by Kate Hilton
“I wasn’t sure if you were speaking to me,” I say.
“I am,” he says.
I stand also and we pause, wary, not sure whether to shake hands or hug. “How is The Beak doing?” I say.
He smiles. “It’s limping along,” he says. “Reports of its imminent death are unfounded.”
“How do you feel about private sponsorship?” I ask.
“I feel highly enthusiastic about it,” he says. “Do you have an idea?”
“I was wondering about funding for a community poetry page,” I say. “Funding that would, of course, cover much more than one page of the magazine.”
“I’d be delighted to hear more about it,” says Hugh.
“I’ll look into it and give you a call,” I say. I hold out my hand, and Hugh takes it, squeezes, and lets me go.
“Take care of yourself, Avery,” he says. “Take it from one who knows: this too shall pass.”
And he puts his earbuds back in and jogs off down the road.
I watch him go, and when he disappears around the bend, the tears come. I cry for my dad, whose loss is woven into the fabric of every choice I’ve made in love. I cry for my mom, who found a perfect love and then had to learn to live without it. I cry for all the ways in which we think we know each other and don’t. I cry for Jenny and her screwed-up childhood. I cry for Matt and the pain I’ve inflicted on him. And I cry for myself. I cry the hot, noisy tears of a child who has been stripped of her illusions. I cry tears of rage and regret. I cry for all the ways that I’ve failed and all the ways I’ve been disappointed. And when I run out of tears, I walk home.
“Rick Wozniak called for you,” says my mom. “I told him that you weren’t up for a chat, but he said it wouldn’t be long. Here’s the number.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Are you ready for lunch?” asks Mom.
I look at the clock. “We ate breakfast an hour ago,” I say.
My mother looks stricken. “I don’t know how to help you,” she says.
I give her a hug. “I know,” I say. “You’re doing everything right. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Matt’s down on the dock,” she says.
“I’ll call Rick, and then I’ll go down,” I say. “A swim might be what the doctor ordered.”
I go up to my bedroom and dial Rick’s number. He picks up after the first ring.
“Avery!” he says. “Thank you for returning my call so quickly. I was concerned. I appreciate that this is an awful time for you.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is. Awful.”
“I want you to know that I’m horrified at how you have been treated,” he says. “I consider the mayor’s conduct generally, but most particularly with respect to you, to be outrageous.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m touched.” And I am.
“I won’t keep you long,” he says. “But I’m sure you are considering your options today, and I wanted to be sure I caught you before you made any major decisions.”
“I haven’t made any decisions at all,” I say. “Major or otherwise.”
“Good,” he says. “Good. You shouldn’t. But I hope you’ll consider this when you’re ready. With the mayor’s resignation, there is a vacuum at city hall. Judy Mendelson, as you know, was the deputy mayor, but she is unable to serve due to her medical condition. Consequently, council met this morning and voted to have my father serve as deputy mayor until the election.”
“That’s a lot to absorb,” I say. So Eden sank to grief, I think, and then smile to myself. Proof of life: I can still summon up lines of poetry in the midst of a disaster. How odd to realize that I may share this propensity with Roger Wozniak, the quality of the verse notwithstanding.
“Can you absorb more?”
“Sure,” I say.
“There is substantial support on council for an early election to replace Peter Haines. I’ve discussed the issue at length with my father and others, and I’ve decided to run for mayor.”
“You know what?” I say. “I’d vote for you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” says Rick, “and I hope you’ll consider doing more than that. I respect what you’ve done during your time at city hall. We have been on opposite sides, but you have always been prepared, and courteous, and constructive. You are the only reason that the waterfront file has progressed as far as it has. I’m committed to getting the project back on track. We’ll need to run a new bid process immediately. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My point is, I’d like you to come and work for me.”
“Why would you want to have anything to do with me?” I say, tears welling up. “The whole city thinks I’m incompetent and possibly corrupt.”
“Are you?”
“No,” I say. “Not even a little bit.”
“Well then, Avery, I’d be proud to have you on the team.”
I’m having trouble speaking. I say, “I’ll consider it very seriously, Rick.”
“That’s all I was hoping for today,” he says.
I clear my throat. “One other thing,” I say. “I met with Hugh Crane this morning. He’s open to creating a community poetry page if he can find a funder. Would you be interested in supporting The Beak, philanthropically speaking?”
“I’d like to hear more,” says Rick. “Why don’t we talk again in a few days?”
“Rick,” I say. “If I agree to work for you, can I have the recipe for those cookies?”
He laughs. “We all need a few secrets,” he says.
I change into my bathing suit, pull a towel from the linen closet, and wrap it around me. I slip out of the house, pausing at the top of the staircase down to the water. There is a light breeze today, ripples chasing across the surface of the lake. It’s a nice day for a swim, but I have other plans.
Matt is sitting with a mug of coffee and the newspapers. Peter’s picture is on the cover.
“Hi,” I say.
He starts, spilling his coffee and gathering up the papers. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry, Avery. I didn’t want you to see these today. You’ve been through enough.”
“You’re allowed to read the paper,” I say. “Is there anything about me? Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Matt puts the papers down and throws his towel over top of them. “There,” he says. “Gone.” He sits. “Do you want to swim?”
“No,” I say, sitting down next to him. “I want to talk.”
“I’m here,” he says.
“Rick Wozniak called,” I say. “He wants me to go and work for him.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I thought I would be radioactive now,” I say.
“Peter is radioactive. You are the loyal soldier who got thrown under the bus.”
“That was a healthy serving of metaphors,” I say.
“You get the point,” says Matt. “Little Miss MFA.”
“I’m not that person anymore,” I say.
“Sure you are,” says Matt.
“Is that what you see? The same person you met all those years ago?”
“Of course not,” says Matt. “You’ve grown. You’ve evolved. That’s what people do. But all the qualities I fell in love with are still there. And some others that I merely tolerate out of affection, like the metaphor policing.”
“Matt,” I say, my stomach tight with nerves, “will you ask me again? Have I screwed up too badly? Is it too late?”
His gaze is soft. “Of course it’s not too late,” he says. “But it’s been an emotional week for you. Are you sure you want to make a big decision right now?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I think it’s the perfect time to make a big decision.”
Matt stands up in his swim trunks and gets down on one knee in front of my Muskoka chair. “Avery,” he says. “I love you. I love all of you. I love the person you were then, and the person you are now, and I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know the person you will be in the future. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
{EPILOGUE}
August 2018
I’m upstairs in my bedroom when there is a tap at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
Matt steps into the room. He’s wearing a navy linen suit, crisp and unruffled. “I was sent to tell you that it’s time.”
“You aren’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding,” I tell him.
“You aren’t supposed to sleep with the bride before the wedding, either,” says Matt. “Obviously, I’m willing to tempt fate.”
“Always the risk taker,” I say.
“Only calculated ones,” he says. “And they’ve tended to work out.”
“Let’s hope your luck holds,” I say.
“We don’t need luck, Avery,” he says. “Marriage isn’t about that.”
I’m not sure he’s right. Personally, I don’t know what I did to deserve Matt’s unwavering love. But maybe luck isn’t the right word. Maybe the right word is faith.
He says, “I wanted to have you to myself for a minute.”
“Hands off,” I say. “Tara and Jenny will kill me if I mess up my hair and makeup. They were in here for hours.” I do a slow turn, my white dress flaring out at the bottom. “What do you think?”
“You look perfect,” he says. “You look like everything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”
I clear my throat. “I told you not to ruin my makeup,” I say.
Matt hands over a box of tissues. “Sorry,” he says, looking not at all sorry, and then he sneaks a kiss. I kiss him back, gently, and rest my forehead against his.
“Everyone’s here?” I ask.
“Everyone’s here,” he says. “The mayor is in full regalia. It’s a major statement on the dock, I can tell you that. There’s some boat traffic.”
It is a small wedding, only our closest friends and family. We’re doing the service on the dock at the cottage, which my mother no longer talks about selling.
Mayor Rick Wozniak, my boss, is performing the ceremony. This is one of his first official duties, and Rick is taking it seriously. He is a man of extraordinary self-discipline. I’m not sure when he sleeps.
I’ll admit to a sense of déjà vu when Rick’s landslide victory put me back in the mayor’s office. But this time, it’s different. This time, I know what I’m doing. The hours are still long, but being Rick’s chief of staff is a job, not an identity. I’m setting healthy boundaries, as my therapist would say. My relationship with Rick is one of shared professional objectives and mutual respect. It is utterly uncomplicated, which is both a relief and, truthfully, a loss.
Peter has been charged with multiple counts of solicitation of prostitution. He was, as it turns out, a quite active member of the Buckingham Club. His former friend, Adam Rothman, is facing more charges than I can count. The press’s new theory is that Peter received free services at the Buckingham Club in return for his influence behind the scenes, influence that included the awarding of city contracts. I don’t know what I think. I keep my head down, and I don’t speculate. Peter’s lawyer says that he will defend the charges vigorously.
Melanie Christie has started a group called LASH (Lawyers against Sexual Harassment), and was honoured as an Influencer of the Year at the WAFADASS fundraiser this spring. She settled her lawsuit against the mayor’s office. We nod politely when we see each other at industry events.
Marla Kraft took over as the president of ArtCo when the mayor’s office refused to deal further with Jim Crawford. With Marla’s help, the waterfront design issues were resolved fairly quickly, and the project broke ground six months ago. I visit the site every week. Even though there isn’t much to it yet—only metal skeletons rising from the mud—I can see it, fully formed, in my mind. I know it like I know my own home. It’s going to be beautiful.
The Community Poetry page of The Beak has been a popular addition to the publication. Roger is a regular contributor.
And today, Matt and I stand at the top of the long wooden staircase that leads down to the water. It’s sunny and brisk: a good morning to set out on an adventure. I take a moment to remember my dad and wish that he were here, and to remember Peter, as I once believed him to be, and wish that he were here too. And I think of all of the people I’ve been, at all the stages of my life, and I accept and forgive them, and I gather them all to me, so that I am here, entirely, in this place with Matt.
“Are you really ready to join this family?” I ask.
“Completely,” says Matt, holding out a hand.
And we walk down together.
THE END
{ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS}
I wrote this book during a two-year period which was, I sincerely hope, the worst time of my life. Believe me when I say that these acknowledgements are as heartfelt as any acknowledgements could ever be.
Thank you to the unflappable Beverley Slopen, my agent, who is also a dear friend and an excellent person to have around in a crisis. She is my first reader, and she knows a good thing when she sees it. She knows an imperfect thing too, and she knows how to say so without generating a crisis of the kind mentioned above.
Thank you to Jennifer Lambert, my editor at HarperCollins Canada. I am blessed to have an editor so wise, so insightful, so gentle, and so unfailingly right about everything. She makes my work better every time she touches it, and I love her for it.
Thank you also to Sarah Wight, my copyeditor, who saves me from excessive dialogue tags, among other literary crimes. And thanks to the rest of the team at HarperCollins Canada, including Leo MacDonald, Cory Beatty, Colleen Simpson, Sabrina Groomes, and Natalie Meditsky, who do so much to get my books into the hands of readers.
While writing this book, I spent a lot of time thinking about friendship, partly because I was writing about it, and partly because I was so reliant upon, and so grateful for, the love and help of my friends. They are many, too many to list here, but a few deserve special mention: Brydie Bethell, Naomi Buck, Marie Budworth, Brianna Caryll Valihora, Sari Diamond, Todd Ducharme, Leah Eichler, Bronwen Evans, Bonnie Goldberg, Fiona Griffiths, Reva Katz, Guy Kay, Sarah McEvoy, Stacia Morris, Ira Parghi, Laurie Pawlitza, Alyson Robertson, Jennifer Robson, Reva Seth, Rachel Sutherland, and Cornell Wright.
I am grateful, too, for a wonderful and supportive group of writers in Toronto, whom I think of as the Coven: Karma Brown, Chantal Guertin, Liz Renzetti, Jennifer Robson, and Marissa Stapley.
My books are vetted by a group of beta readers, who see the ugly first draft and help me arrive at a second draft (one that I can show to my editor without shame). Thank you to Leah Eichler, Bonnie Goldberg, Margo Hilton, Judith Lavin, Laurie Pawlitza, Reva Seth, and Maureen Whelton for their heroic service this time around.
Thank you to Evan Kenley, for keeping me company in the editing stage, and for playing research assistant in Buffalo, of all places.
Finally, I thank my family: my sisters, Anne Hilton and Betsy Hilton; my sons, Jack Hilton-Centa and Charlie Hilton-Centa; and my parents, Jim Hilton and Margo Hilton, to whom this book is dedicated. All of you were in my thoughts as I wrote this story about summers at the cottage, and family, and loyalty, and love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATE HILTON is the bestselling author of The Hole in the Middle. She also co-authors a non-fiction blog, the Pen Pal Project. Before turning to fiction, Kate worked in law, higher education, public relations, and major-gift fundraising. She has an English degree from McGill University and a law degree from the University of Toronto. Kate lives with her two sons in Toronto, where she is working on her third novel.
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ALSO BY KATE HILTON
The Hole in the Middle
CREDITS
Cover Image: © Susan Fox / Trevillion Images
COPYRIGHT
Just Like Family
Copyright © 2017 by Kate Hilton.
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Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition: May 2017 EPub ISBN: 9781443451475
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