by Gail Bowen
When Maisie picked up, there was an edge to her voice. “Everything okay with Mieka and the baby?” she said.
“Everything’s fine on the home front, and through either a stroke of luck or cosmic justice, I learned the identity of your runaway. His name is Ronan Farquhar and he’s an intern at MediaNation. If you can get away from Falconer Shreve, Jill Oziowy will keep Ronan there so you can talk to him.”
Maisie was exuberant. “Booyah. I can return Ronan’s ball cap and sunglasses, and after he has expressed his gratitude, he and I can chat. So he’s a summer intern. Just like Clay Fairbairn.” Maisie’s tone was sardonic. “I’ll bet you a box of Timbits they’re bosom buddies.”
“I have inside information, so it wouldn’t be a fair bet,” I said. After I delivered a précis of Clay and Ronan’s shared history, Maisie was quick off the mark. “I have forty-five minutes till my next appointment — more than enough time to do my good deed for the day and be back at the office for my client. Come with me. If Ronan decides to run again, you can grab him. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
“I’ll let Jill know we’re on our way.”
As we sprinted up the stairs to MediaNation, Maisie and I were in Thelma and Louise mode, but my heart sank when we entered the foyer and I saw Mark Evanson sitting behind the circular sign-in desk where visitors waited for the person who would shepherd them to their destination on the lower level. At the picnic, Mark had said that Hugh Fairbairn had arranged for him to have a really good job. Seemingly, being MediaNation’s officer for visitor management was just the ticket.
Mark’s face lit up when he saw me. “This is such a nice surprise, Mrs. Kilbourn — but your name is now Mrs. Shreve. I wrote your new name down as soon as Lori and Andy and I got home from the picnic.”
“Thanks for remembering,” I said. “But I wish you and Lori would just call me Joanne.”
“Lori will be so excited to hear that,” Mark said. “You’re one of her favourites.”
“I’m very fond of you both too,” I said. “Now let me introduce you to our daughter-in-law, Maisie. She’s married to Peter.”
“I remember Peter,” Mark said. “He was always kind.”
“He still is,” Maisie said, extending her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mark.”
“And I’m pleased to meet you, Maisie. Now please tell me who you’re here to see, and I’ll call them.”
“We’re here for Jill Oziowy.”
Mark picked up his phone, pressed a button and turned back to us. “She’ll be right up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Maisie and I will wait for Jill over there by the door.”
As soon as we were out of earshot, I turned to Maisie. “Mark Evanson is Clay’s father,” I said. “I didn’t realize that he worked at MediaNation until now.”
Maisie’s face was troubled. “Damn it. Why does there always have to be collateral damage?”
“It’s the way of the world,” I said. “And it sucks, but Jill’s coming. Let’s do what we came to do and hope that Clay isn’t in this too deep.”
Jill’s tawny eyes were bright with anticipation. She might have been apprehensive, but a red meat story is a red meat story, and Jill was a journalist. “Ronan’s in the conference room. He doesn’t know you’re here, so it will be an ambush,” she said. “Shall I vamoose?”
Maisie shook her head. “No. You’re Ronan’s boss. He needs to know that he screwed up big time.”
* * *
The MediaNation open-concept office was a maze of cubicles and a conference room with three glass walls. Ronan was slouched in a chair at the head of the table, chuckling at something on his phone screen. When we entered the room, he jumped to his feet, looked around desperately and, realizing that Maisie was standing in front of the only exit, mumbled the word “cunt.”
“There’s that word again,” Maisie said. “Ronan, did you know the origin of the word ‘cunt’ goes back to 1500 BC and the ancient Aryans? It’s always been a powerful word because it refers to the sacred place within which life is created.”
Ronan Farquhar had sandy hair, round blue eyes, a snub freckled nose and the sulky cupid’s mouth of a spoiled child. He was visibly shaken. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Ronan. I know that you began your life in your mother’s cunt, and that you are now part of a cohort with four members: Clay, Austin, Thalia and you.”
As Maisie recited the names, Ronan grew so pale that the freckles on his face appeared to be painted on, like a doll’s, but he remained defiant. “So I have friends. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” Maisie said. “It’s commendable that your ‘band of warriors’ has stayed close since you were in high school. Someone who knew you then said that it was as if the four of you were glued together.”
“I need to get out of here,” Ronan said. “I’m in the middle of something important.”
“Whatever you’re working on can wait,” Jill said evenly. “Maisie is a top tier lawyer, but she was willing to take time out of her busy day just to talk to you.”
“I only have one question,” Maisie said, “and if you tell the truth, you can be back at your important work in a flash. Why have you and the other members of your cohort been asking Alison Janvier about her decision not to have an abortion?”
“It speaks to her character,” Ronan said. He tried a smirk. “May I go now?”
“No, because that’s not the truth.” Maisie turned to me. “Joanne, tell Ronan what we’ve learned.”
I was taken aback. What we had was flimsy — a tissue of conjectures — but Maisie had passed the ball to me, so I ran with it. “There were loose ends,” I said. “When we started tying them together, we realized that the actions you and the other members of your cohort have taken against Alison Janvier began after Alison’s son, Harper Janvier, won the Lee Gowan Emerging Writer Award. Clay Fairbairn felt he should have won the award, and your group chose to humiliate Alison and her son by shining a spotlight on her decision not to have an abortion. It was payback, but karma caught up with you. Jill Oziowy’s camera caught Clay pushing the tangle of wires into Alison’s path so she’d trip, and the night of the symposium, Maisie took photos of you before you could flee. We’ve only scratched the surface of your history with the band of warriors, but we’re going to keep digging.” It was a shot in the dark, but when Ronan flinched, I knew we’d hit the target.
Maisie handed Ronan his ball cap and sunglasses. “We’re through here,” she said. “At least for today. But Ronan, be aware that if you and your merry band of pranksters so much as enter a room where Alison is speaking, we’ll share what we know with the people you’ll need as references when you’re seeking permanent employment. One more thing. As Joanne said, you’re not free of us yet. We’re going to keep questioning people who know you and scrutinizing your past activities until we have a complete picture of what you’ve been up to. We’re looking for the cohort’s master plan, and I assure you, we’re going to find it.”
Ronan seemed frozen in place. Maisie rapped him smartly on the arm. “You may go now,” she said. And he did—quickly.
I waited until I was sure Ronan wasn’t loitering outside before I turned to my daughter-in-law. “That was a gamble.”
Maisie shrugged. “Ronan took the bait. That’s all that counts.”
“Do you believe we’ve heard the last of the cohort?” Jill said.
Maisie’s headshake was vehement. “Not a chance. Aesop was right. What’s bred in the bone will stick to the flesh. If Clay Fairbairn really is a sociopath, he’ll already be planning his next move, but the news that we’re onto him should at least slow him down.”
“For everyone’s sake, let’s hope it stops him in his tracks,” I said. “Jill, you’re the one closest to the action. If your spidey senses start tingling, don’t try t
o handle the situation alone. Call Maisie or Charlie or Zack or me. We’re all in this together.”
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Kumbaya time?” she said, and her tone was flinty.
Jill’s eyes met mine. “Let’s not push it,” she said. “Just hearing the words ‘We’re all in this together’ made my day.”
* * *
When Maisie and I came back upstairs, Mark Evanson was still at his desk, and Maisie and I went over to say goodbye to him. He was surprisingly touched. “Not many people take the time to say goodbye. I guess they’re just busy thinking about where they’re going next.”
“You’ll be interested in the next place I’m going,” I said. “Do you remember Peter’s sister, Mieka?”
Mark nodded. “She was always nice too. Does she have a family of her own now?”
“She does,” I said. “Did you know she’s married to Charlie D?”
“No. Charlie D and I usually just talk about the weather or football. I can’t wait to tell Lori about Charlie D and Mieka.”
“And there’s more news,” I said. “Charlie D and Mieka have two daughters who are almost finished grade school and a baby boy who’s just a day old. His name is Desmond, and he’s a big guy. He weighed a little over ten pounds when he was born.”
Mark was beaming. “Clay weighed seven pounds, two ounces, and he was so beautiful — just like Lori.” A shadow crossed Mark’s face. “But that was a long time ago. Thank you both for stopping by to talk to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Maisie said. “Mark, I’m glad I met you.”
Mark’s smile was winning. “I’m glad I met you too, Maisie. Joanne has always been a good friend to us. Lori is going to be really excited when I tell her that I had a real visit with you both.”
Maisie was silent and stone-faced as we walked towards her Lexus. As soon as we were in the car I snapped on my seat belt, but Maisie didn’t move. Finally, she closed her eyes, rested her forehead on the steering wheel and said, “Why don’t the sweet and decent ones ever catch a break?” Then she took a deep breath, straightened and turned towards me. “Well?”
“Mark thinks he has caught a break,” I said. “He has Lori and he has his memory of that newborn boy who weighed seven pounds, two ounces and was so beautiful.”
My daughter-in-law and I didn’t exchange another word till we pulled up in front of our house.
“That was excruciating,” I said.
“It was.” Maisie’s voice was heavy with pain, but her eyes were fiery. “We have to see this through, Joanne. Lawyers know you get what you settle for, and we can’t settle for less than the truth. Someone in that cohort is a sociopath. We don’t know the extent of what they’ve done so far, but we do know they’re not finished. They have to be stopped.”
* * *
After I took off my jacket, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror: pale and haggard. I was in no shape to visit Mieka and our new grandson. I had hoped Zack and I would have our first swim in the newly renovated pool together, but my need for renewal was urgent.
I went to the mudroom and opened what my husband referred to as “the trunk of retired bathing suits.” Every year I started summer with a new bathing suit and demoted the previous year’s suit to backup status. The suits were all pretty much the same: cleanly cut from durable material and unadorned — suits for a serious swimmer. The previous year’s suit was forest green, and as I pulled it on, I felt my nerves unknot.
My swimming style is orthodox: smooth, straight-armed, deep catch strokes; rhythmical rotations of the core with each stroke and bilateral breathing — inhaling on the right for one length of the pool and on the left for the next. It’s not a joy to behold, but it works for me. Half an hour after I dove in, I felt like myself again. I showered, dressed, stopped at Gale’s Florist to buy Mieka’s gerberas, and as I walked down the hall to join my daughter and my new grandson, there was a bounce in my step.
Mieka and Desmond’s room was a bower of blooms. Vases of gladioli, the showgirls of the garden, vied for pride of place with elaborate arrangements, bright with blue ribbons, booties and streamers declaring It’s a Boy! Mieka was sitting in a chair by the window with Des’s crib beside her. “Wow. Talk about coals to Newcastle,” I said, handing her our bouquet of gerberas.
“Charlie says the room looks like a Mafia funeral, but the gerberas are special, because they’re from you and Zack, and you know they’re my favourites.”
“Where did all these flowers come from?”
“Some of them are from people Charlie and I actually know, but most of them are from fans of his show and people from Zack’s law firm and friends of yours. I’ve asked the volunteers to give the overflow to people who might enjoy them.” Mieka caught my look. “And yes, Mum, I’m keeping the cards so I can send thank-you notes.”
“That’s my girl,” I said. “How are you and Des doing?”
“We have a perfect relationship,” she said. “I have plenty of milk, and he’s a hungry guy, so we’re both happy.”
I picked up my messenger bag, took out a very old photo album and handed it to my daughter. “All the photos in this are of your grandfather. He’s not much older than Des in the first ones and the pictures continue till he starts kindergarten. And be warned — that’s only the first album.”
When Mieka smiled and opened the album, and I scooped up the baby. He was still sleeping, so I was free to gaze and marvel.
“The resemblance between Des and my grandfather is uncanny,” Mieka said, her voice low. “I wish I’d paid more attention when we studied genetics and heredity in biology.” She turned the page to a large studio portrait and held it up so I could see. “Desmond Love is six months old here,” she said. “He’s so joyful; it’s impossible not to smile when you look at this picture.”
“When I was growing up, I used to love just being in the same room with Des,” I said. “He had such a passion for living. When I close my eyes, I can still see him running down the hill from the cottage onto the dock and diving into the lake. He never hesitated.” I gazed at the baby in my arms. “Zack has that same passion for living,” I said. “I have a feeling Desmond Zackary, like his two namesakes, will embrace everything life has to offer and seize the day.”
“Speaking of seizing the day,” Mieka said, “Charlie and I are thinking about having Des baptized at Thanksgiving.”
“The timing is right,” I said. “Des is already a big boy, but in a month, we’ll still be able to squeeze him into the Crawford family baptismal gown”
“Not the Kilbourn family baptismal gown?”
‘No. I decided it was time to put the Kilbourn baptismal gown away.”
My daughter’s grey-green eyes met mine. “That was the right decision,” she said.
“Good. In that case, why don’t you and Charlie talk to Dean Mike at the cathedral, and we can start planning?” Des was stirring. He opened his eyes, looked at me and, realizing that I was not the person he needed to meet his needs, hollered. I handed him to Mieka. “You’re being summoned,” I said. “Time for me to get the girls from school. I’ll have them call you to tell you how their days went, and then the ladies and I will visit the Fafard cows.”
Mieka beamed. “You remembered.”
“Hey, it’s a tradition, and as Taylor says, this family has traditions for everything. Now, I really better get a move on.”
The Fafard cows — half-sized bronze sculptures of a bull, cow and calf grazing on a landscaped urban meadow in front of the MacKenzie Art Gallery — are one of Regina’s quiet treasures, and Mieka had made them part of her daughters’ back-to-school tradition. The photos of Madeleine and Lena standing beside the bronze animals — Potter, Valadon and Teevo — told a wordless story of the girls’ physical and emotional growth.
As kindergarteners they had embraced the animals. In later years, they made goofy faces or struck poses
, but on that crayon-bright September day they simply admired the perfect lines and gentle expressions of the sculptured animals that were a philanthropic couple’s gift to the city.
* * *
Zack arrived home at five thirty, looking weary. “Long day?” I said.
“It was,” he said. “But I’m home now.”
“Perfect timing,” I said. “Because there’s a pitcher of martinis in the fridge, a pan of eggplant parmigiana in the oven and two young women with school news to report, waiting for you on the patio.”
The evening was mercifully uncomplicated, and after Madeleine and Lena had showered, FaceTimed with Mieka, Charlie and Des, and laid out their clothes for the next day, Zack and I tucked them in, looked longingly at our own bedroom and agreed that tonight was a double massage night.
Not long after Zack and I were married, we hit upon the idea of nightly massages. We were deeply in love, but the simple intimacies of normal domestic life weren’t simple for us. Nightly massages gave us both pleasure, relaxed us and gave me a chance to check Zack’s skin for the warning signs of pressure ulcers that, if left untended, could kill him.
That night as I squeezed the massage oil into my hand and began kneading the knotted muscles of Zack’s shoulders, he groaned with pleasure. “Remind me. Why did we stop doing this?”
“Well, for most of August, we were at the lake, swimming every day, playing with the grandkids and being as carefree as any sentient being can expect to be.” I began working on the area at the top of Zack’s spine. “I could bounce a dime off these muscles,” I said. “I take it your day was not free of care.”
“Nope, it was shitty,” Zack said cheerfully. “But it’s over. Tell me about your day.”
“Let’s see. At supper, you heard the highlights of my visit to Des and Mieka, and of the girls’ first day back at École Pius X. But I haven’t told you about seeing our daughter-in-law in action today. She’s impressive. She’s also merciless.”
