“Ple…e…e…ease…” Jamie tugged at her sleeve again. Suddenly there was a rush of caring she couldn’t hold back, as if her skin had opened and let it out.
“Okay.” She smiled. Jamieson actually smiled.
Jamie clapped his hands.
“You can wear your boots.”
The moment had passed for Jamieson. She wondered now if it had been wise to agree. But if she did this, played the prince, even if she weren’t on duty, she’d still be on a kind of duty. That pleased her.
“No. Absolutely not in uniform. Plain clothes.”
Jamie’s hand slipped from tugging Jamieson’s sleeve into her hand. Another surprise that sent strange, unfamiliar sensations through Jamieson.
“Could I be a Mountie when I grow up? Like you?”
“If you qualified. Of course, but not exactly like me. More like Murdo.”
Jamie scrunched up his face. “Murdo doesn’t work very hard.” Jamieson stifled a smile. Murdo didn’t, but he could be depended on when things got bad.
“No, but Murdo’s a man. That’s what you’ll be.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jamie. “But not on Christmas Eve!”
Hy was thinking: A boy playing a girl. A girl playing a boy. A Shakespearean Christmas pantomime. How much more traditional could you get? Farce was a tradition, too, though, and she was trying to imagine the most outrageous princely outfit she could concoct for Jamieson to wear.
Not in uniform? Done.
Chapter Eighteen
The rehearsal had just begun when Oliver slid into the Hall, exhausted by the double exertion of walking up to Wild Rose Cottage and back down again.
“The world doesn’t know the true story of Cinderella. For one thing, it happened in The Shores.” Hy was narrator, weaving the scenes together and telling the story, so that the cast didn’t have to worry about too many lines.
“And the girl’s name was not Cinderella. Her name was simply Ella. But there was an Ella Cousins at Port Corner. Ella Campbell on the Butter Road. Ella Gallant in Mermaid. So people called our Ella…Shores Ella.”
Oliver realized that, in spite of his excitement, he was going to have to wait it out. He slumped down on a wooden chair with metal legs, and it cracked under him. He stood up again, and chose the sturdier-looking bench that ran down one wall of the Hall. It creaked, but didn’t crack.
Jamie opened and closed the skit on the piano. Hearing him play, Oliver was even more convinced he was on the right track. Jamie’s nimble fingers would unlock the secret.
When the rehearsal ended, Oliver approached Jamie.
“A talented actor, yes,” he said, “but a much more talented pianist. Will you play for me?”
Jamie looked over at Hy.
“Yes, we’re finished.”
The women chattered their way out of the Hall, fussing over their coats and boots, returning for something forgotten, in and out, until finally they were all gone.
Oliver had no idea what he was looking for, what clue would be found in the keys of the piano, so he simply asked Jamie to play. Anything.
The notes trickled out of the boy’s hands, his movements smooth as velvet, sure and strong, soft and yielding, everything they needed to be to coax…no, not coax…draw the instrument’s music out of it, so that even this old piano could make beautiful sound.
Oliver was rapt at first, and then joined in. He was not a musician, but he loved music and understood it, and soon was standing by Jamie, calling out the moods, rhythms and pace.
“…a poco…a poco…subito!”
It wasn’t as if Jamie understood any of the words, but he had the feeling for the music.
The feeling in his fingers…dare say…in his soul.
Oliver was beaming and undulating his rotund physique in a marvelously harmonious rhythm with the music. Chopin. One of the nocturnes.
“De capo. Pianissimo.”
And on they went, the cultured man and the talented boy, with their separate languages. Oliver, with his profound understanding of the music and the beauty of the Italian language that described it, but no ability, no ability whatsoever to play. Jamie, with no understanding of Oliver’s language, of the language used to describe the sounds he made, yet making those sounds, as if he had been born to it.
He was, thought Oliver, born to it.
And somewhere in those sounds was the Sullivan legacy. Could it be found through this boy?
The sounds faded out, and Jamie grinned up at Oliver, turning from child genius into just another kid with a big toothless grin.
Toothless, like his father. But it didn’t deliver the same message.
Oliver clapped Jamie on the back.
“Well done, son. Now let’s try some Beethoven.”
Oliver always said he couldn’t play an instrument, but that wasn’t exactly true. He played the original instrument with perfect pitch. His voice.
And so he sang Beethoven’s Ninth, The Ode to Joy, to Jamie, and Jamie listened attentively, all his concentration focused on the sounds coming out of that barrel chest – deep and deadly accurate. Tentatively, note by note, he picked it up, and his fingers began to fly over the keys, with a sureness of where the next note would be, until man and boy were in harmony – the big deep voice, and the out-of-tune piano.
There had never been quite such a performance there before.
When they had finished, forgetting his previous exertions, Oliver walked Jamie home, the two of them humming the Ode. He had been so elated by the experience that he had forgotten that he had left the diary with Rose. Now he remembered. He quickened his pace. Jamie was surprised that Oliver could move so quickly and had to run to keep up.
At the driveway, there was black smoke rising from a fire pit by the shed. Oliver abandoned Jamie, and almost ran. He had only one – sure – thought.
The diary.
It was an illogical thought, but a correct one.
Fitz had grabbed it from Rose when he saw her reading it and made off with it. He’d gone to the shed to have a look at the contents. He had hardly read a thing. Some woman sniveling on. This wasn’t the book. This was worthless. He had just tossed it on the bonfire.
Oliver moved faster than he ever had before, scooped it up, cradling it to him, the soot singeing his immaculate suede gloves black.
“You bastard,” he shrieked, his face turning a deep red. Oliver rarely used such language. It showed how upset he was.
“Jeez,” Fitz was chewing on a toothpick. “It’s only a fuckin’ book.”
The phrase stunned Oliver. Stunned him into silence.
Fitz took a step forward, his look and his stance threatening.
“That wouldn’t be the fuckin’ book, now would it?”
Still, Oliver was silent.
“My guess is yes.” Fitz sneered. “And my guess is, you owe me for that.”
“But I found it – not you.”
Fitz stepped forward suddenly, and whisked the book out of Oliver’s hands.
He held it over the fire.
Oliver paled.
“Now, how much is it worth?” He waved the book over the flames.
“Whatever you want.” Oliver tried to prevent himself from moving forward and grabbing the diary. He knew Fitz would think nothing of dropping it in the flames again.
“Five hundred bucks?”
“Yes, of course.” Too eager. He was too eager. Fitz could see that, and he played it.
“Let’s say double that.”
“Fine. Fine.” Oliver’s eyes were riveted on the diary. His muscles were taut, ready to pounce, but he didn’t want to make a false move. Better to pay this thug whatever he wanted.
“Good, then let’s say triple.”
The money didn’t matter to Oliver. He’d pay four – five times, to get the b
ook back in his hands. How careless he’d been.
“Yes. Done.” Oliver reached for the book. Fitz pulled back, wondering just how far he could push it.
Finally, wanting to end it, to be in possession once again of the diary, Oliver turned around. “That’s all it’s worth to me,” he said. It was a gamble that made him nauseated, but he had to stop the dance.
Fitz looked down at the book. It was only a fuckin’ book. It could only be worth so much.
“Okay,” he said, and Oliver tried to mask his huge relief as he turned around.
“Then give it to me, please.”
A sly smile spread over Fitz’s face.
“I’d like to see your money first.”
“I can give you a deposit.”
“So – give me a deposit. An’ I’ll give you the book when I get the rest of the money.” He tucked the diary inside his shirt.
Oliver shuddered to think of the precious leather cover close to Fitz’s sweaty skin. The fine thoughts and sentiments attached to that foul and stinking body.
But what could he do?
In that moment, the idea of killing Fitz flashed through his mind.
Oliver reached inside his coat for his wallet. Fifteen hundred dollars. He had a thousand-dollar bill, even though the mint had stopped printing them. He peeled off the rest and held the money out.
“So ya did have it. You was lyin’.”
“I didn’t have it to spend on you.”
“Well, now you have.” Fitz grabbed at the bills, but hesitated before producing the diary. Maybe…maybe…he could get more out of him.
Oliver stepped forward, and grabbed Fitz by the collar.
“I’ve killed a man before,” he said. “Don’t think I wouldn’t now.”
Like most bullies, Fitz was a coward.
“Okay. Okay.”
Oliver released him. Fitz pulled the diary out and handed it over.
Jamie was numb with a hard realization. First the scene with his mother, then with Freddy, and now this. Something took hold of him, a sensation he didn’t like, a feeling of disgust for his father, his father whom he’d always loved. As disillusionment seeped in, love seeped out. Jamie tried to catch hold of it, to blank out the ugly scenes he’d seen, but he couldn’t. He looked at his father, and his small child lip curled in repulsion.
“I hate you,” he yelled at his father across the flickering fire. The flames cast dark shadows on Fitz’s face and made him look evil.
“I hate you.” Repeated in a tone and with such force that Oliver turned around sharply to look at the child. The flames were flickering across the boy’s face, too, and making him look evil.
Like father like son? What might he do? Was that why the cards had brought him here?
“I wish you were dead.” Jamie’s words leapt across the flames, on sparks of anger.
He didn’t wait to see if the words had hurt his father. Afraid they hadn’t, he turned and ran into the house.
Buddy watched. Buddy had seen it all. But Buddy didn’t know what to do.
He watched Oliver make his way down the road, clutching the diary to his heart, and he watched as Fitz jumped into his truck. Then he went to the door, trembling. His heart beat harder as he approached the door. With fear and love. He looked through the window, with longing, at the mother and the golden child made magical in the glow of the candlelight. It looked like heaven, not a hovel, to him. He lifted a hand to knock. The child laughed and his mother kissed him on the head. Buddy ached to be that boy, but he knew he didn’t belong there. He lost his courage, and turned away.
Fitz went straight to Jared’s. Jared had scored hash and cocaine. “Enough to get us through the winter.” He had his own stash, his “homegrown,” but he knew that with Fitz around it wouldn’t last long.
Jared was a very minor dealer. He had almost no customers at The Shores. There were a couple of badass fishermen, and he sold the occasional small bag of marijuana to Billy Pride, but now he had a real customer. Based on that he had extended his credit with Winterside’s biggest dealer, and now had a stash in his house that could land him in real trouble, were the police to find out about it.
But there was only that chick. How good could she be? People died all the time when she was around.
Fitz whistled his admiration when he saw the stash of hash and the brick of cocaine. He laid the thousand-dollar bill on the table.
“What’ll that buy me?”
It was Jared’s turn to whistle.
The lot. It would buy him the lot. But Jared needed some for himself. He scooped the money up.
“It’ll buy you half. Half of everything. Including what you owe me from the last time.”
It wasn’t enough, and Fitz knew it, but he didn’t care. He was pissed already and now he wanted to get stoned. So he didn’t have to think…think about…anything.
Blasted. He wanted to get blasted.
But still –
“That and what else?” he asked.
Jared produced a mickey of rum and shoved it across the table.
Fitz grabbed it.
“Deal.” He unscrewed the cap and knocked back half the contents.
Jared whistled again.
The man was a pig. A complete pig. Jared smiled. He liked Fitz.
He liked Fitz less when, after they smoked and snorted and drank, he passed out. When he came to, all the drugs were gone. Again.
There was no thousand-dollar bill either.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose was cleaning up the dishes and Jamie was reading by candlelight inside the tent when Fitz came home.
He walked in the door, the rifle in his hand. On the way back from Jared’s he had worked up an anger. He always did when he got drunk. This time it was Jamie and what he’d said. And it was Rose, too, and the bastard she was carrying.
She turned, and registered only calm as he advanced toward her. He had the gun held at his hip, slanting down toward the floor, but as he got closer, he raised it to waist level, aimed straight at her stomach. He poked her with it and she drew back.
“I’m going to blast that bastard out.” He lifted the gun, her belly in his sights. She didn’t budge. She knew better.
“And the other bastard.” He looked around. “Where is he?” He used the rifle to push open the tent flap, where Jamie was sitting, frozen upright, more scared than he’d ever been of his father before, the fright bringing tears to his eyes.
“Little bastards, both of them.” Fitz slurred as he spoke.
Rose pulled herself together. She was used to his drunken scenes. This was nothing compared to some of them, though it was disturbing. Gently, she touched his shoulder, then turned him away from Jamie and led him toward the door. She used a technique that always worked.
“Jenny needs feeding,” she said. She knew Fitz cared more about the donkey than about them.
“I’ve got a nice stew I’ll heat up for you when you come back in.”
Fitz stumbled out, and Rose turned back into the house.
Better not to raise the temperature by meeting anger with anger until it boiled over. Keep it at a simmer, and let it cool off.
Like the stew she was spooning onto a plate when Fitz returned.
Fox stew. Stringy and tough. All lean muscle. She’d had to cook it all day. Fox. A bullet through its head. The gun was useful. But sometimes she thought that if she knew how to use it, she’d put a bullet through Fitz’s head. She picked at her food. Jamie picked at his. Fitz wolfed his down, and, without a word, left the house, hauling the mickey out of his pocket as soon as he was outside. He looked blankly at the driveway. Shit. No truck. He’d walked home. Why, he didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember.
Must be at Jared’s. He stumbled down the road as the snow began to fall.
Beh
ind him, Jamie followed. He’d slipped out of the house unseen. Why, he couldn’t say.
Ian looked out his window. The snow had begun suddenly and was falling rapidly. In ten minutes, there was already more than the slight dusting that had been promised. Carpenter Harold MacLean was The Shores’ self-appointed weather forecaster. He was usually wrong – except when the weather was bad. His forecasts were always gloomy. He had prognosticated a big one, and it looked as if he were right.
There, making footprints along the road was Fitz Fitzpatrick, weaving and swaying, mickey in hand, singing, not Christmas carols, but ribald take-offs of seasonal songs learned from Jared, who’d picked them up in jail. He stumbled and fell, right in the roadway, and didn’t get up.
“Dead drunk,” said Annabelle, blowing through the door with the North wind at her back.
“Dead for all I’d care,” said Ian. “Better off dead for those two up there.”
“That’s as may be,” said Annabelle, “but we better get down there and pull him off the road.”
Neither of them noticed that Jamie had slipped in behind Annabelle, and heard what Ian said. He went white, and whipped out the door ahead of them. When he got down the hill, there was his father passed out on the road.
Dead? Hope and fear together leapt inside him. Guilt, panic, confusion, desire all intermingled into an emotion he could not have named. He ran to his father. He tried to roll him over. Fitz grunted. Relief and disappointment blended in Jamie’s eyes. His father was alive.
Then he heard the swishing of wheels on the new, wet snow. He jumped up and stood in front of Fitz and began waving his arms. A truck was headed straight for them. Jamie kept waving. The truck kept spinning forward.
Ian and Annabelle reached him just in time and yanked him off the road, he screaming for his father as the vehicle advanced, braked, skidded, and swerved, just avoiding Fitz, and landing nose down in the ditch.
All is Clam Page 14