by Gail Bowen
“It’s his decision,” I said. “But I think he should stay in bed. The cold is worse. He has a fever and he’s coughing.”
Delia’s face pinched with worry. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“I think he’s better off just staying in bed until we go to the airport. Sitting in a waiting room filled with sick people doesn’t strike me as a great idea. I’ll call our family doctor as soon as we get back to Regina.”
“But Zack is going to be all right?” Delia said.
“He’s had his flu shot, and he’s strong as an ox. You know that.”
She looked at me hard. “No, I don’t know that. I’m sure you’ve read all the same articles about paraplegia that I’ve read. I’ve worried about Zack’s health from the moment I met him. He always says that when he became part of the Winners’ Circle he felt like a drunk discovering Jesus – reborn. But for me it was like finding a family, and Zack has always been the one I was closest to.”
“You’re very much alike.”
“Both damaged high achievers.”
“I’ve never thought of you as damaged.”
“I present well, and the law saved me – just as it saved Zack. Chris Altieri used to say that for Zack and me the law was redemptive.” Delia’s eyes welled. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Tell Zack I can talk to Nadine’s lawyer alone. And tell him please to take care of himself. I can’t handle another loss.”
Delia paid the bill, and we threaded our way through the laughter at the festively decorated tables. Anyone seeing us together, two middle-aged women, affluent and amiable, would have thought we didn’t have a care in the world.
When I got back to the room, Zack’s breakfast was on its tray uneaten, and he was lying down. I sat beside him on the bed and rubbed his shoulder. “Feeling lousy?” I said.
“Lousy would be an improvement,” he said.
“I told Delia you were going to stay in the room until we left for the airport. I’ll call Alwyn and let her know we’re confined to quarters for the day.”
“No reason for you to stay here,” Zack said. “I’m just going to sleep. You and Alwyn only have a few hours. You were planning to go to church together, weren’t you?”
“Yes, and then back to her house for tea.”
“Well, do that,” he said.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yep. But just in case, say a prayer for me.”
“I always pray for you.”
“Well, keep up the good work, and leave your cell on vibrate.”
It was the third Sunday in Advent and St. Mark’s was full. The recessional hymn was “Let There Be Light,” but the voices of a host of the faithful were unable to stave off the torrent that greeted us when we left the church. Alwyn squinted at the pewter sky. “What do you want to do?”
“Let me call and see how Zack’s doing, and then we can decide.”
Alwyn made a studious effort not to listen to my end of the conversation, but when I rang off, she looked at me inquiringly. “Well?”
“Zack says we should have fun.”
Alwyn opened her umbrella. “In that case, let’s get started.”
Zack’s mockery of Ye Olde Tyme Christmas aside, Port Hope knew how to be merry. The rain sharpened the scent of the evergreen boughs framing the storefronts, and the windows of the antique and specialty shops were tastefully seasonal. It was fun to be with Alwyn again, goofing and gossiping like the undergraduates we had once been.
Alwyn had just finished telling me about the donnybrook at St. Mark’s after the vestry painted the church’s two-hundred-year-old golden oak pews robin’s egg blue when Nadine Perrault called out to us from across the street.
She was coming down the steps of Our Lady of Mercy Church, and her faith had obviously been kicked into high gear, because when she spotted us she ran across the street without checking for oncoming traffic. A black SUV swerved, missing her by inches. Nadine was oblivious. She was wearing the jacket she’d worn the day before, but she hadn’t pulled the hood up, so her hair and face were rain-slicked. She was breathless but radiant.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I’ve had wonderful news. I have to tell someone, and I know you’ve both been concerned about me.” Her laugh was carefree. “I’ve been concerned about me, too, but this morning after mass, everything changed. Father Quines told me that Abby didn’t leave because I failed her. He said she left because she wanted to spare me.”
The day before, when she had knelt on the riverbank, I’d been struck by Nadine’s self-control. Now, drenched by rain, she couldn’t contain her joy and relief. “It wasn’t my fault.” Repeating the comforting words, her voice was soft with wonder. “I was so certain I’d failed her again, but it wasn’t me at all.”
Nadine’s jacket was unzipped. The Celtic ring that had belonged to Abby was hanging from her neck on a chain so fine it was almost invisible. As she talked, her slender fingers found the ring. “I wasn’t planning to go to mass, but the woman from the florist called saying someone had sent me flowers, and I thought since I was in town I might as well go to Our Lady’s.” Her smile was transforming. “Father Quines was very careful not to violate Abby’s trust, but what he told me was enough.”
Nadine gazed at the skies happily. “Look, the rain’s easing off. It’s going to be a pretty day after all.” She was growing calm now. “You must think I’m insane. It’s just – these last weeks – even the weeks before she left, Abby was lost to me. I could see her, but when I tried to talk to her, she didn’t hear me. It was as if she was underwater. Now, it’s almost as if she’s with me again, and I can do what we’d planned to do all along.”
“What had you planned?” I asked.
“To raise Jacob with love – in the house where Abby grew up, by the river that brought her such happiness.” Nadine ran her fingers through her hair. “Thank you for listening. Now, I’d better pick up my flowers.”
As she walked down Walton Street, Nadine’s step was light. “So much for the Seal of the Confessional,” Alwyn said. “Still, I’m glad Father Quines realized that compassion trumps doctrine. Let’s go to my place, and dry off.”
We had our tea in the sunroom, so we could watch the birds visit the feeder. Alwyn’s Earl Grey was hot and strong and her fruitcake was studded with pecans, dates, and candied cherries and pineapple. “Every piece you eat brings a month of happiness in the new year,” she said.
“That’s only if you eat it in the week between Christmas and New Year,” I said, “but this cake doesn’t require justification. I wish Zack were here. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who truly likes Christmas cake.”
“Is that why you married him?”
“No.” I sipped my tea. “I married Zack because I knew if I didn’t, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I wish you two had been able to spend more time together.”
“Next time,” Alwyn said. “Jo, what do you think is going to happen here?”
“Nothing good,” I said. “Zack said he hates family law because somebody decent always gets hurt. When I think about Nadine and the Wainbergs, I feel sick.”
“You think this is going to get ugly?”
“I know it is. Both sides are willing to risk everything to win Jacob, and that means the gloves are off. My husband and Delia are close and when it comes to his job, Zack has never been afraid to get blood on his hands.”
Alwyn shuddered. “When I think about how Hugh and Peggy protected that girl, it’s hard to believe all that love and all those good intentions could end up in such misery.”
“Why do you think they never told Abby that she was adopted?”
Alwyn sipped her tea. “My guess is that they simply wanted to believe she was their own flesh and blood. In retrospect, the charade they played out about how much she was like them is poignant. They were always talking about how they could see one another in her, but she bore no resemblance to either of them. Peggy and Hugh were bo
th strawberry blondes, grey-eyed with high colour. Abby had that tangle of wiry black curls; her skin was pale, like Delia’s, and she had those same piercing blue eyes.”
“Abby’s father doesn’t appear to have made much of a genetic contribution.”
“Who is he?”
“No one knows.”
Alwyn shot me a sharp look. “Including Delia Wainberg?”
“Her story is that she was articling in Ottawa – working crazy hours – and she had a series of casual liaisons.”
“Is she the kind of woman to have casual sex?”
“No,” I said. “She isn’t. Delia’s one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met.” A pair of black-capped chickadees landed on the bird feeder. “Even on a wet day, chickadees seem cheerful,” I said.
“You’d be cheerful too if you’d hidden seeds all over the backyard. My bird books tell me that chickadees can remember literally thousands of hiding places.” Alwyn peered out the window as if to test her observation. “I can’t even remember where I left my glasses. May I warm your cup?”
“No, I should get going.”
“Take your husband some Christmas cake – remember what our grandmothers used to say, ‘Feed a cold; starve a fever.’ ”
“Zack has both, but he’ll appreciate the thought.”
Alwyn sliced and wrapped the cake. Then she reached into her knitting bag, pulled out a DVD and a greeting card, and handed both to me. “The DVD of the memorial service is for Delia, but the card is for Jacob,” she said. “It was the Michaelses’ holiday greeting last year.” The red holiday frame was snowflake-spangled, but the photograph it surrounded was of a family enjoying a summer day: Nadine and Abby, wearing ball caps, shorts, and T-shirts, standing between Hugh and Peggy Michaels. Peggy’s straw hat shaded her face and she was squinting against the smoke curling from her cigarette; Hugh was in his three-piece suit, his small self-mocking grin fixed as firmly as his four-in-hand tie.
Alwyn handed the card to me. “At some point, Jacob might want to know about his mother,” she said.
I thought about Taylor. I dropped the card in my purse. “He will,” I said. “And when the time comes, he’ll be grateful for this. You’re a good soul, Alwyn.”
We embraced and promised to stay in touch, and then I started back to the hotel. When I passed Our Lady of Mercy, I remembered how Nadine’s eyes had shone and how her face, washed clean of guilt and misery, had seemed suddenly young again.
A question flicked at my consciousness. It had to do with perspective.
Zack and Delia were working on the assumption that Abby’s final irrational actions had been driven by a revelation about her life partner. But the comforting words Father Quines offered to Nadine opened another possibility. Perhaps Abby had changed her will not because she believed that Nadine was unfit but because she had stumbled upon a fact that convinced her that Jacob was Delia’s responsibility. That prospect carried a dark coda: whatever Abby discovered had been devastating enough to destroy not only Abby Michaels’s faith in God but in herself.
CHAPTER 9
Howling winds and horizontally blowing snow met our plane when it landed in Regina Sunday night. Noah was there to pick up Delia, but he had parked their car at our house and driven ours to a waiting area outside to minimize the distance Zack had to push his chair. I was grateful for that and, as always, for the fact that we lived so close to the airport.
The kids had shovelled the driveway, so the pavement to the garage was clear. Declan Hunter’s Acura was parked out front; so was Pete’s old beater. When we walked into the kitchen, the phone was ringing, and jazz that was live, loud, and surprisingly solid was soaring in the family room. The dogs heard us and bounded into the kitchen. Pantera leaped on Zack, knocking over his wheelchair. Willie gave me a cursory sniff and slunk away, sulking because I’d abandoned him. In an hour he would forget my betrayal and assume his habitual place by my side. We were home.
Pete helped Zack back into his chair and went out to get our bags, and Zack and I headed to the family room. Taylor was sitting cross-legged on the couch with her sketchbook, Bruce and Benny curled up beside her, and Declan and his trio were wailing. When they spotted us, the music stopped, and Taylor jumped to her feet. “I didn’t hear you,” she said. “I’m sorry. We could have helped bring in your stuff.” She hugged us both and waved towards the musicians. “Declan’s band came over to jam. There was nobody here but Pete, and he didn’t mind.”
Declan put down his guitar and moved close to Taylor. His stance was protective. If she was in trouble with her parents, he was beside her – gold-star behaviour in my books. “I’m sorry if this is a problem,” he said.
Zack grinned. “My only problem is that you’re not inviting me to sit in.”
“Consider yourself in,” Declan said. He gestured towards the trumpet player, an intense young man with a shaved head. “This is Nigel Fleming.”
“I recognize you from the symphony,” Zack said. “Nice to meet you.”
Declan pointed to the drummer. “And this is Natty-bedhead.” Natty greeted us with a lick on the drums and a dazzling smile. “You really want to sit in?” he asked Zack.
“One number,” Zack said.
“Blues in F,” Declan said, picking up his guitar.
Zack moved over to the Steinway. He had slept during most of the flight to Regina. He’d awakened feeling tired, but I could see the life come back into him as he began to play. After six or seven minutes, I could also see the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beading on his forehead. When the music faded, I stepped in.
“That was terrific,” I said. “But the piano player needs to hit the sack. He came home with the flu.”
Surprisingly, Zack didn’t resist. He called out a casual “later” to the band and wheeled towards the hall that led to our bedroom. The boys took this as a cue to call it a day and had just begun packing up their instruments when Declan’s cell rang. He waved as we left, but his face was grave.
Zack was undressing and I was turning down the bed when there was a knock on our bedroom door. Declan and Taylor were there, hands linked.
Our daughter spoke first. “Dad, I know you’re feeling rotten, but we need help. Declan’s mother’s in trouble.”
Declan and Taylor exchanged a quick look. It was clear they had decided beforehand on how they would present this problem, and it was Declan’s turn to take the lead. His tone was matter-of-fact. “My mother thinks she hit someone with her car.” Declan lowered his gaze. “She’s been drinking, so who knows what really happened.”
Zack started rebuttoning his shirt. “Is she at the police station?”
“She says she’s at home.”
“Jesus Christ,” Zack said. “Not a hit-and-run?”
Declan’s laugh was short and derisive. “No, she never does anything that normal. Apparently, my mother brought the man she hit home with her. I guess he’s sitting in the living room. My dad’s in Houston. I was going to call Noah Wainberg. He spends a lot of time with my mother, but Taylor thinks we need you.”
“Taylor’s right,” Zack said, and he looked hard at me. The weather was wretched, he was sick, and our city was full of lawyers who, in that stunning phrase from Deuteronomy, would “circumcise their hearts” to handle a file for Leland Hunter. Zack knew all this, and none of it mattered. He wanted the case.
“At least let me drive you,” I said.
Zack hacked. “Thank you, Ms. Shreve. I could use help tonight. Okay, Declan, why don’t you go through your mother’s story again? We don’t want to be met with any surprises. The Boy Scouts are right about being prepared.”
We were committed. Taylor ran down the hall and returned with Declan’s jacket and her own. Declan took his jacket, but shook his head when Taylor started to put on hers.
“I should be there,” she said.
“No,” Declan said. “You shouldn’t. My mother would never forgive you if you saw her when she was drunk.”
The insight was both mature and poignant. Declan might have appeared to be fortune’s favourite, but being the only child of Leland and Louise Hunter brought its own burdens. Declan touched Taylor’s arm. “I’ll call you,” he said. He turned to Zack. “You know where we live. I’ll meet you there.”
The Hunters’ house was a new and massive structure in a neighbourhood of other new and massive structures. The neighbourhood was a favourite of professionals and executives who were on second or third marriages to much younger women. With their elaborate topiary, lacquered doors, great rooms, and sparkling chandeliers, the houses had all the artful surgery, high gloss, and fragile beauty of their young mistresses. Like them, the houses seemed temporary – not places for the long haul.
The scene we walked in on was surreal. A knapsack and a battered sign with the words HOME FOR CHRISTMAS hand-lettered on cardboard had been tossed on the marble floor in the entranceway. In the great room, a man in an army surplus camouflage jacket, waterproof pants, and steel-toed boots slumped on a loveseat upholstered in silver silk. Louise sat facing him on the twin of the loveseat. Between them was a rectangular glass table that held a bucket of ice and a bottle of Grey Goose. Louise and the man both had drinks in hand. They looked like a couple on the world’s most mismatched blind date.
When we came in, the man bolted up and shot an accusing look at Louise. “That’s Zack Shreve. I’ve seen him on the news. You didn’t say anything about a lawyer. You just said your kid was coming.”
Zack took control. “Relax. Declan happened to be at our home visiting, so my wife and I decided to drop by to see Louise. Just obeying an impulse. Declan, why don’t you sit with your mother’s guest. Mr…?”
“Usher. Paul Usher.” Louise’s visitor was surly but he wasn’t stupid. Zack hadn’t thrown him out. Paul Usher resumed his seat, no longer looking like a man on the defensive. He had sniffed money.
