The Gifted

by Gail Bowen

  Personally, life was less rosy. We’re a close family, but Riel kept his distance. We saw Mieka and the girls as much as we always had, and I told myself that as long as they were happy, we were happy. However, Riel had been conspicuously absent during what would have been his first Thanksgiving weekend with us all at the lake. When I asked after him, Mieka had been vague and I hadn’t pushed it.

  I was still wool-gathering when we pulled into the parking lot of Open Skies. The club was festive. The path to the lobby was flanked by blazing jack-o’-lanterns, and the crisp October air was heavy with the mingled aromas of melting wax and warming pumpkin meat. The scent evoked other Halloweens in other years, and seduced by memories, I hesitated for a moment before I went inside.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Zack said.

  “I was remembering the year Taylor wouldn’t let me put our jack-o’-lantern on the compost heap after Halloween was over. She’d helped me carve it and she wasn’t about to let it go.”

  Zack chuckled. “So how long was the pumpkin with you?”

  “Almost till Christmas. You know Taylor.”

  “I do. But now she’s grown up and tonight she’s at a ‘mega-cool party’ watching The Little Shop of Horrors.”

  “She was so excited about that party.”

  “Well, that blond wig was pretty spectacular,” Zack said.

  “It was,” I agreed. “But sometimes I miss the little girl with the braids hunkered down on the front porch with her decomposing pumpkin.”

  The first half of Lauren Treadgold’s forty-fifth birthday party followed the well-worn grooves of every private party at Open Skies. The appetizers were plentiful and tasty, the spirits flowed, and the young players in the five-piece band had the good sense to play tunes that their audience recognized.

  When we entered the dining room, Vince and Lauren Treadgold were there to greet us. The party invitation had asked that we come as people, real or imaginary, that revealed our inner selves. The Treadgolds had dressed as Caesar and Cleopatra – an appropriately golden and powerful couple.

  There are people on whom the gods seem to bestow every gift. Vince was one of those people. He was a well-regarded orthopedic surgeon who bore a startling resemblance to the actor Ted Danson, tall and fit, with a strong jaw, artfully tousled silver hair, and icy azure eyes.

  Lauren, too, was one of fortune’s favourites. Whip-thin and elegant with high-planed cheeks and doe eyes, Lauren had appeared on the cover of Vogue for the first time when she was sixteen years old. Soon after, she left Saskatchewan for the runways of New York, Paris, and Rome. For the next twenty years, her heart-shaped face and signature hairstyle – a severe, side-parted gamine cut – were a fixture on the glossy pages of international fashion magazines. But as I overheard Lauren ruefully note one night after too much wine, every year, stubborn as dandelions, a new crop of sixteen-year-olds appeared. When offers of plum assignments became few and far between, Lauren retired, came home, and married Vince.

  The Treadgolds were always a striking couple, but that night they turned heads. Vince’s costume was simple: a belted white linen tunic, sandals, and a laurel wreath. Lauren’s white linen caftan was unexceptional, but her turquoise and gold beaded necklace was elaborate, and the rope of twisted gold on her head was studded with turquoise. Her makeup was dramatic: Egyptian cat eyes and blood red lips. The most stunning item of her costume was a golden asp bracelet that wound itself around her wrist and ended at the top of her hand in a hooded snake’s head with emerald eyes and a forked tongue.

  Although Zack and Vince had been poker partners for more than twenty years, I had come to know the Treadgolds well only recently through their work for the Racette-Hunter Centre. Lauren and Vince had agreed to act as co-chairs of fundraising. In theory, their positions were purely honorary. The Treadgold name on the letterhead would underscore the fact that the multimillion-dollar project was both reputable and worthwhile.

  However, the Treadgolds’ contribution went beyond the nominal. Vince had worked diligently to get donations from his medical colleagues, and Lauren, too, had taken her job seriously. Zack had been impressed by her creativity and by her sure-footed approach to everything she did. She was not a woman who made mistakes.

  “Great party,” Zack said. He gazed at Vince and Lauren’s costumes. “And great costumes, especially that asp bracelet.”

  Lauren touched a perfectly lacquered nail to the snake’s head. “Vince had it specially made. It’s a symbol of the healing arts, but tonight I couldn’t resist the Cleopatra connection.”

  “Because Cleopatra used an asp to commit suicide,” I said.

  Lauren’s eyes lit with pleasure. “I did my research. Cleopatra tested different poisons on people and animals and discovered that the bite of an asp was the most painless way to die.”

  “Fortunately asps are in short supply in these parts,” Vince said. He focused his attention on us. “You two look pretty cool. Who are you supposed to be?”

  Before Zack and I had a chance to answer, Georges, the club manager, dashed over, holding a cellphone. “Dr. Treadgold, the hospital just called. They need to speak to you.” Georges handed the cell to Vince and then stepped back respectfully to await the next development.

  Vince thanked Georges and made his call. After he broke the connection, he turned to Lauren. “Car accident,” he said. “I have to go back to the hospital.”

  “Can’t someone else do it?” Lauren said.

  “I’m sorry, Lauren. I’m it. That flu that’s been making the rounds has decimated the ranks. I have to be there.”

  “It’s not as if it’s the first time,” Lauren said coldly, and she turned on her heel and walked towards the bar.

  It was an awkward moment, and Zack attempted to smooth it. “Looks like you’re sleeping on the couch tonight, Caesar.”

  Vince’s laugh was short. “Not the first time for that either,” he said. “I’m sorry I have to go. I was looking forward to spending time with you both tonight. Enjoy your evening.”

  Not long after Vince left, Kaye Russell arrived. Kaye taught painting and drawing in the visual arts department at the university and since August she had been Taylor’s teacher. With her platinum buzz cut and round-rimmed tortoise-shell glasses, Kaye was always an arresting figure. Tonight she was wearing a black-and-white-striped T-shirt, a black leather jacket, tight black jeans, and laceless sparkly gold Keds.

  Zack gave her the once-over. “Do I get three guesses?”

  Kaye shook her head. “You’d need at least ten. I’m Andy Warhol.”

  “My money was on Annie Lennox,” Zack said.

  “Maybe I should have worn my Campbell’s Soup can raincoat,” Kaye said.

  “Nah,” Zack said. “People like a challenge. With the raincoat, even I could have identified you.”

  Kaye laughed and then her eye was caught by a new arrival. “There’s Julian,” she said. “I invited him, but I didn’t think he’d come.”

  “Julian, the boy who’s modelling for Taylor?” Zack said. “Not exactly his crowd, is it?”

  “Julian has talked about opening a small art gallery,” Kaye said. “I think it’s the perfect path for him. I was hoping he could make some connections tonight.” She waved, and Julian Zentner started towards us. He’d been modelling for Taylor for a month, so Zack and I were accustomed to seeing him around our condo, always dressed in the shabby casual clothes students in fine arts favour.

  But that night he had transformed himself, and as he crossed the floor towards us, every eye at the party was on him. He, too, was wearing a white tunic, and he’d dusted his skin with powder until his body was the blue-white of skim milk. The belt of his tunic was covered with small circular mirrors. It took me a moment before I understood that he had come as Narcissus, the boy in Greek mythology who fell in love with his reflection in a pool and died because he was unable to tear himself away from his own beauty.

  Tall and delicately boned, with blue-black ringlets w
orn long enough to curl on his graceful neck, Julian had enhanced his natural attributes for the party. His startlingly green eyes were ringed with kohl and his sensuous lips were rouged and moistened.

  His entrance caused a stir, but when Julian joined us he didn’t have the air of a young man who had just completed a star turn. He shook hands politely with Zack and lowered his eyes bashfully as he greeted Kaye and me. “I was afraid that Kaye and Lauren Treadgold would be the only people here I knew,” he said.

  Zack’s interest was piqued. “How do you know Lauren?” he said.

  Julian tossed his head. “From work. I’m a server at Diego’s, and Lauren’s one of our best customers. Anyway, I didn’t want to ruin Lauren’s evening or Kaye’s by trailing around after them.”

  “You couldn’t possibly ruin my evening,” Kaye said. “But there are people here that I know you’ll enjoy.”

  “Let me take you around and introduce you,” Zack said. “Kaye mentioned that you were interested in opening a gallery. There are a couple of people here tonight who might find that idea appealing.”

  Lauren was part of a group not far from us. When she overheard Zack’s words, she joined us immediately. “Count me among them,” she said. “Running a gallery with Julian might be a lot of fun.”

  “You two know each other from Diego’s?” Zack said.

  “Celeste introduced us,” Lauren said. “It’s the only nice thing Vince’s daughter ever did for me.” Lauren stepped back and gazed thoughtfully at Julian’s costume. “The myth of Narcissus has always made me sad,” she said. “Something about the death of beauty, I guess.”

  Julian’s voice was low. “You’ll never have to worry about that, Lauren.”

  Ignoring the rest of us, Lauren slid her arm through Julian’s. “Let’s find a quiet place and talk about that gallery.”

  We watched as Julian and Lauren made their way across the room and disappeared through the double doors.

  “Well, that was smooth,” Zack said.

  “Too smooth,” Kaye said. “Julian’s only nineteen. He shouldn’t get involved with a woman like Lauren Treadgold. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “Julian may be young, but he’s an adult. He won’t appreciate you telling him what he should do. My kids have taught me not to press too hard. You can lose them.”

  I was surprised when Kaye’s grey eyes filled with tears. “I shouldn’t have come tonight. I thought a party might help, but it’s just making everything worse.”

  “Is something wrong?” I said.

  “Just the same old ache,” she said. “It’s been twenty years this week since the accident.”

  I understood the reference. As a young woman, Kaye had suffered an unthinkable tragedy. Her husband and child were killed in a car accident, and Kaye herself was badly injured. Except for a slight limp that became noticeable only when she was tired, Kaye had recovered physically. Her determination to recover psychologically was nothing short of heroic. Many would have been embittered forever by such a cataclysmic loss, but Kaye poured her energies into the young people who every September entered the university bright with ambition and dreams. Teacher, mentor, and friend, Kaye had changed lives, and her pretty bungalow near the campus was filled with paintings and drawings sent by grateful former students.

  I put my arms around her. “I know that nothing I can say will help, but, Kaye, you’ve given so much to so many. Our daughter thinks you walk on water, and Zack and I agree. Taylor’s thrilled about the art she’s been making since you began working with her.”

  The reminder of what she’d accomplished with Taylor seemed to lift some of Kaye’s sadness. “Taylor should be thrilled. Having two pieces accepted for a major art auction is quite a coup.”

  “It is indeed,” Zack said. “And that brings us back to Julian Zentner. Joanne and I are still in the dark about Taylor’s portrait of him. Two Painters has been propped up in our living room for weeks, but the portrait of Julian remains shrouded in mystery.”

  Kaye chose her words with care. “It’s possible Taylor believes that you and Joanne might not approve of the approach she took to her subject. I’ve seen both pieces, and in my opinion, Two Painters is a better piece of art. It’s bold, and the way Taylor uses space and light on that canvas is sophisticated for a young artist. But BlueBoy21 is the piece that will get the attention. For a fifteen-year-old to paint a twenty-first-century version of one of the world’s most famous portraits took confidence, but Taylor brought it off. BlueBoy21 is stunning.” Kaye’s voice grew wistful. “After the auction, life is going to change for Taylor.”

  Zack was clearly perplexed. “Kaye, I’m not getting this. BlueBoy21 was a student piece. Taylor told us that herself. She was simply working in a genre with which she was unfamiliar. Why should that change Taylor’s life?”

  “People – important people – are going to notice her work,” Kaye said. “They’re going to have ideas about what she should do next.”

  “She’s not even fifteen years old,” Zack said. “What Taylor does next is up to her and her parents.” He moved his chair slightly closer to Kaye. “And to you, of course.”

  “Thank you for that,” Kaye said. “It’s good to know I still have a role to play.” Her eyes travelled the room. “No sign of Julian. I’m worried. He can’t handle a woman like Lauren Treadgold. He’s so vulnerable.”

  “Julian doesn’t strike me as vulnerable,” Zack said.

  “He tries to hide it,” Kaye said. “But Taylor captured his sadness in her portrait of him. His beauty but also his longing.”

  My mind jumped to the possibility that Julian had been attracted to the artist painting him. “What’s Julian longing for?” I said as casually as I could.

  “The kind of gift Taylor has,” Kaye said. “But he simply doesn’t have it. He was in my first-year drawing class last year. He worked harder than anyone, but at the end of term, Julian and I both knew the truth. He came to me and asked for an honest assessment of his abilities.” She bit her lip, looking close to tears again. “I gave him what he’d asked for.”

  Zack winced. “That must have been tough for both of you.”

  “It was,” Kaye said. “Julian knew, of course, but hearing me say the words was a blow. I suggested other paths: sculpture, photography, video, but Julian’s dream was to become a great realist painter, and he was devastated. If I had it to do over, I’d equivocate.”

  “In the end that would be crueller,” Zack said. “You did the right thing, Kaye.”

  Kaye’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “I wish I could believe that.” She zipped her jacket. “Imagining what Lauren Treadgold is doing with Julian is making me sick. I’m going home.” She started towards the door, then turned back. “If you see Julian, tell him … tell him he is loved.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  After Kaye left, Zack and I went our separate ways. Zack made a beeline for Warren and Annie Weber. Warren had made millions in farm machinery. He was crowding eighty, and Annie was a luscious twenty-something. With a winning sense of irony, they had come as “Daddy” Warbucks and Little Orphan Annie.

  I talked to a husband and wife, both surgeons, who were dressed in furs as Dr. Zhivago and Lara; to the Treadgolds’ next-door neighbours, who were a little too deeply into character as George and Martha from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; and to three Oscar Wildes, one of whom was Zack’s dentist. Zack’s dentist was a nice man, but he was no Oscar Wilde, and I was relieved when Ernest Beauvais, the First Nations elder who was advising the Racette-Hunter project, rescued me with a gentle request to have a few words about the mission statement we’d worked on together.

  The idea of inviting an elder to be part of our committee had been Riel’s. He had recommended Ernest, a bear of a man – tall, big-boned, large-featured, and gentle. It had been an inspired choice. A retired ironworker, Ernest Beauvais was deeply rooted in traditional ways but knowledgeable about the character and skills people neede
d to succeed in the trades. At meetings, he listened attentively and spoke rarely, but when he did speak, people listened.

  That night he was dressed in construction worker’s gear. His leather jacket bore the ironworkers’ union logo and it was clearly vintage. “I’m guessing your jacket has a history,” I said.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” Ernest said. “He was one of the Mohawks from Kahnawake who helped frame New York City’s skyscrapers and bridges.”

  “One of the famed Mohawks who don’t fear heights,” I said.

  Ernest chuckled. “Mohawks have as much fear of heights as the next guy. They’ve just learned to deal with it. They take a lot of pride in ‘walking iron.’ My kids are more Cree than Mohawk, but all of them, including my daughters, are ironworkers. I taught them just the way my father taught me and my grandfather taught my father.”

  “Four generations” I said. “That’s impressive.”

  Ernest nodded. “I’ve been blessed,” he said. “I know that I’m part of something larger than myself. I know that my family has a proud history. I know that the work I do is valued. And I know that my children look up to me. If we can give those blessings to the people who come to Racette-Hunter, we will have done our job.”

  “We will indeed,” I said.

  Ernest held out his hand. “I’m glad we’re working on this together, Joanne,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wake to attend on the reserve tomorrow. It’s a long drive, and I’ll need to get an early start.”

  As I watched Ernest move, unrushed, towards the door, someone touched my arm. I turned to see Vince’s daughter standing beside me, dressed in a shapeless mid-length skirt, sturdy brown walking shoes, and an ancient cardigan. Celeste Treadgold was a boyishly gangly young woman with wavy hair the colour of butterscotch and deep-set eyes that were the same icy blue as Vince’s.

  When Celeste returned to Regina after years at boarding school in Toronto and a disastrous first year of university, I was still teaching and Vince had asked me to talk to his daughter about straightening out her academic record. When Celeste and I met for coffee, we chatted easily. Our biographies were remarkably similar. Both our fathers were doctors whom we loved deeply but seldom saw. Both our mothers had chosen a path to nowhere. Celeste’s mother committed suicide by driving through a blizzard until she found a spot outside the city where she could park her Mercedes and vanish forever into the snowy fields. When the police found her, she was barefoot and, except for her full-length chinchilla coat, naked. Celeste told me that her dreams were haunted by that image.