by Susan Fox
“The time’s getting on,” he said. “We have more turkey waiting for us.”
“Yes, we should go. It would be rude to be late.”
They climbed back in the van and she said, “I guess it’s no surprise that Sonia and Forbes would do turkey.”
“Nope. She foregoes her Italian roots at Christmas. It’s all the classic stuff: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, brussels sprouts. Mince pie and Christmas pudding.”
“I’m glad Forbes is feeling up to it. And to having so many unaccustomed guests.” Julian had told her that the holiday dinner was usually just three generations of family, from Sonia’s mother down to the twins. This year, not only were Miranda and Ariana included, but also Iris, Camille, Roy, and Andi.
Julian reached over to touch her hands, which she’d clasped in her lap. “You okay? Is it too much for you, all this socializing?”
“No, it’s not too much. The quiet time at the commune recharged my energy. I’m looking forward to dinner.”
And even more than that, she was looking forward to going back to the condo after, when it was just her and Julian. What better way to end Christmas day than to cuddle up in bed together?
* * *
Late Thursday morning, a couple of days after Christmas, Iris was sitting on a battered leather couch in Forbes’s music studio, listening to Julian and his band work on his new songs. Iris was so glad his bandmates had come to Destiny. Thanks to them, Julian could spend hours every day focusing on the positive, creative part of his life.
And, thanks to her parents telling her to take the day off work at Dreamspinner, she got to witness the band collaborating to refine the tunes he’d worked on over the past couple of months. It was also deeply flattering when they asked for her input.
These three people were Julian’s other family, a family that had pulled together to support him. Roy, with his neatly trimmed ginger hair, beard, and mustache, freckles, and big smile. Camille, who with her silver-streaked, curly long hair, looked like an aged edition of Carole King on the cover of Grandmother Rose’s Tapestry album. Andi, with her spiky, green-streaked black hair and multiple piercings and tattoos. All of them with huge hearts as well as huge musical talent.
A key clicked in the lock of the studio door, and Miranda, toting a couple of reusable shopping bags, pushed the door open. The band, in the middle of a number, kept playing, but Iris rushed over to relieve her of one of the bags. Forbes hobbled inside on his walker and Miranda closed and latched the door behind them. Miranda had this week off work to prepare for the wedding on Saturday, and today she had offered to drive Forbes to and from his morning physical therapy session, in exchange for Sonia babysitting the three kids for the day.
Iris put down the bag and lent Forbes a supportive arm as he transitioned from his walker to the couch.
The band wound up their number and Julian said, “Must be lunchtime.”
“We brought it with us,” Miranda said.
Julian and his bandmates rose from the stools they’d been sitting on, put down their instruments, and stretched. He went over to the window that faced the driveway and peeked through the closed blinds. “No media?”
“Nope,” Miranda said. “Looks like they got the message about no interviews.”
Julian, his family, and his bandmates had consistently told reporters that they had nothing to add to what he’d already said in that radio interview.
He came over to Iris and hugged her. Despite the Yakimura avoidance of PDAs, she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to melt into his arms and hug him back. It felt a little surreal, though. On the one hand, this was her friend and lover, a man whose body she knew intimately. But he was also the center of a growing media firestorm. And, as this morning’s music session had clearly demonstrated, he was also Julian Blake, JUNO winner.
She rested her cheek against his T-shirted chest, feeling the hardness of his pecs, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric. She loved the intimacy of this embrace, and she loved that everyone else in the room accepted it—her and Julian, like this—as perfectly normal.
“Have you guys checked social media recently?” Miranda asked.
Julian shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
Iris didn’t. She’d rather exist for another few hours in this lovely cocoon.
“Yeah,” Miranda said. “You do. That awesome video of Iris has gone viral.”
“Oh no,” Iris moaned, burying a burning cheek against Julian’s chest.
“You did great, Iris,” Forbes said. “It’s a beautiful thing.”
Yesterday morning, Boxing Day, she’d walked to work and found a half dozen journalists in front of Dreamspinner. She turned to go around to the delivery entrance, but one of them spotted her and she was mobbed. Phones and faces invaded her space; questions flew at her so fast they created an insane babble.
Animals reacted to danger by fighting, fleeing, or, like rabbits, freezing in place. If I don’t move, you can’t see me. Iris was a bunny. When she had an anxiety attack, her muscles locked, like she’d been cast in concrete. Even her brain shut down. The only parts of her that remained alive were her thready, racing pulse and the nausea churning her stomach.
It would have been a really good time for that oft-threatened “big one” earthquake to finally happen, for a fault line to open and suck her in. But of course that didn’t happen, and she did her best to breathe. If she fainted, this horde would probably trample her to death.
Breathe. Center. Stay even.
Her frozen-bunny imitation did, surprisingly, calm the flurry of questions. The reporters stared at her, looking baffled.
Maybe if she continued to play statue, they’d get bored and go away. But it seemed that was wishful thinking. One woman, phone held high, said, “I’m with Julian Blake’s girlfriend, Iris Yakimura. Iris, what can you tell us about the accusations Julian has leveled against Bart Jelinek?”
She had to support Julian. Silence wasn’t going to do it. Stay even. It’s not about you, it’s about Julian. Breathe. Breathe again. She straightened her shoulders and swallowed. Her muscles were working again, but she wouldn’t use them to turn tail and run, no matter how badly she longed to.
“I believe Julian.” She spoke quietly, and the reporters were silent. “I believe in Julian.” She considered, but what else was there to say? There was no point quibbling over the term girlfriend. “Please let me go to work.”
To her surprise, the crowd parted.
Her legs were stiff, but she managed to walk toward Dreamspinner, where Mr. and Mrs. Claus cozily rocked and read in the window. More questions came, bashing her from all directions, but she ignored them. She unlocked the door, seeing the display tables and shelves of amazing books, the festive holiday touches honoring the traditions of various religions and countries. It would be sacrilege to have the horde of paparazzi invade this wonderful space her family had created, a sanctuary to be shared with other book-lovers, not with sensation-seekers.
There was no way she could stop the reporters. But she had to try. So she would try the same technique she did with little kids when they explored the board books and picture books. She’d let the paparazzi know she expected good behavior. In the doorway, she turned to face them. “This is my family’s store. You will not dishonor it by seeking interviews inside.”
Pulse racing, she stepped inside and closed the door. She did not turn the latch. And not a single person followed her inside.
What they did do, though, was upload videos of her to social media. She had refused to look, but her friends said she’d been poised, succinct, and highly effective. Amazing how being scared spitless could come across as all those other, far more desirable, qualities.
Sadly, she’d found it impossible to maintain that same equanimity over the course of the day. Boxing Day was always a busy one, as Dreamspinner, like most of the shops in Blue Moon Harbor, had a sale. But this year, the islanders who came into the store w
ere less interested in buying books than in asking her how she could be so gullible as to believe some drugged-out rock musician over wonderful Bart Jelinek, and berating her for her part in bringing the nasty paparazzi to the island—as if she’d have ever chosen to do that.
This was tough on her parents and aunt, too. Her family trusted Iris’s judgment, wanted to trust Julian, and had strong moral principles, yet facing censure from their neighbors and customers made them cringe. But what could you do? Only the right thing, no matter how difficult. In her family, there was no other option.
Now Forbes said, “Iris’s words have become a mantra. There are T-shirts. People have made signs, and pickets are starting.” There was smug satisfaction in his voice.
Iris lifted her head. Pickets?
“Pickets?” Roy said, pulling out his phone. Andi and Camille were already on theirs.
Life had been so much easier when Iris was a little girl, before everyone seemed to require a 24/7 digital link to the entire world. She was happy to have her hands on Julian’s warm back, not on an electronic device, and even happier that he seemed content to hold her and wasn’t reaching for his own phone.
“Yeah, in front of the RCMP detachment here,” Forbes said. “People have come from the other Gulf Islands, the mainland, and Vancouver Island. The signs—”
Roy broke in with a loud whistle. “Oh man, yeah. The signs say ‘I Believe Julian,’ ‘I Believe in Julian,’ ‘Throw Jelinek in Jail,’ and—”
“‘Lock Up the Pedophile,’” Andi said. “This is fantastic. Julian, you gotta take a look.”
“Honestly, I’d rather not,” he said, not letting go of Iris. “I mean, I’m happy for the support, but I never wanted this to turn into a circus. I just want him stopped.”
“And punished,” Forbes said, his gaze on his own phone’s screen. “Sometimes it takes a circus to make sure justice gets done.”
Miranda shoved aside the clutter of magazines on the coffee table, to reveal the beautiful, intricate woodwork Forbes was known for. She delved into one of the reusable bags and set out food. “Sandwiches and wraps from the deli, fruit, and Destiny Bars, courtesy of Iris’s mom.”
The band members dragged chairs over and made their selections. Iris hated to step out of Julian’s arms, but he needed to eat. She sat at the end of the couch, giving him the seat between her and Forbes, and selected half of a shrimp croissant-wich. Julian took a roast beef sandwich.
Miranda selected half of a tuna sandwich and sat in a battered leather chair. “There are still a bunch of islanders who are defending Jelinek.” She wrinkled her nose. “And saying nasty things about Julian and all of us. But they’re not as vocal as yesterday. With Mr. Martinez and that teacher, Sam Gupta, going to the police, people have to wonder.”
“A lot of other folks are getting their five minutes of fame,” Forbes said, leaning forward to pick up a ham and cheese wrap. “Other musicians saying Julian’s a good guy, women who’ve dated him saying nice stuff about how well he treated them and stupid stuff like how they just wished he’d let them be the one to heal him. Psychologists all too happy to share their wisdom. Some blogger ranting about how it’s not right that sexual assault’s almost always viewed as a women’s issue.”
“Damn right it isn’t,” Andi said, through a mouthful of corned beef on rye. “It’s a people issue. There are male victims, not just female, and women abusers as well as men. Not to mention spouses who turn a blind eye when their partner commits abuse. Which, by the way, makes me wonder about Jelinek’s wife.”
“Cathy,” Forbes said. “Sonia and I have talked about that. If she’s innocent, this must be hell for her. But it’s hard to imagine she never had a clue. She’s always taken a back seat to Bart, but she’s a smart woman with a good job.”
“All the same,” Iris said quietly, “there have been cases where the spouse was genuinely innocent. Let’s not condemn Cathy when there’s no evidence against her. Bart is a highly persuasive, manipulative man.”
“Good point,” Forbes said.
“I wonder if she’ll leave him or stick by his side?” Andi said. “I hate it when women stand by husbands who are assholes.”
“His lawyer will sure hope she does,” Forbes said.
Camille had been quiet, sitting on a hard-backed chair across from them, eating the other half of the shrimp croissant-wich with one hand and manipulating her phone with the other. Now she said, “Julian, I’ve been going through your email.”
“You know how much I appreciate that, right?” He’d told Iris that Camille had volunteered, to save him from having to deal with hate messages from trolls as well as steamy ones from women who wanted to have sex with him. She’d promised to send “thank you” responses to those who supported him, and filter out any business stuff for his attention.
“I do,” Camille said. “Here’s one you’ll want to see.” She passed the phone across.
Julian juggled it one-handed, still holding his sandwich. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Iris asked.
“It’s another one. A grad student at McGill. Jelinek abused him.” He put down the sandwich.
That would support the case against Jelinek, but Iris felt Julian’s pain. The student was younger than him. Julian was thinking that he might have been able to prevent what happened. She rubbed his jean-clad thigh in silent sympathy.
“Poor bastard,” Forbes said gruffly. “Is he willing to go to the cops?”
“Yeah, he says he will. After he tells his family and his boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?” Forbes asked.
“Henri Bellefontaine.”
Iris gasped. “Oh, poor Henri.”
“You know him?” Julian asked.
“He used to come into Dreamspinner. He’s an introvert, likes to read poetry. His mom, Thérèse, buys a lot of self-help books. He has a teenage sister who’s always fighting with her mom over what kind of books she’s allowed to read.” She glanced at Julian. “You saw them in the store.”
“The father, Pierre Bellefontaine, is a chef,” Forbes said. “He works at camps—mining exploration, oil sands—in Northern Alberta. They fly him in for two, three weeks at a stretch, then he’s home for a bit, and then away again.”
“Was he doing that when Henri was a boy?” Julian asked.
“Yeah, he’s always done that kind of work. He likes the wilderness, the adventure, not to mention the money. He says one day he’ll quit and open his own restaurant, but I don’t know if he really means it.” Forbes cleared his throat. “So Henri might’ve been open to Jelinek trying to mentor him, act like a father figure. Same thing as with Sam Gupta after his parents split up and his dad moved to Surrey, remarried, and started a new family. And Al Martinez, when his dad was at work all the time and his parents were fighting.”
Julian nodded. “Jelinek’s a predator. He weeds out the weak ones in the flock.”
“Not weak,” Iris protested.
“No,” Forbes said, his voice grating. “Vulnerable. Because your damn parents weren’t doing their jobs. And we will never, ever forgive ourselves for that.”
Julian gave a tired sigh. “For what it’s worth, if there’s any forgiving to do, then I forgive you. If you’ll forgive me for being so self-centered that I didn’t see that, even if you were in love with Sonia, you still loved me, too. That you’d have been there for me if I’d told you the truth.”
“Son . . .” Forbes couldn’t seem to find words but instead reached over to catch Julian in a rough one-armed hug.
Iris brushed her fingers under her eyes to flick away tears and noticed Andi, the brash young member of the band, doing the same. Andi gave her a wry smile and Iris smiled back.
In the past year, Iris’s life had changed in so many ways. Yes, she had unwanted media attention, but she also had an amazing lover and her social circle had expanded by leaps and bounds. Had she somehow changed or could she have done this all along, rather than cocoon herself away like a h
ermit within the protective shell of her shyness?
Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday night, finally alone with Iris after an intense day working on music with his bandmates, Julian drove them back to her condo.
It was stormy out, the temperature hovering around freezing. He wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed, and he hoped the weather wouldn’t mess up Luke and Miranda’s Saturday wedding. Inside, Iris stripped off her gloves, knitted hat, and coat. “Sometimes I wish I lived in the Caribbean,” she said.
His own outer clothing off, he hugged her tight, rubbing his hands down her back to warm her. “You’d miss winter. Not to mention Blue Moon Harbor.”
She laughed and acknowledged, “Okay, you’re right. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. And I do enjoy having real seasons. Weather like this makes me appreciate so many things. Electric heat, for one. Hot chocolate. And summer. On stormy nights, I lie in bed and remember sunny days at the old commune, lying on the grass, gazing up at the clouds, and dreaming.”
Her brown eyes glowed as she spoke. He could’ve looked into them forever. It would be nice to imagine a future of lying in bed beside her on stormy nights. Lots of women yearned to be a part of his world. Why couldn’t he have fallen for one of them?
Because none of them was Iris. His arms tightened around her. He had fallen for her, even though he’d always believed he was incapable of trusting and loving. He’d also believed no one who knew his foul secrets could love him. But Iris did care. Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was a deep caring. Was it possible that, unlike most of his songs, theirs might have a happy ending? Perhaps once the Jelinek thing was resolved, when life got back to normal . . . But of course normal for him meant a life away from Destiny Island, whereas for her it meant the opposite.
No wonder he couldn’t find the right ending for the song he was writing about Iris.
“On those nights,” she went on, “I also remember my afternoons on Windspinner, skimming the waves without a care in the world.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he said wryly. “To not have a care in the world?” The moment he said it, he wished he hadn’t, because her dreamy expression changed to one of concern.