by Alison Bruce
“And?” I prompted.
“And nothing. I haven’t given him an answer.”
“You aren’t going to dump him, are you?”
“No!”
I stifled a sigh of relief. She had been miserable when she broke up with Tom last summer, even though they hadn’t been together that long.
“I don’t want to lose him,” she said. “I just don’t want to get married—at least I’m not sure I want to risk it again.”
When we were in high school, Paula and I hung out together all the time. As teenage girls are wont to do, we fantasised about our future.
I knew I wanted kids, but I had a hard time envisioning having a husband. A ‘be careful what you wish for’ scenario if I ever saw one. In my fantasies, the father of my children was some rich guy always away on business. I didn’t see myself writing for a living because I pictured myself being independently wealthy.
Paula decided that if she married at all, it would be to someone extremely rich and in precarious health. Otherwise, she’d be too busy to settle down. While she was young, she told us, she’d be a pop music star and take ingénue roles on stage and screen. Later she’d only take choice roles—the kind to get her awards—and she would write, direct, and produce plays and movies.
Becoming a high school English and Drama teacher, and belonging to a theatre group, gave her the opportunity do most of what she wanted to do without the fame and fortune. Her husband had been rich but healthy so she became a wealthy divorcee instead of a wealthy widow. I don’t know if she was too busy to settle down, but she hadn’t been inclined—until now.
“Have you told him you don’t want to lose him?” I asked, thinking maybe he’d be patient, if he knew she loved him.
“Not in so many words.”
“Well then?”
She avoided my gaze by staring into her teacup.
“What if I tell him I love him? What if I say yes to marriage? What if I rearrange my life to accommodate a husband—get used to having him around—then he gets himself killed by some random thug who hates police?”
My goggle-eyed stare was lost on her. She insisted on peering into her cup as if the answers to all life’s problems were contained within.
“What if he doesn’t?”
She finally looked up. Her expression was stricken.
“That might be worse. I’m not an easy person to live with—what if he gets to hate me? What if I learn to hate him?” She threw her hands up in the air. “I’d be better off a spinster like you.”
Her waving arms froze in mid-gesture, then she brought her hands down to cover her mouth. Too late. The words were already out.
I suffered a moment of shock, and then I started to laugh. After a moment of righteous indignation, Paula managed a sheepish smile. A self-professed drama queen, she was sensible enough, unlike my mother, to know when she’d just gone off the deep end.
“Pru, you know I didn’t mean—”
I held up my hand. “I don’t think you can technically call a woman with two children a spinster. Regardless, I’m glad I didn’t marry Seth. We weren’t suited in the long run. Maybe I’m not meant to get married, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to find someone to share my life with—even if it comes with the risk of loss.”
“Well, your mother wants you to marry. She’s on the warpath again, I see.”
I shrugged. “What matters is what we want. Right now, I want more tea.”
Our timing was impeccable. There was nothing left to do.
* * *
The following week I returned to my ritual of hanging out at Starbucks on Wednesdays and Fridays, drinking coffee—usually the latte of the season—and writing. It was a bit freaky at first. After all, that’s where I met the man who died in my living room. On the other hand, that was one of the reasons I was going back to my old habits. Maybe I’d notice something, or someone, that I hadn’t remembered. It was a long shot, but it wasn’t exactly a hardship either.
Walter was happy. He always used to join me for coffee for half an hour every two weeks, just before he went to his barber. He’d been trying to get me out again since I moved back home. My bank manager, who stopped by on her way to work, expressed a similar sentiment, though she only ever stopped by my table for a couple of minutes to say hi. One of the baristas even remembered what I ordered after almost a year away. In fact, I never realized how many people I regularly met there, let alone that so many would remember me well enough to miss me.
Kallas preferred to have coffee at the house, but I saw her on duty when I was out. Starbucks was a favourite coffee shop for younger police officers. The older cops tended to prefer Tim Hortons.
Sometimes I’d get to meet Merrick when he was passing through on his way to or from parts west of Toronto. One cold Wednesday in the last week of November, Rick came across us. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder in private conversation. Merrick was sharing his concerns about Nate.
Merrick, head bent, staring at his interlaced fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “He’s getting restless. He’s going to graduate at the end of May. He hasn’t said anything, but I don’t think he’ll stick around long after that.”
I didn’t know what to say. Nate had told me as much.
“He’s being courted for officer’s training,” Merrick said.
I knew that. I also knew that Nate was giving the offer serious thought. With the experience he’d racked up already, if he traded his corporal’s stripes for a lieutenant’s bar, he could be leading covert missions. The idea scared the hell out of me. I could only imagine how Merrick felt.
I covered Merrick’s clasped hands with one of my own.
“He’s also considering the RCMP,” I pointed out. “He told me he requested an application.”
Merrick’s gaze snapped to my face. I shrugged.
“Someday Boone will be telling you stuff that he isn’t ready to tell me.”
He unlaced his hands and took hold of mine.
“I’m grateful you’re here for him to talk to.”
“Cosy,” said Rick, pulling up a chair and joining us.
I think we were both startled, but I was the only one who showed it. Literally taken aback, I might have flipped my chair over if Merrick hadn’t kept a firm hold of my hand.
“What are you doing in town?” Rick asked Merrick.
“Visiting Prudence.”
This was a departure. Merrick never called me Prudence. It was either Ms. Hartley when he was being professional, or Hartley when he was not.
“What are you doing here?” Merrick asked Rick.
“Living with Prudence.”
I gently disengaged my hand and opened my laptop.
“I need to work, gentlemen.”
“I need to go,” Merrick said. He turned to me and his voice shifted from brisk to a tone bordering on intimate. “I should be back this way tonight. Can we continue this discussion over dinner?”
“Of course.”
I stood with Merrick and gave him my hand, which he clasped in both of his. When he released me, I put my hand on Rick’s shoulder and told him I’d see him at his self-defence class this afternoon. Then I focussed on my computer and pretended they had both left already.
I had almost forgotten the incident by the afternoon. Zeke emailed me to tell me that he had set up another book signing in Ottawa. He apologised about the short notice, but we were taking the place of a much more famous author at a science fiction convention.
This led to calling Mom, booking a night in Belleville, leaving a message for Merrick asking if we could stay at his place, then shooting off an email to Max’s mother because I promised Boone we’d visit his friend next time we were in town. The only thing on my mind when I met Rick in the gym was the logistics of the upcoming trip.
“Let’s start clockwise,” he said, after greeting the class.
We started running, jogging or walking briskly, according to our abilities.
“Audre
y, pick up those feet. Pru, you can go faster than that.”
The class consisted of seven women ranging in age from twenty-three to seventy. I was the slowest.
I quickened my pace.
“Sometimes the only option is running,” he said. “Sometimes it’s run or die. Run!”
I don’t run. My knees don’t like it and my asthma hates it. I had warned Rick of this before. If I could have run, I would have taken martial arts classes earlier.
“Too slow, Pru. I’m going to catch you.”
I dodged, stopped, and jogged the other way. He overshot me and doubled back.
“I can’t run,” I gasped.
“Then you’ll have to fight.”
I was grossly mismatched. He was bigger, stronger, fitter, and more skilled. I was weaker, smaller, but also slippery. I had learned a few dirty tricks from Nate. Not many could be used in a class setting. So, it was just a matter of time before Rick pinned me. Since he was on my chest, this was bad. Through my respiratory distress, I thought of one thing. I dug my nails into his bare arms.
“Hey! What the hell?”
“When they find my body,” I gasped, “your DNA under my fingertips will help convict you.”
The room was silent except for my laboured breathing. Rick helped me to sit up. The other women in the class stared at us in mute horror. They were shocked and appalled. In their eyes, Rick had become a monster.
“Are you all right?” he asked, oblivious to the rest of the group.
I was in better shape than I used to be and I was smart enough to have my inhaler on me. My breathing returned to normal quickly. I was able to turn my attention away from my own troubles to the trouble Rick had just bought.
I gave him my hand and let him pull me up. “Next time, remember my asthma and don’t sit on my chest.” I turned to the class and smiled. “Except for that, he didn’t hurt me.”
Rick squeezed my hand and pulled it behind his back with his other hand. I could feel the warm sticky wetness of blood and knew he was masking the more visible damage I did him.
“Let’s get you some water,” he suggested. “Edith, you lead the warm up exercises while we’re gone.”
Ms. Edith Turner, a seventy-year-old woman who could run circles around me, directed the class to form a line, keeping an arm’s length away from the person next to them.
“Sorry about the scratches,” I said, once we were out of earshot. I wasn’t really.
He had two deep scratches. One on his left arm. One on his right hand.
“It was a good lesson to me and the class.”
He led the way to the office where he asked for the first aid box. I helped him clean and bandage the wounds. A few words to the student employee minding the phones and we had a can of Coke and two cups. Rick split the can between us.
“I’m sorry I lost it,” he said, after his first gulp. “I’ve been wanting to do a demo like that and I was going to get your permission first but . . .”
“This is about Merrick, isn’t it?”
He swallowed the rest of his portion in the second gulp.
“Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
The rest of the class went smoothly. Instead of doing katas—the self-defence equivalent of practicing scales for music—Rick spent the class giving us tips on fighting dirty. “You do whatever you have to, to get away, to survive.” He acted as if our scuffle was planned and, as a result, the rest of the class accepted it as such.
“Don’t worry,” he said, when Gina, the youngest in the class, asked if they all could expect to be attacked by him, “I knew I could get away with it with Pru because she’s my landlady.”
Gina seemed disappointed by the news. Whether it was the fact that I was his landlady, or that he wasn’t going to jump her, I don’t know.
We didn’t talk about it. Rick said he had to study after dinner. I told him that I’d be heading to Ottawa after the kids’ self-defence class, Thursday afternoon. I didn’t tell him that I’d arranged with Merrick to borrow his condo, which might have brought things to a head. Instead, the subject was dropped.
We stopped in Belleville in time for a swim before bedtime and arrived in Ottawa late in the morning. This gave us the afternoon for Hope and Boone to visit their former classmates before I had to check in with the convention organizers.
Saturday morning, I was selling and signing books at the table Zeke got us. The kids had been there, done that too many times to be excited. They rendezvoused with Max and his mother, then took advantage of their comped tickets to check out the latest games. They did show up for my panel, but then went home with Max for an overnight visit.
The next day, Zeke joined me with apologies for leaving me on my own on the busiest day. Sunday was slower and interest in us was minimal. The espionage case was old news and we hadn’t developed a strong fan base yet. Zeke and I mostly hung out and swapped story outlines for Star Trek adventures, role-playing characters. Eventually, I took the opportunity to fish for information. Merrick never told me—or anyone—anything he didn’t have to. Zeke wasn’t as good at keeping secrets.
“Merrick’s been in the Toronto area quite a bit lately,” I mentioned casually. “From the look of his place, he doesn’t get home much.”
Zeke gave an eye roll.
“He’s used some creative methods to make sure he’s not far from you. He’s still worried about your safety.”
“No one else is?”
Zeke chuckled.
“I am—in a general, ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you way,’ but I’m betting that our information broker has cut his losses and moved on.”
I had a feeling the guy was just laying low. I’d dismiss it as paranoia except I got the impression Merrick felt the same way.
“So,” I said, “why don’t I see you in my neck of the woods? You’re partners, right?”
“Yes and no. We work together well so we get partnered often, but he’s working another case that doesn’t require my expertise—drugs not data.”
“Drugs,” I repeated.
Every account of a Mountie being killed, that I could recall, involved drugs. Admittedly, up until the last year I would have only noticed highly publicized cases, but even so.
“Gees, don’t tell Merrick I told you. It’s not a state secret, but if he hasn’t told you himself, he probably doesn’t want to add to your concerns. Anyway, you don’t need to worry.”
“Zeke,” I said, cutting across his verbal backpedalling, “never, ever, ever say that.”
“What?”
“Not to worry. I worry about you guys all the time. It isn’t a big worry, however. You want to make it big, tell me not to worry.”
“Sorry.”
I wouldn’t let Zeke tell me not to worry, but I told myself, over and over. It wasn’t just Merrick. When I got home, there was a message from Rick. Something had come up and he had to go to Toronto. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back. I was hoping his water pipes burst and he had to get a plumber in—then I remembered that he didn’t have a place to live in Toronto any more, since he’d broken up with his girlfriend.
Maybe she wanted him back.
Maybe Metro Police wanted him back.
He was a pain sometimes, but I was used to having him around.
Don’t worry, I told myself, there’s no point. Instead, I called Geoff and asked if he’d talked to Rick lately. I told him about our class episode and that things were a bit strained between us.
“Well, I can’t see Metro calling him in. He’s taken a leave of absence. And he didn’t live in Toronto. He commuted from Acton.”
“Acton?”
“Yeah, he and Lorraine own a house there. Maybe his lawyer is in Toronto. You should ask your ex about it. From what I understand, Rick is pretty tight with his cousin. That’s how he knew you needed a bodyguard.”
Huh? Then aloud I said, “Huh? I thought you talked him into the job.”
“No, he came up with the idea—or yo
ur ex did. Rick thought it would be better if I suggested it—less awkward.”
I sent Seth a text message. “Did you ask Rick to guard me? Just asking.”
Almost immediately, I got a reply. “No. He asked me.” Then a few minutes later, a follow up message came through. “Read about you in paper.”
That made sense, but I was already reporting to Merrick.
After several days, I was at the stage of wanting to do an injury to Rick Court. If he was going to arrange to invade my home, the least he could do is call so I wouldn’t worry about him. His cell phone was off. I had no way to make sure he wasn’t dead in a ditch. For that matter, what if I was dead in a ditch? He wouldn’t know either. Some bodyguard!
Fortunately, the sun was out and the weather mild. It was a perfect day for a walk to the mall and my favourite coffee shop. I texted Nate when I left the house. Unlike some people, he still worried about my safety. I was going to miss him when he returned to Ottawa. Except for a woman who remembered me from one of my bookstore appearances, no one interrupted my writing time. It turned out she was less interested in buying my book as selling her services as a publicist. I took her card and gave her a polite brush-off.
It’s odd, but it was the lack of regulars that finally triggered a memory and cleared up a small mystery. My contact with Seth’s family was limited. In the normal course of events, I might not have met Rick again until the next wedding or funeral. He seemed more familiar because I’d seen him at Starbucks. Not this one, the one on campus. I often met clients there, especially the students needing editorial services. Usually I’d stay to work after the meeting so I could take advantage of the free refill I got with my gold coffee card.
I remember thinking he was Seth’s cousin, but I couldn’t recall his name so I didn’t put myself forward. Besides, the last time we met was under embarrassing circumstances . . . for him. He’d been rather drunk at the time. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded.
He must have been visiting the campus before registering for courses. Or maybe he’d been a part-time student before his sabbatical started. Acton wasn’t that far away from Guelph. It wouldn’t be a long commute for a weekly lecture.
