Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

  Amy declined, but Emilie rounded her eyes at him. “Yes, please. And do you have enough food for a starving university student? If not, that’s okay. There’s leftover pizza at my place. Unless my roommates finished it.”

  Michael laughed. “You two can help me get it ready once Aunt Bay’s back. When Safia asked her to babysit, I said I’d cook.”

  Amy dropped into a chair and put her foot up to ease her hip, while Emilie trailed Michael to the kitchen, chattering all the way. Did Michael even know the girl had a crush on him? She wasn’t subtle, but for all his sensitivity, Michael perpetually misread Amy’s own emotional cues. A sigh pushed from the depths of her lungs. Maybe he knew how they both felt, and thought ignoring it was kinder than rejection.

  He was kind. Why couldn’t Amy be content with that?

  The two of them came back into the room, each carrying a tall glass of lemonade. Michael set a third glass on the table beside Amy. “Just in case you change your mind when you see how good it looks.”

  Emilie drained half her glass and gave a satisfied sigh. “So, Amy, have you recovered from your scare this morning?”

  Amy caught her breath. Had she mentioned the anonymous text? She tried to warn Emilie with her eyes to say nothing.

  Michael leaned nearer. “What happened?”

  “It was nothing. I was in my room, and I heard a thump while you and Aunt Bay were at church.” She shrugged. “I overreacted, and phoned Emilie so I’d have someone on the line while I checked it out. A bird flew into the window. He was okay, though.” Please, she couldn’t have said anything about that text.

  An impish light gleamed in Emilie’s eye. “You’d better take her to church with you, so she won’t be home alone.”

  Michael’s lips twitched. “Fine idea. Why don’t you join us?”

  Emilie’s hands flew up as if to push back his words. “I’m a student. I need my sleep.”

  “Go to bed before midnight on Saturday. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m Catholic.”

  His grin deepened. “They won’t excommunicate you for entering a Protestant church. Or would you like us all to go with you to Mass?”

  Pink darkened her cheeks to match her hair. “No thanks. I was just trying to help.”

  “So was I.” Michael glanced from Emilie to Amy. “You’re both more than welcome any time, no strings attached.”

  The back door banged. Michael stood. “Sounds like our intrepid babysitter is home. I’ll go see if she needs a lie-down before we start supper.”

  A minute later, he popped his head back into the living room. “All right, sous-chefs, we’re on. She’ll have a quick rest while we cook.”

  Emilie lifted an eyebrow at Amy. “Sous-chefs, no less. Sounds fancy. You stay here and rest. I’ll help.”

  Michael’s voice floated from the hallway. “Both of you. Now. Come and learn the ways of the burger master.”

  Laughing, they went to the kitchen. Michael was tying on an apron that read Artist at Work. “A little bird told me someone’s been craving hamburgers.” He winked at Amy. “If he hit the window this morning, he was fine by afternoon.”

  Amy washed her hands at the kitchen sink, trying to keep her emotions off her face. She’d mentioned burgers last week. Today, while she was out gallivanting after upsetting them both, he’d decided to make her a special supper. And spent part of his free afternoon on a grocery run.

  With her back to Michael, Amy risked saying, “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me all week.”

  When she turned, he made an elaborate bow. “Sweeter than taking you on a pilgrimage today?”

  She tipped her head to the side and stared. “No contest.” Was this about competing with Ross? No way. Unless… The back of Amy’s neck prickled. Unless Emilie’s jokes were right and Michael really did want to isolate her from everyone else.

  Emilie nudged her. “Pilgrimage?”

  “What? Oh, a friend drove me to the crash site today. It was time to face it.”

  A smile played around Emilie’s lips. “So who is he? Have I met him?”

  “As it happens, it was a he, and you did meet in passing. Ross Zarin, a guy about Michael’s age, who came to pick up a painting one other time you were here.”

  “Ooh, he’s gorgeous. Way to re-enter the field!”

  Behind Emilie, Michael opened the fridge and started pulling out ingredients.

  Amy glared at the girl. “It’s not like that. Ross will find a suitable, Muslim woman who won’t mind him thinking he owns her. Not what I want, at all.”

  Emilie arched her eyebrows. “And what do you want?”

  Amy kept from glancing at Michael. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Below the pink-tipped hair, Emilie’s eyes narrowed. “As long as it’s not what I want, we’ll be fine.”

  Amy reached for a cutting board. They might both die old maids.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, as soon as Amy had dressed for the day and before going downstairs for breakfast, she settled in her bedroom chair with her phone and re-read the anonymous text. This was her one real clue, and she had no idea what to do with it.

  The silent letters on the phone screen mocked her. Amy rubbed her forehead. Was Aunt Bay still praying for the truth to come out?

  Amy stared out the window at the seagulls wheeling over the water. Circling, restless, like her thoughts. The gulls wanted food. She wanted answers.

  Her stomach growled. Okay, she wanted answers and food. Amy frowned at the phone. Two could play the texting game. If she hadn’t been so startled yesterday, she could have shot back a reply. She started typing. You just proved it wasn’t an accident. Who are you? Her thumb jabbed the send button.

  Amy slid the phone into her pocket and left the room.

  Half a pot of coffee waited for her in the kitchen, where Beatrice lingered over the paper. The older woman looked up with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. I was afraid visiting the crash site might bring back the nightmares.” Amy poured herself a cup of coffee and opened the fridge for some milk. “Aunt Bay, I didn’t want to say it last night in front of Emilie, but I’m sorry I upset you yesterday. I didn’t think it through.”

  “All’s forgiven. We only want what’s best for you.”

  “I’ll go back with you if you’d like. Now I know I won’t fall apart, I was thinking of planting some flowers or something. It looks pretty bare.” Amy set her mug on the table across from Aunt Bay’s newspaper and prepared a bowl of cereal.

  Michael’s aunt looked up when Amy slid into the seat across from her. “I’m glad to see you healing. You’ve been cocooned long enough.”

  Amy gathered her hair at the base of her neck and flipped the ends behind her back. “Butterflies struggle to break free, and if someone tries to help, it kills them.”

  “But humans weren’t designed to fight alone. Either one of us would have gone with you, you know. Or both of us. We’d have counted it a privilege.”

  Amy focused on her cereal. “You’re both so supportive. I just felt… I needed to go, and Michael doesn’t understand I’m ready for these things.”

  “He can be a bit overprotective. I’ve lived long enough to see clearer, child. Next time, let me work on him.” Aunt Bay folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Are you still troubled about that young reporter’s sabotage theory?”

  “I’m not satisfied it was an accident, but when I phoned the flight club, they wouldn’t talk to me.” Amy dropped her spoon in her bowl. Milk splashed across the table and she snatched a napkin from the holder to blot the drops. “The investigators didn’t find anything out of line, and even Gilles’ parents are satisfied there was nothing wrong. Who’s going to listen to me?”

  Aunt Bay reached across the table and squeezed Amy’s hand. “I will. And God will listen to us both.”

  Heat prickled the back of Amy’s neck. “He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

  “He’s
heard our conversation. And He’d love to hear you ask Him for help with whatever you think disqualifies you from His love.”

  Amy’s head came up. Aunt Bay’s eyes held no judgement, only concern. Amy shook her head. “It’s nothing I’ve done, so I can’t undo it.”

  “Child, we’ve all done things to separate us from God. We can’t undo them, but He’ll forgive us if we ask.” The hand holding Amy’s tightened. “If someone has abused you, Jesus is the only one who can truly make you whole again.”

  “What? No!” Thank God, no. Amy glanced at the ceiling. Would He mind her thanks? She looked back at Michael’s aunt. “It’s nothing like that.”

  The older woman’s face relaxed. “I thought perhaps your reaction to your father’s letter…”

  “I need to answer him.” Before he decided to phone. Amy slid her hand free from Aunt Bay’s grip and crossed her arms. “He rejected me when I needed him, and now that I’m fine, he’s asking for contact.”

  “He may have struggles of his own. Not that I’m excusing his behaviour, you understand.”

  Amy stared at a spot on the tabletop. The man had tried to explain. “So you think I should give him a chance?”

  The corners of Aunt Bay’s mouth lifted. “If the situation were reversed, what would you want him to say to you?”

  Amy pushed back from the table. “I’ll think about it after I catch up on the office messages. We got a little distracted here on Saturday, with Dafiq.”

  She cleaned up her dishes and walked through the house to the gallery and office. On a Monday in mid-September, they’d be unlikely to have any visitors to the gallery, but she unlocked the door and swung the sign to “open.” After Amy finished the paperwork, she’d see if Michael had anything else ready for framing.

  Saturday’s coffee mug sat on the desk, still three-quarters full. Amy sighed and slid it aside. While the computer woke up, she sorted the rest of the paper mail. From the email, she listed a few questions for Michael, replied to some general questions, and made a note to drop off more framed prints at one of their local consignment spots. Tourist season might be winding down, but early Christmas shopping had begun.

  No reply from the mysterious texter. How many hours’ difference between Halifax and Winnipeg? Her anonymous “friend” might still be asleep.

  Emilie should be awake by now on a school day. Amy shot off a quick text. Remember to ask your dad what he and Gilles fought about. Closure = good. She added a smiley face for good measure.

  The men’s argument was all she had. Gilles’ medical tag was the one thing to come back to her at the crash site, but he died from crash-related injuries. He must have wanted the EMTs to know about a drug allergy. The information had been nothing that could save him.

  Amy logged off the computer, picked up her notes and days-old coffee. The chime on the gallery door would let her know if a customer entered.

  She stopped in the kitchen to empty the mug into the sink and stick it in the dishwasher. No sign of Aunt Bay. Music drifted from Michael’s studio upstairs. Amy followed the sound.

  Michael perched on the edge of a high stool in front of an easel, canvas angled to catch the daylight from the enormous picture window beside him. He glanced up and flashed a smile. “Hi.” His focus snapped back to his work. “Grab a chair if you can stay. If someone’s looking for me, they’ll have to wait until I finish this bit.”

  “Nobody’s waiting. I just had a few office things to follow up on.” Amy leaned against the wall, watching him work.

  His painting clothes were old and comfortable. A moss-green shaker knit pullover with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and faded, paint-stained jeans. Eyes focused on the canvas, Michael’s face bore the tiniest hint of a frown, as if he could see through it to the real-life scene he wanted to evoke. Could he hear it, too? Smell and feel it? Taste the salt air, if it was a seashore scene?

  Often he played the water-themed relaxation CDs they used in the gallery, but today the music had words. Amy caught something about Jesus — it must be his Christian Internet station again. She wouldn’t stay long. Some of the songs stirred a hunger for a world she couldn’t be part of.

  She gathered her hair in one hand and twisted it over her shoulder like a rope. This morning wasn’t the first time Aunt Bay had invited her into their faith, and said it didn’t matter what it was that held her back. Gilles had said the same thing, and he wasn’t even a Christian. They’d talked a bit about God, since Gilles had claimed to be running away from Him. Amy’s smile turned down.

  Everybody loved Gilles. Of course he’d assume God did, too. That all he’d have to do was stop running, turn around, and be embraced.

  Gilles had laughed at the idea that her birth excluded her from the kingdom, an expression he’d no doubt picked up from Aunt Bay. He said something about “original sin” and that everybody had to lay theirs down and let God adopt them into His family. Amy had longed to believe him, but Gilles’ opinion didn’t carry much weight against the church folk from her childhood. Those people knew their Bibles.

  Michael squeezed more white paint onto his palette and cut some blue from one of the other dabs. Mixing them together with his knife, he shot her a grin. “Did you just stop by to gaze in adoration, or are there really some messages for me?”

  A little from column A, a little from column B… “Didn’t you get enough adoration this weekend with Emilie following you around?” Amy lifted her forgotten notes. “I do have a few things I need your input on, but they can wait for a break. You looked pretty focused when I came in.”

  “I’m past the tricky stage for now. We can chat. If it’s something that needs too much thought, I’ll ask to save it for later.” Michael picked up his brush, but turned his full attention to Amy. “Emilie… you were joking, right?”

  Amy gave him her best level stare.

  Red crept into his face, and he squirmed as if the stool had picked up a mild electric charge. “Are you sure?”

  When she didn’t speak, Michael asked, “When did this start?”

  “When did she first meet you? It was going strong when I came on the scene.”

  Michael hitched himself fully onto the stool and put his feet on the rungs, paint brush resting on his jeans. “She was my best friend’s kid sister. I never thought—”

  “You didn’t see her, but she saw you.”

  He pushed his free hand through his hair. “Wow. Maybe ten years? Aren’t crushes supposed to be short?”

  Heat danced in Amy’s cheeks now, but she maintained eye contact. “Not if they grow into love.” She put on an impish smirk. “Or a fixation, I suppose.”

  She let that dangle for a minute while Michael sat shaking his head. “Seriously? I think she’s in love with who she thinks you are. A guy who looks like you but parties like Gilles.”

  Michael’s head-shaking picked up speed. “That was never me. Although we did get into some interesting adventures.” His shoulders slumped and he met Amy’s eyes. “That part of me died when he did. If not before.”

  Amy’s heart twisted at his brokenness. She pushed away from the wall and plopped into the nearest chair, and summoned a teasing tone. “Aunt Bay said to ask you about fireworks.”

  The effect was priceless. Michael’s jaw dropped, his eyes went wide, and it didn’t take much to imagine a neon sign flashing the word panic across his face.

  His gaze darted around the room. “Nobody knew!” The words came out in a whisper.

  Amy’s cheeks hurt from grinning. “This is one story I’ve got to hear. Do I need to wait for a statute of limitations to run out?”

  Michael looked out the window toward the water. “Did you ever wonder why two complete opposites were such close friends? It’s too long a story for now, but there’s no harm in telling it.” He seemed to remember the brush in his hand, and reached to dip it in the cleaner. He blotted it, dipped, blotted, then frowned at it and left it to soak.

  He picked up a fresh brush and turned to
Amy. “She never said a word.”

  “Did she need to? Or did you learn your lesson, whatever it was?”

  His lips twitched. “If the lesson was don’t listen to Gilles’ crazy ideas, no. If it was fireworks, boats and a non-swimmer are a bad mix, then definitely.” The smile left his face. “We almost died that night.”

  “But you lived.”

  “And it bonded us closer than brothers.”

  Until whatever separated them. When Amy had asked about it, Gilles was uncharacteristically sharp in telling her to let it go. He’d almost seemed relieved when Michael decided to move his business out of province.

  Amy picked up her notes. “Okay. You paint, and I’ll do the assistant thing. Question one. Do you want to donate something to the firefighters’ silent auction?”

  Michael applied his fresh brush to the paint and turned to his canvas. “Sure. Remind me this afternoon.”

  “Right. And Vannette’s shop in Mahone Bay wants some more consignment prints.”

  Michael didn’t reply, but Amy knew he’d heard. He studied the canvas, then made a few tentative dabs at it. Another dip into the paint, and he fell back into a smooth painting rhythm.

  Amy allowed herself to watch for a moment, then looked at her list. “We have an invitation for a new craft fair, the weekend you’re at the Forum. If Aunt Bay wanted to help you there, I could do a table at this new one.”

  “Tell me more at lunch, but my instinct is to pass. New venture, same weekend as a major event... you could sit there all day and sell one, maybe two notepads. Besides, I’d rather have you with me.”

  “That’s me. Indispensable.” Amy couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone.

  Michael brush stopped, then started again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you want to waste your day in some two-bit craft market?”

  “Not really.” But it would be nice to think he wanted her company instead of her abilities. “One last thing. Would you do a portrait of a couple with their dog?”

  “That’s a new one. Did they say what kind of dog?”

  “No, just that she’s older, and not in great health. They want a memorial.”