A Novel
Flanker Press Limited
St. John’s
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Johnson, Trudi Dale, 1955-, author
All good intentions : a novel / Trudi Johnson.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77117-680-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77117-681-1
(EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-77117-682-8 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-683-5
(PDF)
I. Title.
PS8619.O4842A65 2018 C813’.6 C2018-902831-9
C2018-902832-7
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© 2018 by Trudi Johnson
All Rights Reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.
Printed in Canada
Cover Design by Graham Blair
Flanker Press Ltd.
PO Box 2522, Station C
St. John’s, NL
Canada
Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420
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We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.
For my parents
The past is never dead. It’s not even past. All of us labour in webs spun long before we were born, webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity.
— William Faulkner
The Families
Steffensen Family
Kurt Steffensen – businessman, owner of Steffensen Publishing and Printing
Jaclyn Peters – artist and Kurt’s second wife
Joe Steffensen – architect and son of Kurt Steffensen and Jeanne Sinclair
Lauren Steffensen – lawyer and daughter of Kurt Steffensen and Jeanne Sinclair
Alan Matheson – writer and husband of Lauren Steffensen
Catherine and Christian Steffensen – parents of Kurt Steffensen
Jeanette – sister of Kurt Steffensen
Sinclair Family
Charles Sinclair – Water Street businessman, patriarch of the Sinclair family, deceased
Jeanne Sinclair – daughter of Charles Sinclair and Hannah Parsons West
Emily Sinclair – daughter of Charles Sinclair and Virginia Boland Sinclair
Gregory Sinclair – physician, son of Emily Sinclair
Martel Family
Steven Martel – civil engineer
Lindsay Martel – retired teacher
Sandi Martel – professor, daughter of Steven and Lindsay Martel
Jordy Martel – graduate student, son of Steven and Lindsay Martel
West Family
Hannah Parsons West – mother of Jeanne Sinclair
Carrie West – clergy, daughter of Hannah West and Marshall West
Boland Family
Clarence Boland – businessman, son of Royston Boland; deceased
Dora Boland – wife of Clarence Boland, deceased
Lucinda Boland – daughter of Royston Boland, deceased
The Friends
Quentin Henderson – Steffensen family lawyer
Jonathan Hamlyn – Sinclair family lawyer
Kevin Gillis – land developer
Edgar Gillis – father of Kevin Gillis, deceased
Doris McKinlay – executive assistant to Kurt Steffensen
Sara Russell – naval engineer
David Gilchrist – physician
Caroline Kavanagh – close friend of Jeanne Sinclair
Brittany Kavanagh – daughter to Caroline and George Kavanagh
Alva Green – employee of the Sinclair family for many years; friend of Hannah West
CHAPTER 1
April 1996, Falcon Cove, NL
“The ice is staying late this year,” Hannah observed, as she stood by her horizontal rocker and looked out at the bay through the wood-framed window in her kitchen.
Jeanne nodded. “A poor spring.”
“The wind was westerly on Good Friday, though,” Hannah added, with a nervous chuckle. “Marshall used to say that was the sign of a warm summer ahead.”
The two women, mother and daughter, had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, each wondering where to begin, or if to begin at all. Neither had planned for this day, and neither knew what to expect.
For Jeanne, the long day was beginning to take its toll. Early in the morning, she had packed some warm casual clothes and left her home in St. John’s. She was not used to highway driving, and the four-hour journey was tiring. Midway, she pulled into a service station seemingly in the middle of nowhere. She was glad she’d worn her long woollen coat, because, when she got out of the car the wind was biting. She chose a cup of coffee to keep her alert, although it was not a drink she favoured. After three sips she continued her drive, more anxious about the outcome with each passing kilometre.
Hannah had anticipated a typical Easter Sunday in Falcon Cove, a small community on the northeast coast of the island. As was her tradition, she had donned her new coat and walked to Bethel United Church for the morning service. Carrie, her other daughter, was the minister there. Halfway through the service, when the members of the congregation were asked to greet each other, she had turned around and seen Jeanne, an encounter that left her momentarily breathless. They had not spoken or seen each other since the birth of Jeanne’s son, thirty-five years ago.
Now, in the evening, once supper dishes had been cleared, they sat opposite each other in Hannah’s kitchen.
Jeanne adjusted the floral cushions in the Windsor chair by the kitchen table and tried to get comfortable. The calendar above the sink said spring had arrived, but nothing in her line of vision outdoors supported it. She could see ice floes being pushed into the entrance of the harbour by the gusting northeast wind and rising tide. The deep bay beyond was dotted with icebergs glistening in the setting sun.
Hannah drank her cup of tea, although by now it was cold. She laid her cup on the table beside her and nervously searched for words that she hoped would not make her daughter uncomfortable. She wanted to know so much but feared the answers. “Jeanne, I’ve wondered . . .”
“Yes?”
“Did Charles suffer long before he passed away?” Her throat tightened.
“No, less than a month.” She was surprised by the question. “He knew what
was coming. The doctors were candid. Father told me that everything was in order and that the house, the Sinclair house, would be mine. That’s what he said.” Her voice quivered. “I’ll never forget those last few days. I relive every moment over in my mind. The hardest thing about life is that it ends.”
Hannah took a deep breath, brushed away a stray tear with her handkerchief, and tucked it in the cuff of her woollen cardigan. To try to rid her mind of painful thoughts, she reached for a ball of grey wool in the small knitting stand next to her chair. Following a pattern for socks found only in her head, she took the double-pointed needles and continued where she’d left off. “When I was growing up, we weren’t allowed to knit on Sundays,” she commented. “Or do much else, for that matter.”
“Neither were we,” Jeanne responded.
“Now every day is alike.” She pulled on the wool to loosen it from the ball. “You had a little girl after Joe.”
“Yes, three years later. Lauren. She’s a lawyer now.” Jeanne welcomed the heat rising from the baseboard heater next to her feet. She watched the rhythmic action of Hannah’s knitting and, like Hannah, searched for words. “I’m looking forward to the snow melting,” she said, “so I can start my gardening. Of course, that’s at least several months away yet.”
“Carrie’s good at gardening,” Hannah said, without looking up. “But it’s difficult to grow much here. The soil’s not good and the weather’s poor. Carrie tries a few vegetables. Last year she had a wonderful crop of carrots. I guess you have a big garden in St. John’s.”
“I plant mostly reliable flowers that I know can handle the weather. From time to time, I take a chance on something different.” Jeanne looked at the knitting basket. A rolled crossword puzzle book was tucked in among the balls of wool, with a pencil sticking out of it. “You do crosswords?”
“Yes, although I’m not very good at them.”
“Neither am I, but I try. They say it’s good for the mind. Kurt enjoys them,” she explained. “When we were married, he’d do the New York Times crossword on Sunday evenings.”
Hannah detected pride in her voice. “He’s a publisher, so he should be good at crosswords,” she said, with a broad smile, and they both laughed, a little less uneasy.
The old-fashioned analog clock sitting on the counter next to the stove ticked away the minutes of the evening. Jeanne studied the room, being careful not to give the impression that she was judging each item. She pushed up the sleeves of her green cashmere sweater, looked at her nails, and made a mental note to book a manicure when she returned to St. John’s. The lone street light just outside the kitchen window caught her attention. In the shadows, two figures walked by and waved. Jeanne returned the greeting, although she didn’t know who they were.
Hannah stood to flip on the light switch by the door frame and returned to her chair and her knitting. After a moment or two, she nestled the grey wool in her lap. Words that had played in her mind for years were suddenly spoken for the first time, spurred by a flicker of courage from deep within. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“To be honest, I never thought I would be here,” Jeanne responded, just as quietly.
“What made you decide?”
Jeanne gave a long sigh. “It’s difficult to say. After Father passed away last August and the estate was settled, everyone in the family knew about you, so there was no longer a need . . . I mean . . . I decided to see you, if I could.”
Like her daughter, Hannah was afraid to commit to a conversation that brought out such stinging emotion. Instead, she said, “Charles must have found it lonely once Virginia passed away. They were married for almost sixty years.”
“I suppose, but to be honest, Hannah, they were never very close.” Jeanne rested her elbow on the windowsill and her head in her hand. “What do you remember about her?”
“When I knew her, Virginia was in her twenties. She and Charles were a young couple with a little one, two-year-old Emily, just starting out.” She looked away, deep in reflection. The memories flooded back. “Virginia was never friendly to the staff. We were there to do as she pleased, that’s all. She had beautiful clothes, though, that much I do remember. It was all bought up in Canada in the summertime. I’d never seen anything like them. Alva Green, the housekeeper, and I would lay out clothes for her on special occasions. Such lovely dresses.” She drew a shallow breath. “You knew Virginia as your mother for a long time.”
Jeanne shifted in her chair. “Until I was twenty-three. On my wedding day she told me the truth.”
“Your wedding day?” Hannah’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Yes, just before I left for the church,” she explained, and pushed away the memory. “When I think about her now, I see a very different person than I saw when I was just a young girl.”
“How so?”
“When I was growing up, Virginia was always organized, so neat and tidy. I thought we were all supposed to be that way. Now when I look back, I think it was an obsession for her. It seemed that everything in her life was kept in a box. Her emotions and her clothing,” she explained. “She always seemed sad. She had little regard for Kurt or our children. To be honest, I have no recollection of Father and Virginia ever being happy together. They were separated even while they were living together, if you know what I mean. I think they just tolerated each other.”
“A difficult way to go through life,” Hannah remarked, her pursed lips indicating her disgust. “But not uncommon.” She rested her hands in the knitting. “The beautiful Sinclair house? Is it empty now?”
“Yes, unfortunately it is. Selling it seems like letting go of him . . . and I can’t do that . . . yet.”
From across the room, Hannah could detect the sadness in her eyes. Knowing that Carrie would be home soon, she chose to tell Jeanne privately what she had always wanted to say. Swallowing hard, she managed, “I didn’t want to leave, Jeanne. It was hard. I had no choice.” Her words were barely audible.
“It’s okay. You need not explain. This is as painful for me to hear as it is for you to say,” Jeanne assured her. “Let’s not . . .”
Hannah nodded, her throat raw as she fought back regret that had been tamped down for many years.
No. I cannot go there. She cannot go there. There are no words. And so, as she was always so capable of doing, Jeanne regrouped. She crossed one leg over the other. “Is this your favourite room? The kitchen? You have quite the view through each window.” Her voice was now clear and full.
Hannah smiled, and turned her knitting to begin another row. “I can see all the goings-on in the harbour from this window. Carrie says I shouldn’t spy on people, but I’m just seeing what’s happening, ’tis all.”
Jeanne laughed. She thought that if she lived in this house, this would be her favourite room as well. Hannah’s voice, she realized for the first time, sounded so much like her own. She wondered what else they had in common.
Hannah glanced at the clock and dropped her knitting into the basket. “Carrie will be home from church soon,” she noted. “I must put on the kettle.”
Jeanne smiled as she watched her fuss over tea. She tried to imagine the life this woman had lived. Hannah had left Falcon Cove at the age of seventeen in 1935 to work in service with the Sinclair family in St. John’s. In the two years of her employment, she had had a relationship with Jeanne’s father, the head of the household, and left, having given birth to Jeanne in June of 1937. Charles and Virginia raised her and, to the community, she was Virginia’s daughter. Until Jeanne’s wedding day. Jeanne had never forgotten the words that Virginia spoke to her that day. As she stood in front of a mirror adjusting her veil, Virginia, behind her, had announced, “You should know that I am not your mother. Your mother is Hannah Parsons. She worked for us many years ago.” Then she sharply turned away, leaving Jeanne standin
g in shock fingering her veil and processing her words.
Now, here they were, mother and daughter. Although their lives had been so different, they held one strong connection: Charles Sinclair. Each woman clung to warm memories of him that only she could understand.
Outside, a few minutes away, Carrie fought the wind as she hurried down the hill from the church. She rounded the corner to Parsons’ Lane that led to their home with her mind on the Easter service that morning, a service she would not soon forget. Seeing Jeanne sitting in the middle of the sanctuary had caused her to temporarily lose her place in the order of service. Carrie had met Jeanne in St. John’s a month before when she’d finally mustered up enough courage to visit her home. She’d also met Jeanne’s son, Joe, and her daughter, Lauren, who seemed so glad to meet her and looked forward to meeting their grandmother. At the time, it seemed pleasant, but once Carrie returned to Falcon Cove, she wondered how much their lives would change as a result of that meeting. More than anything, she worried about the toll this would have on her mother.
She paused and looked up at the white two-storey house with its window flower boxes waiting for summer. For the first time, she felt like an outsider in her own home and was hesitant to enter. Patches of snow were tucked in crevices by the bridge that received no sun. What brought you here now, Jeanne? But it was a question Carrie dared not ask. She opened the back door and called out that she was home. For the next two hours, the three women made pleasant conversation.
Shortly after 10:00 p.m., Carrie turned restlessly in bed and listened as the freezing rain lashed against her bedroom window and the house creaked in the wind. She gazed at the lights of the community sparkling in the distance, her mind fixed on Jeanne and the new family members who were about to invade her life and Hannah’s. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to take it on, and she felt guilty for feeling that way. Which emotion was more difficult to handle? Apprehension or guilt?
In the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, Jeanne tucked the plaid flannel sheet and pink woollen blanket under her chin and recalled every word of her conversation with Hannah that evening. “A memory,” she whispered aloud, with a smile. My first with my mother in a very long time.
All Good Intentions Page 1
