Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  I left my suitcase in the hotel room, locked the door, and headed out onto the street. The land titles office had always been part of the Bleak Landing post office. I hurried so I would get there before they closed.

  A middle-aged man with a balding head looked up when I pushed open the post office door. He immediately straightened and gave me an appreciative smile.

  “Yes, miss. How can I help you?”

  “Hello. My name is Bridget O’Sullivan.” I nearly choked on the O but knew I had better use it if I wanted to claim family property. “My father died recently and I’m here to inquire about his estate.”

  The man stared at me a moment. “You’re Paddy O’Sullivan’s girl?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be. I’m new in town. Harley Robertson’s the name. I heard tell the man had a daughter, but some say—” He cut himself off. “Well, it doesn’t matter what some say, does it? I can look up the piece of property for you; that’s easy enough. We’ll require legal documentation in order to transfer the title. Do you have the deed?”

  I’d been worried about this. “No, sir.”

  “All right.” Mr. Robertson looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Well, a copy of your father’s will and some government-issued identification should do it.”

  “Will?” I seriously doubted my father had ever made a will. And as for identification, the only piece I’d ever owned in my life was a card that identified me as an employee of Weinberger Textiles. Last time I saw it, it was hanging from its lanyard on a hook inside my closet door, and it had no doubt burned to ashes.

  I slowly shook my head. “I . . . I don’t know if my father ever made a will. Can you give me an example of a proper identification paper?”

  “Birth certificate?”

  I shook my head. “I was born in Ireland. But I grew up here. There will be plenty of people who can vouch for my identity.”

  “Absolutely. There’s a law office just two doors down. If I were you, I’d get some legal advice. Then come back here with two witnesses who can verify that you are who you say you are, and we should be able to get this cleared up.”

  Law office? Bleak Landing has its own lawyer? Maybe things had changed more than I thought.

  “They should be open for another twenty minutes or so.” The man held out his hand to shake mine. “Welcome back to Bleak Landing, Miss O’Sullivan. It will be lovely to have someone of your . . . refinement living among us.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan to stay.” The words flew out before I could think. That admission might not help my cause. “But thank you. I appreciate your assistance, and I’ll return in the morning.” I shook Mr. Robertson’s hand and walked in the direction he’d indicated. Sure enough, a new-looking sign graced the glass of a large window. I was wondering how much legal advice would cost when the words on the sign stopped me in my tracks.

  NILSEN LAW OFFICE

  BRUCE NILSEN, BARRISTER & SOLICITOR

  When I closed my eyes to take a deep breath, I pictured Bruce’s grinning face the night Maxine challenged him at the restaurant. His father had worn a similar expression as he pocketed my mother’s necklace. And I could still hear the playground taunts of “Carrots” and “Woodpecker” ringing in my ears.

  I can’t do this, I thought. But just as I turned on my heel to head back to the hotel, I heard the door of the law office open with the tinkle of a little bell. And I heard a familiar voice.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  In that instant, Maxine’s words replayed in my head: I wouldn’t have had to say anything if you’d stood up for yourself and just talked to the guy! Who knows when or if you’ll ever get another chance?

  I took a deep breath and slowly turned around. There stood Bruce, holding the door open. A look of shock and then recognition registered on his face.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  I swallowed. “Yes, Bruce. It’s me—Bridget.” I was so relieved he remembered me. I figured the act in the restaurant had just been a cover to impress his friends.

  “No. It’s you, the impostor from the restaurant. And still playing at the same game, I see. When did you recover your voice? I thought you didn’t talk. How did you track me down?” He let the door close behind him.

  “Bruce, it’s me. Can we go inside? I have business.” A light snow had begun to fall.

  Bruce looked at me as if trying to decide. Abruptly he opened the door again, and indicated with one hand that I should go through. He followed me inside and the bell tinkled once more as it fell closed behind us. One desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs for clients filled up the room. There was no secretary, no reception area. Not even a vestibule to buffer the cold winter wind.

  Bruce stepped behind his desk. “Have a seat.”

  I did. “As you probably know,” I began, my hands shaking, “my father died recently, and I’ve returned to see about his estate. Unfortunately, I don’t believe he ever made a will, and I don’t have the deed to his property. However, the gentleman at the land titles office suggested I could claim my father’s land based on the fact that you and most of this town know me.”

  “So that’s it.” He sat back in his seat.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wondered what on earth you were up to that night at the Fort Garry—what someone could possibly stand to gain by coming up with such an elaborate story. But now I know. You’re after property that isn’t rightfully yours.”

  “But I—”

  “And furthermore, it never rightfully belonged to Patrick O’Sullivan in the first place. He won it by cheating in a card game. If you were his daughter, you’d know that.”

  I wanted to strangle him.

  “I don’t know how you managed to scrounge up so much information, miss, but I should think the fact that you did makes you a suspect in the disappearance of Bridget O’Sullivan. If I were you, I wouldn’t come near this town.”

  What was he suggesting? I’m sure my mouth hung open, but once again I was at a loss for words.

  “In fact, unless you want to be charged with fraud, you should get on the next train to Winnipeg and never come back. Who are you, really? You could do a lot better job of impersonating Bridget O’Sullivan if you had actually known her. But since she’s probably been dead for five years, I’m guessing you never actually met. How’d you get information about her father’s death or his land?”

  “Bruce!” I finally managed to sputter. “Stop it! You know who I am.”

  “Then prove it.”

  I thought for a minute. “Ralph Neves!” How could he forget the jockey he’d portrayed back in our Grade Eight social studies class when we had to act out a current-events story?

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were Ralph Neves, I played the news reporter, and Victor Harrison was your horse! You must remember. Miss Johansen gave us an A!”

  Bruce stared at me. “Anyone could have told you that story. Take my advice, Miss . . . Whoever-You-Are. Leave town before you get tangled up in something much bigger than you could imagine, with no lawyer to represent you.”

  He walked to the door and held it open, and there was nothing I could do but go.

  Chapter 35

  I sat on my narrow hotel bed, determined not to cry. It was a new day. Someone in this town was sure to recognize me. I thought immediately of Mrs. Harrison. She was such a kind woman, she would probably help whether she could tell who I was or not. But if Victor was running for mayor, he was obviously back to stay. How could I solicit his mother’s assistance and avoid him at the same time? I rinsed out my silk blouse from the day before and hung it to dry while I pondered who else would be sure to know me. Miss Johansen. Was she still the teacher? I continued to weigh my options as I dressed in the second of my two outfits, a fitted emerald-green dress with black collar, cuffs, and belt.

  When I inquired at the hotel desk I was told that Miss Johansen did, indeed, still teach at Bleak Landing School. Smiling confidently, I he
aded in that direction before I remembered that school would still be closed for the Christmas holiday and I wasn’t sure where the teacher lived. Before I’d walked a block, though, I saw a familiar figure approaching: Mrs. Harrison! She hadn’t changed a bit, and I could feel hope rising in my heart at the sight. Next to her walked a tall, well-built man whom I assumed to be her husband. With a jolt, I realized the man was much too young and too striking to be Mr. Harrison. Which could mean only one thing.

  Saints preserve us!

  I could suddenly see why Maxine had found Victor so attractive that day at Union Station.

  Mrs. Harrison was talking animatedly. Victor appeared to be listening intently, nodding his head and keeping his gaze on the path in front of him. He had a limp to his gait that hadn’t been there before, and suddenly I knew why he was home from the war.

  As they stopped at the general store, he looked up in my direction. At first his gaze glanced right off me as he turned to follow his mother into the store. When he stopped to look back again, I could see a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, even from that distance.

  I put up one hand to give a small wave. Victor Harrison might be a scoundrel, but I needed someone—anyone—to vouch for me. He turned and said something to his mother, and the two of them let the door close without entering the store. Mrs. Harrison looked up at her son and back at me. They started to head toward me, and I tried my hardest to smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Harrison,” I said. With a swift glance up at her son, I added, “Victor.” The glance was enough to confirm Maxine’s assessment, although “dreamy” might have been a colossal understatement on her part.

  “Bridget?” Mrs. Harrison studied my face, my hair—gazing at me with such intensity I could only stare at her throat, where a string of pink beads peeked out from beneath her coat.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh! It is you! Oh my dear, look at you!” She raised her hands as if she wanted to place them on my shoulders but lowered them again. “You’re back! You’re . . . you’re beautiful!”

  I could feel heat rising to my face.

  “Bridget, I have a million questions! I got your letter, but I honestly thought we’d never see you again. What brings you back now?”

  Victor had not said a word.

  “I’m glad you know who I am.” As briefly as I could, I explained that I’d decided to try to claim my father’s property but that I held no deed or proof of identity. I told them about the fire and about my job coming to a sudden end. “I’ve already been to see Bruce Nilsen, but he insists I’m an impostor. So I’m soliciting help from anyone who can vouch for me.”

  “Well, of course we will!” Mrs. Harrison gushed. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you get what’s rightfully yours. Won’t we, Vic?”

  I looked up to find Victor staring at me. Would he side with his old pal Bruce? I knew he had recognized me, and now so had his mother. His jaw was set. When I glanced down at his hands, both fists were clenched.

  Finally he spoke. “I don’t know what Bruce is trying to prove, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. Follow me.” He turned on his heel and marched down the street so quickly that his mother and I had to run to keep up.

  He swung open the door to Bruce’s office. Bruce looked up from his desk in surprise, taking in the three of us.

  Victor charged straight for the desk and leaned on it with both fists, his face about twelve inches from Bruce’s. “Bridget O’Sullivan is back in town to settle her father’s estate. What’s this about you not granting her that right?”

  Bruce sat back and scowled. “This impostor managed to fool you, Victor? Are you nuts? You knew that girl better than I did. This is not her.” He looked at me. “I’m surprised you haven’t hightailed it out of here yet, missy.”

  “The man at the land titles office said I needed two people to vouch for me,” I said. “I’ve found them.”

  With a sneer, Bruce mimicked the pitch of my voice. “‘The man at the land titles office’ doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And even if he did, two people from the same family don’t count.”

  Victor looked back at me with a scowl. Was he beginning to doubt my identity, too? He turned back to Bruce.

  “Listen, Mister Fancy-Pants Lawyer,” he said. “I don’t know what you could possibly have to gain by not doing your job here, but sooner or later the truth will come out and it will not go well for you.”

  “On the contrary, Big Mouth. Sooner or later the truth will come out and it will go well for me!”

  Victor’s hands balled up again, and his mother stepped in when she saw Bruce’s do the same. “Boys. Please. This reminds me of when you two used to scuffle in the barnyard over who could run the fastest. Now, Victor, if Bruce truly doesn’t recognize Bridget—and that’s understandable; just look at the gorgeous grown lady she’s become—we’ll simply have to find someone who does. It won’t be that hard. Come along.”

  She took me by the arm and we headed back outside. I wasn’t certain whether Victor was following, but after the bell tinkled, I heard his footsteps behind me.

  “That rat,” Victor said. What’s he up to?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Mrs. Harrison still held on to my arm. “Now, Bridget, you must come home with us and stay as long as you need to. We’ll get this all sorted out. You can share a room with Nancy, now that Peggy’s married and gone. Where are your things?”

  I didn’t know whether to feel relief or angst. Given my rapidly depleting savings, I didn’t dare spend one more night in the hotel. But accepting charity from the likes of Victor Harrison—even if he was inexplicably defending me from Bruce and not the other way around, and no matter how gorgeous he’d become—meant swallowing some awfully distasteful pride. Unfortunately, I was in no position to argue.

  In no time, we’d gathered my few belongings from the hotel and were on our way to the Harrison farm in their pickup truck. This meant driving past my childhood home, and I steeled myself as we approached.

  “Would you like to stop, Bridget?” Mrs. Harrison looked at me kindly.

  I stole a glance at the shanty I’d called home from age seven to fifteen. It seemed even smaller now. Someone had taken the time to board up the windows, but the roof was missing nearly all its shingles. The screen door through which I’d overheard my father bargain for my virginity now hung at an angle by its bottom hinge. Even through a dusting of snow, I could see that Pa’s garden was nothing but tangled weeds. I swallowed hard and shook my head slowly. “Perhaps I’ll walk over later.”

  “Of course, dear. Whenever you’re ready.” We rode in silence a moment. “Your father’s grave has a nice little cross on it. Our church saw to it.”

  When I looked at her in shock, she quickly added, “We have a fund for such things.”

  I was still pondering how Pa would have reacted to the idea of the Protestants buying him a grave marker when we pulled into the Harrisons’ farmyard. It was just as I remembered, right down to the mongrel dog on the front porch—except now, instead of running to greet us, he lay with his chin on his paws, tail thumping on the floorboards.

  Victor and I both reached for my suitcase at the same time.

  “I’ve got it.” He grabbed it and headed for the house. “Hey there, Bingo. Too lazy to get up and say hello, you old thing?”

  The dog noticed me and limped over with an inquiring expression. I held out a hand to pet his nose and felt strangely warmed by his acceptance.

  “Do you remember Bridget, Bingo?” Mrs. Harrison ran a hand over the dog’s back. “I’ll bet he does. Dogs have better memories than a lot of people.”

  We walked into the Harrison kitchen, and the rest of the family greeted me in surprise. I’d have known Victor’s father anywhere. But the sight of his siblings made me realize why it might be difficult for people to recognize me—they had all grown up! If I’d stumbled across them in some other context, I wouldn’t have known them. Nancy, Anna, and Bobby all said hello shyly.
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  Lunch was on the table, and Nancy set an extra place for me. I’d skipped breakfast, and the Norwegian lapskaus, a stew served with a lovely bread they called fjellbrød, was about the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. Over lunch, I told my story again.

  “Miss Johansen will vouch for you, Bridget,” Mr. Harrison said. “Victor, why don’t you drive Bridget over there after lunch and have a chat with your old teacher?”

  Bobby piped up. “Miss Johansen’s visiting her parents for Christmas, Pa. She prob’ly won’t be back until Sunday evening.”

  My heart sank. Sunday seemed a lifetime away.

  “Oh, surely we can find someone else who isn’t in our family.” Mrs. Harrison passed me a plate of cookies. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Bridget. But I’m sure you’re eager to settle your business. Now, who can you think of who knew you well and might still be around? What about some of your old classmates?”

  “There’s Rebecca Olsen.” Anna looked at Victor with a sly grin. I wasn’t sure what the grin was about. I only recalled that Rebecca had always had a thing for Victor but little use for me.

  I thought hard. “Francine Lundarson and Margaret Mikkelsen?”

  Victor shook his head. “Francine moved to Saskatchewan, and I think Margaret joined the service.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. McNally?” I suggested. “I noticed their house was gone, but are they still around? Not that I really saw them all that often. I don’t think they liked Pa much.”

  “They’re still in town.” Victor took a bite of cookie.

  A few more names were tossed around, but it became clear that the O’Sullivans had not been popular in Bleak Landing. My best bet was Miss Johansen.

  After lunch, Victor asked if he could talk to me for a minute. We went and sat in the living room I’d always admired. It was even cozier and prettier than I remembered, with the Christmas tree still standing in the corner, but I felt uncomfortable about just the two of us being in there. I could see his sisters moving around in the kitchen through the open archway.