by Gail Bowen
“Fingers crossed,” I said. “How did Vale come to know Lizzie?”
“It was just one of those things. When shooting’s over for the day, craft services sends the food the cast and crew haven’t eaten to a homeless shelter. Lizzie heard about the food and showed up at the studio one night to get a meal. The craft services people aren’t authorized to give the food directly to needy people. Apparently, there are regulations. Vale was certain Lizzie wouldn’t go to the shelter, so she filled a plate for herself, gave it to Lizzie, and stayed with her while she ate it.
“The next morning when Vale left her condo to go to the studio, Lizzie was curled up in the outer vestibule of her building. She followed Vale to the studio, ate something, and took off. Vale didn’t see her for three days, and then one morning when Vale came down to go to work, Lizzie was back, asleep in the vestibule. That’s been the pattern ever since. She comes and goes. Anyway, I’d better grab the coat and get moving. Vale and I are taking the woman doing the Nexus piece to Afghan Cuisine for dinner after the interview.”
“Good choice,” I said. “But I’ll need to alert your dad. He’s bringing home fish and chips and he always gets your order with extra halibut.”
Taylor’s head shake was vehement. “Don’t call him. I’ll have what’s left over for breakfast.”
* * *
—
When Zack came home, I met him at the front door with a martini. “Excellent,” he said. “But aren’t you supposed to be wearing Saran Wrap?”
“Don’t push it,” I said. “But I do have the fire going and the tree lights on.”
Zack removed his scarf and jacket and handed me a file folder. “For you,” he said. “Contracts.”
I opened the envelope. “That was quick.”
“I was making amends. As soon as I got back to the office, I called Roy. He said to make certain the contract specified that Gabe should be his and your surrogate for all production matters,” Zack said.
“What?” I said. “Is that standard? I don’t know if I like signing so much power over to Gabe.”
“I thought you might feel that way,” Zack said, “but I consulted with Falconer Shreve’s entertainment lawyer, and she said this is all par for the course. However, she and I agreed that we should include a clause stating that as the owner of the material upon which the series would be based if, at any time, you were dissatisfied with the direction in which the project was developing and if, after reasonable consultation between Living Skies and you, agreement could not be reached, the option would be declared null and void.”
“Well, I guess it’s okay then…” I said.
Zack gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “Good, because Gabe Vickers has already signed the contract.”
I flipped to the signing page of the top copy. “So he has,” I said. “Zack, how did the contracts end up with Gabe?”
“Roy’s contract for The Happiest Girl gave Gabe rights of first refusal on Roy’s next project. As soon as you’d agreed to have him pitch Flying Blue Horses to Gabe, Roy spoke to him and Gabe got on board. When I called Gabe, I thought he was going to jump through the phone. He really wants this, Jo. My guess is he’s on the phone right now starting to put together the financing.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “Not a word has been written.”
“I mentioned that to Gabe. He said the pitch for the series Weeds was only four words: ‘suburban,’ ‘widowed,’ ‘pot-dealing,’ and ‘mom,’ and Roy had more than that.”
Zack pointed his chair towards the family room. “Now that we have a contract in hand, let’s settle down.”
I put the fish and chips in the oven to stay warm and brought in our drinks.
“So how was your day?” Zack said.
“I’m still working that out,” I said.
Zack’s brow furrowed. “I thought you’d be happy about this.”
“I am. The terms of the contract are generous. I’m not creative, but I’ve always enjoyed doing research. I like finding the pieces, putting them together, and seeing what I come up with.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The first piece of information I’ve unearthed has rattled me. I talked to Ben Bendure this afternoon. I thought he might have memories or even old home movies that would shed light on the relationships between Des, Sally, and me.” I took a large sip of my drink. “It turns out Ben knew I was Des’s daughter. So did Nina and Izaak. Ben said that my father decided to put me in boarding at Bishop Lambeth because I’d be, quote, ‘safer there than in the house with my mother.’ Des wanted to tell me the truth and take me into their family, but my parents wouldn’t allow it.”
“Let me get this straight,” Zack said, and his voice was coldly deliberate. “Your father felt you wouldn’t be safe with your mother, so rather than let you grow up with people who cared for you, he sent you to a boarding school for thirteen years.” Zack put down his drink. “I know you loved your father, so I’m not going to say a word.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I just hope there aren’t too many other landmines out there.”
“Jo, what would happen if you decide not to be part of this and don’t return the signed contract to Gabe.”
“Roy said he won’t go ahead without me, so that would be the end of it.”
“That might be the simplest solution,” Zack said.
“The simplest, but not the best,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I have to do this. And not just for my sake.”
“For Sally’s?”
“Among others,” I said. “Zack, I have always felt bad about how Izaak Levin’s life ended. He suffered the heart attack that killed him just seconds after Sally died at the Valentine’s Day dinner. Nina planted evidence on Izaak that made it appear he had murdered Sally, and he wasn’t there to defend himself. He never had a chance to clear his name.
“I went to his funeral. Hardly anyone else did. I met his sister. I was grateful that the truth about Nina’s guilt came out while Izaak’s sister was still alive, but by then the murder was an old story—page three news. Izaak Levin was a major figure in the art world, but the suspicion that somehow he was involved in Sally’s death never lifted, and his accomplishments were eclipsed.”
“Levin was also a major figure in the life of Taylor’s mother,” Zack said, and his eyes were full of concern. “Jo, are you really prepared to have what happened to Sally in the months after Des died dug up again?”
“The truth about her relationship with Izaak is complex,” I said. “But Sally would want it known. She was honest and she was fair. She would want Izaak’s contributions to be recognized, and she would want Des’s significance as an artist and teacher acknowledged. Until Roy discovered Aurora in that gallery in New York, Desmond Love was an asterisk in Sally’s biography. He deserves better, and Flying Blue Horses can show the kind of man he was.”
Zack’s gaze was steady. “You sound certain again.”
“I am,” I said. “Sure enough to take the next step, anyway.” I picked up the folder with the contracts. “May I borrow your pen?” I signed the copies and handed the folder back to Zack. “Well, that’s done,” I said. “Tell me about your day.”
“Maisie was sensational. When the judge gave her a tongue-lashing, Maisie waited him out and then turned back to the witness and kept pummelling until he handed her what she needed to move in for the kill. She’s unstoppable.”
“Remember the first time I met Maisie?” I said. “She’d just come from lacrosse. She’d chipped a tooth and her lower lip was bleeding, but her smile lit up the room.”
“The first time she shook my hand, she crushed four of my fingers,” Zack said. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to eat.”
* * *
—
We were in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher when Taylor arrived, rosy-cheeked, eyes streaming from the cold, but exuberant. “I’m home,” she said.
“I knew it,”
Zack said. “The house always feels off-kilter when you’re not here.”
Taylor kissed Zack on the head and gave me a quick hug. “Better?” she said.
“Infinitely,” I said. “So how was the interview?”
“Stellar.” After that, the words tumbled out. “Answering Siba Biyela’s questions made me start to understand why I wasn’t ready to go to OCAD last fall,” Taylor said. “Siba asked Vale and me both how our work has changed in the last year. Vale answered first, which was lucky because it gave me a chance to think, and I actually came up with something, which I was glad for because Gabe Vickers walked in just as Vale was finishing up her answer.”
Our daughter pulled off her toque, untied her scarf, removed her jacket, and piled everything on a chair. “I’ve read a ton of books about art and artists,” she said. “I’ve taken classes. I’ve learned about technical stuff like plumb lines and how to structure space in a painting. I’ve made art and I’ve sold quite a few pieces. I figured that’s the way it would always be, then a few weeks after we got back from New York, I had a kind of crisis, and I stopped painting.”
“You never talked about it,” I said.
“I wasn’t unhappy,” Taylor said. “But after I saw Des’s paintings and looked at Sally’s work again, I knew that before I made any more art, I had to decide what my work should be about. I made a lot of false starts, then I remembered the way the actors moved from human to bears and back again in The Happiest Girl, and I knew I wanted my work to have that…fluidity…” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a word?”
I nodded. “Yes. Fluidity is definitely a word.”
“Good, because that’s what I want in my art. I want it to show how nothing is static, how everything is constantly flowing, transforming, and becoming something else.” Taylor grimaced in frustration. “Does that even make sense?”
“Makes sense to me,” Zack said.
“Do you know the term painterly painting?”
“I have an idea,” I said. “But why don’t you tell us.”
“Painterly painting is when, instead of trying to hide the strokes you make with your brush or your knife, you use the strokes to be part of what you’re doing. I’ve been noodling around with this, and I’m discovering that when I start out with an idea of what I want a piece to be and then let the brushstrokes and the knife strokes take it another way, I get that sense of movement I need to show that nothing is fixed, that everything is constantly transforming.” Taylor laughed and threw up her hands. “I’m not good at explaining,” she said. “Today when Siba asked Vale to explain her acting technique, Vale said, ‘If I talk about it, I kill it.’ I guess that’s the way it is for me too.”
“You and Vale really connect, don’t you?” I said.
“We do. It’s great being with her. We have so much in common, but we also seem to stretch each other. It’s the best!” Taylor picked up her jacket and shrugged into it. “I’m going to go out to my studio awhile and check out my painterly painting.”
“Come in and say goodnight to us when you’re through,” Zack said.
“I always do,” Taylor said. “I know how you two count on having me tuck you in.”
After Taylor crossed the backyard to her studio, Zack and I looked at each other. “Ready to call it day?” he said.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Am I ever.”
Zack was already in bed, and I was on the way, when my phone rang.
I checked the caller ID. “Zephyr Winslow,” I said.
My husband’s lips twitched in a smile. “Her wish is our command.”
Zephyr and I exchanged greetings, and then she got to the point. “Joanne, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Would a meeting at my house at ten o’clock tomorrow morning be convenient?”
“I’m sure it can be arranged. Zephyr, could you give me an idea what this is about?”
“It involves Taylor.”
“Our daughter is eighteen,” I said. “She handles her own affairs, but I’d be happy to pass along a message to her.”
“Thank you. However, we’ll be able to speak more openly if Taylor’s not there.”
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning.”
Zack peered at me questioningly over his reading classes. “What was on Zephyr’s mind?”
“She has an idea that involves Taylor,” I said.
“Shouldn’t she be talking to Taylor?”
“That’s what I said. But apparently Zephyr has another item on her agenda, and she wants to talk about it privately.
“Could be about Brock and Roy’s relationship,” Zack said. “Zephyr set them up, and she likes to keep an eye on her arrangements.”
“According to Margot, Zephyr can rest easy on that score. Margot says every time Roy and Brock look at each other, they blush.”
“How do you think Margot feels about that?” Zack said. “She made no secret of the fact that she was in love with Brock.”
“And Brock made no secret of the fact that he’s gay,” I said. “From the moment Margot decided she wanted to have a second child, and Brock agreed to be her sperm donor, they became a family, but they both knew the day would come when one of them would meet someone with whom they wanted to have a romantic relationship. I guess that day has come for Brock.”
“Let’s hope it comes for Margot too,” Zack said.
CHAPTER
8
Tuesday was a day of placid loveliness—still, blue-skied, and sunny. The weather was far too beautiful to miss, and I left early for Zephyr’s to do something I had intended to do for years: explore Dieppe Place, the area on Regina’s west side where Zephyr lived.
The neighbourhood had an interesting history. Named to commemorate the Second World War battle on the beach at Dieppe, in which Canadian forces suffered devastating casualties, the community offered half-acre lots at favourable rates to veterans, provided they built homes and lived there. Many who lived in Dieppe now were relatives of those veterans. Zephyr Winslow was one of them.
I pulled up in front of Zephyr’s ten minutes early, and I was glad of the extra time because it gave me a chance to sit in the sunshine and admire her extraordinary home. Zephyr’s father had been a money manager and he, and later Zephyr, had managed the family’s money well. By all accounts, Edward Winslow was a practical man, but the house he built for his wife and daughter was a fanciful silver-grey clapboard affair with a many-windowed cupola, wraparound porch, and widow’s walk. The house was as idiosyncratic as it was charming. My guess was that Edward Winslow had designed it himself and that the contractor charged with bringing the design to life had earned every penny of his fee.
I was wool-gathering, imagining summer parties spilling onto the wraparound porch, when a man bolted out Zephyr’s front door, ran across the lawn, jumped into the car parked in front of me, gunned the engine, and peeled down the quiet street. He moved quickly, but not so quickly that I failed to recognize him. It was Shawn O’Day, the dancer with whom Gabe had quarrelled the night of Zephyr’s fete. The car Shawn had jumped into was a silvery-grey BMW with a vanity plate that read, “DANCE.” It wasn’t much of a leap to believe the shiny new car belonged to the lady of the house.
At one minute to ten, I walked up the front path and rang the doorbell. Zephyr answered immediately, and with a graceful sweep of her arm invited me in.
“You arrived on lawyer time,” she said, smiling. “That’s what Father always said about people who were punctual to the minute. May I take your jacket?”
I handed her my coat and removed my boots. The entrance hall was large and welcoming, with pale yellow walls, warm wood floors, and an antique credenza of burnished mahogany. “That’s a lovely piece,” I said.
“It is,” Zephyr agreed. “My parents had it in the dining room, but it takes up so much space, I always suspected guests felt crowded.”
“It deserves a place of its own,” I said. “And those water-colours on the wall b
ehind it are the perfect balance. They’re so filled with light.”
“The paintings are of heritage buildings that my family owned,” Zephyr said. “The Winslows have left their mark on Regina.”
“You’re certainly leaving your mark,” I said. “The Zephyr Winslow Studios will bring some exciting projects to our city. I’m really looking forward to the official dedication and to the arts festival celebrating the renaming.”
“So am I,” Zephyr said. “And that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Let’s go into the living room where we can be comfortable.”
The living room was stunning, with walls of the same pale yellow as those in the entranceway, and mahogany furniture upholstered in pastel florals, but what drew my attention was the huge poinsettia in front of the room’s bow window. With its bushy dark green foliage and rich burgundy bracts, it was indisputably the twin of the poinsettia sitting in front of the south-facing window in our living room. Seemingly, the card we received, with its curious inscription, “So a kingdom was lost—all for the want of a nail,” had been intended for Gabe’s anonymous donor to The Happiest Girl, Regina’s own Zephyr Winslow. Now the man whom Gabe had punched in the face and told to stay away from the production studios was driving her BMW.
Zephyr led me to matching settees flanking a table where tea had been set out. She gestured to one of the settees. “These look a little formal but they’re surprisingly comfortable.” We took our places facing each other, and Zephyr poured the tea. “I’ve been thinking about the celebrations in May, and I wonder if Taylor would be interested in curating an exhibition of works by young artists.”
“I’m sure she’d be interested in talking with you about it, but as I said last night, Taylor makes her own decisions.”