“M-m.” He made an exaggerated chewing motion. Or maybe not so exaggerated, given the huge bite mark in his slice of bread.
As Aunt Bay dug into the lasagna pan, Amy passed the salad to Emilie. “Michael wants to start tomorrow. We’re going to take an extra day, because it hurts if I sit too long.”
Emilie clanked the serving spoon against the salad bowl. “You’re going with him?”
Michael held up a finger. “We’re camping. Separate tents. And two rooms in Toronto.”
A smirk touched Emilie’s lips, but her brow smoothed. “You’re so old-fashioned. It’s cute.”
“Whatever.” He lifted a square of lasagna onto her plate, then one for Amy, before serving his own. “See, I’m chivalrous, too. And I can cook.”
Aunt Bay snorted. “Doesn’t matter how great a catch you are, if you won’t swim near the bait.”
He reached for the salad. “Two wonderful ladies in my life already.”
Amy’s cheeks warmed. She stared at her plate. In his life but not in his life.
“Two single ladies you’re keeping out of circulation.” Emilie rapped twice on the tabletop. “Especially Amy. Michael, don’t bury her with my brother.”
Heat washed Amy’s face and down her neck. Her fingers felt like ice.
Michael touched her arm and she flinched. He pulled his hand back. “Emilie, that’s enough. Amy will move on when she’s ready. Here, in my house? Under my protection? Let her grieve.”
Amy made eye contact with Emilie and shook her head.
Emilie held her gaze. Her lips moved in a silent I told you so.
Chapter 4
Amy had assisted with Michael’s exhibits before, but never more than a few hours’ drive from his studio. With frequent stops to stretch, her discomfort wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Nonetheless, she opted to use her cane throughout the show at Toronto’s Linden House Gallery. As art appreciators, these patrons would be less concerned with sympathy than informal tourists.
Returning from the washroom, she paused at the exhibit room entrance. A gentle hum of conversation drifted from the visitors as they circulated among the paintings in pairs and clusters.
How many of the arts reporters invited to last night’s opening soiree had written reviews? How many of the press releases she’d sent out had been noticed? She’d created a Facebook event, too, for Michael’s local followers, and sent a newsletter update to his email subscribers. Linden House staff had done the same with their contacts.
Amy’s job was to raise Michael’s business profile, as well as rescuing him from the paperwork he dreaded. He didn’t like these functions either, although the moral support of her presence seemed to help. At least he accepted shows as a necessary evil. The most beautiful art in the world wouldn’t do much good if nobody saw it.
Look at him now, standing with an elderly couple, head tipped, listening. Smiling gently. Being authentic. He didn’t need to sell — just to be himself.
Amy stepped into the room and wove her way through the visitors, pausing to greet anyone who made eye contact. Snippets of conversations lapped at her ears.
“Such natural colours… it’s so clear, like looking through a window… I can almost feel the spray from that wave… see how the raindrops glisten.”
A mother and daughter chatted in front of a painting of two chickadees splashing in a birdbath with two more of the little birds flying to join in. The girl, maybe nine or ten, spotted Amy’s name badge. “Miss, how did he get the birds to pose like that?”
Amy smiled. “Michael works from photographs. He’d never get the birds to hold still, and water’s always changing too. He spends a lot of time observing, with his camera ready. Sometimes he’ll even combine two or three shots to match the image in his mind.” She pointed. “This is the birdbath outside his studio. You should have heard the racket these little guys were making. We think they’d just left the nest, from the way they carried on. Just like human brothers and sisters.”
The little girl grinned back. “Me and my brothers are louder.”
Her mother lifted an eyebrow. “You can count on that.”
Chuckling, Amy moved on. She caught sight of Michael talking with a couple closer to his own age. The woman was pregnant. Another patron stepped nearer, and the woman placed a protective hand over her stomach. Michael beckoned Amy to join them.
Up close, the couple were older than she’d thought. Mid-thirties?
The woman smiled and put out her hand. “Amy? I’m Carol. Your cousin? From a thousand years ago. Almost twenty, anyway.”
Amy shook hands instinctively, trying to match the face to her memory. She’d been so young when her cousin Carol, who’d lived with them, had gotten pregnant and married — in that order. To a shiftless guy a few years her senior, reinforcing Amy’s mother’s repeated message of abstinence. Could this be the same guy? Maybe Mom had been wrong.
Carol gestured to the man beside her. “There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. This is my husband, Joey.”
Another handshake, warm and somehow caring. Amy glanced between the two of them. “How did you find me?” Why did they bother?
Carol stepped closer to Joey. “We tried last year, to invite you to our wedding.”
Joey nodded. “I Googled you again a few weeks ago, on a whim, and found you on Michael’s website. Carol was actually here at his exhibit two years ago, and this gave us a great reason to come back.”
“We’d love to offer you both a meal while you’re here,” said Carol, “or dessert after the exhibit closes tonight.”
“What do you think, Amy?” Michael’s expression said his question really meant how’s your hip?
She could pop an extra painkiller for the chance to reconnect with an actual family member — one who wanted to spend time with her. “Could we?”
Michael checked his watch. “We’ll be here until eight. Is that too late?”
“Not at all.”
“Perfect.” Michael glanced around. “I need to mingle. Would you give Amy your address for the GPS? And thank you.”
Amy watched him sidle past a knot of well-dressed women and approach a solitary visitor admiring a painting. “It’ll be good to sit and chat. We don’t need to put you out for a meal, though.”
Joey linked hands with Carol. “She likes to feed people. I married her for her cookies.”
“You did not!” Carol slapped her other hand against his stomach. She grinned at Amy. “I married him for his music collection. I’m glad you can come tonight. I’d love you to meet my son, Paul, if we can track him down.”
Their banter stirred the empty spot in Amy’s heart where Gilles had been. The spot that Michael’s friendship somehow made emptier. She pulled a notepad and pen from her pocket. “How do we find you?”
After she’d taken down the address, Amy excused herself to circulate. She left Carol and Joey lingering in front of a dew-drenched clump of pansies in a blue earthenware pot.
They stayed at least another half hour, and intercepted Amy to say goodbye when they left.
By closing, a handful of Michael’s paintings bore a “sold” sign. The atmosphere had been positive all day, with smiles and hushed conversations. Amy leaned on her cane. Satisfaction didn’t ward off fatigue. Or pain.
The GPS did most of the talking on the drive to Carol’s place. Amy leaned against the headrest, glad not to be peering at a city map.
Michael hummed quietly under his breath. Relieved to escape the crowd? He navigated the van through a network of residential streets and pulled up in front of a two-storey home.
Amy stirred. “They said it’s a basement flat, and to use the back entrance. I really appreciate this, Michael. You have no idea what it’s like to have no family.”
“Maybe Carol remembers some of your childhood escapades. I might learn something.”
Carol — and her dog — met them at the door. “Settle down, Chance. Let them in!”
A warm, spicy
scent set Amy’s taste buds tingling. Amy put out her palm for a doggy nuzzle, then wiped it against her leg while Chance inspected Michael’s shoes.
“Just hang your coats on the pegs, and come have a seat. I wasn’t sure how quickly you’d get away, so our chicken needs a bit longer in the oven.” Carol led them into a cozy living room with a Monet print over a brown cloth sofa. A matching armchair and faded green recliner clustered to the side, facing an ottoman with a tray of four tall glasses.
Amy nudged Michael. “Does the Water Garden make you feel at home?”
“Or like I need to go back to school.”
Joey stepped into the room from a short hallway, buttoning a sweater over his shirt. “I should have warned you, Michael, Carol’s into Impressionists. Have a seat.” He dropped into a corner of the couch. “Whoever’s the most tired gets the recliner. It’s comfier than it looks.”
Michael made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Amy? Even the best chair won’t help my tired brain.”
Her hip twinged as she lowered her body into the seat. “I may be here for the night.”
Carol offered Amy a glass. “Water?”
“Yes, please. I’m parched. There’s only so much I dare drink at a ‘Waters’ exhibit.” Amy balanced the glass on the armrest and kept a light hold on it. Chance had lain down between the couch and other chair, but a single bound and one swipe from his tail would be all it took to soak her.
Michael took a glass and sat in the other chair by the dog. He trailed one hand along the furry head. “Schmoozing is hard work.”
Carol settled on the couch. “Especially being on your feet the whole time. I’m glad you could come tonight, though. There wouldn’t be a lot of time tomorrow between church and the gallery opening, and we have an evening meeting.”
“Church?” A hint of energy lifted Michael’s tone.
“Would you like to join us?” Joey stretched his legs out in front of him. “It’s pretty informal, good teaching, and it’s not far from your exhibit.”
The air thickened in Amy’s lungs. Michael was smiling, agreeing. Saying there’d be time for a quick bite before the show. Amy took a mouthful of water.
Michael knew how she felt about church. He wouldn’t expect her to go with him. Would Carol and Joey?
Carol caught Amy’s eye and nodded, eyebrows barely lifted. “That was me two years ago. A little free advice — the sooner you choose God’s way, the easier it is.”
How could Amy change the circumstances of her birth?
“That’s what my aunt and I keep telling her. Life’s too complicated to navigate alone.” Michael ignored the look Amy gave him. “Thank you again for finding us. I didn’t know Amy had family here.”
“I moved to Toronto a couple of years ago, but that’s another story.” Carol slid closer to Joey on the couch and tucked her feet up beside her. She smiled at Amy. “This guy kept me sane and held my hand through the worst bits — about the same time as your plane crash. Gilles had invited me to your wedding, but his mother sent a letter saying it was off. I assumed you’d broken up. Sad, but not tragic, and with everything going on here I just let it go.”
“Gilles didn’t tell me he found you. That’s the way he was — he’d do anything for anyone. Especially for me.” Amy pulled in a steadying breath. “I was in hospital for weeks. Mrs. Renaud’s way of helping was to cut me out of the picture. I didn’t see the body for closure. They held the funeral without me.” But she remembered Gilles dying. Remembered his final words. Toujours aimée — always loved.
Amy gathered her hair in one hand and twisted it. “Michael and Gilles were best friends. Michael and his aunt took me in while I recovered, and then I talked myself into a job.”
Michael’s gaze felt like a hug. “Losing Gilles hit us all pretty hard.”
Joey sat forward, palms on his knees. “There was a recent plane crash in the US that made me think to look for you again. Do they know for sure yours was an accident?”
Amy darted a glance at Michael. “They said it was. Then this month a local reporter suggested sabotage, because of the one you mentioned. It makes no sense, though. Even the best pilot can have an accident. Gilles had no enemies.”
“Do you?” Joey’s eyes held hers, clear and serious.
The hairs raised on Amy’s arms. “No! I’ve been perfectly safe since the accident.” Please, it had to be an accident. Somehow she could handle the randomness of her loss. If it was planned, if someone meant to kill Gilles—
Michael frowned. “There’s no motive.”
“I hope you’re right.” Joey blew out a sigh that ruffled his moustache. “Carol was a target because of her brother.”
Carol froze, then turned to her husband. “It was the same time, but Harry didn’t mention any other threats.”
Amy grimaced at Michael. “Yes, that Harry Silver. He doesn’t know I exist. Who’d target me for him? Or leave me alone when I lived? They had to be after Gilles.”
Michael stared at her. “There is no they. It was an accident.”
Amy’s teeth caught the inside of her lower lip. What had she said? She didn’t believe Troy’s theory. Did she?
~~~
“Goodnight, Michael.” Amy’s electronic key buzzed to release the door to her hotel room. “I’m glad things went so well today. Thanks for giving me time with my cousin.”
Michael squeezed her shoulder and stepped away. “You don’t want to come with me to church, do you?”
She put one foot into her room and tried for a smile. “I can’t.”
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back. We should still have time for a quick lunch.” The gold flecks were dancing in his eyes. “It’ll recharge me for the rest of the show.”
“What did you do last time?”
“Went to one of the mega-churches. It was great, but I didn’t know anyone.”
Mega-church? Amy’s mind flashed a picture of towering walls of reinforced steel, thick as a bank vault’s door. Walking, like an old-fashioned movie robot. Crushing people beneath its feet. She shivered. “See you in the morning.”
“Sweet dreams.” A gentle smile drifted across Michael’s face before he turned away.
Her hip needed a soak in the tub. The hot water loosened her thoughts as well as her muscles. An hour later, dry and in her pajamas, Amy booted up her laptop and signed onto the Wi-Fi network. It wouldn’t hurt to look into that crash in Maryland. See for herself what people said.
Watching news footage of the crash set her hip aching all over again and tripped her heart rate into overdrive. Amy shut the laptop. She roamed the room, but the images lingered. Memory provided the sensations, the feelings of helplessness. Of fear. Gilles’ desperate grip on her hand. His fierce whisper.
Amy filled a glass of water in the bathroom and gulped it down, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She rapped the glass onto the counter and fled to the window. Cars, and a few pedestrians, moved outside. In the distance, a horn honked. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and let her breath fog the pane.
A pizza delivery car turned the corner. Amy’s stomach quivered. She stepped back and let the curtain fall into place.
She could phone Michael’s room, wake him. He’d hold her, pull her out of this terrible place, but his brotherly support brought its own brand of agony.
Suddenly the desk lamp’s glow wasn’t enough. Amy flipped on the overhead light and the one beside the bed. She reopened the laptop and navigated to her favourite site for mellow jazz, then flopped on the bed, eyes closed, and let the music lull her.
She must have drifted to sleep eventually. When she opened her eyes and turned her head, the clock said three fifteen. Her teeth felt fuzzy. Amy sat up, rubbing the worst of the stiffness from her neck. She turned off the music and lights and climbed under the covers.
Outside, a siren wailed and faded. Amy flopped over and fluffed her pillow. Why did hotels have so many strange sounds? And why hadn’t she taken a painkiller w
hile she was up? Groaning, she pushed up from the bed and dug her pills from her purse.
Music would mute the night sounds. Amy turned the laptop on again and plugged it in so the battery wouldn’t die before morning. She propped pillows behind her and drew the covers over her legs, then settled the machine on her knees. Waiting for the medicine and music to take effect, she’d try that plane crash again. Text files only, this time.
A few news reports hinted the investigation might not be conclusive, but they didn’t give details. Sighing, Amy pushed her hair back from her face. She typed Maryland plane crash sabotage into the search box. The first page of links were mostly blog entries, plus a flight club discussion forum.
She scanned the possibilities, then copy-pasted the believable options into a new file. Damaging the fuel line, or the tank selector. Or contaminating the fuel. Those made sense, although Amy couldn’t believe anyone would want to hurt her or Gilles. One of the posts made her laugh. Lizard men used their electromagnetic weaponry because the pilot had proof of their machinations?
The drugs had taken the edge off the pain. Amy yawned and slid the laptop onto the bedside table. She’d leave the music streaming to help her sleep. Sunday would be brutal.
~~~
By the time the exhibit closed Sunday night, the dull throb behind Amy’s eyes was beyond medication.
Michael closed the gallery door behind her. “Last night in the big city. Anywhere special you’d like to go?”
She looked up at him. “I’m exhausted.”
The sparkle left his eyes. “I found a nice little jazz club online.”
“I can’t, Michael. Drop me at the hotel and you go — I hardly slept last night.” Amy’s brain caught up. Rooted in place, she stared at him, replaying his words, his tone. “That almost sounded like you were asking me out.”
He shrugged. “Let’s grab something quick to eat.” His emotionless tone was a stone wall.
Her throat tight, Amy turned and limped toward the parking lot.
Without Proof Page 3