Sail Away with Me

by Susan Fox

  “You’re a strong man, Julian.” Her shoulders rose and then dropped. “I feel very weak compared to you.”

  “This isn’t your battle. You can walk away now, before it gets really bad.”

  She sighed and the smile she gave him was slight, sad, and resigned. “How could I live with myself if I did that? A friend supports a friend.” Now, finally, her hand moved in his, giving him a gentle squeeze. “All I ask is that you understand my frailties. I will give as much as I can, but my strength has limits.”

  “I don’t want to push you. I don’t want you to push you.”

  “No.” That smile again. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re a good, caring person. Do you remember how, in the Tao of Pooh, he talks about courage coming out of caring and compassion? Well, I’m trying to remember that, and find my courage.” She let go of him and raised both hands to press them against her forehead. “But I’m afraid that tonight I truly have reached my limit. I need to go home and rest.”

  “Of course.” He started the engine. “Just one more thing. I need to tell your parents and aunt. Before any media interview.”

  “I can do that. Not tonight, but tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, but no. They should hear it from me.” He tried to think. “Maybe you could ask them to come to the store half an hour before opening tomorrow. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience. And we’d have privacy.”

  “You hate being in the village.”

  A rough laugh grated from his throat. “That’s the least of my worries right now.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was Christmas Eve, and Julian’s nerves were as jagged as barbed wire. Iris, seated beside him at C-Shell, facing the ocean-view window, gripped his right hand as if it was the only thing holding her together. He knew how hard this was for her, but she was by his side. Her hand was as much his lifeline as his was hers.

  The past week had been the roughest of his adult life. After Wednesday evening’s strategy session, he’d Skyped with his bandmates, an emotional but—thank God—supportive call. Thursday morning, he had notified his label, who’d said they’d consult their lawyer, and he’d told his story to Iris’s family, who’d been shocked. When he called CBC Radio, the promise of an exclusive got him a Vancouver studio interview on Friday morning. Aaron had flown him over and back in his Cessna, a private flight he refused to let Julian pay for.

  The CBC host had been excellent. She was gentle about not pushing too hard for details, but sincerely troubled, enough that at one point she’d choked up.

  No, the interview hadn’t been the worst part. Nor, even, was the social media firestorm that followed. What Julian truly hated were the phone calls Forbes and Sonia received from islanders, berating them for letting their son tell such dreadful lies. And the fact that media had camped out in front of the house.

  When Miranda had talked to the owners of C-Shell—Rachelle and Celia, a married couple she knew fairly well—about this dinner, she’d warned them that media might appear at their door. They were not only willing to take the last-minute group reservation, but Rachelle said she’d ensure no paparazzi made it inside.

  She had kept that promise. Shortly after the appetizers arrived, there’d been a commotion at the entrance. Turning, Julian had seen Rachelle, a stunning, chocolate-skinned woman dressed in black, firmly refuse entrance to several people. “Fucking media,” Forbes had muttered.

  Iris told him that Rachelle had rearranged the restaurant, squeezing tables closer together in order to give their group a semi-private long table in the prized location by the wall of windows. The windows were unscreened, and the view was a harmonious blend of lights from the boats in the harbor, and reflections of the restaurant’s candles and holiday lights. Fishing nets draped down from the ceiling, studded with glass floats and colored bulbs, and the tables had centerpieces of red-berried holly and gold-sparkled cones. If only this meal were simply a Christmas Eve celebration.

  Forbes said they mustn’t cringe under the storm of gossip and media attention, but stand proud and stand together. His dad, who couldn’t even stand solidly on his own two feet without crutches, had rallied this amazing group. The gratitude Julian felt for the people surrounding him would, if he were standing, have brought him to his knees.

  His dad and Sonia were across from him, then Luke and Miranda and also Luke’s in-laws, Annie and Randall. Not only were Eden and Aaron there but also her parents and younger sister. Also her aunt and uncle, Di and Seal SkySong, the old friends of Forbes’s. Glory, his fangirl from the seniors’ facility, who was a friend of Eden’s and Miranda’s, had come. Christian and Jonathan from B-B-Zee were here, and Jonathan’s wife. And so were Camille, Roy, and Andi.

  Julian’s bandmates had, after conspiring with Forbes, taken him by surprise last night when they’d arrived on the ferry, complete with luggage, instruments, and the van the band used for gigs. None of them had family in Vancouver, but all the same they’d walked away from whatever holiday activities they’d planned. They said they were not only rallying around to offer support, but they figured it would be a good opportunity to work on music. Camille and Roy were staying in the grandkids’ room at Forbes and Sonia’s house, and Andi was camping out in the music studio.

  On Iris’s other side were her dad, her aunt, and then her mom. To associate themselves with him, and the public censure aimed at him, was a huge thing for the Yakimuras, who valued fitting in. But, like Iris, they were people of principle.

  All the people at this table believed him and supported him, at substantial personal cost. Whenever he thought about it, he had to fight back tears.

  The mood at the table was odd. The islanders knew each other and chatted about everything going on in their lives: Forbes’s recovery, Luke and Miranda’s wedding, Sonia’s students, and the commune video game Luke’s mother-in-law was developing. The B-B-Zee guys talked music with Camille, Roy, and Andi. The conversations were determinedly cheerful, with an underlying aura of tension. It was an “in your face” to the islanders who condemned Julian.

  Julian’s salmon was delicious, but he had little appetite these days and only managed to fork up an occasional mouthful. To his chagrin, Iris was barely eating either, and through their linked hands he felt tremors of anxiety quiver through her.

  One day, he would write a song about tonight.

  Of course, it remained to be seen whether he’d even have a career left.

  Forbes had told Julian, Iris, and her family to sit with their backs to the room, so they could ignore what was going on elsewhere in the restaurant. A spot between Julian’s shoulder blades itched and he knew they were under constant scrutiny. He overheard an occasional loud comment: “That’s him, that’s Julian Blake.” “He should be ashamed of himself.” Even worse, “What’s Ken Yakimura doing with that scandal-monger?” Every now and then he was aware of someone approaching the table and of Rachelle or one of the servers warding them off.

  Now, behind him, he heard Rachelle speak quietly but firmly to someone, no doubt another ill-wisher or journalist. The response was equally quiet, male. Across the table, Julian saw his dad scowl and then a man came up behind Julian and said hesitantly, “Excuse me?”

  Steeling himself, he turned his head to see a skinny older guy with thin gray hair, a lined, brown-skinned face, and a troubled expression. Not accusatory, though. “Yes?” Julian asked. “Can I help you?”

  The man swallowed audibly. “You didn’t lie, did you?”

  How about that? Someone who was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “No, sir. I didn’t. Every word was the truth.”

  “I was afraid of that, when I saw all these good people here with you.” His voice broke and, to Julian’s astonishment, the man’s faded brown eyes filled with tears. He looked as if he was about to collapse.

  Julian jumped to his feet, still holding Iris’s hand. “Here, have a seat,” he told the man, turning his chair and offering it. He heard whispers, not just am
ong his own group but all around the room as people became aware of what was happening.

  The man sank into it as if his body weighed much more than it did. With tears trickling down his cheeks, he stared up at Julian. “I think maybe I should have believed my son.”

  “Your son?” It was Julian’s turn to gulp. “He was abused by Jelinek, too?” Julian tried to use his body to block the distraught man from the view of curious diners. Iris’s fingers dug fiercely into his hand.

  “Maybe so. He was twelve. He told me and his mom, but we didn’t believe him. He’d been getting in trouble, acting out. We thought this was just another thing, you know?”

  Classic symptoms of abuse, but Julian didn’t say that.

  “Making up stories,” the man said. “We thought the school gave him the idea, telling the kids about ‘inappropriate touching.’ Adults touch kids all the time, to show them how to do stuff or to be affectionate.” He grimaced as if the last word left a foul taste in his mouth.

  It did in Julian’s.

  The older man said, “We couldn’t believe it was more than that. I mean, Bart was . . .”

  Grimly, Julian finished for him. “A respected community leader. How old’s your son now? Is he doing okay?” He had to wonder whether the boy might come forward and tell his story, or would that be even more traumatic for him?

  “Al would have been twenty-two in January.” Tears slid unchecked down his face.

  “Oh crap.” The words slipped out, and he heard Iris gasp. Looking down into the man’s bloodshot, tear-drenched eyes made Julian’s heart clench, and he couldn’t ask what happened. Instead, he rested his free hand on the guy’s shoulder in silent sympathy.

  “He was fourteen when he killed himself,” the man said. “My wife and I blamed ourselves. Not that we believed his story about Bart, but we blamed ourselves for not being better parents. Our marriage had been troubled. She said I spent too much time at work, and it was true. I said she was too lenient on Al, she let him run wild. Maybe that was true, too, I don’t know. Anyhow, we never got over it. We divorced a year after Al died.”

  “Jesus. I’m sorry.” Julian squeezed his eyes shut. If he’d told the truth all those years ago, maybe he could’ve convinced Forbes. Maybe they could have stopped Jelinek. Saved Al. “It’s my fault.” The words grated past the ache in his throat. “My fault for keeping quiet.”

  The man studied him, looking dignified despite his obvious agony. “Yours. Mine. My wife’s. We can never make up for that.”

  No one was more aware of that than Julian. “No.”

  The man surprised him by holding out his right hand. “My name’s Jorge Martinez.”

  Iris freed Julian’s hand so he could shake Mr. Martinez’s. “Thank you for telling me your son’s story. Again, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. Tomorrow—no, that’s Christmas. On Boxing Day, I’ll go to the police and tell them.”

  It would bolster Julian’s accusation against Jelinek, but he had to warn the man. “If you do, there’ll be negative attention. From islanders and from the media.”

  The older man bowed his head. “Yes, but Al deserves to have the truth told. Finally.”

  Julian nodded. “If you ever want to talk, just let me know.”

  “No, wait.” The quiet, urgent voice was, to his surprise, Iris’s. When he glanced at her, she said, “I’m not sure you should discuss what happened. If Jelinek’s charged, I think it might weaken the case against him. Remember the Ghomeshi trial?”

  “Ghomeshi,” he echoed. Yeah, he remembered. The guy had been a celebrity, the host of a popular national radio show; he’d interviewed Julian a few times. Ghomeshi had lost that job when he was accused of several counts of sexual assault, but at trial he’d been acquitted. The witnesses had lacked credibility, Julian recalled, in part because they’d communicated before the trial and discussed details of the alleged assaults. “I think she’s right,” Julian said.

  “Here!” This time the urgent voice was his dad’s. “Look at this.” He held his phone out.

  “Forbes,” Julian said, “this isn’t the time—”

  “Look at it,” he insisted.

  Iris leaned closer as Julian took the phone. A headline blazed from the screen: “Second Victim of Julian Blake’s Pedophile!” His eyes widened as he scanned the first couple of paragraphs. A thirty-three-year-old high school teacher in Victoria—Sam Gupta, a married man with a child—had come forward to say he, too, had been abused by Bart Jelinek as an adolescent and a young teen.

  Iris let out a quavering breath and Julian passed the phone to Mr. Martinez. The man read slowly and then said, “Now the police will have to take us seriously.”

  Hope bloomed inside Julian, some of the stress of the past week falling away. “Yes. Yes, they will.”

  * * *

  To Iris’s relief, Rachelle and her staff’s persistence eventually wore down the reporters, and when their group left C-Shell, the street was quiet. Julian gave subdued but sincere thanks to everyone and then Iris hugged her mom, her dad, and her aunt. “Thank you so, so much for being here tonight,” she told them.

  Her father said, “We’re glad to stand with Julian. I’m only sorry that we’ve supported Jelinek over the years.”

  She noted that it was no longer “Bart,” but “Jelinek.”

  Aunt Lily clasped Iris’s hand in hers. “I know we never exchange Christmas gifts.”

  Iris nodded. The Yakimuras instead donated money and books to a literacy foundation.

  “So this isn’t a gift,” her aunt went on. “Just another act of support from all of us. I’m going to stay at your parents’ house. I think you and Julian could use a sanctuary where you can escape the world and be alone together, until he returns to Vancouver.”

  Which he would do in less than a week. His band had a New Year’s Eve gig.

  But Christmas Eve wasn’t the time to think about him leaving, or about missing him. After thanking her aunt, she returned to his side and stretched up to whisper Lily’s offer. “Do you want to spend the night tonight?” Always before, when she was stressed to the max she had sought solitude. But Julian was so easy to be with; in some ways his presence was even more soothing than being alone. If she woke with him on Christmas morning, it would create a memory to treasure forever.

  He studied her for a long moment, and she hurried to say, “I know you’re an introvert, too, and if you need privacy to unwind, I’ll completely understand.”

  “I’d love to be with you, but I was wondering if that is what you really want.”

  “Trust me, it is. Forbes and Sonia don’t need your help at night anymore, right?”

  “No, he’s pretty self-sufficient now. Besides, Roy and Camille will be there.”

  He went to have a quiet word with his dad and stepmom, and then he took Iris’s hand. In peaceful silence, they strolled through the gaily lit village and then along the oceanfront walk to her condo. Almost every boat in the harbor was strung with colored lights, and trees along the path had sparkly white mini-lights. If there’d been snow, it would indeed have been a winter wonderland, but so far this year Blue Moon Harbor had seen nary a flake.

  Even when they got home, Iris felt no need to speak, and it seemed Julian didn’t either. The evening had been so full and intense, but she felt as if the two of them shared their perceptions and feelings without needing speech. After they undressed and got ready for bed, they slipped under the covers, both naked, and made love. Slowly, silently, with an intimacy that touched the deepest part of her soul.

  Christmas morning, though, was a whole different matter. They made love again, but couldn’t linger in bed because they’d been invited to join Julian’s family at Luke and Miranda’s house to watch the three kids open gifts. The adults had decided to forego gifts for everyone except the kids. Instead, they donated money, and any gifts they’d already purchased, to charities that supported victims of abuse.

  Iris loved watching Miranda’s little girl an
d Luke’s twin boys down on the floor by the tree, tearing into their presents and squealing with joy. She so hoped to one day be sharing this holiday magic with children of her own. And when she noticed Julian gazing at the kids, she thought she saw the same sentiment in his eyes. But of course that was just her imagination; he’d made it clear he didn’t want a long-term relationship or a family.

  From his stepbrother’s house, Julian and Iris went to her parents’ for a Yakimura Christmas lunch that reflected their own blend of traditions: roast turkey, wild rice pilaf, stir-fried Asian veggies, and maple syrup pie for dessert. They all spoke in French, and her dad and aunt were almost as gregarious as her mom, making Iris feel as if they’d truly accepted Julian.

  After lunch, Iris and Julian had a couple of free hours and they drove to the old commune, where they wandered around, holding hands.

  “This is where it all started,” Julian said. “If I hadn’t met you here, I’d have hated every day on Destiny. God knows, I might not have found the perspective to get closer to my family, nor the courage to report Jelinek.” He stopped walking and put his arms around her. “I’m damned sure I wouldn’t have written the songs for the new album. I owe you so much.”

  “I owe you even more. Thanks to you, I’ve become more courageous myself and my horizons have widened. Not to mention, I’ve learned what it’s like to make love with someone I care very much for.”

  “When we said we wouldn’t exchange Christmas presents,” he said, “at first I felt kind of weird about it. Then I realized, we’ve shared so many things, wonderful times and tough ones. Giving a material gift would almost trivialize all of that.”

  “I agree. The gift of your company, your honesty, your trust, that’s everything I could possibly want.” She swallowed, and made a silent revision: That’s everything I could realistically want. Because, of course, in her heart of hearts, she wanted a future with him. She wanted to spend every Christmas with him, and every other day of the year as well. She wanted them to have, or adopt, kids together, to build a family, a life, a future together in Blue Moon Harbor.