All Good Intentions

by Trudi Johnson

  Kevin enjoyed his dessert and reached for the bill, placing his credit card on top of it. “You’ve been very kind to meet with me this evening, Jeanne. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.” He signed the receipt and placed it back in the folder.

  “Thank you. I have as well. At this point I cannot be definitive about my plans for the house. I know you were expecting more.”

  “No, to be honest, sometimes I need to take a break from business. I have such little social life.”

  “How long will you be in the city?”

  “I’m planning to return to Halifax on Sunday. I recall you agreed earlier to show me the Sinclair house. I hope you’re still okay with that. May I call you to set up a time?”

  “If you wish. I have house guests tomorrow and Thursday. Any time after that.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call you on Friday.”

  As Kevin walked with her to her car, he noticed several people studying them along the way. He sensed that he would be the subject of gossip in a special social circle the next day. Although he prided himself in being prepared for every business venture, he knew this one would not be typical. The evening had certainly not been what he expected. A few minutes later, he sat in his car and watched as she slowly left the parking lot. She’s hardly the pathetic, grieving daughter. Not at all. In a rare moment in Kevin’s life, he felt lost.

  * * * * *

  On Wednesday morning, Carrie flipped down the sun visor as she made the sharp turn on the highway just past Gambo to face eastward to St. John’s, three hours away. Her mother, sitting in the passenger seat, was unusually quiet.

  “Are you all right, Mother? Something on your mind?”

  Deep in thought, Hannah was startled by the question. “No, I’m fine.” She ran her hand across the trim on the passenger door. “Just thinking about Jeanne. She was born in June. Her birthday’s next week.”

  “Do you remember much about when she was born?”

  “Some of it. I don’t remember giving birth to her. That’s all a blur. Just like when I had you. I think it’s the way it’s supposed to be. But I do remember how helpful Alva Green was to me. Alva ran the household. I couldn’t have gotten through it without her.” Hannah adjusted her jacket under the seat belt. “Carrie, I wouldn’t mind visiting her in St. John’s, if she’s still alive. She must be up in her eighties by now. The last time we spoke she was living with her daughter and family in Mount Pearl. I know their names.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can track her down while I’m in a meeting tomorrow? Perhaps we should contact Lindsay Martel, Sandi’s Mom, as well. She lives just across the Square from Jeanne. She’s a lovely lady, and I’m sure she’d like to meet you, since Aunt Francis went to school with Lindsay’s mother.” Carrie was glad that the traffic was light that Wednesday morning and equally relieved that her mother was now in a chatty mood. Still, she wondered how far to take the conversation. “How old will Jeanne be on her birthday?”

  “Fifty-nine.”

  “I think you told me once that she was born at home in the Sinclair house. Was Charles there?”

  “Oh my goodness, no,” Hannah responded, with a chuckle. “Men had nothing to do with babies or having babies in those days. When you were born, your father was up in the bay, cutting wood. He didn’t know anything about it until he came home and there you were in the crib.” Hannah laughed. “All he said was ‘well done, Hannah, my dear, a pretty little one she is’.”

  Carrie smiled at the memory of her father, Marshall. “That sounds like Dad. What about Virginia? Was she around when Jeanne was born?”

  “Somewhere in the house, I suppose, but I didn’t see her.”

  “I’m still amazed at how she passed off Jeanne as her own. Didn’t her friends know that she wasn’t expecting?”

  “Carrie, in those days, women like Virginia Sinclair hardly went outside the door, especially if the weather wasn’t agreeable. She could be expecting and no one would ever see her. She simply had to say that she was away for a while and then, shortly after she returned, the baby was born. No one questioned it. She’s not the first, nor was she the last.”

  “Different from today, for sure.”

  “Indeed.” Hannah reached for the bag on the back seat that held a lunch she had made before she left. She passed a homemade chocolate chip cookie to Carrie and kept one for herself.

  “You never did tell me about your conversation with Jeanne on Easter Sunday when she was at the house. What did you talk about all evening while I was at the church?”

  “I asked her about Charles and his illness. That’s all. She told me a little about Virginia and what she was like as a mother. I guess she sees her differently now than when she was growing up. Of course, for the first twenty years or so of her life, she thought Virginia was her mother.”

  “Jeanne did very well for herself.”

  “Yes,” Hannah replied, her head lowered. “Despite her mother.”

  Carrie was not certain whether she meant Virginia or herself. As she pulled into the passing lane on the right, her thoughts returned to Jeanne and her motives. She wondered how she would benefit from coming into their lives. When she glanced at her mother in the passenger seat, she could tell that these questions were not sitting well with her. She thought it was best to let it go, so she changed the subject. “Lunch in Clarenville?” she asked.

  “Whatever you want.”

  * * * * *

  Jeanne welcomed her two visitors early in the afternoon. “I hope the rooms are comfortable for you,” she said, as she showed them two guest rooms at the end of the upstairs hall.

  “It’s lovely, Jeanne. Thank you,” Hannah said quietly, as she looked around the bedroom. The bed with its pale blue cotton sheets, fluffy pillows, and a goose down duvet looked so inviting. Hannah touched the cream linen drapes at the two large windows and noticed the ensuite nearby. She thought of her own mother and what she would make of this home, all for one person to live in.

  A short time later, Jeanne served them tea in the sunroom. “If you’d like something to eat, I can get some crackers and cheese from the kitchen.”

  Carrie leaned forward for her tea. “We brought partridgeberry pie with us. Mind you, the partridgeberries were last year’s, frozen and thawed. But they’re fine for pie. I’ll get some. Would you like a piece of pie, Jeanne?”

  “No, thanks,” Jeanne responded in a tone that suggested the idea of eating any kind of pie was repugnant.

  Carrie returned moments later with a piece of pie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  “By the way, Lauren would like us to come to dinner tomorrow night, if that’s okay,” Jeanne said.

  “That’s very kind of her.” Carrie looked at her mother for approval. She stood near the dining room windows overlooking the spacious back garden. “You have a beautiful garden. Do you do all of it yourself?”

  “I have a young man who mows the lawn and cleans up. He also helps with those big bags of soil. For the life of me, I don’t know why they put soil in bags so large only a Viking could lift. But, otherwise, I plant the flowers and maintain them by myself.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me where you get your flowers? I need something that can withstand the weather in Falcon Cove,” she explained.

  But Jeanne was more preoccupied with Hannah, who was gazing at a photo of Charles next to her on the table. She wondered what was going through her mind.

  Hannah turned back to face Jeanne. “How’s your sister, Emily? Where did you say she lives?”

  “Emily’s fine. She lives in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. She has an old house there. Drafty place, not to my liking.” Jeanne adjusted the cushions on her armchair. “She’s been talking about remodelling it for years, but she never seems to get around to it. Anyway, she says she enjoys it there. Apparently, she has several frie
nds and she’s quite active with her book club and volunteer organizations.”

  “Has she lived there a long time?” Carrie asked.

  “Emily left here to get married when she was twenty. The man she married, or supposedly married, was an American. I only met him once. Winston.”

  “Supposedly married?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes, I assume they were. Emily says they eloped.”

  “My goodness, her mother and father couldn’t have been too happy about that,” Hannah remarked.

  “I think they were so surprised that Emily had a man in her life, they didn’t really care. He didn’t stay around long. Perhaps three years. Then Emily was left raising their son, Gregory, on her own. He lives in Halifax now.”

  Carrie stationed her feet on the ottoman in front of her. “Did your nephew come down for your father’s funeral last August?”

  “Oh yes, Greg was first on hand to inquire about an inheritance.”

  “His inheritance? Why would he think that? Wouldn’t his mother be the one to inherit?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes. But Greg has a strange influence over his mother. He believes that what’s hers is his as well. Emily originally inherited the house and its contents, as you know. There was a large estate to be divided up, and I guess Greg assumed he would benefit.”

  “I’ve seen how inheritance can tear families apart all too often.” Carrie’s assessment irritated Jeanne. “Still, it’s nice that Emily is not far away from her son. Just down the valley. Do they visit each other often?”

  Jeanne shook her head. “No, they prefer to communicate by phone, and then only rarely. In Emily’s view, Gregory tends to shatter her calm,” Jeanne explained in amusement. “To be honest, I believe the sunrise shatters Emily’s calm.”

  Hannah laughed. “Emily sounds like her mother,” she commented, softly. “I suppose life’s been difficult for her, having to raise a son on her own.”

  “So she says. Emily carries the woes of the world on her shoulders.”

  “No doubt she misses her father, like you do.” Carrie tried to interject some sympathy but was not succeeding. She finished her pie and placed the empty plate on the small table next to her. “Losing the house after she thought she had inherited it would be difficult for her as well.” She ignored her mother’s stern look.

  “She hasn’t talked much about it. But then, I haven’t really talked to her much since Christmas. As far as I understand it, Emily had every intention of selling the house. She was not pleased that Father’s money was used to buy it from her and give to me. I spoke to her just recently, and she advised me to sell it as soon as possible. I don’t know why she’s so anxious. Frankly, it’s none of her business what I do with the house.”

  There was a prolonged silence, and Hannah reflected on the curious relationship between Jeanne and Emily. She couldn’t imagine feeling that way about her own sisters, and she began to wonder if things would have been different if Virginia had been Jeanne’s biological mother. She sought to change the subject of conversation. “So, you have a family wedding to look forward to.”

  Jeanne stood to lower the shades to keep out the glaring afternoon sun. “Yes, next August, although I don’t know any of the details.”

  Carrie knew that Jeanne had questioned Lindsay’s role in finding her and her mother. She wondered if Jeanne’s negative feelings toward Lindsay spilled over to her daughter. “Sandi is quite accomplished and she has a lovely family. Do you get along?”

  Jeanne dismissed Carrie’s observation but decided to appear at least to be conciliatory. “I’m doing what I can. I’ve asked about their wedding plans and if there is anything I can do. But no one seems to be forthcoming.”

  “No rush. They have another year. It’s only June,” Carrie commented with a wave of her hand.

  “And weddings, especially big weddings, require planning, Carrie.” Jeanne’s tone sent a clear message to Carrie that she knew nothing of weddings. “I’m hoping they’re going to give that responsibility to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “That seems to be the trend.”

  “Yes, and I know a young woman who has done well as an events planner. She’s the daughter of a friend of mine. Her name is Brittany Kavanagh. If you’re talking to Lindsay or Sandi while you’re here, you might want to mention her name to them. Brittany has exceptional taste.”

  Across the room, Hannah sat in a matching wicker armchair next to a lamp and smoothed the Sinclair red woollen throw that lay across the armrest. With both sisters seated opposite her, she observed that they bore little resemblance to each other. Clearly, they are more like their fathers than like me. She listened as they talked of flowers and Carrie asked Jeanne the intricate details of growing roses, something Carrie knew very little about. She marvelled at how Carrie had honed the fine skill of listening.

  She looked around the spacious sunroom and studied how each item had its place. Even the arrangement of peach-hued day lilies, astilbe, and azaleas blended seamlessly into the quiet hues of light grey and light blue walls. If only life events fit so well. She recalled her mother once telling her, “life happens in fits and starts and we have to make do, Hannah.” She thought back over the past seventy years, of the two men, the only two men in her life, who were so different. All they had in common was that they worked hard and they were Christian, two attributes any woman wanted in a husband in her day. Her hand reached out to touch a delicate lace cloth draping a small round table next to her. She fingered its edges lightly.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Jeanne asked.

  “Yes. I suspect it’s an heirloom.”

  Jeanne pursed her lips in a half-smile. “It was given to me as a wedding gift, Hannah. You might remember Lucinda Boland. She was Virginia’s aunt.”

  “I recall the name, but I can’t place her.”

  “A gracious lady. She was single all her life. Each year she made a trip to England in the fall—a dreadful time to go, in my opinion. But it was her choice. The year that Kurt and I were engaged, she brought me back that cloth. It’s Nottingham lace. I only take it out in the summer because it seems more suited to the season.”

  Carrie stood, unimpressed by lace tablecloths, and groaned as she stretched. “Would anyone like more tea?”

  “Let me get it,” Hannah announced. “You two continue what you’re talking about.” She got up and headed for the kitchen, stopping momentarily to look again at a photo of Charles as a young man, the man she knew.

  * * * * *

  The moment that Kevin walked into Joe’s office, he was impressed with the young architect’s talent. The walls were lined with beautifully framed photos of his designs. He paused to study a collage of photos of a local inn that he recognized from an ad in a recent magazine.

  “Is Joe responsible for this place?” he asked Diana, Joe’s assistant, pointing to the collage.

  “Yes,” she answered proudly, “and Sandi put the picture together using Photoshop. It was a Christmas present.”

  “They’re both very talented,” Kevin observed.

  As he spoke, Joe came around the corner and extended his hand. “Mr. Gillis.”

  “Yes,” Kevin answered, shaking his hand, “please call me Kevin. I was just admiring your work.”

  Kevin followed Joe into an office that was as aesthetically pleasing as his father’s. He noted that the young man appeared friendlier than Kurt, perhaps because Kevin was a potential client. He sat in the first chair and surveyed the contents of the room. “Joe, I’ve been told you have a natural talent for design, and it appears from the photos on the wall in the reception and here that they were not exaggerating.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kevin reached for his case. “I really appreciate your time. Your father indicated that you’re quite busy.”

  “Always, this
time of year. What can I do for you?”

  “As you know, I represent Winterberry Development and we’ve already built some summer cottages in the Planter’s Bight area.” He passed along a file. “If you have a look at the photos, you’ll note that it’s a substantial property, and it’s attracting tourists as we speak. I’m here because I’ve just gotten permission to build on another piece of property that I own in that area. It’s a large private lot, with mature trees. I would like to have a house built like the one that used to be there.” He paused and cleared his throat. “The house is classic saltbox architecture, as you can see.” He passed along a photo.

  “Yes, it is. When was it built?”

  “In the 1870s. Not sure of the exact date, though likely around 1875.”

  “It has the classic Brigus porch, as it’s called.”

  “That’s right. I’d like to have one just like it, with some modifications to the interior to accommodate my needs.”

  “Good architecture creates good interiors,” Joe commented.

  “Indeed. I’d like to talk to you about an approach we might take. I want something that blends in with the environment, and I understand that’s a specialty of yours. It’s located on an elevation, overlooking the harbour and beyond. I want it to face that. I’ve brought along some of my own ideas, as you can see. Perhaps if you are free sometime this week we could take a drive over there to look at the property?”

  Joe glanced at the calendar on his computer. “Are you free on Friday morning, early?”

  “Yes, I am. Whenever you like. I’m staying at the hotel across the street.”

  Joe nodded. “Good. Then we’ll talk details along the way.”

  Kevin hesitated. “Joe, before I leave, do you mind if I ask you something that borders on the personal?”

  “Okay,” he responded hesitantly.

  “The Sinclair house. It was your grandfather’s house.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to hear about its architecture. I assume it was renovated over the years, or, I should say, maintained.”