by Gail Bowen
“And now that Lee’s eaten, we’re going to look at the video I made when we were out at her farm last week,” Taylor said. “I can’t stop thinking about those heritage birds you raise, Lee. Plus, I got a great shot of you squirting goat’s milk into Lena’s mouth after she dared you.”
“Our granddaughter will remember that goat-milk squirt when she’s a hundred years old,” Zack said. “Taylor, Joanne and I haven’t seen the video. Let’s all watch it together.”
J. M. Barrie once said that human beings can’t retrace happy footsteps, but that morning as the four of us watched the video, we came close. The week before, my daughter, Mieka, and her daughters, Madeleine and Lena, had come to Lee’s farm with Zack, Taylor, and me. The weather had been picture-perfect. There were new lambs and baby goats and there were two old mares that had been the Crawford twins’ thirteenth-birthday present. In return for carrots, the mares took Madeleine and Lena on a ride to the pond where the heritage geese and ducks swam. Lee and her bouviers, Gabby and Esme, followed along, watchful but unobtrusive.
Taylor’s birth mother had been a gifted artist, and Taylor had inherited her talent. Smart collectors were already purchasing Taylor’s own work. She had an eye for beauty, and the heritage birds intrigued her. Even their names evoked another time: Blue Andalusians, scarlet-combed Langshans, Swedish Flower Hens, Ridley Bronze turkeys, and pink-billed Aylesbury ducks. Taylor had created a colourful montage of the birds that captured their eccentric charm. The closing shot of Taylor’s video was of Lee, flanked by her bouviers, standing on her driveway waving goodbye.
As soon as the video ended, Lee jumped up. “That was great, Taylor. Really great, and Citizens for Planned Growth can put it to good use. The video shows so much of what’s at stake.” Lee turned to Zack. “Yesterday I discovered that Lancaster Development has purchased another section of the land that borders on my farm. That means they own half the property around me. I’ve been fighting them off since I inherited this land. They want me out, but I’m not going to let that happen.”
“You’re not alone,” I said.
Since he’d been sworn is as mayor the previous November, Zack had been battling Lancaster, a corporation of strategic planners, developers, realtors, and contractors that had dominated urban development in Regina for over a decade and had been pushing their highly lucrative developments farther into outlying rural areas with each passing year.
The quid pro quo between Regina’s previous civic regime and Lancaster was simple and corrupt: in exchange for political donations and support, the mayor and city councillors gave Lancaster carte blanche when it came to development permits. As soon as Lancaster had secured corporate funding to build a new big-box store large enough to anchor a mall, the city handed over the development permits, and Lancaster purchased land in prime locations with proximity to the new mall. After their construction crews had built row upon row of cookie-cutter houses on the newly purchased land, Lancaster’s investors sat back and waited for the shopping centre’s grand opening when the mayor would trumpet the praises of the mall and of the shining new development that was so conveniently located near all the seductive new stores. And then the cash would really begin to flow.
It had been a sweet deal for Lancaster, but it had ended on election night.
From the day he announced he was running for mayor, Zack had sought out people who understood what made a city work. One of his most trusted advisers was David Christopher, the director of City Planning and Development, who had been fired the day Zack’s predecessor as mayor took office.
Zack’s first act as mayor was to reinstate Christopher. Their mutual vision for the city was progressive and workable. Christopher believed in limiting urban sprawl, encouraging development that valued diversity, and creating a city that fostered a shared sense of civic identity in Regina’s citizens. He also believed that the public should have access to all decisions coming from the City Planning and Development office. Zack and his cohort of progressive councillors quickly announced their plan to create bylaws that put strict regulations on developers so that the city could ultimately ensure that mixed-income, mixed-use developments were given priority.
The new broom was sweeping clean, and when Zack made the announcement, Lancaster struck back with a vengeance. They dug up and publicized some of Zack’s morally questionable actions from his days as a trial lawyer. They ran an expensive ad campaign accusing Zack and the new city council of deceiving the people of Regina and hinting at dark connections and secret deals. They rallied their allies in the business community to speak out against what Lancaster claimed would be a hazardous change in the city’s future direction, and they bought media spots in which generously paid experts touted the benefits of untrammelled expansion.
The issue had proven to be divisive for the city, and Zack knew it was time to lance the boil. Though his council would very likely have passed the bylaws, he believed Regina’s citizens wanted and deserved to have a voice in shaping their city. The Tuesday after Easter he announced that on June 17, there would be a civic referendum on the proposed bylaws. It was a gamble, but Zack had rolled the dice, and he never looked back.
Taylor’s video was a powerful tool, and Lee couldn’t wait to use it. “We have to keep pushing,” she said. “When it comes to power and resources, CPG is David and Lancaster is Goliath.”
Zack grinned. “And we all know who won that battle,” he said. “We just have to be smart and hang in there. How are you with a slingshot, Lee?”
“Deadly,” she said. “I’m a farm girl.”
“And you’ve had a membership surge in Citizens for Planned Growth since the referendum was called,” Zack said. “Your organization may just be the stone that brings the giant to its knees.”
There was a widespread belief that CPG had sprung up during the last civic election when Zack and the progressive slate highlighted the issue of responsible development. In fact, the group’s many factions had been in Regina for years, attempting to draw attention to the dangers of laissez-faire civic growth. Construction companies, realtors, and suppliers that for over a decade had been elbowed out of contention by the behemoth Lancaster lobbied for an even playing field. Farmers and environmentalists protested the city’s assault on arable land. Activists and other concerned citizens staged rallies and awareness campaigns with the aim of creating a city that served all its people.
During the civic election campaign, these groups had discovered that, despite areas of sharp disagreement, they all believed that the goal of future development should be to build a sustainable, livable city that preserved farmland and respected Saskatchewan’s rural heritage. And so Citizens for Planned Growth, a coalition fervent in supporting Zack’s proposed bylaws, was born. When Lee had styled CPG’S attempts to block Lancaster as a David-and-Goliath battle, she’d been right on the mark. Lancaster’s supporters had deep pockets, and CPG was a shoestring operation. However, the members of CPG struck gold when Lee Crawford became their unwitting spokesperson.
As part of their referendum coverage, NationTV had recently done a long piece on how, after the death of her guardian, Colin Brokenshire, eleven years earlier, Lee had taken over the family farm. Brokenshire had been a well-respected local farmer committed to breeding heritage ducks, geese, turkeys, and chickens, tending an orchard of heirloom apples, and growing large gardens of heirloom vegetables. Viewer response to Lee’s tour of her farm and her explanation of Citizens for Planned Growth’s goals had been largely positive, but feelings ran deep, and Lee had incited more than a few heated Facebook conversations and collected her share of angry tweets.
At the rehearsal dinner, Lee had taken Zack and me aside and confided that recently she’d been the target of what she termed “pranks.” She was curious about whether we’d been on the receiving end of similar tasteless jokes. The incidents she described were far from laughable: a load of manure dumped on a plot of land where she was raising heritage fox cherry tomatoes; Photoshopped pictures
of her in obscene positions with her prize Nigerian dwarf goats; a freezer bag filled with bulls’ testicles stuffed in her mailbox with an ugly note.
We told Lee that we hadn’t been targeted and urged her to call the RCMP. She rejected the suggestion. She said she could handle the situation on her own, believing the best strategy was to ignore the incidents and concentrate on building support for the bylaws.
But on the morning of the wedding, Taylor’s vivid montage eclipsed the ugliness and Lee was fizzing with excitement. “There’s plenty of time before the ceremony,” she said. “Taylor, if you’re cool with the idea, I’ll upload the video onto YouTube. It’s a beautiful piece, and it’ll get a ton of hits.”
Taylor grinned. “I’m cool with the idea. Let’s do it. But afterwards could you help me decide whether to wear my hair up or down?”
“You’ve come to the right woman,” Lee said. “My sister and I spent many hours debating that very question, but commitments first. Let’s upload that video.”
After they left, Zack turned to me. “Feel better?”
“I do,” I said. “Lee’s good company. Zack, do you think we should have told her about seeing Simon?”
“Probably, but Lee’s been having a helluva time lately. I figured she deserved a few carefree moments.”
Warren called just as the van from Gale’s Florist arrived with the wedding flowers. Zack took his phone into the living room away from the delivery hubbub. By the time he finished his conversation and came back to the kitchen, I’d checked through the floral boxes to make sure we had everything we’d ordered and the young women from Gale’s were at the gazebo putting up garlands.
“So what’s the latest?” I said.
“I didn’t hold back when I told Warren about our encounter with Simon this morning. I said that you and I had both been shocked at the suddenness and intensity of Simon’s mood shift. Warren apologized to me, asked me to convey his apologies to you, and assured me that he’ll do everything in his power to get Simon back into Valleyview.”
“But the decision to re-enter Valleyview has to be Simon’s,” I said.
“And there’s the rub. Warren talked to Dr. Fidelak. She feels that Simon doesn’t pose a physical threat to himself or others, but she believes he requires intensive treatment. Warren and Annie are heading for their cottage. They’re hoping Simon will be there and that they can convince him to return to Valleyview. Anyway, now that they know Simon’s at the lake, Warren and Annie are going to stay at their cottage until it’s time for the wedding. If Simon arrives when Warren and Annie are here, the housekeeper will call and the Webers will go home.”
“So the situation is in hand.”
“Not by a long chalk,” Zack said. “Apparently there’s a history of mental illness in Simon’s mother’s family. Warren didn’t go into details about his first wife’s medical history, but he said enough to keep me on high alert. We can talk about it later. Right now, let’s keep our focus on the fact that in a few hours our son and a terrific woman are getting married.”
CHAPTER
2
The afternoon of Peter and Maisie’s wedding day was worthy of a haiku – seventeen syllables praising the lyric beauty of May. The hills around the lake were bright with new grass; the trees were in full leaf; the lake was mirror smooth; and the air was filled with birdsong and the sweetness of spring.
On the stroke of four, the string quartet that had been playing Mozart while the guests took their places hit the first notes of Lohengrin’s “Wedding March.” Madeleine and Lena, in matching dresses of shell-pink eyelet, petal baskets in hand, hesitation step mastered, started down the aisle that had been created between the rows of guest chairs. Taylor was a junior bridesmaid, and she and the other bridesmaids wore simple, sleeveless cotton dresses in lavender. All five carried bouquets of deep-purple calla lilies.
Lee was maid of honour. As she passed us on her way up the aisle, elegant in an ankle-length crocus-purple dress, she gave us a discreet wink. The past few months had been hard on her, but on that gentle May afternoon, she was enjoying herself and I was glad we hadn’t told her about Simon.
Every bride is beautiful, but Maisie was a knockout. As she strode up the aisle in her strapless white gown, she exhibited an athletic purposefulness that I felt boded well for her marriage to Peter. Maisie claimed her thick, springy bronze locks were permanently out of control, but that day her stylist had managed to anchor the curls into a single braid that hung over the flawless skin of her right shoulder. She carried white calla lilies.
When I looked at Peter’s face, I knew I had never seen a happier man. Mieka sat beside us in the front row, and when she caught her brother’s eye she flashed him the “V for victory” sign. As the dean of our Cathedral began the familiar words of the marriage ceremony, I gave myself over to the joy of watching two people I loved commit themselves to each other.
Zack was the first to notice Simon Weber seated in his yellow canoe about three hundred metres from shore. He whispered Simon’s name in my ear. I looked towards the bay and my pulse quickened. When Lee spotted the canoe, she tensed and the lilies in her hands began to tremble. But she mastered her nerves, squared her shoulders, and focused on her sister. Peter and Maisie had eyes only for each other, but Angus, who was Pete’s best man, shot us an anxious look. Angus was fond of both Simon and Lee and he knew the situation was fraught. But like us, he realized there was nothing to do but carry on.
When the dean pronounced Peter and Maisie husband and wife, Maisie raised her arms in a gesture of triumph, and Peter followed suit. Zack and I kissed.
The wedding party followed the bride and groom down the aisle, but when the guests began moving towards the reception area, Angus doubled back to talk to Warren and Annie. We joined them.
As always, Warren looked dapper. His snowy hair was freshly barbered and his Tom Selleck moustache was pristine. Warren’s wardrobe reflected his passion for vibrant colours. His wedding outfit was striking: plum tuxedo jacket, white dress shirt, plum bow tie, cream slacks, and black loafers worn without socks. Annie’s honey-blond hair was knotted loosely at the nape of her neck. She wore a fuchsia chiffon mini with matching strappy sandals. She had a beautiful mouth, and that day her plush lips glowed with gloss the deep pink of a watermelon heart. Both Webers were smiling. Warren shook Zack’s hand and Annie embraced me. “That was an absolutely gorgeous wedding,” she said.
“And without incident,” Warren added.
“But not without a potential complication,” Zack said. As he explained what was happening, the Webers’s gaze moved towards the yellow canoe. Warren spoke first. “Zack, I assume there’s nothing illegal about what my son is doing.”
Zack nodded. “Legally, Simon is in the clear,” he said. “He has to stay at least one hundred metres away from Lee, and that canoe is well over one hundred metres from shore.”
Angus was clearly worried. He smoothed back the unruly forelock of dark hair that had dogged him since he was a child. “Simon looks so alone out there,” he said. “Should I take a boat out and talk to him?”
“Simon’s behaviour is unpredictable,” Warren said. “Approaching him might exacerbate the problem. Through no fault of her own, Lee’s at the centre of this. I think the decision about how we handle the situation should be hers.”
I looked across the grass. “Well, she’s headed our way.”
The glow was gone. Lee’s face was drawn and her eyes were troubled. “I recognized the canoe,” she said. “I was afraid something like this would happen.”
Warren’s family business was farm machinery, and he loved the land and those who farmed it. He and Annie were generous supporters of Citizens for Planned Growth and they had come to know and respect Lee. “Angus just offered to go out and talk to Simon,” Warren said.
Lee turned to Angus. “Thanks,” she said. “But I think we shouldn’t do anything until the wedding’s over.” She scrutinized her fingers. The manicurist had done her best, b
ut Lee’s nails were bitten to the quick. “Simon isn’t doing any harm out there. Maisie and Peter deserve a perfect day. Simon needs to return to Valleyview, but that can be dealt with after everybody leaves.” Lee smoothed her dress. “Right now, I should get back to the others. The party’s starting.”
Our gift to the newlyweds was the reception. Together, we had decided on an informal catered meal. Chefs stood behind a row of barbecues cooking ribs, planked salmon, rolled prime rib, vegetable kabobs, hot dogs, and hamburgers. There were trestle tables heavy with appetizers, salads, fruit platters, breads, and an impressive variety of cheeses and antipasto. A kids’ table tempted the fussiest palates with sliders, crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, and whimsical animal sculptures made of vegetables and fruit. The caterer had stashed a tent in our garage to use in case of wind or rain, but the weather held, so the caterer’s servers set up tables outdoors and we provided blankets for those who preferred to sit on the grass.
My position of choice at gatherings of more than twenty people is anywhere on the periphery of the action, but I was the mother of the groom, so that afternoon I mingled. As I wove through the crowd, I saw many familiar faces. Elder Ernest Beauvais and Peggy Kreviazuk, old friends whose advice Zack sought and followed, shared a blanket with Noah Wainberg and his three-year-old grandson, Jacob. The adults were teaching Jacob the names of birds, and when a whir of gold flew past us and Jacob said, “That’s a flicker,” they all beamed.
Our friend Margot Hunter and her family had also opted for a blanket. Her sixteen-month-old daughter, Lexi, wasn’t spending much time on it, but her three-month-old son, Kai, an easy and remarkably handsome baby, seemed content to let his mother sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to him – over and over and over again. Margot had been forty-three and widowed when she gave birth to Lexi. Not wanting Lexi to be an only child, Margot approached our friend and colleague Brock Poitras to be her sperm donor. Brock was Aboriginal, and Kai had inherited his biological father’s thick black hair and tawny skin and his mother’s cornflower blue eyes and elegantly sculpted features. It was a dynamite combo. Home from university for the summer, Margot’s eighteen-year-old stepson, Declan, and Brock were taking turns running after Lexi, scooping her up and bringing her back to the blanket. A modern family.