All Good Intentions

by Trudi Johnson

  “You think I’m blinded to what my father was like,” she said, with a tone that indicated she didn’t appreciate his judgment.

  “I’m suggesting that you have your own singular perspective, that’s all,” he responded, treading lightly. He sat back and thought for a moment. In the past few months, he’d rehearsed over and over what he would say when he finally met a member of the Sinclair family. Finally, here she was, Charles Sinclair’s daughter, sitting across the room from him and in her own home. The awareness was overwhelming and prevented him from focusing. The words that he had rehearsed were lost. Bothered by his inability to articulate his opinion, he chose instead to remain mute, hoping that she would change the conversation. He was relieved when she stood and suggested that they have dinner. He followed her to the dining room, where two places were perfectly laid with Royal Copenhagen dishes. Nothing but the best, he thought as he surveyed the table.

  “I hope this salad is okay,” she said as she sat. She was pleased that he held her chair. “I wasn’t going to confess I made it until you tried it. But since it’s here in front of us, you may as well know.”

  He swallowed his first mouthful of lobster salad and nodded in appreciation. “It’s quite delicious.”

  “Leah did the rest, the lamb and vegetables. I’m not one for cooking. Not that I can’t. I just don’t enjoy it.”

  He slowly reached for his water glass, sipped only a little, and returned it to the table. He laid his fork on the dinner plate, rested his elbows on the edge of the table, and looked at her. Since his arrival that evening, he felt a distance between them, a sense that she was going through the motions of being the perfect hostess. He smiled nervously and broached the question. “You asked me here for dinner. Did you have a specific reason?”

  “As I said earlier, I have something to ask you.”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “Your interest in my father’s house. Let’s start there. Is it strictly business?”

  “It’s a good business venture, yes. What else could it be?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just wondering. And the house that you have Joe working on in Planter’s Bight.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you plan to live there? Joe told me that it’s your home.”

  For a brief moment, Kevin could not help but wonder if Jeanne planned to interrogate all prospective buyers in this manner. Her questioning certainly seemed more than a personal interest. Still, convinced that he had the appropriate answers, he chose to address her questions. “In the summer and possibly when I retire in a few years, at least for part of the year.”

  “As I said, it’s your home.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.“My home. I assumed that Joe would mention that to you. I told him yesterday that I was born in Planter’s Bight. I grew up in Halifax. Three years ago, I found out from a colleague that the property in Planter’s Cove was available. I wanted it, so I purchased it. It was all done through real estate agents, lawyers, and the banks.” He offered to refill her wine glass, but she declined.

  “It was one of several pieces of land that interested you.”

  “My interest in the area is obviously personal. As a partner in Winterberry, I managed to acquire some other properties around the island.”

  “Owned by my father.”

  Kevin stopped and looked at her. Her words, expressed so deliberately and succinctly, set him back. “Yes, they were purchased from Charles Sinclair. I wasn’t part of those transactions at the time; however, I did buy the land in Planter’s Bight from him.”

  Jeanne nodded and looked down at her napkin, neatly laid across her lap. “Still, it seems an odd coincidence that your company purchased properties from my father, and then, three years later, you purchase another piece of property from him for yourself. Now you want to purchase the Sinclair house. It would be obvious to anyone, Kevin, that you have a particular fascination for all things Sinclair. I’d like to know why.”

  Silence filled the dining room. Kevin looked at the meal in front of him. A braised lamb chop drizzled in warm balsamic vinegar, rosemary, and thyme, set in a nest of whipped potato and fresh asparagus. It smelled delicious, but he was reluctant to eat. Her statements sounded more like an accusation than a simple acknowledgement of fact. Instead, he reached for a triangular piece of the multi-grain bread neatly arranged on a bread plate. He knew that, left alone at the table, he could eat all of the bread, lathered with butter, along with the contents of the dinner plate. But he sat uncomfortably, knowing she was waiting for an explanation. Was it time to disclose his real motive? He had promised himself that he wouldn’t do so until the deed to the Sinclair house was in his hands. He struggled to find the right words without giving away too much.

  “There are not many people in Newfoundland, Jeanne, who own properties to the extent that your father did. Fewer who are in a position to develop them. Kurt Steffensen is certainly one. Otherwise, there’s only a small circle of investors. As I told you, I learned about the property in Planter’s Cove from my partners at Winterberry. They know I’m especially interested in the area, although they don’t know why. I don’t need to explain to them or anyone else that I have a sentimental attachment to the place. As for my fascination with all things Sinclair, my plan was simply to have the story of Charles Sinclair central to the article I’m writing, given that he passed away less than a year ago. I consider it timely. End of an era, one might say.” His argument sounded plausible to himself, so he continued. “It’s my work. That’s why I asked you the questions that I have. Not because I want to write some exposé, but because I’d like to understand the man who was Charles Sinclair, his reasons for doing what he did. It’s neither a mystery nor a conspiracy, Jeanne. Just business.”

  His words were spoken without looking at her. But as he paused and dared to fix his gaze on the woman sitting next to him, a woman who unwittingly captivated him, his plan now seemed unimportant, his well-rehearsed speech meaningless. Instead, taking a risk, he reached out to cover his hand over hers and squeeze it gently. “Jeanne, I confess that I came here with the singular focus of finding out about your father and his business acumen. I thought it would make an interesting article, especially if I compared him and his peers to modern-day businessmen. But I was not prepared for what I would find, or, I should say, whom I would find. Now that I’ve met you and gotten to know you a little, my fascination has changed . . . to you.”

  Jeanne felt herself blush, the first time in many years, and looked away, hoping the redness would subside quickly.

  Realizing her discomfort, he rescued her with a question. “You told me that you inherited the Sinclair house in a rather convoluted way from your father. Is it a matter of public record? It sounds intriguing.”

  She reached for her wineglass. “It’s no longer a secret. My biological mother is not Virginia Sinclair. She is Hannah Parsons West. She lives in Falcon Cove on the northeast coast. When she was seventeen, she came to work in service for my family and, while she was here, she had a relationship with my father. I wasn’t supposed to inherit the house because I am not a member of the Boland family. But my father cleverly left money for Quentin to purchase it for me when Emily put it on the market.”

  “I see. Clever indeed. He clearly knew what would happen. Working in service was quite common in those days. Several women in my family found employment in homes. But to have a clandestine relationship with the master of the household, as far as I know, wasn’t that common.” He gave a slight cough. Feeling less anxious, he turned his attention to the meal. The news of Charles’s indiscretion swirled through his mind. He wanted to know more, and he wondered how willing she would be to tell him more. “Their relationship—employer and a young girl—one cannot help but wonder . . .”

  She raised her hand to stop him. “Don’t go there. It was consensual, if that’s what you
’re thinking.”

  He simply nodded, content to leave the issue there. He changed the topic to Falcon Cove and the economy of the region.

  “You have land interests there?”

  Kevin nodded. “I do. But at the moment it’s uncertain because of the question of ownership. Deeds are difficult to find. I understand that’s common on the island.”

  She collected their dinner plates and stood. “Excuse me, I will get dessert and put on some coffee, if you like. Why don’t we move back to the living room?”

  “Yes, of course. And tea would be fine. I know you’re not a coffee drinker.”

  She returned shortly with two parfait dishes placed on small side plates. “I recalled that you like bakeapples. I assume that you can’t get them in many places, so I had Leah make this. It has a light vanilla crust, a cream cheese filling, and of course fresh bakeapples.”

  “It looks delicious. And you’re joining me?” he asked with a grin, recalling her lack of interest in sweets.

  “Just to bring balance to the meal,” she responded.

  The perfect hostess.

  He looked around the living room. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Kurt and I bought it when we got married, and I kept it in the settlement.”

  “You must have some good memories of those times, when your children were younger?”

  “I do. They were good children. Quite well-behaved, most of the time, for children, that is.”

  “Good parenting?”

  “Or is it luck? I don’t know,” she said with a warm smile.

  “I predict that Kurt spent most of his time working. That left the children in your care, did it not? You should feel proud of everything you did for them.”

  Jeanne wanted to believe his words were sincere, so she dismissed the notion that he was patronizing her in an awkward attempt to win her favour. She took a gulp of Earl Grey tea that burned her mouth. “I’m sure they wouldn’t agree. They don’t see me as someone who contributed to their lives.”

  “Their loss.” Kevin sat back comfortably. “Tell me if, you don’t mind, why did Kurt leave you?”

  “In so many words . . .” she sighed. “I didn’t live up to his expectations for a wife and mother.”

  “And according to you?”

  “He didn’t know how to be a proper husband or a father.”

  “Proper? That’s an interesting choice of words. There’s a right and a wrong? Proper and improper?”

  “There is for me,” she replied definitively.

  “To be honest, you sound like you’ve never gotten over it,” he chanced.

  She straightened the tail of her coral shirt-dress. “There’s nothing to get over. Kurt moved on fairly quickly with another woman. Jaclyn Peters. They’ve been married for more than ten years. Kurt could not possibly survive without a woman in his life.” With that, Jeanne turned the conversation to another topic. “Tell me about your plans. You really think there’s a market for a five-star inn in this city?”

  “Certainly, if it’s promoted the right way. The initial cost is high, but it’ll make money. I’ll see to that.”

  From the opposite chair, she studied him carefully. He’s growing old well, she concluded, in that maddening way that some men do. Like Kurt. He appeared to take very good care of himself, and his clothes were meticulously matched. While he apparently did not suffer from a lack of confidence, there was, nevertheless, an aura of loneliness about him. She wondered if his confidence was a performance, to convince the circle in which he walked that he was capable and powerful. And yet, he had a way of making her lower her defence, something she rarely did.

  She shook her mind back to the moment. There was a purpose for bringing him here this evening, and she wouldn’t let him go without an answer. “Did you ever plan to tell me that you are a Newfoundlander and that you bought property from my father?” she asked curtly.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “After I got to know you more.”

  “After you got the house.”

  “I didn’t say that. Besides, I’m telling you now.”

  “Did the property that you bought in Planter’s Bight originally belong to your parents?”

  He nodded. “Yes, generations of the Gillis family, settled by quiet possession back in the 1700s. Your father bought it in the 1950s, and I recently bought it back. It was all done through Jonathan Hamlyn. A colleague once told me that he was advised to consult with Kurt Steffensen in any area of business. That’s why I went to him first.” He sat back, more at ease in their conversation.

  “Advised by whom?”

  “Your father.”

  “Really? That’s a surprise. Father and Kurt were not exactly mutual admirers. They never agreed on business practices or much else.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Yes, I’ve learned that only recently. Nevertheless, they both did very well. I’m looking forward to interviewing Kurt. He’s an interesting man.” Sensing she was uncomfortable hearing about her ex-husband, he hesitated to ask the next question. “I’ll ask you the same question I asked your son. What do you think is Kurt’s secret for his success?”

  “Kurt’s good at reading people, what they want and what they’re thinking. That skill alone has gotten him a long way. He might seem ambivalent when he’s talking with you, but believe me, he’s taking in every word you speak and every nuance of your responses. Don’t ever underestimate him.”

  “Interesting. That was Joe’s response. Thank you for that. Kurt has excellent legal counsel as well. Young Henderson.”

  “Again, don’t let his age put you off. He’s a bright young man. Graduated top of his class from Dalhousie law school and is considered one of the best in the country in contract law despite the fact he’s only been in practice a few years.”

  “You’re impressed with him.”

  “Quentin speaks his mind, sometimes flippantly for most people’s liking, but then, I guess, so do I. We have that in common.” She smiled coyly. “You mentioned that you have a brother, Daniel. Do you spend much time with him?”

  Kevin shook his head. “No. Daniel and his partner, Nicholas, live in St. Catharines, Ontario. I hear from him about once a month.”

  “Is that why? Because he has a partner, a male partner?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. I learned a long time ago to take happiness where you can find it and with whom. Daniel moved away years ago. My parents weren’t happy about it, but it’s fine with me.”

  “This happiness you mentioned, have you ever found it?”

  Kevin laughed and threw his head back. “I thought I did, once, but that’s a story for another time. Happiness doesn’t necessarily require you to be tethered to another person. There are other ways.”

  “Such as buying old homes and turning them into five-star inns?”

  He nodded. “Or gardening.”

  “Point taken,” she responded in amusement, her deep blue eyes sparkling. But then her expression changed. “Kevin, I’d like to ask you a question, and I’d like to get an honest answer.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you met my sister? Emily Sinclair?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Earlier in our conversation you asked about her and why she didn’t inherit the house even though she is the eldest daughter.”

  He nodded slightly.

  “I don’t think you’ve been honest with me, Kevin. I think you know my sister. I have no idea why, but you’ve intentionally kept that piece of information from me.”

  Kevin saw no reason to deny her inquiry. He sighed and moved forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I met Emily once, but only for a few minutes. It was at an inn and restaurant that I own in Wolfville, The Astilbe Inn. She attended dinner
there with members of her book club. I saw a reservation in the name of Sinclair one evening, and it piqued my interest. It’s not a common name in the area. So I looked for her and introduced myself. Later in the evening I heard her say that she was from Newfoundland originally. I thought she might be related to Charles Sinclair, so I asked and she confirmed it. I inquired about the house, whether it had been sold, and she told me that her younger sister had inherited it and it was left to her to decide its fate. That was it. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

  “I see. And the reason you pretended not to know her?”

  “Jeanne, I’m sorry. I simply didn’t declare that I’d met her. It really was no big deal. I didn’t want you to think I was going behind your back to find out about the Sinclair house. I wasn’t sure how much influence your older sister has over your decisions.”

  “Kevin, I assure you that Emily does not tell me what to do, and if she did, I would ignore any directives.”

  “I can see that now. Believe me when I tell you it was nothing conspiratorial. Just the universe putting the house in my path, I believe.”

  “But it does clarify something for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I talked to Emily, she strongly recommended that I sell the house. You made quite an impression.”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow, surprised at the assessment. “You said you don’t take directives from your sister. Is that because you don’t get along?”

  “Emily is almost three years older than me and, despite our shared upbringing, we are very different. Emily’s husband left her for another woman when their son, Gregory, was little. She’s reminded me on numerous occasions that she’s not as jaded about life as I am. To be honest, she really doesn’t know me. Perhaps I don’t know her.”

  “You could change that, if you wanted.”

  “As can you, with Daniel.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a smile. “Is that why you invited me this evening? To ask me about meeting Emily?”

  “That’s one reason.”