by Gail Bowen
“Having Charlie D in the Morning produced here was certainly a gamble,” I said, “but it turned out to be a gift not just for our family, but also for the city. As our son-in-law reminded me recently, MediaNation has created a number of well-paying jobs with promising futures.”
“It has indeed,” Warren said. “And the VP who suggested that Charlie D replace Jared Delio in a show produced in Regina was not shy about taking credit for the show’s success, because it gave her the opportunity to make the case for some bold new programming.”
Warren turned to his wife. “Annie has stock in MediaNation, and she has some interesting news about her fellow and sister stockholders’ reception to the fall schedule.”
Annie flashed her husband a quick smile, then shifted her position so she could face Zack and me. “As you know the new slate of shows is being presented to the public as programming to ‘expand the mind and feed the spirit.’ Half of us are enthusiastic about the programming and the branding; the other half are vehemently opposed to what they brand ‘back from the future’ programming.”
“To be fair, what MediaNation is proposing does sound very much like what the old Nationtv did in the ’60s and ’70s,” I said.
Warren’s deep bourbon-cured bass was gentle. “Annie was born in 1990.” He turned to his wife. “You’ll have to take Joanne’s word for it, my love. Nationtv’s programming back then was remarkable.”
“What MediaNation will be offering is remarkable too,” Annie said. “News in depth, presented honestly and without bias. Hugh Fairbairn says that one of the reasons that Charlie D in the Morning is having such success with American audiences is that Charlie D gives every guest a fair and honest interview. He does his research and then he allows his guests, no matter what their political stripe or beliefs, to tell their story without ‘gotcha’ questions or loaded language. And that’s why podcasts of Charlie D’s interviews average one hundred and eighty thousand downloads per episode.
“There will be a weekly show on politics focused not just on developments in the last twenty-four hours, but also on discussions about what politics has become and what it has the potential to be — no raised voices, just careful listening and thoughtful responses. And there will be a weekly program that explores issues from a spiritual and ethical perspective.”
“Like the old Roy Bonisteel program Man Alive,” I said. “We live in turbulent times. We could use a program like Man Alive.”
Annie dimpled. “That’s exactly what Warren said. And there will be programming where performers and creators with diverse backgrounds talk about the role played in our lives by music, literature, visual arts and dance. The idea is to open the audience’s minds to the ways in which a culture’s arts reflect the universal experiences we all face: from cradle to grave.”
Zack nodded approvingly. “A nod to that old Italian proverb: ‘At the end of the game, the king and the pawn go back into the same box.’”
“Always a timely reminder,” I said. “And I like the whole concept behind this programming. But Warren, why did Hugh want you to talk to us about this?”
Suddenly the penny dropped. “Because he’s aware of the situation between Jill Oziowy and me,” I said.
“He didn’t hear it from us,” Annie said. “His wife, Julie, told him.” She shuddered. “I can put up with Hugh, but that wife of his really grinds my gears.”
“Mine too,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” Annie said. “Anyway, when Hugh broached the subject with Jill Oziowy, Jill was frank about her betrayal of you and your children. She told him that if her presence in Regina is going to pour salt in your wounds, she’s willing to be replaced.”
“Charlie and I talked about this,” I said. “He believes that Jill staying on at MediaNation here is the best option for all of us, and I agree. There’ll be some rough patches, but if we acknowledge that the best path for us all is to work through the problems, we’ll get there.”
“Hugh will be relieved to hear this,” Annie said.
“It’s the right thing to do,” I said. “Not just for MediaNation, but also for Jill. She has always believed the public deserves programming that offers something more substantial than water-skiing squirrels. She fought her battles and lost most of them, but she never gave up.”
Warren drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Joanne, you won’t regret your decision.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Now I think Annie and I would like to hear more about that squirrel.”
“Years ago, Jill was working for Nationtv here in Regina. She’d produced a show about how smaller cottages where generations of families had spent their summers were being crowded out by massive summer homes owned by people who seldom used them. I saw a rough cut of the program, and it was beautifully done. Jill had created a perfect balance between the human story of the loss people felt when cottages that had been in their family for three generations were threatened, and larger questions about our values as a community and the use of lakefront land.
“It was first-rate programming,” I said. “But a wunderkind in Toronto saw a preview of the show and called Jill to tell her to cut her piece by seven minutes because he’d heard of a man with a cottage on Long Lake who had taught a squirrel to water-ski.”
Warren raised his eyebrows. “Did Ms. Oziowy cut the piece?”
“No,” I said. “She told the wunderkind he could stick the squirrel’s water skis up his patoot.”
Annie groaned. “I hope this story has a happy ending.”
“It does,” I said. “The wunderkind backed down. Jill’s cottage program was shown without editing and was enthusiastically received.”
“What about the squirrel?” Annie asked.
“Still water-skiing,” I said. “Every summer our local TV news does a five-minute feature on him.”
“A great story from a cherished friend,” Warren said. “Annie and I are looking forward to sharing many more hours like these with you two.”
Warren had called to let his driver know we were ready to leave, and we’d meet him at the entrance. As we moved from the patio through the main dining room, we were still buoyant. With its gleaming cherrywood walls, large windows framing outside greenery, well-spaced tables and wall sconces shedding gentle light, the dining room was a welcoming place.
Most notably, while the menu had been revamped, the ambience was old school. On special occasions, there was a string quartet, but the unspoken rule was no music. The club’s manager took pride in the fact the only sources of sound in the dining room were the pleasingly modulated voices of guests and servers, and the clinking of glasses and cutlery. Her guests liked it that way, and she respected her guests’ wishes.
We were halfway across the room when Annie plucked Warren’s sleeve. “Mike Braeden and Patti Morgan are at that table by the window. The young woman with them must be Patti’s daughter. We should go over and say hello.”
“It’s always good to see Mike,” Zack said.
Mike Braeden was a wide receiver with the Saskatchewan Roughriders in 1989 when they won the Grey Cup. He was agile and fast on the field and smart enough off the field to earn an MBA from Queen’s and build a successful business career. After his first wife died, Mike married Patti Morgan, the fortyish former host of a local morning TV show. Rumour had it that the marriage was not a happy one, but that day as Mike, Patti and the young woman Annie presumed was Patti’s daughter sat together at lunch, it seemed that, for the time being at least, all was well.
The illusion was short-lived. When three male servers in the smart, black-on-black Scarth Club uniforms emerged from the kitchen with a birthday cake alight with candles and approached the Braeden table singing “Happy Birthday,” the young woman at the table leapt to her feet and in a low angry voice began berating Patti Morgan. “You knew I didn’t want this — no candles, no cake. When are you going to get this through
your empty head? My brother is dead. There will never again be anything to celebrate. Weren’t you listening when I read that poem at the birthday boy’s funeral? ‘Nothing now can ever come to any good.’ That’s what the poet says, and that’s the reality, Patti. Live with it!”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran towards the club’s entrance. Patti Morgan rose and tried to follow her daughter. Disoriented and unsteady, she’d walked only a few feet before she stumbled, fell against a table where a family was having lunch and sank to the floor.
Mike Braeden stood immediately and started towards his wife, but Annie Weber was quick off the mark. She raised her arm and stopped him. “I’ve got this, Mike,” she said. Within seconds, Annie had crouched beside Patti, clasped her firmly around the chest and raised her to her feet.
“I’ll call a cab,” Mike said.
Annie shook her head. “Our driver’s out front. I’ll get Patti home and then come back.”
Like many whose path has been smoothed by solid decisions, Mike Braeden was a confident person, but at that moment he was clearly at a loss. Annie picked up on his uncertainty. “Trust me, Mike. Patti will be better with me.”
Mike lowered his head. “You’re probably right,” he said. “At least she likes you.” His voice was gentle, flat and unhurried — a prairie voice, accustomed to accepting facts, however harsh.
His bleak words were followed by a long silence that seemed to freeze us all in place, as we watched Annie shepherd Patti outside. When, finally, Mike made his way to the table that Patti had fallen against, Warren followed. The club manager was already there. The conversation was brief but cordial, and when Mike and Warren rejoined us, Mike seemed to have regained command of himself and the situation.
“The people at the table were very kind,” he said. He squared his shoulders. “Now I should get back to the house and see if there’s anything I can do. Joanne and Zack, it’s always good to see you. I’m sorry the circumstances weren’t more pleasant. Warren, thanks for being here, and please thank Annie. Once again, she’s been a friend when we needed one.”
After we mumbled our reassurances and goodbyes, a server came over and handed Mike a gift bag filled with unopened presents. Mike thanked the server, turned and walked away: a big man with the shambling gait of an athlete whose body had taken a beating, holding a pink and silver party bag and facing an uncertain future.
When Mike Braeden disappeared through the entrance doors, Warren sighed heavily. “Let’s wait for Annie in the portrait gallery where we can have some privacy.”
Warren’s choice was a wise one. The gallery with its portraits of all the men who had served as the club’s presidents, had a wistful early twentieth-century charm, and the words carved into the mantel above the fireplace always touched me: “They builded better than they knew.” It was a comforting room, and as we followed Warren to a conversational grouping of leather chairs in the far corner, I knew we were in need of comfort.
We didn’t talk about the painful scene we’d just witnessed. The memory was too fresh. So we settled on a topic that absorbed us all: dogs. Annie and Warren had decided it was time to share their lives with a dog. We were exploring breed possibilities when Annie texted to say that the Braedens’ housekeeper was with Patti, that all appeared to be fine and that Annie was on her way back to the club.
After Warren relayed Patti’s message. He seemed weary. “Mike doesn’t deserve this.”
“No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”
Zack cocked his head. “I didn’t realize you knew Mike Braeden, Jo.”
“I don’t know him well,” I said, “but at last year’s Falconer Shreve holiday party, he did something that has stayed with me. Patti had had too much to drink. Not many people were dancing, but Patti was. She was wearing a very revealing dress, and somehow, one of her breasts slipped out. I was only a few metres away. I went over to see if I could help, but Mike Braden was already handling the situation.
“He’d taken off his dinner jacket and draped it around his wife’s shoulders. He told her it was time for them to leave. When she started to put up a fight, I introduced myself to Patti and asked her to come to the lobby with me to see the hotel’s Christmas decorations. While Patti and I were looking at the Victorian village, Mike Braeden got their coats from the cloak room. He and I helped Patti into her coat; he thanked me and they left.”
Zack was pensive. “No matter what the circumstance, Mike is always a gentleman.”
“There’s not much gallantry in the world,” I said, “but what Mike Braeden did that night was gallant.”
“It was,” Zack said. “Anytime I’ve seen Mike since that night, he’s been alone. He always asks to be remembered to Joanne, and I always ask him to give Patti our best. I didn’t realize until today that he had a stepdaughter. I gather that relationship is not bringing anyone much joy.”
“It isn’t,” Warren said. “Mike has been my friend for over forty years. We’ve celebrated good fortune together, and we’ve comforted each other in times of loss. Sylvie, his first wife, was the love of Mike’s life. They were unable to have a child together, so they committed themselves to ensuring that all our city’s children felt they were part of a community that valued them.”
“Sylvie was an extraordinary woman,” I said. “She and I both volunteered at April’s Place, Mieka’s café play centre, in the downtown core. Sylvie was never Lady Bountiful, dropping in once every six weeks, perfectly coiffed and manicured, so she could post photos of herself serving lunch to inner city kids on her social media accounts. She was always ready to roll up her sleeves, wash pots and pans, scrub the floor in the boot room or clean up and comfort kids who’d peed their pants. And even at the end, when she must have been suffering terribly, she never lost her sense of humour.”
“Sylvie left a very generous bequest to April’s Place,” Zack said. “Mieka has a framed photo of her in the quiet play area. She’s hung it low enough for the kids to see so she can tell them about Sylvie.”
“Apparently, Mike Braeden drops by April’s Place every so often to see how things are going,” I said. “Mieka says Mike’s really tickled when one of the kids asks about ‘the lady in the picture.’”
“Sylvie’s death was devastating for Mike,” Warren said. “But he carried on. He stayed in the house on University Park Road that they’d shared for forty-three years. He continued to drive to his office every morning at eight o’clock. He’d always returned home for lunch with Sylvie, but when she was no longer there, he began having lunch at the Scarth Club with whatever old friends were around that day. He continued his philanthropic work, and he continued to attend Knox-Met United because it was a downtown church that welcomed all.”
“Did he ever talk about his marriage to Patti Morgan?” Zack asked.
Warren frowned. “Annie’s closer to that situation than I am. Let’s wait till she joins us to talk about that.”
It wasn’t long till Annie arrived, breathless but with reassuring news. Annie and Halima, the housekeeper who had been employed and depended upon by the Braedens for over twenty years, were friends. Halima was a nervous driver, and she and Annie grocery-shopped together. Halima was the soul of discretion, but when Patti’s angry outbursts began erupting, she had asked for Annie’s advice. Annie had suggested that Halima simply trust her instincts. Halima had, and she had become expert at calming Patti when she was having what Halima referred to as “a time of storm.” That afternoon, she had drawn a warm, lavender-scented bath for Patti.
“When I left,” Annie said, “Patti was in the tub, sipping camomile tea, and Halima was sitting close by in a rocker singing what sounded like a lullaby. Mike was just pulling into the driveway, so everything was under control.”
“What about Patti’s daughter?” Warren said.
Annie shrugged. “I don’t know. I was afraid if I mentioned her, I’d upset Patti, so I didn�
�t say anything. It’s a complicated relationship. Mike is strong, but he really took on a lot when he married Patti.”
Warren took his wife’s hand. “The Shreves asked if Mike had ever talked to me about his second marriage. I told them I thought you might have more insight into that subject than I do.”
For a few seconds, Annie was silent, seemingly gathering her thoughts. Finally, she began. “Around Easter, there was an incident at a planning meeting for the Chris Altieri dinner. Patti had volunteered to be on the committee, but she never showed up for any of the meetings. That afternoon she came late, and she’d been drinking. When we’d handled all the items on the agenda, and people started to leave, Patti had difficulty walking. I took her keys, told her I’d drive her home and call our driver to pick me up at their place.
“It was raining, so when we got to the Braedens’ house, I made sure Patti was safely inside and then I waited for our driver in the front hall. Patti offered me a drink. I thanked her and said no, but she refused to take no for an answer.
“She came over, grabbed my hands and said we needed to talk because we had so much in common. In her words, we were ‘two peas in a pod’ — two women in their prime who’d married old men for their money and got what they deserved.”
Annie’s voice had been strong and controlled when she described the scene between her and Patti Morgan, but as she looked at her husband, she faltered. “I love you so much,” she said softly. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” Warren said. The moment was intimate, and Zack and I both averted our eyes.
Annie turned back to us. “I was furious,” she said. “Managing Wheelz taught me how to handle insults from drunks, and I knew Warren would want me to take the high road, so I tried. I told Patti that she was married to a fine man and that her life with Mike Braeden might not be the life she’d dreamed of, but it was the life she had. Then I told her that she, her daughter and Mike should sit down and talk until they’d come to an agreement about how they could make their family work.
