by Gail Bowen
“Maisie’s not merciless, Jo,” Zack said. “She’s just a good lawyer who knows she can’t pull back until she’s absolutely certain she’s won her case. She understands that her client’s future is in her hands, and she can’t leave anything to chance. Nice lawyers back away too soon and lose cases they shouldn’t lose. Maisie doesn’t quit pummelling until she’s sure the job is done, and she wins.”
I poured more oil into my hand and began to rub the base of Zack’s spine. Pushing his weight in a wheelchair sixteen hours a day built muscle, and Zack’s upper body was powerful, but his lower spine was incredibly vulnerable. The sight of the patchwork of scars that marked successive failed attempts to restore his ability to walk made my heart ache. I was gentle when I smoothed oil on his scars, but because Zack had no feeling there, he never knew.
“I hope Maisie won this morning,” I said.
Zack turned to look over his shoulder at me. “Whoa,” he said. “Can you roll the tape back for me? I obviously missed something. Were you at the courthouse today?”
“No. I was at MediaNation.”
Zack was rapt as I described our meeting with Ronan Farquhar. When I finished, Zack took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Do you remember Ned Osler?”
“Of course. He had the most immaculate manners. Whenever we had dinner at his apartment in the Balfour, he always had a note hand-delivered to me the next day, thanking me for the pleasure of my company and mentioning a detail of the evening that had brought him special delight. Ned was a gentleman of the old school.”
“He was also one hell of a lawyer,” Zack said. “He cautioned me more than once against acting impetuously. He’d say, ‘Think twice before you poke a hive, because once you’ve poked it, all hell will break loose.’ It was a valuable lesson.”
“Do you think Maisie and I went too far today?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Zack said. “Take off your nightie and hand me the massage oil. It’s your turn now.”
Chapter Twelve
The days ahead were a time of passages. Mieka and Desmond came home from the hospital, and the Kilbourn-Dowhanuiks embarked on life as a family of five. On TV, commercials featuring scrubbed kids with new backpacks and spotless sneakers gave way to ads featuring snaggle-toothed witches and leering pumpkins. Back to School was yesterday’s story; Halloween was on its way. I packed away the pastel sundresses, shirts, shorts and casual wear in our closets and replaced them with turtlenecks, cardigans, dress slacks and, in Zack’s case, three-piece suits in the deep rich hues of autumn. On our shoe racks, the sandals, slaps and slip-ons of summer ceded space to the serious, sensible shoes of people who lived serious, sensible lives.
Gracie moved into her apartment in Saskatoon and began classes at the College of Medicine, while Taylor stayed at Lawyers Bay making art and meditating on Joseph Campbell’s teaching that “we must be willing to let go of the life we planned in order to have the life that is waiting for us.” Both Taylor and the young woman who introduced her to Joseph Campbell’s work were letting go of the life they’d planned together, and going separately into the lives that were waiting for them. And, oblivious, the carousel’s painted ponies pranced on.
The police investigating Ellen Exton’s disappearance were diligent but frustrated. Almost three weeks had passed since Ellen walked out of MediaNation for the last time, and the investigation had turned up nothing. On a brighter note, Maisie’s ambush of Ronan Farquhar had apparently done the job. The cohort’s staged abortion questions had ceased, and although we suspected dark clouds were looming, we were grateful for the respite.
Thursday, September 17 was a splendid fall day. The sky was indigo, the air was clear, the sun was bright and the leaves were turning. Zack joined Pantera, Esme and me for our morning run, and as soon as we got home, Zack and I showered, dressed and headed for MediaNation’s cafeteria and their peerless cinnamon buns. We found a table by the window, and when we looked out and saw four deer in perfect stillness walking on the leaf-strewn grass we reached out and touched each other’s hand.
The cinnamon buns were sweet, soft and sticky, and Zack and I were considering the wisdom of splitting a third bun when Jill Oziowy, carrying a cup of coffee, approached our table. Jill was the epitome of fall chic: black leggings, a rust tunic top and beige suede boots. “You look terrific,” I said.
“Value Village just got their fall line in,” Jill said drily. “And thanks for the compliment, but what we need to talk about is not fashion-related. I hate to interrupt, but this won’t take long.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I said. “We’re having a lazy day. Come join us.”
“I’d love too, but I can’t stay,” Jill said. “A passel of people who believe they’re important are waiting in the conference room downstairs.”
“Let the passel wait. The three of us are here now,” Zack said. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Fair enough,” Jill said. “Sisters and Strangers has been testing phenomenally well with audiences; the critics are creaming their jeans about it, and the whiz kids downstairs see themselves as potential partners for expanding the series.”
Zack shook his head in disgust. “Here’s an idea,” he said. “Why don’t the whiz kids arrange a meeting with the person who owns the rights to the series and her lawyer, who by happy chance is also the lawyer for the company that produced the series.”
Jill’s smile was faint. “I suggested that very thing, and they suggested I make a priority of smoothing the way for a meeting between them and you and Jo.”
Zack gave me a sidelong glance. “How do you feel about that?”
“Baffled,” I said. “Haven’t the people downstairs seen the final episode of Sisters and Strangers? Sally dies, and Joanne adopts Taylor — not a lot of room for expansion there.”
“They’re thinking of a movie, like the one that was made after Downton Abbey ended,” Jill said.
“Downton Abbey is a story made up by a screenwriter,” I said. “Sisters and Strangers is the story of a part of my life. I’m glad the series was made, and I’m proud of the production, but watching Sisters and Strangers come to life was like being flayed. Once was enough.”
“I get that,” Jill said. “But the movers and shakers downstairs won’t. However, we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it. There’s something else.”
“There always is,” Zack said, and his tone was one of weary resignation.
“Because of the positive response to previews of the series, MediaNation is prepared to pull out all the stops for the promotion campaign.”
“I thought they already had,” I said. “Zack and I don’t turn on the TV often, but every time we do, it seems there’s a promo for Sisters and Strangers. Madeleine and Lena, who don’t know that the relationship between Vale and Taylor is over, bring us every magazine that has a cover story about Vale and the series. We’re building quite a collection.”
Jill took a deep breath. “And there’s the rub,” she said. “The publicity department at MediaNation has studied the reviews and the audience reaction statistics. They believe Vale Frazier will be a magnet for viewers. All the U.S. talk shows have expressed interest in having her appear. The movie Vale’s been working on in Vancouver has just wrapped, and MediaNation is booking her on all the U.S. talk shows that have expressed an interest.”
“I don’t see the problem,” I said. “Vale’s articulate; she spent hours talking with me about understanding Sally Love, and her performance is brilliant. She’ll have no problem handling herself in an interview.”
Jill was watching our faces closely. “Publicity has decided it will be good if Vale Frazier and Etienne Simard appear together for interviews. The rationale is that both are still relatively unknown, but the chemistry between them is good . . .”
“And if a potential viewer wants a peek at that chemistry, a video of Vale and Simard h
aving raunchy sex together is just a click away,” Zack said.
Jill kept her voice even. “I’m sure that was a factor in the decision,” she said. “I tried to convince them to let Vale be interviewed solo, but apparently the joint interviews are already being publicized.” She stood. “The only option now seems to be to prepare Taylor. I’m so sorry this is happening. I know it’s pouring salt in Taylor’s wound.”
“When are these joint appearances going to start?” Zack said.
“This weekend. The series begins airing on September 25, so from now until at least the last episode of the series is shown, you can expect saturation coverage. I’ll send you the schedule of the Vale-Simard interviews when it’s finalized.”
“I’m glad you told us,” I said. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
“And our daughter does not deserve another ambush,” Zack said; his jaw was clenched tight.
* * *
After Jill left, Zack and I needed time to regain our equilibrium, and we both turned to the window to gaze out at the park. The deer had disappeared and with them the magic of the day. “We should go out to the lake,” Zack said, finally.
“I agree,” I said, “but not yet. Zack, we have to tread gently. Our daughter needs time and space to process everything that’s happened. According to Jill, the interviews won’t start till the weekend. Let’s give Taylor another day to work through what’s already happened before we pile this on her.”
“Do you think the person who posted the outtake of Vale and Etienne Simard online was aware of how much pain that video would cause our daughter?”
“Taylor thought they knew what they were doing. And now that initial hurt is going to be compounded,” I said. “I think we can help Taylor most if we’re not hovering, but she knows we’re there when she wants us.”
Suddenly our lazy day had a chores list. If Zack was taking Friday off, there was a legal brief he had to work on, and I had to finish writing an article for a Festschrift honouring Howard Dowhanuik on his eightieth birthday in November. Worthy endeavours both, but the brief and the article would have to wait. Zack and I had a new grandson, and visiting Desmond Zackary took precedence over everything,
An hour later, when we left Mieka’s, our phones were filled with photos and neither of us could stop smiling. I drove Zack downtown to the office and then went home to change for Soup and Bannock with Alison Janvier, an event being held at the Racette-Hunter Community Centre.
Along with Zack’s law partner and our close friend Margot Hunter, Elder Ernest Beauvais and a score of others, Zack and I had been committed to making Racette-Hunter a reality.
The Centre, deep in the heart of one of our city’s poorest and most crime-ridden neighbourhoods, had been the dream of Margot’s late husband, Leland Hunter. Leland saw the centre as a place that would offer child care, recreational facilities, and programming and training for those who needed a second chance. The statistics for the number of students who, having completed courses that prepared them for employment, found jobs and continued to be employed were not overwhelmingly positive, but as we all pointed out, behind each number was a life that was no longer being wasted.
The Racette-Hunter Community Centre was an ideal venue for Alison to share her belief that the only way to elect a government committed to making our province work for all its citizens was for all its citizens to become politically involved. Voter turnout in North Central Regina was historically low and that had to change if its people were to have a voice in the government of our province.
Soup and Bannock with Alison Janvier had been the brainchild of Peggy Kreviazuk and Elder Ernest Beauvais, and it was an unqualified success. The prospect of eating hamburger stew and fry bread with friends and neighbours on a brisk but sunny day was a powerful lure, and the grassy area behind the centre was bright with quilts where families sat chatting and listening to a quartet of talented teenagers play songs about heartbreaks at the powwow, the amazing longevity of rez dogs and the blood-curdling power of the cannibalistic evil spirit Wendigo.
When I spied Elder Beauvais and Peggy Kreviazuk sharing a quilt, I knew I’d found my luncheon companions. After we’d greeted each other, Peggy patted the spot beside her on the quilt. “This is reserved for you,” she said.
“Let’s save the conversation till Joanne gets back with her meal,” Ernest said. “We’re a hungry crowd, and that hamburger stew is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Peggy looked at Ernest fondly. “You always say that.”
Ernest, a retired iron worker, was a bear of a man, tall and large-featured, with a booming laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. “That’s because it’s always true,” he said. “The best hamburger stew is always the one right in front of you.”
“I’ll ponder that while I’m standing in the lunch line,” I said. I handed him my phone. “Meanwhile, you and Peggy can check out these photos of the newest member of our family, Desmond Zackary Dowhanuik, who arrived as scheduled on Labour Day.”
Ernest beamed. “A young man who knows the importance of showing up on time. He’ll do well in this life.”
* * *
Ernest’s assessment of the hamburger stew was right on the money. So was my choice of luncheon companions. A seemingly endless stream of visitors stopped by our quilt to say hello. Ernest and Peggy warmly welcomed all comers and then, seemingly without effort, steered the conversation to the role each member of the community needed to play if Alison Janvier were to become premier. After I wrote down their contact information, the callers invariably left with a big smile and a yellow and green “Ali” button.
It was time well spent, but I had an article to finish, and I was on my feet and ready to leave when Alison and a tall good-looking young man with copper skin, very white teeth and thick black hair worn in a traditional braid joined us. Both Alison and the young man were dressed casually, and in her cranberry pullover, form-fitting skinny jeans and multi-coloured sneakers, Alison was the embodiment of a leader who could get the job done. I’d worked for candidates with the brains and vision to lead a province, but whose uneasiness with the public was perceived as arrogance. An extrovert of modest intelligence with the ability to truly connect with voters would beat the smart introvert every time, but Alison was the whole package. That day, surrounded by people with concerns she understood and questions she could answer, she was in her element. She was doing something she loved and was good at, and as I watched her in action, I felt a frisson of excitement. It was possible that we might just win this one.
Alison’s face lit up when she saw me. “Joanne, I’m so glad you’re here. I wanted my son, Harper, to meet you.”
Harper extended his hand. “My mother has been singing your praises, Ms. Shreve.”
“Please. It’s Joanne, and I’ve heard your wonderful news, Harper. Congratulations on winning the Lee Gowan Award!”
Harper rewarded me with a smile that was both shy and endearing. “I was totally zapped when I heard that I’d won. The award ceremony is in Toronto in November, and it’s a big deal. I’m wearing my great grandfather’s Métis sash. I’m pretty zapped about that too.”
“I’m sure your whole family is.”
“They are, and you know something else really special happened today. A courier came to my mum’s apartment with a letter for me from Clay Fairbairn. He was one of the other people on the short list. He congratulated me on winning the award — which was cool, but what was really cool was receiving an actual letter. Nobody does that anymore, and it meant a lot to me. It also made me realize that maybe I should start writing letters to people when something special happens in their lives.”
Alison squeezed her son’s arm and turned to Ernest, Peggy and me. “I told you my son was a keeper,” she said.
Like every young man whose doting mother has just publicly praised him, Harper rolled his eyes and muttered an exasperated “Mum.”
It was a nice moment. “Your mother has every reason to be proud,” I said. “Now, it’s time for me to move along. We’re going to the lake for the weekend, and there are always last-minute things to tend to. Congratulations again on the award, Harper.”
Ernest raised one of his big hands, palm out in a halt gesture. “Harper, I would like to congratulate you too, but I don’t know what the Lee Gowan Award is. Can you fill me in?”
Seemingly from out of nowhere, a very slight and strikingly attractive young woman with fine features, white blond hair and a porcelain complexion appeared. Harper grinned when he saw her. “Hey Thalia, I was hoping you’d be here today.”
“I knew you’d be here,” she said. “And it seems I’ve arrived just in time.” Given her diminutive size, Thalia’s voice, deep and husky, was a surprise. “If Harper answers Elder Beauvais’s question, he’ll minimize his accomplishment. I’m from MediaNation, and Harper and I have already done an in-depth interview about the piece that won him the Lee Gowan.” She held her hand out to Ernest Beauvais, and he rose to his feet to take it. “I promise you’ll get the straight goods from me, Elder Beauvais,” she said. “My name is Thalia Monk.”
I was gobsmacked, and I blurted out what was on my mind. “I thought your surname was Morgan, like your mother’s.”
“I’ve reverted to my birth name.” Thalia’s eyes — cobalt blue and piercing — met mine. “And yes, my father is Joseph Monk. He works for MediaNation in Toronto. And you’re Joanne Shreve, Jill Oziowy’s friend.”
Thalia’s pivot to return her focus to Ernest meant her back was to me, and that was clearly her intent. Her tone as she addressed Ernest was deferential. “Elder Beauvais, may I join you and your friend on your quilt?”
Ernest was clearly charmed. “Of course,” he said.
Thalia held out her hand to Harper, “Why don’t you join us?” she said. “After all, you are the man of the hour.”
