by Liz Turner
It had been Victoria’s turn then, to scream at her mother and to accuse her of loving the café far more than she loved the family.
Her mother had retorted that Victoria wasn’t running away to a better life; she was running away because she was lazy. Her mother said she was an escapist who wanted to live in a fool’s paradise of books, instead of the real world of hard work.
“It’ll end badly.” Her mother had screamed. “You see if it doesn’t. You’ll come back on my doorstep a year from now, with a brat in one hand, and an empty wallet in another. This, this, rich brat who’s spinning words of love to you right now will cheat on you. See if he doesn’t. And don’t come crying back to me when he does.”
Victoria had said something then, quietly, in her mother’s ear who in turn had slapped her across the face.
“Get out.” Her mother had said, not quite able to meet Victoria’s eyes. “Get out and take your worthless lover with you. If I never see you again, it’ll be too soon.”
She might as well have cracked open the world. From that moment, the family had split into two. With her father and Karen under her mother’s shadow, and Victoria, breaking away to be with Michael. Victoria had walked away and never looked back. At least not until Byron had been born and by then it had been too late to mend fences. Victoria had considered her mother’s actions horrible, but she’d expected it, really. Her mother had been domineering all her life, after all.
What she hadn’t expected, what had hurt her far more was the silence she received from Karen and her father, when she had expected their support. It ripped her apart that the people she had counted on could desert her because of the fear of her mother’s wrath.
The aftermath of the fight had been a silence that not even the birth of two children and the death of her mother could solve.
Thinking back to it now, Victoria felt each lash of their caustic words as if it were freshly applied. The wounds had been packed in cotton and sealed in the back of her mind; here they were, as fresh as ever, ready to give her pain. Her time with Michael had been so full of joy, that she’d actively avoided thinking about it. He and her children had become her new world. If, on some nights when she was unable to sleep, she told herself to be tougher and to not let her pride be shaken.
Not anymore. Victoria told herself now.
Life was too precious to spend it being afraid, to spend it far apart from the only people that mattered. She’d been a fool all these years, and it had taken Michael’s death, and that email from Boyd to open her eyes to the fact. She’d let pride and fear hold her back too long. Now was her chance to make amends.
Chapter 10
Her father looked different now. Like an actor aged on TV, his essential aspects were all same, and all the aged bits of him seemed to have been added on, like false makeup. His face had deep grooves on it now and folded up in parts. His lips stretched thin and pulled together in a permanent grimace. His hair, at one-time lush and free flowing, was now a silver wisp that showed off his scalp.
He was sitting at his desk by his window, gazing out at the forest when Victoria stepped in. A book was propped up in front of him.
There was a minute of silence, and then he said. “Met your children today. The old one’s just like his father. The young one’s just like you.”
Victoria shifted, nervously. “Byron and Annie liked you too. They said you loaned them books.”
“Not much to do around here. Might as well spend their time reading.” He tapped at the book in front of him. “I’m reading a really hilarious novel right now. Have you heard of the Hitchhiker’s Guide?”
So this was how it was going to be. In her own way, Victoria felt relieved. Her father was determined to be nice to her and as for whatever had happened in the past, it was going to stay buried. Probably a good thing.
“It’s been fifteen years Dad,” She said, unable to leave a good thing alone.
Her father grimaced, swinging his chair around to face her properly. “You really want to go into that? Everyone made mistakes. Some more than others.” She could tell by the look on his face that he thought he forgave her.
It shouldn’t be that way. She thought. He’s the one that abandoned me.
He coughed into his hands then, a dry and hacking cough that lasted a good minute. When it was over, he stood up on shaking legs and refused her offers to help.
“You’re supposed to be on bed rest,” Victoria said. “The doctor...”
“Doctor.” Her father sneered, as he washed his hands. “If it were up to me, I’d be driving that Mustang on a road trip across Canada. This is no way to die, trapped inside four walls wearing nothing but thin pajamas all day long. It’s only Karen that’s making me stay.”
“Papa. Don’t say that. There’s hope yet.”
“Hope’s for fools. We’re all alive while we’re alive, and after that, there’s nothing. The nothing can catch up with you real fast, too. Look at Boyd. Everyone thought he’d outlive me.”
“You heard about Boyd?”
“I’m not so out of the loop.” Her father said. “Come here, Victoria. Give your old man a good hug.”
She ran to him then, and he enfolded her in his arms. He was a giant of a man at almost six feet 5 inches. Even bent over as he was in pain, he still towered over her. His bones felt almost fragile to her. But when he hugged her, she was reminded of the man who had been able to climb up hills with her and Karen on each arm.
“Could probably still take you in an arm-wrestling match.” He smiled as if guessing her thoughts.
“Papa, you could take on the world champion.”
With an unspoken agreement, they began to speak of all the things that would not cause them pain. All the tales Victoria had longed to tell him from Byron’s first steps to Annie’s first day of school. She told him about her first acceptance by a publisher and her first royalty check. She let the experiences pour out of her, and felt a steady glow. Her father held her hand, smiling, as he listened attentively to all she said. Almost as a flash, she had a memory of herself in a pastel blue dress getting home from school. She was and jumped up and down as she told her father all about the things she had done while he very carefully unlaced her shoes.
Her father spoke too, mostly about the café, and how the town had slowly begun to lose traffic as fewer travelers dropped in. The recession was on everyone’s minds, now.
“It’s a pity too. We’ve got some industry here in town, what with Hanson’s resort and ski hill, but that’s about all there is. Pretty soon, we’re going to be destitute if people don’t come here. I’ve been telling the town committee for a while that we need publicity stunts to save us, but Boyd was a mean old stick in the mud and refused to listen. He said that we needed to maintain the atmosphere of the town, not resort to cheap gimmicks.
“Did he annoy a lot of people with that kind of talk?” Victoria asked.
“Oh, he was going to get voted out next season for sure. The café owners’ association didn’t like some of the changes he’d proposed. He hated garish touristy décor and was going to propose an ordinance against it. But I know what you’re thinking right now and no, none of them would have murdered him, Victoria.”
“I met Angus today. You know, Boyd’s nephew.”
“Nasty character, isn’t he?” Her father grimaced. “Heard he’s been drinking up a storm all day, talking about what he’s going to do with the money. The lawyer should read the will tomorrow. I reckon the entire town’s going to be at the reading. Sick really. All of them hoping to get a silver spoon or two.”
“Angus said something about Hanson being the murderer, and the whole town knowing it,” Victoria said.
“He did, did he?” Her father looked very thoughtful but didn’t contribute more. “It’s ridiculous anyway, Victoria. Nasty people will spark up all kinds of rumors. Personally, I hope it was just a drifter that did it.”
Yes. Victoria thought. That was probably what everyone in town was hoping.
If it was a drifter who’d done it, then the town and its economy, all of which was tied in with Hanson, didn’t have to suffer. Feeling sick, she excused herself from her father and went down to help Karen with dinner.
Chapter 11
“Why did she name it that?”
“What?” Victoria smiled, looking up from her place at the counter, to where Annie sat, legs dangling off a stool. Vanilla, now a complete devotee of Annie’s, slept under the stool, her little puppy belly warm and full of chow.
“I’m reading about all this on the menu.” Annie dangled the menu, which was no more than a few laminated pages spiral bound together. “It says here that this café was started forty years ago by your mother, and that she chose the name because it was special to her. Why was it special?”
Victoria laughed. “It was a joke she and your grandfather often shared. You know the poem, right? Hope springs eternal?”
Annie shook her head, looking perplexed, and Victoria quoted,
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed:
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”
“Did grandma make that up? What does it mean?”
“No sweety.” Victoria leaned her elbows on the counter. “Grandma wasn’t a poet herself, but she was always fond of poetry. This is a man named Alexander Pope. She loved it because… well never mind why. The poem says that man is ever-optimistic.”
“I like it then,” Annie smiled widely. “Because I’m always optimistic.” There was a new gap in her teeth now, with one of her last milk teeth having fallen out the day before. She scooped up Vanilla from under the stool and gave little kisses to the golden labrador’s head.
“Yes, you are.” Victoria put a hand to Annie’s head, and ruffled her hair, then followed it up by ruffling Vanilla’s rump. Vanilla’s entire body began shaking in ecstasy. “You’re the shining light of my life, Annie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Annie looked oddly shy at being complimented this way, and Victoria coughed.
“Anyway, the reason your grandma named the café Spring Hopes is because of a joke your grandfather once made. They were talking about how the town’s tourism was dying, but people were still opening new shops, and Grandpa said, “Hope springs eternal alright and Larch Springs Hopes Eternally.” Do you know what he meant, and why he said it?”
“The town of Larch springs is always hoping things will get better, but maybe they’re wrong?”
“Exactly,” Victoria smiled. “So when your grandma opened this café, just to be cheeky to your Grandpa, she named it Spring Hopes. It was a pretty enough name, and no one really has to know how it came about. It’s a secret known only to special people.”
Annie sat up straighter, and her smile widened. “Thank you, mama.”
Victoria smiled again though the smile faded a little as Corporal Jager folded himself in beside Annie.
“I guess I interpret the poem the same way your father did,” Jager said. “I don’t see a brave optimist, I see a foolish dreamer who can’t face reality.”
A little annoyed, Victoria replied coolly, “I suppose that’s your privilege. Must be an awfully high perch you’re seated on, to look down at mankind that way.”
“At mankind? No, It’s myself I think of as the foolish dreamer.” Jager sighed. “Every time I tell myself there will be peace and quiet in the world, something happens that proves me wrong. Yet, I keep hoping for it. Keep working on it too.”
“Working for peace and quiet?” Victoria asked.
Jager shrugged. “Working for a better world, at the very least.”
“There’s a difference,” Victoria said, “Between a mind that is peaceful and free from worry and the mind which buries all its problems in an attempt to be peaceful. Like a clean house with cupboards that are close to bursting.”
“Are we still talking about the poem?” He gave her a smile that she could tell was meant to be flirtatious.
“We aren’t talking,” Victoria said. “Can I get your order?”
“May I have some coffee please?” He asked. “Maybe a hot roll too.”
She nodded and called back to the cook.
When she turned back, Jager was observing her, his keen gray eyes sharp and focused. “You don’t like me much, do you, Mrs. Armstrong?”
“That wouldn’t be wise of me, would it? Picking up a feud with the RCMP. Rather a silly thing to do.”
“...and you’re not a silly woman,” Jager smiled. “Yet here you are, your cheeks slightly redder than usual, the expression on your face far less friendly. Tell me what I’ve done to make you angry?”
“I’ll tell you what you haven’t done,” Victoria said. “Your job.”
The smiles and flirting all vanished. Jager’s face turned cold and hard. His mouth is twisted into a sneer. “Oh yes, I suppose with your experience as a writer, you’re all ready to tell me how to do my job.”
“I’ll tell you this. I find it funny how one of the men who should have been a big suspect hasn’t even been questioned yet. Or do all your relatives just get special treatment?”
Jager stood up, pushing back his stool. Every eye in the café turned to him. He was a big man, just like Victoria’s father had once been. At six feet 5 inches, he didn’t need his broad shoulders or granite jaw to attract attention, but they helped. He had the body of an Olympic powerlifter, with thick tree-trunk legs and a barrel chest that spoke of a man with big appetites and big strengths.
“You can sit down,” Victoria said. “I’ll get you your coffee.”
“No thanks,” Jager said, throwing down a few dollars. “What I’d like, really, is an explanation. No need to tip-toe around my feelings. Tell me exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Fine,” Victoria said, aware that every eye was on her. “I’d like to know why Hanson hasn’t been called in for questioning for the murder, even though everyone knows that he threatened to kill Boyd.”
Chapter 12
Victoria had heard about the scene from Angus at first, but everyone around town seemed to know about it. After a little gentle questioning of her patrons, Victoria soon heard the rest of the story.
It had happened a month before Boyd was killed. On a Tuesday morning.
He’d come into Spring Hopes Café, for his morning coffee and a slice of pie. He’d been chatting with a few of the customers when Hanson had stormed in.
The two had been long-standing rivals, since the days they had been in school together, and both wanted to be captain of their hockey team. Boyd was passionate about his town in the same way that one loves family. His love was an ever present fact that was tied to bettering the town.
He hadn’t even known at first or been able to name this love. As a younger man, Boyd would have told you with certainty that he only loved hockey, his businesses, and the one woman he had never been able to have.
As for the woman, she had spurned him to marry a different man. As for his businesses, he failed at three including a pet store, a sporting goods store and a DVD rental. Then he opened a grocery store that, to his surprise, grew far quicker than he had anticipated.
Hockey, he still loved, and he was always present when possible at the local games. He was over fifty, he lived alone, and now, thanks to his store, he was one of the richer men in town.
This was when Boyd’s love for the city had started to bloom. It all started in a simple way in a deserted park near Main Street. Once filled with children and laughter, it was now littered with cigarette butts, broken bottles, rusty swings and a broken slide.
On his evenings, when he was done with his grocery shop, Boyd had begun to go to this park, and clean it up. He had done this with little fanfare and no desire for attention, but he did it almost as if it were his calling. Every day, he pulled weeds, took away trash, painted, or fixed up the playground in some way.
At first, the teens w
ho used the park as their hangout would mock him, or try and chase him away. He never reacted to their shouts and calls, preferring to quietly keep working instead.
Embarrassed at their hangout being invaded this way by an old man with a trash bag and a box of tools, the teens drifted away.
Help began to trickle in. Parents would bring over their kids after church on Sunday and help Boyd as he worked. Equipment would show up at Boyd’s door, with a note encouraging him to keep on. Another group from the nearby church began to regularly come to barbecue and work with him. Some of the teens returned as well, and helped the old man even as they told him it was useless, the park was a wasteland that would never come back to life.
A year from when he had started, the first flower bloomed in Boyd’s Park. The town unanimously renamed it after him, and there was a big ribbon-cutting ceremony accompanied by cheers and the popping of fruit champagne.
Hanson’s life was a whole different story. Hanson had always dreamt of the big lights of cities, but his family had left behind too much property for him to ever move out of Larch. He longed to mold Larch Springs into a miniature version of Las Vegas with lots of money flowing through, lots of lights, and lots of tourists.
He was rich enough, and influential enough that he could act on his dreams. He spent years developing his contacts with politicians. After investing money into properties that often failed when tourists preferred to go to places that were less offbeat, Hanson had convinced himself that he was the town’s savior. He wasn’t wrong either. He owned large tracts of land in and around town, and his resort and ski hill, along with a chain of tourist shops that he’d rented out his properties to, created jobs for a significant number of the townfolks.
So it baffled and infuriated him when Boyd, and not he, was voted in as town mayor. It was a deep cut to his heart that Boyd had defeated him and had ousted him from his rightful place as Mayor. Boyd had also refused to enter into Hanson’s private circle of friends who ruled the town.