by Gail Bowen
She didn’t waste time on preambles. “I need to talk to you, Jo,” she said. She gestured toward an area down the corridor. “Come back and have a cup of coffee.” Taylor and Jess ran on ahead, and I followed her down the hall.
If I’d needed anything to depress me further on that depressing day, the reception set out for Gary Stephens’s funeral would have done it. There were plates of sandwiches and dainties, two big coffee urns, and cups and saucers for at least a hundred and fifty people. We were the only ones in the room.
Sylvie led me to the corner where four chairs had been grouped for conversation. When she sat down, she clasped her hands in front of her, like a schoolgirl. I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. For a moment, she seemed at a loss. Finally, she said, “I didn’t know about Jenny’s death, and I didn’t know about Ian. I didn’t know any of this, Jo. You have to believe me.”
“I believe you,” I said.
Sylvie pointed to Jess and Taylor sitting at another table. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let Taylor play with Jess.” When she said her son’s name, her voice shook. “I don’t want anything more to go wrong for him.”
She looked away. “Do you remember how beautiful he was, Jo?”
I was confused. “How beautiful Jess was?”
“Not Jess,” she said. “Gary.”
“I remember,” I said.
“I don’t feel anything,” she said. “He’s dead and I don’t feel anything. There was a time when I thought I couldn’t live an hour without him.”
For the first time that day, Sylvie’s eyes filled with tears. “How is that possible, Jo? How can a person just stop loving?”
I didn’t know what to say. At the same time, I knew Sylvie didn’t need my words. At least not then. Mercifully, Taylor and Jess heard Sylvie and came over. I gave Jess a hug, then I stood and put my arm around Taylor. “Jess is welcome at our place anytime,” I said. “So are you.”
Sylvie nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for coming.”
We started to leave, but Taylor grabbed my arm. “Jess says we’re supposed to sign the book.” Beside the door there was a small table with a guest book and a photograph of Gary. It was an outdoor shot. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, and he was squinting against the sun. Beside the portrait there was a vase with a single prairie lily. I signed my name in the book; under it, Taylor carefully printed hers. Ours were the only names on the page.
Craig Evanson was waiting outside the door. “I thought you and Sylvie might want some privacy,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“How’s the baby?” Taylor asked.
“Perfect,” Craig said. “Would you like to see her?”
“You mean today?” Taylor said.
“Why not?” Craig said.
“Jo doesn’t believe in kids skipping school for no reason.”
“Seeing a new baby is a reason,” Craig said.
Taylor looked glum. “It won’t be a reason for Jo,” she said.
“At the moment, I can’t think of a better one,” I said. I held my hand out to her. “Come on. Let’s go.”
When Manda Traynor-Evanson answered the door, she had the baby in her arms and the ginger cats, Mallory and Alex P. Kitten at her heels. Taylor didn’t know who to grab first. Manda solved the problem. She asked us to take off our coats, then she turned to Taylor.
“Would you like to stay for lunch?”
“I would,” Taylor said.
“So would I,” I said.
“Great,” said Manda. “But, Taylor, you’ll have to give me a hand with the little one. Why don’t you scoot into the family room and sit in the big brown chair. That’s the official baby-holding chair.”
When Taylor was settled, I stood behind her. Together, we looked down at the baby.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I said.
Taylor touched the baby’s hand gently. “I didn’t know babies were born with fingernails and eyelashes,” she whispered. “I thought they grew those later, the way they grow teeth.”
“No,” I said, “they’re pretty well perfect right from the start.”
“She’s perfect,” Taylor said. Then she furrowed her brow. “Jo, what is this baby’s name?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s been so much going on. I guess we just never asked.”
“Ask,” Taylor said.
“You ask,” I said. “It won’t sound so dumb coming from a kid.”
Manda was standing in the doorway. “What won’t sound so dumb?”
“That we don’t know your baby’s name,” Taylor said.
Manda grinned. “Her name is Grace. After we’d bored everybody to death asking for advice and bought every book, we named her after Craig’s mother.”
I looked at the baby. Her hair was dark and silky, and her mouth was as delicate as a rosette on a Victorian Valentine. “Grace suits her,” I said.
Lunch was fun. When Craig came home, he set up a table in the family room, so we could watch the birds at the bird-feeder while we ate. Manda had warmed up a casserole of tofu lasagna, so I was glad Taylor was distracted. When we’d had our fill of tofu, Craig and I cleared the dishes, and Taylor played with the cats while Manda fed Grace. Then we all drank camomile tea from thick blue mugs and talked about babies.
“If Grace had been a boy, what were you going to call him?” Taylor asked.
“Craig, Jr.,” Manda said, shifting the baby on her hip. “We’ll save it for the next one if that’s okay with you.”
“That’s okay with me,” Taylor said. “It’s not a good name for a cat.”
“Did I miss something here?” Craig asked.
“Taylor still hasn’t named her kitten,” I said.
Manda shrugged. “I’ve got a stack of baby name books over there, Taylor. If you like, you can take them with you when you go. We’ve already got a name for Kid Number Two, and when Number Three comes along, I’ll get the books back.”
Craig turned to Taylor. “You’re welcome to the books,” he said, “but I think I know a name that might work. It’s the name of the man who’s the patron saint of artists: ‘Benet.’ ”
“Benet,” Taylor repeated the name thoughtfully. “What do you think, Jo?”
“I like it,” I said.
“So do I,” Taylor said. “Because if my cat’s name is Benet, I can call him Benny for short, and I really like the name Benny.”
The wind was coming up as Taylor and I walked home. When we got to our corner, I saw that the boys had turned the outside Christmas lights on. The day had turned grey and cold, and the lights in front of our house were a welcoming sight. Even Jack O’Lantern looked good. During the long mild spell, his centre of gravity had shifted. From a distance, the lights inside him made him look like an exotic Central American pot.
Taylor ran ahead. She couldn’t wait to tell Benny that, at long last, he had a name. Halfway up our walk, she wheeled around and waved her arms at me. “It’s snowing,” she yelled. “We’re going to have snow for Christmas.”
I looked up at the sky. Storm clouds were rolling in from the north, and with them the promise of a world that would soon be white and pure again.
GAIL BOWEN’s first Joanne Kilbourn mystery, Deadly Appearances (1990), was nominated for the W.H. Smith/Books in Canada Best First Novel Award. It was followed by Murder at the Mendel (1991), The Wandering Soul Murders (1992), A Colder Kind of Death (1994) (which won an Arthur Ellis Award for best crime novel), A Killing Spring (1996), Verdict in Blood (1998), Burying Ariel (2000), The Glass Coffin (2002), The Last Good Day (2004), The Endless Knot (2006), The Brutal Heart (2008), and The Nesting Dolls (2010). In 2008 Reader’s Digest named Bowen Canada’s Best Mystery Novelist; in 2009 she received the Derrick Murdoch Award from the Crime Writers of Canada. Bowen has also written plays that have been produced across Canada and on CBC Radio. Now retired from teaching at First Nations University of Canada, Gail Bowen lives in Regina. Please visit the author at w
ww.gailbowen.com.
