by Gail Bowen
* * *
—
Once inside, Zack and I stopped at the first elevator, but Vale pointed to the one at the end. “This goes to the penthouse,” she said. When the elevator doors opened on the twenty-seventh floor, we stepped into the entrance hall of Gabe and Ainsley’s condo. Two handsome young men in black turtlenecks and tight jeans took our coats, and a third handsome young man in the same uniform appeared and led us into the party. As soon as they were out of earshot, Taylor turned to Vale. “Those guys are hot.”
Vale’s smile was puckish. “Rosamond ‘adores the sight of nice, firm male buttocks.’ ”
We were still smiling at the image when Gabe approached us. Like Zack, he was wearing a tux, and like Zack he wore a tux well. Gabe complimented Taylor, Vale, and me on our outfits. I’d deliberated about the gown I’d chosen to wear. It was Vera Wang, a sleeveless, full-length black-velvet classic with a very deep V back, the bottom of which was at eye level and easy reach for a man in a wheelchair. Zack loved it. I liked the dress too, but the first and only time I’d worn it, the evening had turned out disastrously. For me, the dress carried the memory of that evening, and I was returning it to my closet when Taylor bounced in and convinced me to wear it. As I looked around the penthouse with its crystal bowls of buttery yellow Michelangelo roses and skillfully arranged glowing candles, I was glad Taylor had insisted that I pull out all the stops.
Gabe was the consummate host, making certain our drinks were to our liking, encouraging us to sample the curried prawns and the ploughman’s pate, joking and cajoling, a charmer determined to please.
Rosamond Burke had arrived before us and was chatting with Zephyr and Ainsley in the living room. Standing by the wall of windows, her tall, lean figure thrown into sharp relief by the background of night and falling snow, Rosamond was a formidable presence. The outfit she wore—a pale grey, high-necked jacket with a fitted bodice and silvery-grey chiffon slacks—showcased her tall, slender figure. Her white hair, silky and abundant, was looped into a chignon and she held her handsome head high.
Gabe ushered us over to greet Rosamond, patted his tux pocket to make certain his Camels were handy, and headed to the balcony for a smoke. Nature abhors a vacuum and after Gabe disappeared, Rosamond was quick to take charge of the situation, exchanging air kisses with Vale and Taylor and giving Zephyr and Ainsley a look of sincere dismay. “I’m anticipating our dinner together with pleasure,” she said. Her voice was full-timbred, rich, and strong. “But I know you’ll understand that Sally Love and I were once friends, and I have been longing to meet her sister ever since Taylor told me of the connection, so if you’ll excuse us…” She waved a graceful, dismissive arm at Zephyr, Ainsley, and Zack. Zephyr and Ainsley had obviously been forewarned and when Zack, clearly amused, shot me a quick grin and wheeled off with our daughter and Vale in tow, Rosamond turned her clear, penetrating gaze on me.
“Let’s find a place where we can talk about you and Sally without interruption. She looked at my half-filled glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Soda water with a twist.”
“Do you like single malt?”
“Very much.”
“In that case,” she said, beckoning to one of the beautiful boys, “a bottle of Old Pulteney, a large platter of curried prawns, two whiskey glasses, and two small plates.” She watched with an appreciative smile as the boy walked away. “Delicious,” she said. “Now let’s find a place to talk.”
Rosamond and I settled on two sleek white leather chairs in a corner of the living room made private by a pretty four-panel Chinese screen. For the next half-hour, the legend of British theatre and I sat next to each other, looking out at the cityscape and talking about Sally Love.
Rosamond began by saying that she and Sally met one autumn when Izaak brought Sally to London to see a show at the Tate. Sally had been twenty-one and Rosamond in her early forties. They were separated by a generation, but in Rosamond’s words, they were alike in their gifts as artists and their flaws as human beings, and they felt a kinship that they continued to nurture by spending time together when Sally was in Europe or Rosamond was working in America. Neither woman lived a conventional life. Neither felt the need to make permanent connections with other people. Both had many lovers, male and female. Rosamond said the last time she and Sally talked had been when Sally was working on Erotobiography and had called Rosamond in London.
“She was excited about the show,” Rosamond said. “I promised I would call and hear how the fresco was received. To my regret, I never did. I had a play opening in the West End. It didn’t go well, and I was too knotted up in myself to think of others. A friend who is a great fan of Sally’s work flew to Saskatoon and gave me a detailed report on Erotobiography.” She rubbed her hands together gleefully. “All those images of penises and clitorises sunk into the wall of a publicly owned art gallery in a small Canadian city—it must have caused quite the brouhaha.”
“It did.” We both laughed as I described the endless lineups and the lip-smacking lasciviousness that greeted the “Penis Paintings,” but Rosamond’s face grew grave when I told her about the ugliness, the threats, and the violence that confronted Sally after the opening.
“Appalling,” Rosamond said. “But having you beside her must have made it easier for Sally to withstand the slings and arrows.”
“I hope it did.”
Rosamond cocked her head. “What did you make of Erotobiography, Joanne?”
“I thought it was brilliant,” I said. “Funny, smart, and provocative in the best sense. That fresco made people think. It was huge, you know: three metres by nine. And Sally had played with scale—some of the genitals were so large they looked like lunar landscapes and some were as tiny and carefully rendered as a Fabergé egg. But big or small, those clitorises and penises floating in the blue celestial sky delivered a message, and Sally and I talked about it. People had been made miserable yearning for those little dangling or hidden parts of us. Lives had been warped or enriched by them. They had made dreams come true, and solitudes join, but isolated that way against a sky that existed before they came into being and would be there long after they’d returned to dust brought perspective.”
“You and Sally arrived at that interpretation together?”
“We did,” I said. “And we agreed on something else: hanging out there in space, all those little fleshly clouds looked totally fucking ridiculous.”
Rosamond’s eyes widened with surprise, then she flashed me a brilliant smile. “That was pure Sally,” she said. “She never cared what people thought of her. She was naked to life. You don’t strike me that way, Joanne.”
“That’s because I’m not. Sally always made me feel brave.”
“And you made her feel safe,” Rosamond said. “Sally spoke of you often and always with gratitude. She said she knew that, despite the distance between you, if she needed you, you’d be there.”
“But for years I wasn’t there,” I said. “I was too proud and hurt and confused to get close to Sally until her life was nearly over.”
Rosamond saw that her words had wounded me, and her voice was firm. “But Sally knew if her need for you was deep, you’d feel that need and you’d respond. And you did. I’ve been watching Taylor as she’s been sketching the cast and crew of The Happiest Girl. She has an extraordinary talent, and she is, as the French say, bien dans sa peau, comfortable in her own skin. That’s because when Sally needed you most, you were there to draw Taylor into your life.
“Now, we should probably join the others,” Rosamond said, rising from her chair. I followed suit and we stood facing each other. “Given the shooting schedule, this may have been our only chance to talk, Joanne, but I’m grateful we were able to say what needed to be said.”
“So am I,” I said. Rosamond opened her arms to me. Ours was not a casual social hug. It was the firm embrace of two women sealing a bond.
As soon as Zephyr Winslow saw that Rosamond had emerged from o
ur hideaway behind the Chinese screen, she made a beeline for her. The outfit Zephyr had chosen was dramatic: an iridescent coppery toned V-necked taffeta jacket trimmed in stiff double ruffles over a simple black silk shirt and tailored black trousers.
Few women could have carried off the boldness of the jacket’s cut and shimmer, but Zephyr’s ageless vitality graced any design, and the iridescent copper of her jacket drew out the bronze flecks of her tawny eyes. In the brief glimpse I had of her before Rosamond spirited me away, I thought Zephyr looked terrific, but now I saw that her face was drawn and her expression, strained. Clearly there was something on her mind, and she was determined to share whatever it was with Rosamond.
She had moved in close and begun to speak when I started past them, and Rosamond beckoned to me. “Joanne will be interested in this,” she said. “She’s as partial to Vale Frazier as am I. Joanne, Zephyr has just asked me if I find Vale ‘fanciful.’ A teller of tales? A spinner of romances? A girl who transmogrifies truth? Have you ever suspected Vale of telling fibs?” Rosamond asked, and her tone was mocking.
“Never,” I said.
Zephyr’s eyes met mine with a ferocity that surprised me. It was an awkward moment, but when one of the lovely boys appeared and offered Rosamond his arm, and another appeared and offered his arm to Zephyr, the tension broke. Mercifully, dinner was about to be served.
* * *
—
Roy Brodnitz was the last to arrive at the table. He had a light, quick stride, and he slid into his chair with such grace and ease that the simple action was a pleasure to watch. That afternoon Burgandy Code, who played Ursula’s mother, Ruth, and Kenneth LaBonte, the choreographer, had both come down with a nasty flu that was making the rounds, so there were ten of us at dinner, and Rosamond had dictated the seating order to suit her fancy. Rosamond herself sat at the head of the table with Roy to her right and Gabe to her left; Zephyr sat at the foot of the table with Zack to her left and Brock, attending as Roy’s date, to her right. Vale and I sat between Roy and Zack, and Taylor and Ainsley sat between Gabe and Brock.
When we were all seated, one of the servers approached the table with a bottle of a wine Gabe described as a “top-quality Bordeaux that had a few years’ bottle age.” The server poured a sample into Rosamond’s glass and when she pronounced it satisfactory, more bottles were opened and all our glasses were filled. Gabe deferred to Rosamond to offer the toast. Logically, the first glass would be raised to Roy, Ainsley, and Gabe, the three principals bringing The Happiest Girl to film, but Rosamond liked to surprise.
Spinning the stem of the wineglass between her fingers, she turned to Vale. “I’ve seen videos of you in a number of roles, including the one for which you earned a Tony nomination, but you’ve always lacked either a great script or a great director. You’ve never had the support you needed to do your best work, but now you have that support and you’re brilliant. So I raise this glass to everyone at the table who is giving you the chance to truly shine. To Roy Brodnitz for a superb script; to Ainsley for intelligent and sensitive direction; to Zephyr Winslow for her generous support of the project; to Zachary Shreve, who, I am told, did yeoman’s service as mayor working to bring movie production back to Saskatchewan.” She twinkled. “To Brock Poitras for gladdening my heart every time I catch a glimpse of him; to Taylor and Joanne for giving Vale insight into the relationships between mothers and daughters; to Gabe Vickers for bringing this project and the people at this table together, but…” As Rosamond’s splendid voice rose for the peroration, everyone at the table was rapt. “But most of all to you, Vale Frazier. Your knowledge of the heights and depths to which the heart can drive us is deepening and enriching every aspect of The Happiest Girl.”
Zephyr’s face tightened with anger at Rosamond’s toast praising the young woman whom she had so recently sought to discredit, but Vale accepted the generous words with poise, and when we’d all chorused, “To Vale,” she simply said thank you and took a sip from her own glass. The evening was underway.
Rosamond had chosen a fine menu: consommé madrilène; potatoes, onions, and carrots done round roast lamb; savoy cabbage; and for dessert, sticky toffee pudding. The food was cooked to perfection. The pairing of wines with the dishes was excellent, and the conversation flowed.
Rosamond was a staunch socialist and the pronouncements uttered in her beautifully modulated voice were reasoned and passionate. Zack’s politics were progressive but pragmatic. Years in the courtroom had taught him how to use his voice, and he loved to play devil’s advocate. Listening to Rosamond and Zack debate was a master class in the fine arts of both political discourse and theatre.
Taylor and Vale had a spirited discussion about the respective lives of visual artists and actors—the visual artist’s freedom to make art on her own terms versus the actor’s need to depend on the abilities and opinions of others. Roy repeated the comment he had made to me about writers universally being regarded as eunuchs in the harem of the truly creative people of theatre, and his rueful, self-mocking humour lightened our mood. Ainsley’s explanation of the work of the director was thoughtful and poetic. Gabe’s encomium to his delight in finding the best talents and bringing them together to create something greater than the sum of its parts was surprisingly moving, and his tribute to Zephyr as a person whose support of the arts gave it its lifeblood was warm enough to melt the ice that had surrounded her since we sat down to eat.
As she sat at the head of the table bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight, enjoying a superior meal with people who were as bright and passionate as she herself was, Rosamond was clearly in her element. But as an actor, she knew that timing is key. The evening had reached its high point, and Rosamond knew the moment for the coda had arrived.
“I believe in joy,” she said. “Find the person within yourself who will bring you joy.” Her eyes swept the table and settled finally on our daughter. “Taylor, I knew your birth mother, and I’m coming to know the mother who raised you. Both women took immense joy in how they chose to lead their lives. All of us have had to weigh options. It’s never an easy process. Every choice between options cuts off possibilities, and loss is always unpalatable. “Choose joy,” she said. “Choose joy, and the rest will fall into place.”
CHAPTER
13
My husband is prodigiously gifted in many ways. He’s a brilliant tactician in the courtroom: he calculates, he adapts to the unexpected, he understands his opponent’s point of view, he has an uncanny ability to come up with the one move that will stymie the opposition, and he has an eye for error—his own or that of opposing counsel. The fairy godmother doling out gifts at Zack’s birth was generous, but she withheld the gift of spatial sense. Their grandfather’s inability to do the most basic jigsaw puzzle baffles our granddaughters. His determination to help them finish a puzzle they’ve been working on for two hours terrifies them. Sunday afternoon as Zack and I discussed how best to use the space in our soon-to-be-shared home office, I knew how Madeleine and Lena felt when their grandfather tried to jam a chunky piece of blue sky into a space clearly intended for a horse’s eye.
The idea of creating a place where we could work side by side was Zack’s. He said a home office would prove that he was serious about spending more time at home. I had suggested as tactfully as I could that I was happy to sketch a plan for arranging our office furniture, but Zack insisted that since we were both going to use the space, he should do his part in making our dream a reality.
My spirits rose when the landline rang and Zack picked up. It was possible a file at Falconer Shreve needed his immediate attention, and I would be left to my own devices. But the reality was even better.
“Chloe Kovacs wants us to come over and see her Christmas tree,” Zack said.
Opportunity had knocked, and I was not about to dally. “I’ll get our coats,” I said.
When we went to Taylor’s room to tell her we were headed for the Kovacs, she jumped up from her desk. “Wait a se
c. I have something I think Chloe will like.” She reached up to the top shelf of her closet and took down a box of coloured pencils and The Secret Garden colouring book for adults that our next-door neighbours had given her for her birthday. She handed them to me. “These are lovely,” she said. “But right now, I’m kind of into my own work.”
“I’m sure Chloe will be pleased,” I said.
* * *
—
The Kovacs’ comfortable two-storey brick house in an old inner-city neighbourhood had been built by Nick’s father. A large and fragrant holiday wreath hung on the front door, but Zack and I barely had time to admire it before Nick and Chloe were welcoming us to their home.
Father and daughter were both wearing blue jeans, but Nick’s were well worn and Chloe’s were designer. Nick was in a green Roughriders sweatshirt that had seen better days, and Chloe was wearing a red cashmere turtleneck. Their colour coordination was festive, but Chloe’s face was fresh and her father’s features held the weariness of a man who had always ridden himself hard. Nick once had said to Zack that every morning he awakened to the memory of Chloe’s accident and prayed that this was the day when he could make amends for ruining her life.
The Kovacs’ living room must have looked much the way it had during the decades when Nick and his brothers were growing up. The furniture was comfortable, upholstered in fabric that would withstand the rough and tumble of adolescent boys. The walls were hung with holy pictures and candid shots of family. Pride of place over the mantel was shared by a studio portrait of a young woman with dark eyes and a heart-shaped face who must have been Nick’s mother and a framed, enlarged colour photograph of Nick’s father and his four sons standing in front of a shiny red truck with the words Kovacs Electric painted on the side.
As she led us towards the front window of the living room, Chloe was fizzing with excitement. “Here it is,” she said. The Kovacs’ tree, a tall, full plantation pine, was hung with fabric ornaments: hearts, roosters, sleighs, trees, and candy canes, each embroidered with tiny pink, blue, yellow, and white flowers. “These are from the Old Country,” Chloe said softly. “My great-grandmother and her sisters made them.” She pointed to the red and green ceramic hearts dotting the tree. Each was painted with the words Boldog Karácsony.