Starr Sign
Page 24
“If you say so.”
My phone makes muffled music in the pocket of my new jacket. I take it out and answer without checking who’s calling. This conversation of “what more I could be” has me looking for outs.
“Candace here.”
“Did you get my package?” Charlotte asks, long distance from Newfoundland. That woman never lets up.
“It came on Monday. I haven’t opened it yet.” I already know what’s in it. My Uncle Rod’s mother used to knit me thick wool socks every year, and since her arthritis got bad, Charlotte’s kept up the tradition. I must admit, they keep my feet warm at night when the aging radiator in my apartment above the E-Zee Market goes on the fritz.
“You can open it on Christmas,” Charlotte says. “Although I wish you were coming here for the holidays. I could still get you a plane ticket. I’ve got Air Miles I haven’t used.”
“That’s okay, Charlotte. You keep the points. I’ll be okay on my own.” I’m used to spending the holidays by myself, although I’ve thought about stopping by to see Roberto. They’re serving turkey for Christmas dinner at the nursing home, deboned so nobody chokes.
“If you’re sure, Candace.”
“I am.”
A wind stirs up frozen leaves in the playground when I hang up the phone. Deep slips his arm around my shoulder, pulls me in closer for the body heat. I’m going to miss him. But I don’t tell him that. I’m afraid he might not go if I did. There’s no future for two people with as different histories as we have. I’m used to people coming in and out of my life by now. Some have been family, some were something like it, some were neither of those things. People like that, they all leave their mark. If you’re lucky, they also leave care packages, boxes you can open later full of woolly memories to keep you warm at night.
“What’ll you do now?” Deep asks, tucking some of my hair into the toque he forced me to wear. It has a furry black ball at the top and matches the jacket he gave me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I got some cash from the old Don’s will. Maybe I’ll do something with that.”
“Your great-grandfather left you money in his will?”
“Yeah, it shocked the shit out of me too when the lawyer called. Maybe he felt guilty about what he did to Angela. Anyway, it’s not a lot. But it might be enough to set me up in a new line of work.”
“And what would that be?” Deep asks, his eyes narrowing. I think he’s concerned about expectations again.
I squirm a bit on the bench. I haven’t told anyone about my pipe dream, too afraid that talking about it might cause the whole idea to go up in smoke. But Deep’s the kind of guy you can confide in about hopeful things. Hope is a new concept for me. I’ve always preferred the cold comfort of pessimism.
“I’ve been thinking about setting up my own PI firm,” I say. “I can’t get a licence on account of my record, but I figure I’m good enough at this detective stuff to land a few clients on the down low. Cheating spouses. Missing persons. Shit like that.” I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve spent a better part of my life learning to track people down. It may have been to kill them, but the basic skill set is the same.
Deep’s face breaks out in a huge grin, and I’m half afraid he’s going to laugh at me. Instead, he plants a kiss on the tip of my nose, right where a rogue snowflake has just fallen.
“I reckon you’d be good at that, Candace,” he says.
I press my cheek against his to feel the warmth there, so I can remember it. I’ll save it in a box marked with his name, for those cold winter nights.
I reckon I’d be good at it, too.
Snuggled into Deep on the bench, I don’t hear the soft ping of the text in my pocket. Deep had helped me get rid of the whales. It’s not until later when I’m alone again that I open the text message from Janet, back at my apartment above the E-Zee Market.
Slalom, it says.
I lie down on my bare mattress on the floor and listen to the radiator rattle. When I close my eyes, a box opens, marked with a memory that’s not mine but could be. Within it, I savour the thrill of riding one ski down a snow-covered slope, laughing all the way.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK MY EDITOR, Dominic Farrell, who knows how to give valuable creative advice that makes for a better novel. He also knows that the Good Humor ice cream man sells “fudge bars” rather than “fudgsicles” and how to use a prepositional verb. He is a multi-talented guy, and I would have been lost without him.
I’d also like to thank my family, who allowed for my frequent retreats to the writing shed in the backyard, and my husband in particular, who is building me something better than a shed.
To my friends, thank you for still being there, and supporting me as I go in and out of my creative funks. You are invited for a glass of wine when my new shed is built.
And finally, I’d like to thank Rima, a character in the novel, but also in my heart. She represents all the people who flourish when allowed to be who they are.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.S. O’CINNEIDE is the author of Petra’s Ghost, a Goodreads Choice Awards semi-finalist, as well as the hard-boiled Candace Starr crime series. As a blogger on her website, She Kills Lit, she features women writers of thriller and noir, along with the occasional nasty true crime story. O’Cinneide lives in Guelph, Ontario, with her Irish expat husband, who remains her constant muse.