He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. “You’d think of some—”
Her lips meet his. They’re warm and soft, tender. She pulls away and strokes his hair. “And so will you,” she says.
Chapter Twenty
“Hiya, Brewster. Irene. I have an environmental pre-assessment to do on an old oil well site and need some pictures. You in for this? Call me.”
Brewster’s thrilled to hear the message. “I’m not a commercial photographer, but if you just need a few shots taken, I’d be happy to help.”
“Thought you might like a run out into the countryside,” she says. “Tomorrow looks good. We don’t need anything fancy, just illustrations for a report and a bit of a benchmark to begin. This is not normally my area, but one of the field techs is down with the flu, so I volunteered to take a look at the site and get the project started. She’ll take over from there.”
It’s a beautiful day as they head south through the rolling prairie. Brewster’s conversation is reserved. He’s not sure if he should apologize for walking out on her. Irene seems unfazed and chatters on.
“About the other night …”
“No words needed,” she says, taking her hand off the wheel and touching his knee. “I figured that was on your mind. We had a lovely evening together and made the right decision. I’m pleased the way our evening ended.”
“You mean it was some kind of a test?”
“No, no. You’re a good man, Brewster. After all, I am a married woman.” She laughs. “Don’t be so serious. Everything’s cool.”
With that out of the way, Brewster talks about his progress with the wildflower project. “I’m not really used to this sort of thing. I was a tradesman plumber who turned into a businessman, employing others to do the work and provide the information. We followed what the engineers gave us—and very successfully, I might add.”
Irene enjoys his perspective and the relationship between engineering and the trades.
He confesses that reports have not been his strong point, and he’s not sure how to present his material for the book. “I really don’t know what they want,” he says. “They just said they’d like my pictures, and they’d do the rest.” He details how he’s suggested profiling 100 wildflowers found in the park. He has that many pictures and more, although he and Melanie had still been looking for flowers, which they knew from historical documents had been identified but now proved a little more elusive.
“So you’ve just got pictures,” she says.
“Pretty much. And I’ve got all of Mel’s notes. The trouble is, I can’t remember the names of the flowers; that was her thing. She could identify them easily and confirmed her labels with the help of several wildflower books.”
“Here’s an idea, then. Simply do what you can by adding her notes to your pictures. So what if you have some in the wrong place? The park folks will be able to verify and finalize. Your promise is to provide the pictures of your selected 100 with whatever information you have.”
Brewster thinks about this and sees how simple the solution really is. “You mean just put picture and notes together, and submit them?”
“Yeah. Don’t try to reinvent the wheel. You have the visuals as well as core information, which I assume includes location, date and time, as well as Melanie’s observations.”
“And then Clotilde does the rest?”
“Clotilde? Who’s that? Not a very common name. Must be French.”
“Yes,” he says. “She was the surprise event when I got back from Revelstoke. I was called to a meeting at the park, and they introduced me to Clotilde, a botanical artist. They had the idea for her artwork to accompany my photographs and Melanie’s information. Her work is the fine, descriptive detail of the plant as well as the flower. Our photographs and location help people to find and identify a flower, and her work examines its parts.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“To be honest, I was very upset and felt they’d changed our arrangement by bringing her in, and that it would ruin Melanie’s work and the intention I had at the very beginning. Yes, I was very upset and even said I wouldn’t do it.”
“But why would you do that? It sounds like a good idea to me, to make a complete and very interesting book.”
“Clotilde is deaf, and she’s probably in her 50s but looks 10 years younger. Her work is amazing, though.”
They bump off the gravel road. “We’ll have to walk in because I don’t have a key for the gate lock. It’s a nice day though, and only about half a mile or so,” Irene says. “Do you mind walking? This is reverted farmland, so you might see a few flowers.” Irene outlines her photograph requirements as he clambers over the gate. “This facility was decommissioned a couple of years ago, and now we are checking the site before a full reclamation. Your photos will help show what is here now and the work to be done.”
The shoot begins showing the remnant of the original access road. He takes a couple of general shots before showing some detail in overgrown wheel ruts. He spots a blue aster beside the gate post. Everywhere I go, I see this flower. He says nothing to Irene and instead focuses on his unusual job, following after her across the access track. He’s only brought one lens, a modest, wide-angle zoom to 85mm. Irene is keen to show any variation in the ground cover from the gate to the former well site. She explains that the field technician will do an actual audit while this visit is to get an overview of the site to discuss further with the client.
“All very thorough,” Brewster says, and he begins clicking.
“Yep, have to be. Lots of regulations and money involved. Oil and gas is the lifeblood of this province, as you well know, and our work has to be done by the book. We fit between the regulators and the oil companies, though we are contracted by the companies to provide the reports.”
He finds working with Irene very different from the work he’s been used to. He’s fascinated with her detail and holds one end of a tape while she measures, records and directs his picture-taking. He’s made sure the date stamp is turned on in his camera.
They enjoy a burger in the village and head out on the highway and home. “Y’know, Brewster,” she says. “When I was seeing my shrink after Mark failed to turn up, she said you never get over grief. To her, grief is not a process. Y’see, I really loved Mark. I thought—and in some ways still do—that the sun shone out of him. I was blaming myself, always wondering why he up and went away and never came back. I still think about that. The intensity lessens, like she said, but it stays in the emotional memory on my inner hard drive. I guess that’s why I’ve found such joy in my work. I love what I do, the people I’m with, the travel and the times I can be on my own. I think it’s the perfect life.”
Brewster says nothing. He gazes out the window at the rolling countryside, millions of acres of growing grains and grass, beef herds and big round bundles of hay.
“I enjoy this country,” he says. “We used to do a lot of this, head out on a sunny day and immerse ourselves in the landscape. Been in some real stormy times too, when we thought the big black clouds would drop on us.”
“Sounds like a good memory to have,” Irene says. “Reminds me of a poem my shrink had on her wall. I’ve never forgotten it—Longfellow.”
The holiest of holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
There’s the sound of the wind whispering over the sunroof. He enjoys the quiet, takes a swig from his water bottle and looks across at Irene, who is confident and assured at the wheel. She glances at him and smiles.
“Lot of nodding donkeys through here,” he says. “All quietly doing their job. Been a few barrels of oil pumped from this part of the province. Bit like life, really. The pump jacks work away. Then the oil stops flowing, and the well dies and is abandoned, but it’s never forgotten. It�
�s life, no matter how brief or how productive, and it remains on the records that are kept while the site remains to be visited and checked over, as you have done.”
“I suppose you could say that,” she says. “Grief is always going to be with us. Certain things will trigger it, but we remember the good times, like high flow rates in your oil well analogy. Interesting way of thinking. Y’know, Brewster, I’ve come to realize that the best thing I can do is remember all the good things I did or had with Mark. I know it’s a long time ago, but I still smile at some of the things he did, or we did. We graduated as young engineers and put our lives together to go out as Robin Hoods in hard hats and safety boots, to save the world. Oh, yes, we had huge dreams. Somewhere along the way, reality hit—mortgage, work responsibilities. Life took over, as they say, and we had trouble keeping up with each other.”
They’d reached the outskirts of the city, and Irene suggests she drop Brewster at his house because she still has work at the office. “Perhaps I could tell you what’s happening with me these days,” she says as they wait for the lights to change. “Several months ago, an environmental company inquired as to whether I’d like to do some work on the geologic studies associated with the massive Nicaragua canal project. I expressed moderate interest then, but I hadn’t heard anything further, and I thought the whole matter had gone away. Well, they’ve come back to me.”
“Sounds pretty exciting,” Brewster says. “Will it take you away for long?”
Irene talks about what she knows of the project: the controversy surrounding a link from the Pacific through Lake Nicaragua and on to the Atlantic, the cultural heritage, the $50 billion price tag, giant locks to handle giant ships unable to use the Panama Canal, lighthouses, a huge project.
“Wow. I haven’t heard anything about it,” Brewster says. “And China backed it, you say? For an engineer with your background, I’d say this is a startling opportunity, to be invited to join in what sounds like an extremely comprehensive study. You’ll go for it, I take it.”
She laughs. “That’s pretty positive. I’d just be on contract for part of the study. Not sure yet what area they’d want me in, or for how long. I’ll know more in coming weeks. Really, it is a good opportunity.”
“Remarkable,” he says. “Keep me in the loop. I’m fascinated.”
That evening, Brewster takes yet another stuffed chicken breast from the freezer and puts it in his toaster oven to cook. He drops a cut up potato into a pot, and while that cooks, he pulls a few iceberg lettuce leaves from the fridge crisper. He thinks back over the events of the day, the conversations and his friendship with Irene.
“She’s not afraid to say it like it is,” he tells the chopping board as he slices a few raw carrots. “Interesting how she sees Clotilde. Learn to communicate, be excited for your project, honour your memory of Melanie—and the clincher, ‘Why don’t you learn to sign?’”
Chapter Twenty-One
Claire Rhodes walks slowly up the front path. She hesitates when she feels Brewster’s eyes watching her from a window somewhere inside the house. She stops, closes her eyes for a second and whispers a soft prayer for courage.
The door opens just as she’s about to press the bell. “Hello, Brewster. I’m Claire Rhodes, Melanie’s friend.”
“I know you’re one of those church do-gooders,” Brewster says. “What do you want?”
“I have to speak with you. Will you let me in?”
He says nothing and stands to one side, holding the door open. He watches as Claire walks in and heads toward the kitchen. What’s this all about? he wonders, trying to recall if this is one of the women who visited just days after Melanie’s accident, when it was all news in the paper. He shuts the door hard to let her know he’s not in the mood for a social chit-chat, that she’s in the house under sufferance.
He finds her setting the kettle on the stove. “Best to talk over a cuppa, I say,” she says with a smile. She’s nervous; he notes the tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip and around her eyes. “I’ve made tea here many times with Melanie,” she says. “We were together in a prayer group at church and often met here in the afternoon while you were at work. Melanie was my prayer partner, and I totally miss her, you know. So much wisdom.”
Brewster says nothing. He sits at the breakfast counter and watches, allowing this interloper to prattle on as she gets cups from the cupboard and rattles the empty tea canister. She opens a pantry door and picks out a box of herbal tea bags. “Lemon ginger,” she says. “That’s a nice one. Okay for you?”
As she pours the boiling water into his glass mugs, he challenges her presence in the house. “I’m not in a social, tea-sipping mood,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I think you should say what you came to say and leave.”
Claire does her best to ignore his remark. She puts a mug in front of him and stands on the opposite side of the counter. She looks toward the lounge as if she’d prefer to be sitting there rather than standing in front of him. She seems finally at a loss for words. Brewster softens.
“What is it, Claire? Why have you just walked into my house?”
“Melanie and I were close—like sisters, we always said. We could talk about all sorts of things, especially my relationship with my husband. She helped me a lot; she had that way.” Claire’s eyes moisten, and she looks beyond Brewster to the window. “She loved you, you know. My, how she loved you. I did not know it was possible to love someone like that, but she did. But of course you know that.”
Brewster rewinds 25—or is it 30?—years to when he sought Melanie’s help to restore their crumbling, separating marriage. He wanted to stay with her, to acknowledge and keep the commitment he’d made in that church where they married: to love and to cherish. He recalled that troubled time and Melanie’s forgiveness of his depression and his drinking.
“I’m not sure Heath and I would still be together if it hadn’t been for Melanie. She talked me through that tough time, helped me to see life afresh, as Jesus sees me. I’ve changed, and Heath’s changed. Our marriage is alive. Melanie was one special lady, and like I’ve already said, I’ve never seen a person love another as she loved you.”
Brewster sips his tea. His mind’s a long way away, barely listening, thinking only of how Melanie brought light to this house and his life. He wants Claire to leave, but she’s barely started drinking her tea. She holds the mug and stares across the room.
“We’ve been praying for you, Brewster. We know how much Melanie meant to you; we know you hurt. That’s why I didn’t bring anything to eat this time.”
“Oh, no,” Brewster says. “Was that you?” Red-faced, he looks at her and calls to mind his shouting and hurling a cake to the pathway as a scared woman scurried to the safety of her car in the driveway.
“Yes, it was me. That was a jolly nice lemon poppy seed cake too. I made it specially, because Melanie told me it was a favourite.”
“I hope, um, it wasn’t one of your good plates,” he says. “I really smashed it and kinda noticed it had flowers on it when I swept up the remains of your cake. I’m sorry I reacted that way. Um, you’re pretty brave to come back again after that. Yes, I’m sorry I treated you that way.”
“I was taken aback and very frightened,” Claire says, “especially after all that Melanie had said about you. It took a while to get over it. I was so shocked that I’ve not been able to relate that to anyone, not even Heath. Both he and the kids have often wondered what happened to that plate. It was known in our house as the cake plate.”
“My actions were uncalled for and very uncaring. I was distraught. I didn’t even tell Hannah or Harris what I’d done. I wished they’d been home to receive you. So many people kept coming and offering food. All I wanted was for Melanie to show up.”
“And you’ve been waiting ever since,” Claire adds.
There’s a long, drawn-out silence as they each hold and finger t
heir mugs. Brewster coughs. If this woman wanted to talk, she’s not saying much. She walks to the end of the counter and looks out the patio door.
“I always like the way you guys did the backyard,” she says. “Melanie loved her garden and the flowers—a passion, I’d say.” There’s a long pause. “I’ve rehearsed this meeting a lot, but I don’t know what to say now, Brewster. I struggled to come, but I just felt—well, I just felt that this is what God wants me to do.”
Brewster is about to erupt. He’s been waiting for more of the God stuff.
“You see, Brewster, Melanie came to me the other night and simply asked me to check up on you, and to tell you to get on with life, and to trust in Jesus.”
Brewster looks at her, careful not to raise his voice. “Oh, come on. You have a nerve, telling me that.” He begins to wave his arms around. “Saying Melanie came to you? What a lot of rot! Why hasn’t she come to me? What do you mean to get on with life, to trust in Jesus? I’m sick of hearing that. Sick of it, do you hear? I’ve done that before and what happens. She goes, and I’m left. Trust in Jesus? Ha! You’d better go.”
Claire stands her ground and whispers, “Lord, what do I do now?”
“I’ve got nothing more to say,” he says. “You’d better leave. Melanie came to you? She’s dead. Cremated. Her ashes buried. I know—I was there. Came to you? Ha.”
Brewster is really disgusted with what he’s heard. He leaves the kitchen and goes into the lounge. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near this strange woman. He sits in his big, soft and comfortable chair that Melanie had bought for him. Her man’s chair, she’d say.
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