeared to pinch his neck. His face wore a grim expression that only made Edgar’s stomach churn more. He took a breath, tapped the door lightly, and waited.
And waited.
Finally, Charles raised his head. “Yes?” he asked.
“Sir, I’ve come, for my payment. I’m Edgar . . .”
“Yes, of course,” he interrupted, finally making eye contact. “Edgar Gillis. You want your pay for the work on the stairs. A fine job.”
“Thank you, sir.” He stood closer to the desk and waited. A newspaper advertisement of a very fancy car lay on the corner of the desk. Edgar had no idea that it was a Rolls Royce, but he was certain that it cost more than he would make in his lifetime.
Charles slowly opened the top right drawer and withdrew a sealed brown envelope with the initials EG scribbled across the front. He tossed it along to Edgar. “Here you are” was all he said.
“Thank you. If there is anything else I can do. I mean, more carpentry work. I’ll be glad to do it. I’m available all the fall.”
“Yes.”
Edgar tucked the envelope inside his coat as he turned toward the door. “You know how to be in touch with me, sir.”
“Yes.”
Relieved to get out of the building with his pay and feeling optimistic about more work, Edgar hurried to the main door and across the street in the direction of his boarding house.
In his office, Charles pushed in the drawer and returned to his receipts. It was the last time he would see Edgar Gillis.
* * * * *
August 1996, Halifax
A ridge of warm weather settled across the Maritimes during the first two weeks of August. Shortly after noon on Tuesday, Kevin left his downtown office and headed up Spring Garden Road to the Public Gardens. Once his favourite place in the city, it only brought sadness now, as he recalled the days he would meet his father after work and sit with him in the park before going home. Edgar often regaled him with stories of his early days in Halifax and his travels to Boston to work for the summer. He was a natural storyteller, and Kevin regretted not having recorded his wonderful anecdotes.
The park was busy with families and tourists. Kevin found an empty bench sheltered beneath a large weeping willow and sat to enjoy the sun’s warmth and the glorious smell of day lilies nearby. He stationed his Tim Hortons coffee cup on the wooden slats of the bench and tried to relax, something that had not come easily in recent days.
He stretched his arms across the back and watched passersby. His mind returned to the interviews he’d conducted of employees who had worked in downtown St. John’s after the war. He had not divulged the reasons for his interview. He had simply explained that he was writing an article for a business magazine. Some had spoken well of their employers, but Kevin had chalked that up to selective memories. His main interest was finding out about Charles Sinclair. Most of what he knew so far had come from Joe, who had nothing but disparaging comments to make about his grandfather. Those comments had been entirely believable, but it still didn’t answer the question: What did his father do to stoke the ire of Charles Sinclair so that his family would be forever affected? As much as they had discussed it sitting on that very bench in years past, neither Kevin nor his father had been able to explain it.
Kevin looked through the trees at the clear blue sky. Summers are fleeting, even more so with each passing year. This business of getting old is not for the faint of heart. Much had happened over the summer. More than he had expected. The Jeanne Sinclair he met was anything but easy to influence, and she held an inexplicable sentimental attachment to the house that Kevin knew would be difficult, if not impossible, to break. So far, she had not responded to his offer. He took that as a bad sign.
He watched as the pigeons pecked at stray pieces of food on the asphalt path in front of him. He chided himself for being drawn to Jeanne, for finding her very presence more satisfying than anything he had accomplished in his career. He sipped his coffee and thought of every nuance of her conversation and demeanour. Damn, you did not ask for this.
He stood and continued his walk around the paths, taking in the pool and lush ferns surrounding it. His mind whirled. Where does this leave me? If I could only get that house, I’d move on without any further connection to the Sinclair family. I will have fulfilled my promi
se. He weaved his way through the young couples and their strollers at the wrought iron gate marking the park’s exit and tossed his half-empty coffee cup in the nearest garbage container. I should have told her everything from the beginning. He ran his hand across the top of his head in frustration. No. I would have had no chance of getting that house if I did. On every encounter with her, it became more difficult to even broach the topic of his father. Something inside held him back from saying what he had long wanted to say.
As he crossed the intersection of Spring Garden Road and South Park Street, he made a firm decision. She would never know the truth about his father. Giving in to his feelings for Jeanne would be a betrayal, something he could not bear to do. He would leave the questions to fade in his memory, unanswered questions he would take to his grave. His task was a clear business venture. Nothing more. He had made a reasonable offer for the house and he would leave it at that, content to accept her response, whatever it was.
His conviction quickened his step back to his office building. But, as resolute as he was, Kevin could not have predicted what was about to happen.
* * * * *
St. John’s
On Thursday morning, Jonathan Hamlyn anticipated Jeanne’s early arrival at his office, because typically she arrived everywhere earlier than expected. He closed a file, sipped his morning coffee, and waited. True to his prediction, he did not have to wait long. At 8:46, he heard her voice outside and stood to open the door.
“Good morning, Jonathan,” she said, as she walked past him into the room. “You were away for a while, your assistant said. I called last week.” Jeanne made herself comfortable in a blue upholstered chair across from him and placed her purse on the floor next to her feet.
Across from her, behind his desk, Jonathan admired her summer pastel outfit, a pale green dress and matching emerald earrings. “Yes, a vacation, albeit a brief one. I visited my brother and his family in Ottawa. I hope this is not an emergency. I left instructions on how to proceed if it has to do with the sale of the house.”
All Good Intentions Page 22