“It was not a shock. Young people do have a tendency to get engaged. And he is thirty-five.”
“But so soon! I mean, they’ve only known each other since when . . . last summer?”
Jeanne lowered her voice, hoping that Caroline would take the cue to do the same. “I assume they had no reason to wait.”
“You don’t seem terribly upset. I thought you would be. After all, who is this professor? I don’t know the Martels. Do you? They don’t travel in our circle. I’ve never heard George mention the Martel family.”
“Mr. Martel, Steven, grew up here in St. John’s,” Jeanne explained. “Sandi’s mother is from Corner Brook. He’s an engineer, and Lindsay’s a retired schoolteacher.”
“I see.” She was clearly unimpressed. She reached for her linen napkin and mindlessly folded it over and over. “I doubt that the woman is Joe’s type.”
“He’s like his father, through and through.” Jeanne sipped her iced tea. “I know you were hoping that Joe and Brittany would end up together, Caroline, but apparently it’s not to be.”
“When is the wedding?”
“Next summer. August, I believe.”
“Plenty of time, Jeanne. Plenty. Things can change between now and then.” She smiled at her friend, then unwrapped her napkin again and placed it across her lap. “Besides, if there’s one good thing that might come out of this, Jeanne, it’s that you no longer have to worry about your father’s house. I mean, your house. The Sinclair house.”
Jeanne turned her head, puzzled. “Why is that?”
“I’m sure Joe would want it now that he’s getting married and I presume starting a family. It would be perfect, don’t you think?”
Jeanne smirked. “Perfect according to you, perhaps, but not to Joe, or his bride. They have no interest in it.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “What? I can hardly believe that!”
“It’s true. I’m not sure if it’s his decision or hers. In any event, they don’t want the house.” Jeanne decided it was time to change the topic. “Now then, tell me all about your winter down south.”
* * * * *
June 1996, Falcon Cove
A strong wind after midnight diminished with the sunrise that morning on the northeast coast. Hannah steadied her mug of tea and placed it gingerly on the table next to the orange Adirondack chair on her front bridge. She said hello to a few summer visitors walking up the lane. Despite the blue sky and sunshine that morning, the breeze that remained was easterly, off the water, and therefore quite chilly. Nevertheless, she enjoyed sitting outside in the sun, so she wrapped her heavy jacket around her and opened her crossword puzzle book to the next page. She filled in the first two words and placed the book back in her lap. It lay there as she stared out at the buoy that marked the opening into the harbour.
“Deep in thought?” asked Carrie, as she sat in the yellow chair opposite her mother.
“No,” she said, and shrugged. “Just wondering about our visit to St. John’s next week.”
“I thought you’d look forward to seeing Jeanne again and meeting Joe and Lauren for the first time.”
“I s’pose.”
Carrie was curious about her mother’s reluctance. “You don’t seem enthusiastic. Did someone around here say something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just wondered.” Despite her personal feelings about Jeanne, Carrie tried to remain positive in front of her mother. “I phoned Jeanne last night after you’d gone to bed to tell her we’d be in town on Wednesday and Thursday.” Carrie rested her head and closed her eyes. “She’s invited us to stay at her house.”
“Really? I wasn’t expecting that.” Hannah made an unnecessary crease in the cover of the puzzle book. “What did you tell her?”
“I said we’d appreciate it.” Carrie shifted and pushed back her hair in the wind. “When she left here in the spring, she did suggest that we visit her any time. I thought you’d enjoy it. And she is alone in her house.”
Hannah pulled her jacket together and recalled her conversation with Jeanne in April. “She told me that she and Kurt had been married for twenty years. I wonder what really happened there. It’s so sad that they didn’t stay together.” She sighed. “But then, half the world’s breaking up.”
“These things happen, Mother. Divorces. Besides, I think it’s best for Jeanne to put Kurt out of her mind and move on. After all, he’s married again, and he and his wife, Jaclyn, are quite happy. Jeanne is wasting her life away in bitterness because he left her.”
Over the years, Hannah had come to expect her daughter’s crisp tone. If you could see what was so evident in Jeanne’s eyes when she talked about Kurt, you might think again. If only it were that simple to move on.
“Mother, did Jeanne explain to you how she came to own the house?”
Hannah sat up. “Just that Charles left it to her.”
“The house originally belonged to the Bolands, the family Charles married into.”
“Yes, Virginia’s parents. I remember them.”
“Apparently, in Charles’s will, the house and its contents were left to Emily, the eldest of the two daughters. He must have assumed that Emily and her son would try to sell it, so he left instructions with a man named Quentin Henderson that, in the event the house went on the market, he was to purchase it and put it in Jeanne’s name.”
“Mr. Henderson is Kurt’s lawyer?”
“Yes, and Joe’s good friend. They went to university together,” Carrie explained.
Hannah picked up her pencil and outlined the name of the puzzle book aimlessly. “Charles wanted Jeanne to have the house. I’m not surprised. He loved her dearly.” She looked up at the tea towels flapping on the clothesline beside her and took a deep breath. “It’ll be nice to meet Joe and Lauren,” she said in a half-whisper. “It’s just that I don’t know what we can talk about. He’s an architect, and Lauren’s a lawyer. It’s not like they see me as their grandmother or you as their aunt. They’re very busy people. I don’t want to be a bother.”
Carrie checked the still damp towels and opened the patio door to go inside. “If we were a bother, Jeanne would not have invited us. The wind’s cold, Mother. Don’t sit out here too long.”
Hannah shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked out at two small pans of ice shifting with the tide near the shoreline. Despite what she’d said to Carrie, she was not concerned about how she would get along with her newly found daughter or her grandchildren. Her worry was that Carrie would take her counselling role as a minister too far, especially with Jeanne. Although Hannah had known her first-born daughter for only a few days, she sensed that Jeanne was not entirely comfortable with what had happened in recent months. Hannah curled her book, inserted the pencil inside, and closed her eyes. She expected that the last thing Jeanne wanted was unsolicited advice from Carrie, and the last thing Carrie would do was to keep her opinions to herself. Hannah knew she would end up sitting uncomfortably between the two. Among the many things she had learned in her seventy-eight years of living, Hannah realized that secrets when stirred up create either wonderful or distressing memories. A sudden gust sent a chill down her back. As she picked up her book and headed inside, she worried which one it would be for the family of Charles Sinclair.
CHAPTER 2
Christmas Eve, 1983, St. John’s
Eighteen-year-old Lauren did what her Grandmother Steffensen suggested she do with food she didn’t like when served in company: eat little bits so that others would see that she was eating, and then push the remainder around the plate to make it appear that it had been partially touched. She glanced across the table at her brother’s dish and noticed that he hadn’t touched his dessert. Why would he? It was made of gelatin and it smelled awful. Joe hadn’t even picked up his dessert spoon. Apparently, Mothe
r’s stare means nothing to him.
For Lauren, dinner with the Sinclairs had been miserable, and she longed to go home. This was not how she wanted to spend Christmas Eve. Even the ornaments were drab. Her grandfather had complained throughout the meal about labour unions and politicians. In his view, they couldn’t run a bull’s eye store, let alone a country. Lauren wasn’t sure what a bull’s eye store was, but she assumed it couldn’t be at all difficult to run one. She heard him rant about people whom he said had it easy, who hadn’t worked an honest day in their lives and, yet, were admired by the community for all of their altruistic endeavours. People like her father, Charles had said. When supper finally ended, Lauren escaped to a small room down the hall, wrapped her oversized cherry red cowl neck sweater around her, and curled up in an armchair away from the drafty windows. The place smelled of dust and old wood. She vowed that when she had her own house, she would decorate it in bright colours and have walls of glass. Her Christmas tree would never have fake birds on it. She found two magazines on the shelf, so she sat and flipped through them until it was time to leave.
Joe had not been so willing to ignore his grandfather’s rant. As Charles got up from the table, Joe noticed him retreating to his study to enjoy his usual after-dinner drink. He watched him carefully, seemingly oblivious to Jeanne and Virginia. He knew his mother would be angry at what he was about to do, but he didn’t care. Why, he thought, standing in the dark hallway, staring at the double oak doors that led into the study, why does he get away with saying what he does, for making up lies and speaking them like they are truth? What is it about Charles Sinclair that gives him the right to be so malicious, to say whatever he pleases with no thought to who can be hurt by what he says?
Joe moved toward the door, hesitated, and stared at the crystal and antique brass knobs, and reached for the right one. He placed his hand firmly around it, turned it, and pushed, without knocking. Charles glanced up from his newspaper, his glass of gin and tonic in hand. He peered at his grandson, wondering what was to come.
“I need to speak to you,” Joe began, shaking a little and standing only a few feet from the door.
“What is it?” Charles asked gruffly, annoyed at being interrupted.
“I don’t like what you said tonight at the dinner table about Dad. It’s not true, and you had no right to say it.”
Charles smirked. “And what do you know about Kurt Steffensen, young man, other than what he wants you to know?” He placed his glass on the table next to him, adjusted his heavy woollen vest, and shifted in the chair. “Let me tell you about your father. Everything he owns was handed to him. His grandfather, William, gave Kurt money to start a business and, for the love of heaven, look at what he chose to do with it—publish books for an illiterate population. How’s that for stupidity!”
“What you’re saying isn’t true.”
Charles ignored his comment. “Above all, he had a good home and a wife who served as his perfect hostess, and he walked away from that. I doubt he’s told you the reason for their divorce. I doubt he’s told you about all the other women in his life. Don’t you feel the slightest bit angry at your father for deserting you and your sister?”
“He didn’t desert us. He divorced Mother, but he didn’t desert us.”
Charles waved his hand. “He’s given you and your sister everything you want just to win your favour.”
Joe could feel the anger within him tightening his throat. “I should have known there’s no point in talking to you. You’ve made up your mind. As usual, you’re wrong.”
But Charles would not stop. “Kurt Steffensen doesn’t know the meaning of work, and you’re no better. He’s done a fine job convincing you what he wants you to believe. Even with all the options available to you, including the opportunity to work for me, by the way, you’ve decided to become a glorified construction worker. What an embarrassment to the family! Nothing more . . . than a labourer.”
Suddenly, Charles’s tirade stopped. He seemed to almost choke on his last sentence. He looked away toward the windows, heavily draped to keep out the winter chill. He appeared to be questioning his own words.
Joe stared at his grandfather huddled in the chair. He hesitated, and then turned to leave. At the door, he summoned his courage again and twisted around to half whisper, “Here’s your Christmas present, Charles,” deliberately calling him by name. “The fact that you will never see me or have to speak to me again. I’ll see to that. Never. That’s my gift.” But as he closed the door behind him, he was certain that his grandfather was preoccupied and had not heard him and, for a second, he wondered why.
* * * * *
June 1996
Kurt pulled into the parking lot of an east end golf course shortly before 10:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and met his fellow golfers, Joe, Quentin, and Sandi’s father, Steven. As they walked toward the first tee, Steven turned to his future son-in-law. “Sandi mentioned you’re looking at a house in the west end.”
Joe nodded. “Yes, the Maddox house on Waterford Bridge Road.”
“Nice area. I hope it works out.”
“And good neighbours,” Kurt added with a grin. “Jaclyn and me.” He pulled his driver from his golf bag, pausing as he surveyed the familiar view, the White Hills dividing the city from the waters of the North Atlantic beyond. “Doesn’t get any better than this, gentlemen.” He inhaled deeply, and exhaled. “Standing here, breathing in the fresh air, a clear blue sky overhead,” he remarked as he stretched. “I feel good about this round . . .”
“Just hit the ball, Kurt, there’s a queue behind you,” Quentin quipped, with a smile. Quentin knew how much his friend relished golfing on Sunday mornings.
“Still not keeping score, Joe?” Steven asked.
“No, I reserve my competitive instinct for the squash court.”
While Kurt had spent years perfecting the finer points of their game, Joe’s natural affinity left him exasperated. Typically, at the end of each round of golf, Quentin would pass along Joe’s score to Kurt, who would shake his head in dismay at how easily his son had mastered a skill that he had spent decades trying to perfect.
“Kurt, you mentioned something earlier on the phone about land development and someone who’s interested,” Quentin asked, as he placed his tee in position.
“Just a heads-up. He might want to approach you or Joe. A man by the name of Kevin Gillis came to see me on Friday morning. Nice enough fellow, I s’pose, although Doris’s assessment was that he’s smarmy.”
“We can usually trust her observations,” Quentin commented.
“Indeed. Anyway, he wants my opinion on property development around the island, mostly on the east coast. To be honest, I didn’t look carefully at his proposal, not yet. He says he’s a partner in a company called Winterberry Development that bought up some land a few years ago, and now they’re looking for additional investors. Inns, bed and breakfasts, top market places, according to Gillis. He seemed interested in hiring you, Joe, once I told him who had designed my building. I think he has a special heritage project in mind.”
“As I recall, Winterberry Group is located in Halifax, Kurt,” Steven said. “At least they have an office there.”
“Yes, you’re right. They’re another group looking to make it big here in the midst of the oil development.”
“He didn’t impress you?” Quentin asked.
Kurt shrugged. “He seemed confident about his plans, but I only spent a few minutes with him.”
“That hasn’t stopped you in the past. You usually have a sixth sense about these things.”
“He said he just wants what he called my ‘considered opinion.’ He seems informed about me, which, in itself, made me curious.”
“One might say he was just doing his homework,” Joe commented.
“True. He also wants to interview me, someth
ing about business people in Newfoundland, in light of all the development, I s’pose. He’s a writer in another life, does profiles for a business magazine. I don’t know if I’d invest in his projects, but you’re certainly welcome to pursue the business of designing the inns, Joe. I have his proposal on my desk. I didn’t even bring it home.” He chuckled. “All a part of my strategy to leave work at the office on weekends. Jaclyn thinks it’s better for my health.” Kurt gave a broad smile and stepped back for Joe to putt.
“I’ll let you know if he contacts me,” Joe said, as he sank a six-foot putt and returned his trusty club to the bag, ignoring cold stares.
Kurt reached for his putter and pondered his shot. “Joe, has your mother approached you about taking the Sinclair house? She probably expects you to do so.”
“She can expect all she likes. We have no interest. Sandi doesn’t like old places, and I have too many awful memories of that house.”
“I thought you wanted to build,” Quentin commented, as he stepped back to the edge of the green.
“We’d prefer it, if we can find the right piece of land, but that’s a challenge in the city.”
Kurt watched as Quentin lined up his putt. “Kevin Gillis seems to have a keen interest in the Sinclair house. I’m guessing it’s his main reason for being here.”
“To turn it into an inn?”
“So he says.”
Quentin zipped up his jacket as the breeze stiffened. “Interesting. Jeanne just took possession of it. I’ve no idea what she plans to do, but giving it up to someone she doesn’t know seems unlikely.”
Steven, pleased with his last shot, turned back to Kurt. “That’s a very old homestead. Lindsay and I walked down around that area one evening last week. How old is that house?”
“It was built just after the big fire in 1892.”
“Has it always belonged to the same family?”
All Good Intentions Page 4
