by Gail Bowen
“So, Patti Morgan created a paper tiger, and her fear of it killed her.” Taylor was thoughtful.
“Why did Patti Morgan think the photos of Thalia and her brother were so damaging that Thalia would have done anything to avoid having them made public?”
Zack turned to me. Clearly the ball was in my court.
“Thalia and her brother were lovers, and the photos were of them having sex.”
“Were the photos pornographic?”
“No. Taylor, you’re familiar with Robert Mapplethorpe’s photography.”
“Of course. Those black-and-white photos he took in the 1980s were sexual, but they were also incredibly beautiful and powerful. They’re art.”
“The photographs of Nicholas and Thalia were beautiful and powerful too. But they’re photos of a brother and sister.”
“Incest,” Taylor said. “Thalia was only sixteen when she came to Luther. All that happened to her when she was so young. Jo, do you think she’ll ever be all right?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I said. “She was here today. One of the reasons she came was to make certain you were all right.”
“I hope you told her I was.”
“I did. I told her you were fine now, and you would be better.”
“I am,” Taylor said. “And, Jo, I hope that will be true for Thalia too.”
“So do I,” I said.
* * *
The days before the Thanksgiving weekend were a mix of firming up comforting domestic plans and dealing with the dark spoor of tragedy that Ellen Exton’s murder had left in its wake.
The texts on Clay Fairbairn’s phone were incriminating enough to have charges pressed against the three young men. Jill had told me Hugh Fairbairn was a hard-ass except when it came to his grandson, and she was right on both counts. Jill said that Hugh was broken-hearted about Clay’s situation, but he was clear-eyed in evaluating what Clay was up against legally, and he immediately hired the lawyer who had successfully defended Jared Delio to represent Clay.
Zack had followed the Delio trial carefully, and he had been impressed with the stunning performance of Delio’s lawyer. She was a preternaturally cool combatant who never revealed a flash of temper or distaste for the misery she was about to inflict upon a witness with information that might be damning for her client, and she maintained her laser focus until the job was done. Zack made no bones about the fact that he was looking forward to sitting front and centre at Clay’s trial.
Ronan and Austin were represented by local lawyers. Zack said both were good, but Ronan’s was young and unseasoned, and Austin’s was past his best-before date. However, both Ronan and Austin were accessories, and typically punishment for a convicted accessory is not as severe as for the perpetrator.
All my news about life in the Fairbairn household continued to come from Jill. After a night of vitriol largely focused on Thalia, Julie Evanson Gallagher Fairbairn had, like the dowager in a Victorian novel, taken to her bed. Mark and Lori Evanson were at their son’s side for as long as he wanted them there and, again surprisingly, Clay seemed to welcome their company. I was hopeful, but Zack said Clay’s boutique lawyer had undoubtedly suggested Clay would be smart to establish a pattern of remorse and repentance before the trial opened. Whatever Clay’s motivation, I was grateful that Mark and Lori were finally able to be accepted by their son.
Thalia too had spent time with Clay. Hugh told Jill that Clay hadn’t discussed the specifics of what Thalia and he talked about, but he had been strengthened by her willingness to accept responsibility for urging the University Park Road group to accept a philosophy that until recently she herself had not fully understood. Clay had also been impressed by the example Thalia set by sending Alison Janvier the yearbooks that revealed the identity of Harper’s father and allowing Alison to decide whether or not to destroy them.
On the Friday before Thanksgiving, Thalia flew to Toronto to spend the weekend with her father. She stopped by our house on her way to the airport. Dressed for travel in a smart charcoal zip-up soft hoodie, skinny jeans and zebra-patterned runners, Thalia was the epitome of casual chic, but when I met her at the door, she said, “I’m here for reassurance. I want you to have my number in Toronto, and I want you to tell me I can call you whenever I need advice about how not to screw up my next sixty years.”
I smiled. “You’re not going to let me forget about that, are you?”
“No, because it made me laugh. It also made me realize that I can still make good choices about my future. My father and I are going to spend the weekend trying to figure out how we can salvage our relationship. He’s always taken pride in the way he conducts his professional life, but I made him compromise his reputation by giving me everything I needed in my campaign to hurt Taylor, especially the footage of Vale and Etienne Simard from the filming of Sisters and Strangers. I will never stop being ashamed of what I did to your daughter or why I did it.
“Joanne, I have no idea what I’m going to do next. All I know is that I’m going to try to do better, and I’m going to try to be better.” Thalia reached into her grey leather tote and took out Sylvie’s evening bag. “Still carrying this,” she said. “It’s a hard habit to break. I’m so scared.” She stepped close to me. “Could you . . . ?”
“I could,” I said. When I took Thalia in my arms, I was surprised at how insubstantial, how bird-light, her body was. I could feel her heart beating against mine. As I stood watching the taxi that would take her to the airport waiting with its meter ticking, I found myself hoping against hope that Sylvie’s wish would come true, that in the not-too-distant future, Thalia Monk’s life would get better.
* * *
At four-thirty Saturday afternoon, Zack and I were doing a last-minute check of our readiness for Thanksgiving dinner. We were planning to eat at six. Taylor had worked her artist’s magic setting the two tables we were using; Gracie had proven to be a deft hand at making salads. When I complimented her on the astonishingly thin, lucent slices of cucumber she was cutting, she grinned. “I’m planning to be an orthopedic surgeon. Cucumbers are good practice.” The potatoes were mashed; the turkey was ready to come out of the oven; the ham was waiting to be carved; the side dishes were ready for their finishing touches; and the pies were on the sideboard.
There would be seventeen of us at the table: Mieka and Charlie and their family; Maisie Peter and the twins; Noah Wainberg and Jacob; Rose and Betty Lavallee and Gracie; Taylor, Zack and me. A small number by our usual standards, but it felt right.
Angus and Leah Drache, his first love and, in my opinion, his best, were spending the weekend with Leah’s family in Saskatoon; Jill and Kam were with Kam’s family in Indian Head; and Alison Janvier and Harper were in La Ronge visiting with the Janviers and doing some last-minute politicking.
We were ready, but we had promised an event of pre-dinner excitement: the unveiling of Taylor’s mural and the newly renovated swimming pool room. Taylor had been insistent that Zack and I see the mural with only Gracie and her, before anyone else arrived, and time was growing short.
At twenty-five to five, Zack turned to me. “Did I get my wires crossed? I thought we were supposed to have a private viewing before everyone got here.”
“You didn’t get your wires crossed,” I said. “And Taylor and Gracie are still in the dining room, perfecting the fan of the napkins at the place settings. Let’s ask them if we’re ready to go.”
All week Taylor had been fired up about us seeing the mural. She said she was counting the hours before the big moment. Now when Zack asked her if we were ready for lift-off, she looked stricken. “I’m having second thoughts about this, Dad. It may be too much. Before you look at the mural, I want you to know that I can change it. Tell me the truth. I won’t be hurt.”
Zack was clearly baffled. “Taylor, you know I’ll love it. I love everything you make. Besides, this is your mum’s gift.”<
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When Taylor looked at me, she was close to tears. “This is your gift, Jo. And I thought about what I could paint that would make you the happiest, and I knew that what would make you the happiest was something that would make Dad stop hurting so much. I’m sorry I can’t explain. Just come and look at the mural and tell me if you want me to change it because I will.”
As soon as I saw the mural, I understood.
It was a painting of Lawyers Bay on a perfect high summer day. Our houses were all there; the trees and bushes were in full leaf. Everything was as it was now except for the people. The only people in the painting were Zack and his law partners as they were during their first summer at the lake.
I had seen the picture hundreds of times. Each of the partners had a copy of it. Kevin’s was framed in birch and set on a rustic end table, with birch-log legs, that had been in the cottage since he was a kid. Delia’s, in a starkly modern metal frame, had had a place of honour on the mantle of the Wainbergs’ fireplace until that terrible November day when, like so much else, it seemed to disappear. Blake Falconer’s copy was framed in cherrywood and it was kept on the credenza in the den of the house where Pete and Maisie and their family now lived. Chris’s copy had been hung on a wall in the main reception area at Falconer Shreve. But, like Zack’s copy that until that November day had always been in a chased silver frame on his dresser, Chris’s copy of the photo was gone.
Taken during the partners’ first summer at Lawyers Bay, the photo showed the new lawyers, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, up to their thighs in the lake. Zack was in the middle: on one side of him were Delia and Chris; on the other, Blake and Kevin. Almost two-thirds of Zack’s chair was submerged. It was a tender photo filled with the light of the sun bouncing off the water and the joy of five young people alive on a summer day with the future shining before them.
The figures were full-sized, and Taylor’s painting had captured everything about that long-ago morning so filled with hope. For a time that seemed endless, Zack simply stared at the painting and then he wheeled close and reached out with his forefinger and touched the young faces of each of his partners. “We really were something,” he said. His voice was ragged with emotion, and I knew the words were not directed at us.
“Dad, it was a mistake,” Taylor said. “I can fix it. I’ll change it tonight.”
“No, don’t,” Zack said. “Taylor, it’s exactly right. I’m just . . . at a loss. Tonight after everyone leaves, I’ll probably come in here, look at the mural and cry. Joanne will come with me because she always does, but right now I’m just so grateful to remember that, for all those years, Blake, Delia, Kevin and Chris were part of my life, and now I have all of you.”
It was a poignant moment, but it didn’t last long. The glass wall of the swimming pool room faced the side lawn. Gracie pointed to the wall. “Look,” she said. A small face was pressed flat against the glass, followed within seconds by another small and identical face and then Pete and Maisie appeared, looking embarrassed but waving. And then seemingly out of nowhere, Jacob Wainberg had joined the twins and pressed his face against the glass, and Noah, Rose and Betty were standing with Pete and Maisie.
Gracie went to Zack, kissed the top of the head. “Time to straighten up and fly right, Zack. The rest of our family is here.”
“So they are,” Zack said and turned his chair and wheeled towards Taylor and me. He took my hand. “Gracie’s right,” he said. “It’s time to join the rest of our family.”
We didn’t get far. As it turned out, the rest of the family had decided to join us. The next half hour was a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting moments. The twins barrelling down the hall towards us, followed by everybody else who was joining us for dinner.
Taylor’s mural was met first with stunned silence and then with extravagant but wholly justified praise. It was a piercingly beautiful piece of art and deeply personal to each of us in the room. And then, as we all moved closer to examine the details, we began to whisper as people always seem to do in art galleries.
The hush didn’t last long. Charlie and Colin had voices that carried, and their words rang out loud and clear. “Where. Are. We?” It was, I think, the question that was in the back of all our minds, but mercifully Gracie had the answer. “I’m glad you asked that question,” she said. “See that big-screen TV on the wall, pull up a beanbag and you’ll see where you are.”
The big flat screen TV had been there when we bought the house. We seldom used it, and when we were planning the renovations, I’d suggested removing it all together, but the contractor said, “You might as well leave it. It’s not in the way, and who knows, someday it might come in handy.”
Seemingly that day had come. The boys had chosen their beanbags, and Gracie was sitting beside them with her laptop. “Here’s where you come in,” she said, and the screen was filled with the images and sounds of the summer just passed.
The adults gathered round, and the room was filled with the exclamations, laughter and groans of people watching home movies. We were all there. Mieka, vastly pregnant with Des. The twins hurtling through life, always with Madeleine, Lena or an adult close behind. Betty and Rose teaching Jacob how to swim. Taylor diving off the high tower as Vale cheered her on. Peter rubbing sunblock on Maisie and leaning in to kiss the back of her neck. Noah lifting the canoe into the water, so Madeleine and Lena could paddle over to the next shore to follow up on the rumour that a new family had bought a cottage, and they had sons who were just about the same ages as Lena and Madeleine.
It was a lot of fun, but when the twins and Jacob became restless, we knew it was time for a change of venue. Time for the kids to throw a ball around in the backyard for a while and burn off some energy, and time for the adults to get dinner on the table.
Before we left, Gracie had a final announcement. “You know that Dr. Seuss poem, ‘Today Was Fun / Today Is Done / Tomorrow Is Another One’? Thanks to Noah, Rose and Betty, our family has a movie for every summer since the summer in Taylor’s painting. When Taylor had the idea for this mural, Noah, Betty and Rose decided to put together all our old snapshots and home movies. Now, any time you want to watch yourself grow up or Maisie and Peter want to watch themselves get married or the girls painting their toenails three different shades or making an inuksuk, or see Jo and Zack smooching when they think nobody’s watching, or remember one of the people in the mural who is no longer with us, just make a bowl of popcorn and choose a movie, and you can see how we’ve all become the people we are.”
When Gracie’s speech was met with a round of applause, I nudged Taylor. “Look at your dad’s face.”
Our daughter knew Zack’s every expression. “He’s on his way back,” she said.
I squeezed her shoulder. “He is,” I said, “and I think that may just be the best present ever.”
Acknowledgements
Thanks to:
The late Jean Spurgeon for her support of the Joanne Kilbourn Shreve series from the beginning and for her commitment to READsaskatoon and all its learners.
Emily Shultz, my editor who, like Maxwell Perkins, realizes that writers need coddling but they also need to write the best book they can write, and that the editor’s job is to make certain they do.
Crissy Calhoun, who gracefully extricated me from a whopper of an error and who gave the manuscript the necessary final polish.
Anita Ragunathan, a consummate professional at marketing and sales, and a poetry lover who swoons at the same shimmering lines as I do.
Jessica Albert, Digital and Art Director, who supported my passion for the stunning photograph on the cover of An Image in the Lake.
Hildy Bowen and Brett Bell, who were always cheerful and loving as they helped me deal with my endless technological challenges.
Max and Carrie Bowen, for their love and support.
Our grandchildren: Kai Langen, Brittany Scheelhaase, Madeleine Bowen-Diaz, Le
na Bowen-Diaz, Chesney Langen-Bell, Ben Bowen-Bell, Peyton Bowen and Lexi Bowen, who bring light and laughter to our lives.
Naima Kazmi, MD, for her professionalism and her many kindnesses.
Wayne Chau, BSP, for his endless patience and good humour.
Lynne Bell, Joanne Bonneville and Margaret Wigmore for being dear and supportive friends.
Ron and Cindy, our loving and generous neighbours.
Ollie, the cat, who has brought our family so much joy.
About the Author
Gail Bowen is an author, playwright, and teacher. Among her numerous writing awards are a lifetime achievement award from the Crime Writers of Canada and the Distinguished Canadian Award from the University of Regina. Reader’s Digest has called her Canada’s best mystery novelist. In 2018, she was awarded the Saskatchewan Order of Merit and the Grand Master Award of Crime Writers of Canada. She lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, with her husband, Ted.
Copyright
Copyright © Gail Bowen, 2021
Published by ECW Press
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