Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  Perhaps it’s because I’m avoiding the issue, but suddenly people have wanted to know about my relationship with Clotilde. There is none. We are good friends and enjoy each other’s company. Something must show of my regard for her. Claire tells me to stop mooning about, yet I didn’t know I was. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but you’re the only person I know who’ll listen. Clotilde and I have never been anything but collaborators on the wildflower book. She and Hannah are getting along really well, but I think that’s because Clotilde feels a misfit in Cheticamp, too isolated and regretting her move there.

  The book is all but done now. We have a proofing round with the park in maybe two weeks, and then you’ll see your concept rolled out. It will certainly get a good launch and publicity because I’m sure the park will put it on their mailing list.

  I wish you were here to see it.

  I wish …

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  They stand gazing up at the sandstone cliffs. Fish Creek murmurs by in a lazy, end-of-summer, low-flow way. No worry, no hurry. What a story these cliffs have. Possibly as a level of subtle preservation, the main park pathways don’t lead this way. Yet just a bit further down the pebbly beach are the charred remnants of a campfire.

  “These banks are part of the Porcupine Hills formation,” Irene says. “Millions of years old. Also, I understand the banks were used as a buffalo jump.”

  Underneath the pathways, beyond the trees and the flowers and buried in the cliffs, are stories to be told and secrets to be kept.

  “It is truly a fascinating area and a city gem,” Brewster says. “And it is so well used year-round.”

  They find a rock to sit on and Irene pulls a couple of cans of pop from her backpack along with a chocolate bar each. “Thought we might need a snack,” she says. “It’s so gorgeous here today, ‘Far from the madding crowd …’ Soon I’ll be in a different environment altogether. You haven’t asked me about my trip to London.”

  “I gather that’s why we’re down here in the park,” Brewster says. “I figure you have something to say, but I’m not sure whether it’s to do with the lawyer and Mark, or with the canal project.”

  “You’re just far too cautious. C’mon, we’re friends. I have news on both fronts. Which do you want first?”

  “The good.”

  “Both good. All the stuff with Mark is signed, sealed and over with. The lawyer did everything, and the divorce will be complete in the near future. I’ll be single again, and I have money in the bank. The new twist is that there was a letter from Mark, held by the lawyer until I’d signed. I read some parts but couldn’t deal with it. I put it through the shredder. It was one of those apologetic things—no substance, all about his needs, and he even said we shouldn’t have married in the first place. That made me feel real good, I can tell you.” She snorts. “I loved him, Brewster. I really did.”

  The river picks up her words and carries them into the past, as it has done through the years with this ancient hunting ground, farmland and recovered wilderness.

  “As for the interview and the possibility of leaving for the tropics, that’s all go. I’ve accepted and will head out for orientation in a couple of weeks. Then it’s back again to close up my things and hand over my clients to others in the office, and I’ll be gone. Not sure for how long, but it will be a mixture of fieldwork and analysis.”

  “Congratulations on both fronts,” Brewster says. “I’m really glad for you and this terrific opportunity. Just from the little I know about you, the work will stretch you into new areas.”

  “Oh, it’ll stretch,” she says, as she stows the empty cans and papers into her pack. “It’ll stretch. Now, how’s the book?”

  Brewster fills her in on the twists and turns of progress while she has been out of town. “I’d like to think it’s possible to get Clotilde and Hannah out from Nova Scotia in a few weeks to review the printer’s colour proofs. If all goes well, we might have books in our hands inside a couple of months.”

  “You really like that artist, don’t you? I can tell by the way you look when you say her name. Good for you.” He blushes and looks away, suggesting they should probably be on their way. “If you like Clotilde, then tell her,” Irene insists. “I’m sure Melanie, from her current view, would be very pleased for you. Don’t get into the memory thing. You’re not a man to spend the rest of your life alone.”

  He gives her a peck on the cheek when they reach her vehicle, and they agree to a dinner date some night before she leaves town. He says, “If it works out that Clotilde and Hannah are here, we could make it a foursome—three exceptionally beautiful women, and a lonely slightly bewildered man.”

  She laughs, waves and drives away.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  A keen buzz fills the park meeting room. The printer’s proofs are all laid out on the table. Clotilde, as president, introduces the Gaillardia Press group, Holly as designer, and Hannah and Brewster as directors. Brewster knows all but two of the park attendees and supposes they are down from head office; possibly they’re connected with the material the park has supplied and any legal ramifications.

  This is Holly’s show. She’s confident as she reviews her design elements, which were developed in consultation with the park’s Calgary-based education group. She explains the process she’d like them to follow in checking the proofs for colour, placement, page numbers and the physical look of the finished book. Editing changes have been completed in earlier rounds and were rechecked. Hannah hands around different coloured stickies to each person to place where there is a question or comment.

  As Holly starts to move the pages around the table, a head office person suggests that the final colour proof process is premature because the legal team has not yet seen the page proofs.

  Brewster inwardly groans at this totally unexpected turn of events, but Louise jumps right in and, referring to her notes, says the page proofs were sent in on the 3rd of the previous month and returned with changes on the 12th. It is her understanding the proofs were fully reviewed and signed off by all head office personnel, as previously advised.

  Tanya looks across at him as he sits up in his seat. Her brow furrows, and she mouths to sit tight. He does. The speaker says he has not seen the proofs and wants to know who in his office signed off on them. Louise refers to her notes and reads out the names of the department approvals. She passes the earlier proofs across the table.

  Holly continues and suggests the proofs go round the table for any general comments. She volunteers to leave them at the park for further review and pick them up at the end of the day. “We will do what we can to make everyone comfortable,” she says.

  Brewster leaves the room for a break and walks along the corridor to the main entrance, looking at the selection of his pictures, now mounted and brightening the office walls. He stops to look closely at the Western Canada violet, a beautiful little flower. He smiles, recalling Melanie doubling over in laughter the time he’d called it a mariposa lily.

  “Get it right, Brewster,” she’d said. “About the only thing they have in common is they’re white.” His recollection of plant names had been a constant source of amusement for them both.

  Footsteps break his musing, and he turns to see Clotilde heading outside on a bathroom break for Bebo. When she returns through the main doors, he slowly plucks up courage to sign, “How is progress in there?”

  “Brewster, you sign!” She rushes forward and throws her arms around his neck. “When, how?”

  With sign and voice, he hesitatingly explains how he’s been attending sign classes for the past few weeks just so he could communicate better with her if and when they ever met again. “I wanted to sign when I met you and Hannah at the airport, but I decided that was too public. And at home, well, I just wanted to wait for the right moment.”

  Clotilde and Hannah had arrived two days earlier, and it was
good to feel the house busy again. Clotilde enjoyed baking, and this morning they’d had a feast of fresh muffins with coffee. Evening meals were special now, and both Clotilde and Hannah eschewed any idea of his to eat out. “You eat out too much, Dad,” Hannah had said. “And I miss home cooking.”

  “Clotilde,” he starts.

  But she puts her finger on his lips and then signs, “Not now—we should go back in.”

  Hannah looks up from her proof sheet. “Um, I’m not as good as Mom, but I think we might have a whoops here. From what Mom told me, I think the prickly rose—that’s Alberta’s wildrose—and the prairie rose have been switched. Clotilde, you might be able to tell from your drawings.”

  Tanya gets up from her chair and moves to Hannah. “Let’s see here.”

  Everyone looks up as Tanya compares the pages and the drawings with the flowers.

  “Good catch, Hannah,” she says. “We need to have either the artwork pages switched or the photograph and information pages. What do you say, Holly?”

  “I’ll have them corrected. No problem,” she says. “I’m just glad that they’re sequential pages.”

  When Holly senses that the proofs have been given a thorough workover, she stands and says she will leave the proofs with the park, returning at 4:00 p.m.

  Tanya thanks her, compliments Hannah’s eagle eye, and agrees with the suggestion for extra time to have a final read through, cover-to-cover. “We’ll go through them again because I’m sure we all agree this is too marvellous a resource to have even the slightest error.”

  #

  “That went really well, though I was a bit worried when that head office guy raised a flag at the beginning,” Holly said once they were all in the car park. “What’s everyone going to do for the afternoon?”

  “I’m going to pick up my new Jeep,” Brewster says, “and then I’m not sure. I feel like going for a walk in the park, maybe from Voiter’s Flats. Should be nice through there.”

  Clotilde says she wants to see Lily and agrees to go with Holly, who is also heading to the hospital. Hannah wants to be dropped off at the Blue Aster to spend the afternoon with Jo, amongst the flowers.

  “Good, we all have plans,” Brewster says. “Let us know how you get on when you pick up the proofs, Holly. I’m sure everything will be okay. I’m glad you gave them the opportunity for their own private viewing and discussion. All good.”

  They go their separate ways, fully believing that their combined efforts through the summer have paid off. Brewster has unvoiced reservations, knowing from bitter experience how life can turn on a dime. In the words of Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” He’s worried about the head office representative, who he’d noticed did not really enter into the process. Perhaps he’s being oversensitive.

  He tries to pay attention as the sales manager goes over the features of his new, beautiful Jeep, replacing the one stolen from Holly and Wendell’s place a few weeks earlier. Things are different from his now-mangled, 2-year-old, written-off and junked vehicle. It had a sad end. Like a lot of things in his life, the theft and wreckage was not only unexpected, but also something that had not happened to him before. Driving off the lot, he admits he didn’t want a new vehicle. The now-wrecked one was fine, and it was something he and Melanie had bought together. It was as much hers as it was his; they were a one-car partnership. If only she’d taken the car that day, or even if he’d picked her up after her appointment she’d be here today.

  “Uncharted,” Irene had said when they were at Revelstoke. “Life is uncharted—no blueprints, topo maps or GPS.”

  Heath disagrees with this view. For him, the only charts needed are available in God’s word. “Emotions might swing a bit,” he says, “but the pathway is as true as Route 66.”

  Brewster pulls into his driveway, switches off the car and sits looking at the house he had shared with his wife. The gardens and lawns are once again maybe three points above unkempt. He’ll have to get a service in, not his friends, to spruce up the place and get it back to where it was: a colourful oasis in the street. He feels bad that he’s not maintained the place since Heath’s workforce did so much earlier in the summer.

  In less than 24 hours, he’ll be on his own again as Clotilde, her Bebo and Hannah return to their lives in Nova Scotia. It’s been brilliant having them. Good meals, great company, lots of laughter. Tomorrow, night all will be quiet.

  “Whatcha doin’, Dad?” says Hannah, as she climbs into the passenger seat. “Nice wheels. Same colour and everything as the last one. I thought I was seeing things.”

  “Hi, kiddo. Had a good afternoon with Jo at the flower shop?”

  “You bet. I’m glad I went, and moreover, I was needed. That is some busy place.”

  They walk into the house. “Gonna be very quiet here tomorrow night, with you two gone,” he says. “That’s what I was thinking about while sitting in the car.”

  “Just one day at a time, Dad.”

  Holly’s car pulls into the driveway. Clotilde is driving. Holly has her face in her hands, sobbing.

  Chapter Forty

  A very irritable Brewster pushes the visitor bell inside the park administration building and waits. He feels a nervous dampness under his arms.

  “Hello, Brewster,” comes a voice from behind him. Louise. “We’re down in the meeting room. I think I know why you are here. Come on through; it’s just Tanya and me. Let me get you a coffee.”

  He looks at Tanya, and when he sees how subdued the two women are, he takes a deep breath to calm down. “What on earth is going on?” he asks. “What did that fellow mean that Gaillardia Press, in so many words, is a bunch of amateurs, a wealthy businessman, a university student, an unemployed deaf nurse and an unseasoned graphic artist? I hope there’s a good explanation, otherwise I’m here to pull Underfoot: 100 Wildflowers away from the park, remove all reference to your work, and go it alone. We are absolutely shattered after all we have done together. First the budget, and now the bureaucracy.

  “I hear you, Brewster. We feel the same. Shattered,” Tanya says.

  “I showed him the agreement that the lawyers drew up. We explained our processes, that everything had been done in accordance with the agreement,” Louise adds. “We’re flabbergasted with his response. He took the proofs with him even though Holly specifically asked him not to.”

  “Everything was going so well, and now this,” Tanya says. She shrugs and holds her hands out in apology. “It’s beyond our control now. We showed him everything—all the head office contacts, proofs and sign-offs—but they’ve assumed control.”

  Brewster looks at them and slowly sips his coffee. Three deer walk past the picture windows, pause and look in. They continue their browse before stepping daintily into the trembling aspens. “Role reversal,” Brewster says. “They’re outside looking in at us, three miserable plant lovers trapped behind a glass wall. We are the wildflowers.”

  Tanya and Louise smile at his comment.

  “Okay, then, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have Horton, my lawyer, get clarity. Let’s see how that works out. I’m sure your bureaucrat will be a little bit wiser as to what has been created,” he says. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  Horton is stunned at the news, remains calm and tells Brewster to leave it with him. He’ll call his contacts in the department who were associated with drawing up the original agreement. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  Brewster knows he’s supposed to let go. He’s being told to let go of a lot of things lately. “What do you think of this pickle, Lord?” he says as he heads home to take Clotilde and Hannah to the airport. “I know, I know. You’ll just tell me to trust you and be patient. So okay, Lord. I’ll wait now until Horton calls me. Over to you.”

  There’s not a lot to talk about in the 30-minute drive to the airport: the
weather, the long flight, the great proofs and Holly’s design skills. In their shared sadness, they agree it’ll be a drop and drive at the airport; no waiting around. Hannah, Clotilde and Bebo will check in and head to the gate. The hard-working little dog needs to take it easy before getting on the plane. Clotilde’s hug seems to have a little more depth and warmth, a closeness Brewster’s not sensed before. Hannah holds him tight and whispers, “She’s loves you, Dad. Please think about it.” He watches them disappear into the terminal.

  “Sir, no waiting—you’ll have to move along.”

  He looks at the security person, smiles and says he’s on his way. “They’re two special women,” he says.

  “I’m sure they are,” the security woman says.

  #

  Another day slips by, and another. He’s anxious but remembers he’d said he would wait. “But how much longer?” He immediately realizes his impatience. “Oops. Sorry, Lord.”

  Uppermost in his mind these days is what the future holds now that he’s sold his building and principal business interest. Essentially, he’s free and in his early 50s. He sits on the rocks down by the Bow River—a lazy afternoon in the sunshine. He watches an angler fly fishing and contemplates whether that might be an interest he could develop. It looks so peaceful, a tranquil pursuit where a person could find that sweet spot in a day. He tries to recall if he’d ever discussed that with Melanie. His cellphone rings.