As he talked, Althea had a better look at him. He had a boyish face, a soft voice and a dry, quirky sense of humor. Unlike the others, he was moving all the time, subtly shifting his position in his chair. As his hands moved, she remembered where she had seen him before: at a gas station. Must have been three years ago.
• • •
THE FIRST MEETING WRAPPED up earlier than expected. Despite this, Althea was exhausted. There were more questions than answers at this point, but she knew that this was a normal part of the process. It was still before midnight in Paris, so she called Celia, who didn’t answer. She thought about emailing Ivana and decided against it. The news about Daniel returned, hot and raw. Francis Wu.
Later, Sophie was curious about the first meeting with Exeter.
“How did it go?”
“Intense, within the range of normal. Vince was covering it up well but he was exhausted.”
“What are they like?”
“Your regular corporate clones, blue suits and all.”
“How are you feeling about all of this. Have you thought of making a move?”
“Well, not this week, Sophie. I haven’t figured it out yet. I haven’t figured anything out.”
“You talk to your friend Celia lately?”
Althea felt like she was being interrogated. It was preferable to the sinking despondency that was barely beneath the surface. “I called her today, but she wasn’t in.” She took a sip of wine. Her chest felt as if there was a weight on it. She didn’t feel like finishing her dinner.
“Does she know about Exeter?”
“Yes, we’ve spoken about that.” She could feel her face redden as Sophie waited. She didn’t want to talk about it, yet she felt an irresistible compulsion pluck at her chest. “That isn’t why I called her.”
“What happened?”
As her words tumbled out, she felt the despondency tugging at her, sucking her down like a vortex. She told Sophie about the email, about her suspicions about Francis Wu. Sophie’s reply startled her.
“I knew there was more to it,” Sophie said.
“More to what?”
“His leaving you. You’re so lucky to be rid of him.” Why did I open my freakin’ mouth, Althea thought.
“I don’t feel so lucky, Sophie.” Althea felt hopelessly tired and slightly indifferent, as if all of her passion and fight had been drained. It was like lying passively on the bank of the deepest, coldest, river, a river with teeth, terrified to fall in, yet wanting the licorice-black water to wash over her and fill her lungs. She waited for Sophie’s next words and she knew what was coming.
“I never thought you should be together. I didn’t like the sound of him,” Sophie said.
“I loved him.”
“He doesn’t know what the word means.”
“I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“So soon?”
“I feel something coming on.” That wasn’t true. Althea didn’t feel a cold coming on. It felt worse than that. A knife. Embedded to the hilt.
It was a relief to be away from Sophie’s penetrating gaze.
Later, she couldn’t sleep.
Just after one in the morning, she got up and turned on her computer. She logged on to the internet, and started a search. She typed: “Daniel Bellows and Bering & Associates.” Bering’s press release came up. She clicked into it and re-read it, her nose close to the screen as if the words could give her the answers that would take away her gnawing sadness.
She found an address search site, and typed “George O’Sullivan”. George’s address came up and she stared at it. She had slept with the man for almost a year and had never called him at home. George and she had made plans for dinner five times since she arrived back in Toronto and he had cancelled each time. It started to be a running joke with her. Every time she forgot about him, he’d call her, most of the time at odd hours. Their conversations would start out around business. Didn’t end up that way.
At least someone was interested.
She clicked on Search again and typed “K Wilkins.” A dozen K. Wilkins came up and second from last “K&T Wilkins.” She stared at the screen, unblinking.
She switched from the internet and opened a Word document. She stared at the words she had written in the first person, describing what it was like to be blindfolded and bound, under the full control of another. A story she had read aloud to an audience of one. She thought about the other stories she had written, stories of a universe filled with everyday magic, an unseen spirit world, and obstacles overcome. Stories that were full of tension, humor, love and hope. Buried in a box in Sophie’s basement. Kevin’s voice.
Tell me a story.
Althea opened a new document and typed: This story is about betrayal. She stared at the screen and her eyes filled with tears. Althea leaned over, her face in her hands, and cried.
• • •
SOPHIE WAS DISAPPOINTED THAT Althea went to bed early. She wished they could have talked more. Althea was hurt, she knew that, but she also knew her daughter was strong, would move past it. And when she did, everything would fall into place.
She lit the incense and began her meditation, envisioning Althea’s face, imagining her pain transforming into strength, imagining her strength transforming into desire, imagining Althea’s desire increasing, acting like a magnet.
Then she went to find him.
• • •
MICHAEL LOGGED INTO THE personals site, searching for Althea’s ad. He re-read her ad and looked at her photo, which was smiling at him and toasting a martini.
There she is.
Michael recalled his brief conversation with Althea earlier that day. He had almost blown it with the barbeque and martini comment, but overall it had gone better than he had hoped. Her sense of humor was elusive, but that would come. Given time, he could always figure that out.
Michael sat with his hands on the keyboard, leaning forward, a glass of Laphroaig beside him. As he went to print her ad, his shoulders became very warm. He had a reiki treatment done once. The warmth now was like that, localized, growing, until his right ear burned and itched, and he rubbed it Hello my love, the thought came like a whisper. Exactly how he imagined psychotics heard voices.
And something else. A shuffle.
Behind you.
Michael jerked to his feet and spun around, knocking his glass of scotch to the floor, the ice cubes scattering. His adrenaline pumped and he shifted his balance forward, ready to fight. He searched his office, on the bookshelves, behind the chair, outside the window, in the closet.
Nothing, save his imagination.
chapter 36
THE DAY AFTER THE meeting with Exeter, Althea arrived early and found Vince sitting alone in his darkened office.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Come in for a minute.” His eyes were unreadable.
She sat on the couch adjacent to his desk and his cell phone rang. He glanced at the call display.
“I have to take this,” he said.
As Vince talked, Althea looked around at his books, toys and community awards. Two oil paintings from local artists hung between two windows. Rocky, the office cat, lounged on the couch, his tail wrapped around his body. He was snug between two stacks of hanging files, just as he had been during her interview with White Light two years earlier.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Yes, I did that already. Okay. I’ll see you shortly.” Vince hung up. He looked down for a moment, as if he was organizing some papers in front of him. When he looked up, Althea felt a tickle of fear in her chest.
“Peter’s gone, Althea. I wanted you to find out from me.” Althea’s tickle turned sharp.
“Gone? Is he —”
“No, no, he’s fine. I had to let him go. It’s Exeter. When they found out I was sick, they swooped in like vultures.” Vince laughed dryly.
Althea’s head spun. They didn’t know? How could they not know?
• • •
“SO WHAT DO YOU think it means? What’s in your gut?” Celia, the logical intuit.
Althea shook her head slowly. “He’s lying. I don’t know about what, though I have a couple of hunches.”
“Me too. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, enough about this. I got your email Monday. It seems like weeks ago now. What else have you heard?”
“About Francis, you mean?”
“About whatever.”
“She’s been in Singapore almost two years. I heard they created a position for her.”
“Are they —”
“They’re married, Al. A year and a half ago.” Althea was silent. On a notepad in front of her, she drew a series of circles, until the paper ripped. “Are you okay, Al? I wasn’t sure whether I should send it to you, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m glad I do,” Althea said, a lump hardening in her throat. So fucking glad.
“Did you ever write him? Tell him what you think of how he handled it? I know you were thinking about it. You deserve to be angry.”
“I wrote it. Didn’t send.”
“Are you writing for yourself?”
“No, I’m not.” Her pen broke, and blue ink spilled on her hands. “Crap,” she said. She tried wiping the ink off. Instead, the spot grew.
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m just making a mess. Enough about me. What are you working on these days?”
“I surf travel sites. Did I tell you that, as a pre-honeymoon, we’ll be spending four months in deepest Africa?”
“You got a sabbatical?” Althea and Celia agreed that a sabbatical was the best employee benefit on earth.
“No, I told Gilda to shove it.” Celia’s new boss, who had been recently hired from a competitor, looked like the late Gilda Radner, but less funny.
“No kidding. What happened?”
“She pushed me too far. She’s into the blame-game and I don’t want to play. So the day I resigned, I told her what I thought.”
“I should take a lesson from you. So you’re a free agent. Are you looking?”
“In good time. I think this might be the time to look into artist management. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”
“I know. I think it would be perfect for you. About Africa, I’m so jealous. When are you leaving?”
“In ten days.”
“That’s so fast!”
“I know, it’s amazing. Everything just fell into place. About you and work, wanna know what I think?”
“Of course.”
“This recent development is good. Whatever’s going on, it means your corporate saga is about to come to a swift conclusion.”
• • •
THAT NIGHT, ALTHEA DREAMED of a beautiful street and a large tower covered in a matte of ivy. Two white sand paths emerged from the front of the structure, and curved in a broad circle. Though she couldn’t see it, she could hear the pounding ocean beyond. The tower was about to be sand-blasted, the ivy stripped off to expose the warm red brick underneath.
She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She turned and a tall, red-headed man bowed and extended his hand to her, and as she looked into his face, his hair grew, turning black and lustrous, and his eyes glowed green, sending a wave of pain through her body. She looked away and the ocean sounds grew, until she was sitting on a cliff too close she thought. She could fall.
In her bed, alone, her arms around her pillow, her face buried there, the sounds of sobbing seemed to come from someone else. Smells so sweet, she thought. As she stirred, an amber-scented warmth tucked up against her, spooning her body, rocking her. Are you ready, my love? With the voice, she felt a touch on her hair, feather light and bittersweet, like something she had lost.
chapter 37
THE DAY AFTER CELIA told her that Daniel was married, and she and Tomas were leaving for Africa for four months, Althea got into White Light late, after sleeping poorly the night before. As she headed toward her desk, there was no sign of Exeter. Good.
She picked up her voice mail: a message from Vince, that he’d be in later this morning, and a question about Ivana’s publicity plan. He sounded weary. As she listened, she reviewed her to-do list. She noticed the faint, colorless grooves of circles from her doodling the day before, and her last entry, underlined: Call Ivana re lunch. She had been putting it off and Vince was beginning to notice. No more waiting — just do it. She deleted Vince’s message, and went into her contact list to find Ivana’s number.
She heard Foster’s footsteps behind her. She didn’t want to talk with him. His company might be buying White Light, the deal was even being accelerated for some reason, but to her knowledge, it wasn’t signed yet. She wanted him to fuck off.
“What’s up, Mike?” Her voice was cool and she kept her eyes steadily in front of her. He didn’t answer. She looked at him and he was staring at her with a blank look. He always looked so damned tired.
“Althea, there’s no easy way to say this —”
“There never is.”
“Vince is dead.”
Foster faded into a foggy blur. “This morning, massive stroke. He was meeting with —”
Not listening. She fought the grey behind her eyes. Her whole body was numb. Vince was her employer but he was more than that — he was her friend. How could he be dead? He had just left her a message. The message she had deleted. Deleted Vince. Vince’s voice. Panic set in as she tried to think of ways the message could be restored. Her whole body was searing with pain, heavy, insidious. Missing something.
“I’m sorry, Althea.” Foster lightly touched her shoulder and she wanted to pull away. Instead, her grief opened, her stomach turned to water, and she leaned into him to steady herself. He smelled like soap.
“... canceled. The office is closed.” Foster was still talking, though to Althea his words seemed mumbled, intermittent, as though he were a radio station signal fading in and out. “Everyone knows ... take next week off. Phyllis is taking care of the ... if you don’t, I understand.”
He was offering to buy her breakfast. Food? Why would she want food?
He stopped talking. She felt small and lost. He placed one hand on her arm to help her up. Leaning on him, she stood up on wobbly knees and allowed him to carry her knapsack. In the elevator, she fought the compulsion to lay down and curl up on the floor.
Foster led her to the convenience store inside their building and paid for two breakfast sandwiches. The clerk, a slight, smiling Korean man who knew everyone in the building by name, looked at her, patted Foster on the arm, nodding, and threw in an apple and banana for free.
• • •
MICHAEL LED ALTHEA OUTSIDE into the sunshine, across King Street East into a city-sized park across from a small brick church. The wind was sluggish and the air was oppressively humid. They sat down on a bench, and he passed Althea a sandwich. To his surprise, she began eating it.
Michael sat quietly, the hot July sun warming his face. He had run out of words. He hadn’t known Vince well, yet he felt his own memory awaken, recalling the loss of Elizabeth, the loss of his parents. His grief stirred. He understood what Althea was feeling. For some reason, her presence steadied him.
Every few minutes, the hollow clanging sound of the King Street streetcar slid past them. Motionless on the bench, he glanced at Althea now and then. In her face, he saw the woman he had run into on the road three years before. Today, she had that same expression, the same lost look.
Althea finished her sandwich and scrunched the wax paper bag into a small ball, clutching it tightly in her palms. He followed her eyes as she looked at the church across the street.
He wondered if she was religious.
He also wondered if she knew about some of the accounting practices White Light had been using. Michael recalled how Stefan’s eyes had gleamed two days ago when Michael shared what he had found. Exeter had notified Vince the day after. He had a stroke while meeting with his lawyer early this
morning.
A company’s secrets.
Michael gazed at the church steeple, which hid the sun from his view. He squinted and covered his face, peering at the black spire through his fingers. His forehead was hot and his heart was heavy. He shifted his position on the bench, glancing at Althea who sat beside him, so still. He knew he’d drive Althea home if she’d let him. Then he’d spend the rest of the day with Stefan and Exeter’s lawyers. And later tonight, though they hadn’t fought, he would go home expecting to find Lara gone. Michael looked down at his uneaten sandwich. The heaviness descended behind his eyes. He felt so tired.
When had he known for sure that his marriage wouldn’t last? Had he known it all along? Perhaps he had known after they made love the night his test results came back normal. Or maybe he had realized it when he first discovered the unassuming fold of baby blue plastic. Or maybe it was later, after he went back to the same drawer the next morning, and every morning since, and each day, one of the tiny pink pills inside had disappeared.
A woman’s secrets.
chapter 38
SOPHIE NOTICED THAT ALTHEA became quieter than usual in the days after Vince died, spending hours on her own by the lake. In the evenings, Sophie would talk, keeping it light. She’d share anecdotes about her garden, the food they loved, the jazz clubs she and Albert used to frequent, long before Althea was born. As she spoke, she watched her daughter carefully. Looking for the right time.
That night, after they’d finished their meal of poached fish with lemon and herbs, gazpacho, green salad and grilled squash, Sophie joined Althea in the solarium, carrying two small bowls of Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone Explosion. The early evening air was cool and comfortable. Jazz piano played softly. Sophie sat down in a rattan chair opposite her daughter.
“Have you heard when the funeral is?” It was the first time Sophie had spoken directly about Vince’s death.
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