The Last Good Day

by Gail Bowen

  I remembered the calm determination of Clare Mackey’s face in her graduation portrait. “I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “And, Maggie, why don’t you give Anne Millar a call and tell her what you’re planning to do? She might want to be a part of it.”

  Maggie sighed. “Good idea. I’ll need her number.”

  I gave Maggie Anne’s number. “I guess the next step is to decide when you’re coming. Zack’s been working from his cottage and Blake and Delia both drive out after work. So I guess you can pick your evening.”

  “How about tomorrow around seven?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” I said.

  “Thanks for helping, Joanne. I know that Clare is just a name to you, but she was a decent human being.”

  “That’s reason enough,” I said.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I dressed with more than usual care for my evening with Zack Shreve. I was under no illusions about the motive behind his dinner invitation. From the night that he manoeuvred his chair into the gazebo bent on discovering and discrediting what Chris Altieri told me, Zack had his sights trained on me. He wasn’t sure what I knew or where I fit into the picture, but he wasn’t about to let me disappear from his range of vision. Now I had my own reasons for establishing rapport. So when Zack called from his car to say he was out front, I smoothed the mauve-grey silk of my favourite summer shirt and slacks, freshened my lipstick, and took a deep breath. It seemed entirely possible that, to quote Bette Davis’s stinging appraisal, we were in for a bumpy ride.

  We got off to a good start. Seated behind the wheel of his white Jaguar, Zack could have been a GQ cover: great tan; jacket, slacks, and shirt in coordinated shades of taupe and coffee; dark hair still curling damply from the shower. He leaned across and opened the door on the passenger side. “You look sensational,” he said.

  I slid in beside him. “You’re looking pretty tasty yourself,” I said. “Shall we get started?”

  The lake on which Lawyers’ Bay was situated was one of a quartet known as the Calling Lakes, which wound through the Qu’Appelle Valley. The Stone House restaurant was on the lake next to ours. Zack had put the top down on his convertible, and we drove to the restaurant through the shimmer of heat in the colour-drenched world of high summer.

  On the way there, Zack told me that the Stone House had once been the summer home of a wealthy American who had fallen in love with the history and legends of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Fired by tales of buffalo runs, the American had built his house not on the lake, but far above it at a point where a man could have stood and watched the buffalo pour like a mighty and endless river over the hills around him. The view from the restaurant was reputed to be spectacular, but the road there was steep and filled with hairpin turns, and as Zack negotiated them, my nerves were on full alert.

  “Without setting foot in this place, I can already see one reason why it’s doomed,” I said. “Don’t restaurants count on alcohol sales for a hefty source of their revenues?”

  “They do,” Zack said. “I’ve already decided I’m going to have one perfect martini and switch to water.”

  “You shouldn’t have to be the designated driver just because you’re the man,” I said. “We’ll flip a coin.”

  “Let’s hear it for gender parity,” Zack said. “If I win the toss, I get to drink as much as I like, and you get your way with my Jaguar and me.”

  “I can live with that,” I said.

  “Then you’re on,” Zack said as he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the restaurant.

  We were the only clients at the Stone House. The manner of the young woman who ushered us to our table in front of the window was as welcoming as the bright sunflowers hand-painted on her sleeveless shift, but her face was drawn and her eagerness to please brought tightness to my throat.

  “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Marian Doherty, and my husband and I own the Stone House. I know you’re short of time, so I’ll bring the menus and your martinis.”

  When Marian left, I turned to Zack. “You ordered for me when you made the reservation?” I said.

  “Working on the assumption that Ultimate waits for no man, that’s exactly what I did. If you don’t care for your drink, reorder. We’ll dump the martini on the potted plant. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  Marian returned with the martinis and the menus. One sip and I knew the potted plant was safe. The martini was sublime. The food offerings were even better: homegrown and imaginative.

  “Great menu,” I said.

  Marian beamed. “While we were renovating this place we planned our menus for an entire year. That was one of the really fun parts.”

  Zack put down his menu. “Do you need time to mull?” he asked me.

  “No,” I said. “Pickerel cheeks are one of God’s great gifts to this province.”

  “So are rabbits,” Zack said. “I’m going to have the braised bunny.”

  “With a side order of carrot sticks?” I asked.

  Marian laughed. “If you two want to take your drinks and wander around while we get your meals, you’d make us very happy. We’re really proud of this place.”

  After she left, Zack turned to me. “Care to wander? It’s not as if we’d be disturbing anybody.”

  The Dohertys had done everything right. The hardwood floors gleamed; the deep chintz-upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace offered a seductive invitation to curl up and dream; the garden roses at the centre of each table were dewy, and the unmatched plates and cutlery on the snowy linen tablecloths evoked memories of family dinners generations ago. Everything was flawless, but Zack and I were the only paying customers in sight.

  “In the best of all possible worlds, this place would work,” I said.

  Zack widened his eyes. “Whatever made you believe this was the best of all possible worlds? Come on, let’s go back to our table and flip that coin. I’m feeling lucky, and I could use another martini.”

  Zack won the coin toss, and when his martini came he offered me a sip. When I shook my head, he frowned. “You’re going to be eating, and you won’t be behind the wheel for an hour and a half. I’m sure you could even have a glass of wine with impunity.”

  “I’ll stick to mineral water,” I said. “This morning someone with whom I share a surname told me he got into a lot of trouble using that logic.”

  “The Ultimate player?”

  I nodded.

  “So does he need a lawyer?”

  “No. He’s in the clear.”

  “Good. Then tell me about the game. Am I going to like it?”

  “You’ll love it,” I said. “You’re combative by nature. It’s a cross between basketball and football but non-contact, played with a Frisbee. There are two teams, seven players each. In the RUFDC, the teams have to have both women and men.”

  “I’m in favour of that,” Zack said. “What’s the RUFDC?”

  “The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club,” I said.

  “Sounds Trekky.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth,” I said. “Ultimate is about playing hard and not whining. The object of the game is to score goals. The thrower isn’t allowed to take any steps, so the only way to move the disc is by passing. Any time a pass is incomplete, intercepted, knocked down, or sent out-of-bounds, the opposing team immediately gets possession. You score a goal by passing the disc to a teammate in the end zone of the opposing team.”

  “You’ve watched a few games, then?”

  “And been in a few,” I said. “Every so often if a team is short a female player, I’m the desperation draft.”

  Zack smiled. “That’s flattering.”

  “It’s annihilating,” I said. “Those kids are in phenomenal shape. The last time I played, I had to mainline Ben-Gay for a week.”

  Our meals came and Zack and I talked of other things – music, travel, past adventures – the stuff of first dates. We both kept an anxious eye on the road out
side. No cars came.

  “I think the six months you gave the Dohertys may have been optimistic,” I said.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Zack said. “If they can’t pay their suppliers they won’t make it till Labour Day.”

  “Hard to watch your dream turn to ashes,” I said.

  “Isn’t that what dreams do?” Zack said. “Marian and her husband will be tougher next time.”

  “And less hopeful and idealistic,” I said. “Disillusionment is a terrible thing. It hardens the heart. I hate to think of that young woman with the sunflowers on her dress turning into a cynic.”

  Zack put down his fork. “I hate to think of it, too. That’s why I suggested we come to the Stone House.”

  “So Chris was right,” I said. “You’re one of the dreamers. The night of the barbecue he called you Don Quixote.”

  “I thought Chris knew me better than that,” Zack said. “I never undertake a quest unless I’m sure I’m going to succeed. And I don’t dream impossible dreams.”

  “But you do dream.”

  “Everybody dreams. Wise people know when to cut their losses. At one point in my life I wanted to be a baseball player. Obviously, that didn’t work out, so I became a lawyer.”

  “It can’t have been that simple,” I said.

  “It wasn’t,” Zack said. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

  “What happened?”

  Zack turned his gaze so that he was looking not at me but at the driveway to the Stone House. “One spring afternoon I was on my way back from ball practice, and a rich drunk ran a light. I was in the middle of the road at the time. I was ten years old. When my mother got the letter from the rich drunk’s insurance company offering her five thousand dollars if she’d sign a full release, she dropped to her knees on our kitchen floor and thanked God for his many blessings. I imagine when my mother hand-delivered the signed release to the insurance company, their lawyers offered up a few prayers of thanksgiving themselves.”

  I reached across the table and covered Zack’s hand with mine. The move was instinctive, but Zack was clearly taken aback. He stared at our hands as if they were something apart from us. Then he looked at me hard. “You know how to get a good vibe going, Ms. Kilbourn. Suddenly, I wish that I could spend the whole evening just sitting here holding hands with you.”

  “I’d like that too,” I said. “But it’s getting late.”

  Zack motioned to Marian for the check, then he leaned towards me. “For the record, I had a great time tonight.”

  “For the record,” I said, “the evening’s not over.”

  We left the restaurant together but, instead of going straight to the car, Zack moved his chair to the edge of the empty parking lot. I followed him.

  “No use putting it off,” I said. “At some point you’re going to have to hand me the keys and slide into the passenger seat.”

  “I have absolute confidence in you,” Zack said. “But this view always knocks me out.”

  “It is amazing,” I said. I slid my hand along the back of Zack’s chair and touched his shoulder.

  He looked up at me. “The good vibes keep on coming,” he said.

  “So they do,” I said.

  On the highway below us, cars moved purposefully, taking people out to the cottage for the night or into Fort Qu’Appelle for a movie or a meal. But the lake beyond the road was glass, and the hills around us were solid and constant. Even at the crest of the hill where we watched and waited, no wind blew.

  “This is such a beautiful part of the country,” Zack said. “Nights like this make you understand the Twenty-third psalm – still waters and green pastures.”

  “And the Valley of the Shadow of Death is nowhere to be seen,” I said.

  “Do I detect a switching of gears?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Chris’s death and all the ugliness that seems to have come in its wake are never far away.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Some friends of Clare Mackey’s are coming out to Lawyers’ Bay tomorrow night.”

  “And their purpose in coming is …?”

  “They want the partners at Falconer Shreve to know that they’re not buying the story that Clare left for a better job in Vancouver. They also want you to know they’ve gone to the police about Clare, and they’re doing their own investigation. They’re hoping one of you will talk to them.”

  “Quite an agenda,” Zack said. “How come you’re telling me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

  Zack stroked my hand. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Truly, I do.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his car keys. “You’re in the driver’s seat,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club tournament was being played just outside Fort Qu’Appelle on the kind of grassy, low-maintenance field reserved for T-ball or games of pickup. There were benches for the opposing teams, some rudimentary bleachers, and a small playground close enough to the bleachers for a parent to keep one eye on a child swinging on the monkey bars and the other eye on a child rounding the bases. There were also bushes, mosquitoes, blankets, bug spray, and the air of pleasant lassitude that settles on spectators at an outdoor event on an evening in cottage country.

  I had given Zack a thumbnail sketch of the rules of Ultimate, but words could not describe the game’s poetry. To watch men and women who were more perfect than they would ever again be in their lives push themselves to their limits in the honeyed golden light of a fading day was to understand what it meant to be young, strong, fearless, and mortal. I’d once told Angus that Ultimate always made me think of the poetry of A.E. Housman. My son had looked baffled and slightly annoyed, but I knew that some day he would understand, more than most, the poignancy of Housman’s line about all those early-laurelled heads.

  Zack had positioned himself by the bench where Angus’s team, Blackjack, had set up. He was watching the game intently – not cheering, just observing. Occasionally, he’d lean close to one of the kids on Blackjack and ask a question. He seemed perfectly at ease, as if there were nothing more pressing in his life than mastering the intricacies of a new sport.

  Zack and I hadn’t talked on our way back from the restaurant, but our silence had been companionable rather than awkward, and when I’d pulled up to park behind the ball diamond, he had leaned across and kissed me. It was a good and serious kiss with the lingering effects a good and serious kiss always has. I wanted more, but I could hear my daughter calling, and so Zack and I had touched fingers and gone our separate ways.

  As soon as I found a place on the bleachers, Delia Wainberg joined me. Her hair was spiky, there was the faintest dusting of blush on her pale cheeks, and her outfit – black shorts, a white T-shirt, and white runners – was youthful and flattering.

  “How’re you doing?” she said.

  “Fine,” I said. “And obviously you’re blooming.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” she said. “I’ve decided Chris wouldn’t want me to disintegrate, so I’m making an effort.” She waggled her fingers theatrically. “No cigarette,” she said. “I’ve quit smoking – again.” Her voice made one of its appealing squeaky trills. “I haven’t had one all day, but I’m not to be trusted. If I come up with some phony-baloney excuse to leave, sink your teeth into my leg and don’t let go.”

  I laughed. “Just watch the game,” I said. “Seeing the shape these kids are in will firm your resolve.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  We settled back to follow the progress of the disc as it arced through the summer air. Like Zack, Delia had questions about Ultimate, and I did my best to answer them. At one point, her attention was diverted, and she touched my arm.

  “Look over there,” she said. “Hard to believe that an hour ago our daughters were asking us if they could have a party with the boys from the cottages down the shore.”

  The girls had found the
playground, and with the Merlin-like ability of preadolescents they had become kids again, abandoning the mysteries of growing up for the sheer pleasure of daring one another to go higher, faster, and farther.

  “I’ve missed so much,” Delia said simply. “But no more. I’m going to do better. I’m going to be better.”

  Remembering the plans of Clare Mackey’s friends, I felt a pang. Suddenly, I very much wanted Delia to have her chance.

  In front of us, Leah, her face dirty and her hair soaked with perspiration, made a heroic leap, caught the disc, and hit the grass. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of her, and for an endless moment she lay motionless on the ground. When Angus ran over to see if she was all right, Leah shook him off angrily and pushed herself to her feet. The game continued.

  “She’s tough,” Delia said admiringly.

  “Not a bad quality in a woman,” I said.

  “I agree,” Delia said. “Is she tougher than your son?”

  “I’d say they were evenly matched,” I said.

  “Are you and Zack evenly matched?” Delia asked mischievously.

  “I don’t think that’s an issue,” I said. “We hardly know each other.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Delia said. “I saw that kiss he planted on you in the car. In all the years I’ve known Zack, I’ve never seen him be publicly demonstrative with a woman. In fact, I’ve never known any of his women. I know they exist, but he keeps that part of his life separate from us.”

  “Sometimes it’s wise to keep professional and private lives separate,” I said.

  My only intention had been to switch the focus off the subject of Zack and me, but Delia seized on my words. “That’s always been a problem for us,” she said. “We’ve never been able to separate the personal and the professional. Noah and I can’t. Blake and Lily can’t. Chris and I couldn’t.”