by Susan Calder
“Are he and Isabelle a couple?” Paula asked.
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s hard to tell.”
If they were, Isabelle would have blabbed it to the whole office. Paula phoned Sam to ask what was keeping him. No reply. She invited Erin to join them for dinner.
“I’d rather stay home alone tonight, me and the dogs. I’m tired of people.”
Paula checked to make sure Habib wasn’t on the stairs. “When I brought up her rent problem, Isabelle said you were jealous of her Stampede partying.”
Erin’s mouth formed a circle of surprise. “Why would Isabelle say that? I’ve always hated the Stampede. You know that, Mom.”
Erin had enjoyed their family visits to the grounds, when she was a child. She’d loved the midway rides, the agricultural barns and animal exhibitions. The year she turned twelve they bought tickets to the rodeo. During the calf roping and wrestling, Erin had cringed in sympathy for the animals. Yearly reports of horses dying killed what little Stampede enthusiasm remained.
“You might not like Isabelle spending money that’s rightfully yours on fun that you don’t believe in,” Paula said.
“Doesn’t that make sense?”
Paula agreed it did. The real issue was that Isabelle owed Erin rent and Isabelle had to learn to cover her basic needs before spending on frivolities.
Habib left for the music event, looking sharp in a felt cowboy hat and jeans. Unlike Isabelle, he hadn’t splurged on cowboy boots or a fancy buckle, calling them a waste for only ten days a year. What a sensible young man. Paula hoped he and Isabelle were together.
With still no appearance by Sam, she checked her e-mail and left messages with her various hail claimants. She reluctantly replied to Alice that she’d take on three newly reported claims. A message chimed in from Sol, ever reliable and prompt. His attached appraisal report estimated repairs at $178,000, with up to $40,000 more for hidden damage. Should the claimant wish to upgrade, the sky was the limit, at the claimant’s expense. He guessed that in today’s market, the property would be worth 1.2 million dollars. His cover note added that he’d drop by tomorrow morning on his way to another job to have a look at Brendan’s paintings, which he’d forgotten to do today in his haste to make his next appointment.
At last, Sam showed up, with apologies. He’d stopped at three hardware stores on the way to buy more tarps. They all were out of stock. Paula suggested they take Brendan Becker up on his offer to give them his uncle’s stockpile. She and Sam left Erin to her dogs and dinner of leftover vegetable lasagna.
“How did I raise two vegetarians?” she asked Sam on the walk to their cars.
“You’ll never convert me. I feel like steak tonight.”
“How about buying some cuts and barbecuing at home?”
“Sounds great.” Sam said. “Where do these Beckers live? We could stop by for those tarps.”
“I was joking about that.”
“There’s rain forecast for later in the week. Even if the stores get more supply, they’ll sell out in minutes.”
The Becker house would be a small detour. Since no Becker had provided an e-mail address, she could deliver copies of the appraisal. She forwarded the estimate to Erin’s e-mail and went back inside to print it on Erin’s printer. This would be an excuse for Sam to see the Becker property, so he’d have an image in mind when she discussed the claim with him, the nonclassified aspects.
A black pickup was parked in front of the Beckers’ house. A mattress wrapped in plastic blocked the licence plate. It looked like Johnny’s truck. Meeting him would be awkward, when Paula hadn’t told Sam yet about Johnny’s proposition last night.
Florence answered her door dressed in a mint green track suit spotted with dust. “You’re the person we’re looking for.” She fixed her gaze on Sam, not Paula. “Brendan needs help carrying down his new bed. I was getting ready to lend a hand, but your arms look stronger than mine and some twenty years younger.”
“Can’t Johnny help?” Paula asked.
“He’s at his friend’s ranch. Didn’t I tell you that this afternoon?”
“The pickup—”
“There’s Brendan.” Florence’s voice rose. “Brendan, this fellow will help with the bed. Who are you, by the way?”
“He’s my … friend.”
Paula wished someone would come up with a satisfactory term for her relationship with Sam. ‘Boyfriend’ was too juvenile; ‘partner’ too businesslike. As for ‘lover,’ shouldn’t that be private? Brendan explained that he’d borrowed the pickup from a neighbour.
Florence motioned Paula away from the men. “Come see what we’ve accomplished.”
Paula was surprised to find the hallway clear, aside from a dolly draped with mover’s straps. “Did you find these in Caspar’s garage?”
“Brendan did.” Florence stopped at the end of the hall. Baby carriages, cribs, playpens and toys had taken over the former clearing in the middle of the living room. Stacks of papers— presumably the ones from the hall—covered the sofa. This looked more like regression than progress.
Florence opened the door to the second bedroom. “It occurred to me, I hate going to the laundromat and here I’ve got a house full of washing machines and dryers. Might as well make use of a pair that works. This will be my utility room.”
The little room that was formerly full of children’s items now housed Johnny’s mattress and clothes along with a harvest gold washer and white dryer along the wall bordering the bathroom.
“These two look like the best of the lot,” Florence said. “I’ve called an electrician and a plumber to install them. If it turns out they’re busted, they can try these others.” Her arm motion swept the appliances left behind in the living room. “We ripped up the bedroom carpet. I can’t decide on whether I’ll stain the wood floor or put in vinyl or tile. I’ll want a large sink for rinsing, an ironing board—”
“It sounds like you’re planning to stay.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Florence cocked her head, her narrow face challenging.
“Your children and nephew might prefer to sell.”
Florence marched through the living room and squeezed past the antique sewing machine that still obstructed the entrance to the kitchen.
Paula followed her. “I’ve brought the appraiser’s estimates. It was quick of him to get it to us this fast.”
“Why is it these days we praise someone for doing a normal day’s work?”
Why can’t I say anything without you snapping? Paula wondered if her mildly critical comment about the potential property sale had set Florence off. “I made copies for the four of you.”
“Leave them on top of those papers on the sofa.”
Cynthia would have yanked the estimates from Paula’s hand to see the amounts right away. Was Florence feigning indifference? Florence poured them each glasses of water.
Paula accepted hers, with thanks and returned to the living room. “Are the papers Caspar’s research for his book?”
“What book?”
“Garner, his friend, told me Caspar planned to write a book about his parents. He hadn’t started the actual writing yet.”
“So that’s what this is.” Florence grabbed the papers off the easy chair and plunked herself down. “I thought he was just interested in history.”
From her pocket, Florence took out a pair of glasses. Paula could barely see Florence’s eyes through the smudges on the lenses.
“Have you been reading them?” Paula asked.
“Someone ought to, don’t you think, if Caspar went to the trouble to print them?”
If Paula were Florence, she wouldn’t be wasting time on tangents like research and utility rooms. “I’ll go see how Sam and Brendan are managing.”
Florence didn’t look up from her reading. Would she seize the appraisal the second Paula left?
Down the hill, Sam and Brendan were manoeuvring the queen-sized mattress through Brendan’s living room to his parents’ form
er bedroom that looked out to the deck. Paula grabbed a corner to help them position the mattress on the box spring.
“Where’s the old bed?” she asked.
“Sam and I dragged it down to the lane for the garbage truck,” Brendan said.
The back bedroom was now stark, by Becker standards: bed, wardrobe, dresser, oak floor that needed only minor refinishing.
“I’m amazed at all the work you’ve done,” Paula said.
Brendan studied the wardrobe. “I still need to clean that out.” He scanned the bare walls. “Maybe put up a painting.”
“You must be looking forward to a real bed, after the van.”
Brendan looked at Sam.
“Didn’t Leah tell you?” Brendan said.
“Leah my daughter? Tell me what?”
Sam took Paula’s hand. He knew something that would make her angry.
Brendan’s gaze darted to the side. “Leah and I have been texting….”
“About business.”
“It got into other things, like her needing a place to stay.”
“Leah’s staying with me.”
“You don’t have a proper bedroom for her.”
“She’s comfortable in the basement.” Paula looked at the new mattress. “Is this for Leah? You said your old bedroom was full of junk. What about your third bedroom?”
“I’m surprisingly used to the van and the smell in here—”
“What smell?” Paula noticed, at most, a faint odour. “You aren’t wearing your face mask.”
“It’s tolerable for short periods, but a whole night—”
“Why didn’t Leah tell me about this?”
“I…I thought she had.”
Paula whirled toward Sam. “Did Leah tell you?”
“I only heard about it from Brendan now, when we were moving the mattresses.” He turned to Brendan. “Should we go up to get the pillows and sheets?”
Typical of Sam to steer away from conflict, except when he felt like riling her up.
“I’m not out to take advantage of Leah, or anything,” Brendan said. “I’ll be asleep in the van when she arrives from work.”
“Tonight?” It would be around two-thirty. “How will she get in if you’re asleep?”
“I’ll leave a key outside. It’s all arranged with her.”
Paula forced herself to calm down. “Leah has lots of friends she’s known longer than you. Why isn’t she moving in with one of them?”
“They all have small apartments. I offered, and seriously, I’m happy in the van, and I couldn’t sleep in here yet on account of the smell. Also, some nocturnal creature might get in through the hole in the back screen.”
“And that’s okay for Leah?”
“She says she doesn’t mind.”
You and your pickiness, Paula wanted to say. Would Brendan’s sensitivities be the saving grace? Those qualities had tended to turn Leah off in the past.
“You’ll need to come in to use the shower, bathroom and kitchen,” Paula said. “And continue your clean up.”
“Other than sleeping, Leah says she’ll be here only a few hours a day.”
“What about after Stampede, in six days?”
“We’ll worry about that then.”
By now, Leah’s shift at the bar was well under way. She’d be busy with customers and not inclined to listen to Paula’s arguments against this move: There you go again, Mom, trying to control my life. She’d talk to Leah later, perhaps tomorrow, here at lunch. It shouldn’t be hard to come up with an excuse to drop by.
Chapter Sixteen
“Johnny was here, at your house?” Sam looked over from the barbecue. “What did he want?”
“On the surface, sex.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up.
“I wonder if there was more behind it,” Paula said.
“Like what?”
“I have no idea how his mind works.”
Sam returned to the sizzling steaks. With the tongs, he shifted the pieces on the grill. “Isn’t he twenty years younger than you?”
“Ten.”
“He sounds younger, from your descriptions. You didn’t let him in?”
“God, no. He accepted my refusal and left.”
“You handled it well.”
“I wished I’d done better, hidden my fear more or got something out of him, like what he wanted besides sex, unless that’s all it was.”
“For guys, it’s usually enough.” Sam grinned.
He flipped the meat over. Did she want him to show some jealousy? Protectiveness? She loved that Sam respected her independence and thought her as capable as any man, but they had slipped into the gender barbecuing roles. Why not insert a twinge of male worry, just enough to convince her he cared? Was that being unfair and irrational?
She got the salad and green beans from the kitchen. Given the coolness of the evening, they’d moved the table from the shaded deck to a sunny spot in the middle of the backyard. No danger of Walter disturbing their peace. Right now, he and her mother would be watching the chuckwagons speed around the Stampede grandstand track.
“Henry still hasn’t heard back from his insurance adjuster,” Sam said.
“Most of them aren’t as good as me.”
“I believe it.” He kissed her cheek and set the plate of steaks on the table. “Henry has an ethical insurance question.”
“About what?”
They settled in chairs across from each other. Paula tasted the red wine, salad, beans and barbecued potatoes.
“You know his tenant in the basement suite?” Sam said. “The aspiring musician? The water wrecked his violin. It’s worth thousands.”
Paula bit into the steak. She judged it perfectly seared. “Let me guess. He doesn’t carry contents insurance.”
“Henry could claim the violin as his own.”
“Not ethically.”
“That’s rigid.”
“Are you and Henry asking for my permission?”
Sam dug his fork into his salad. “Forget I brought it up.”
“How would you feel if I dismissed a matter of architectural ethics, like….” She struggled to think of an example.
“That’s different,” Sam said. “I’ve missed having salad every day. Too lazy to make it for myself.”
“Because architecture is more important?”
He finished crunching the celery and nuts. “If Henry and I sidestep ethics, the building collapses and kills people. If you scrimp, a giant company is out of pocket change.”
She longed to attack his argument. But how could she when these higher stakes were the reason she preferred homicide cases over her usual work? “My answer to Henry is: don’t claim the violin.”
They continued eating in silence punctuated by the sounds of birds chirping in her crab apple tree. For their new landscaping, she had suggested adding a birch and lilacs. Sam was pushing for flower beds that wouldn’t obstruct the morning sun.
“Before I forget,” he said. “I might have to replace Henry in Edmonton this weekend. His wife will kill him if he takes off and sticks her with all their hail mess.”
The Edmonton developer was supposed to break ground next week on a commercial building that Sam and his partner had designed. A historical preservation society and two community groups were raising objections to the neighbourhood impact. Would this qualify as an architecture ethical issue? Sam and Henry came off as the bad guys in the newspaper report. One of them had to attend the public meetings on Saturday.
“Between Henry’s hail damage and this Edmonton business, have you been able to work on the Czech proposal?” she asked.
“I’ve done nothing on it for two days. Anyway, I was in a total rut.”
“Do you think you latched on to the hail as a distraction?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “I was thinking we could turn this trip into a miniholiday with your mother. You and she could shop at the West Edmonton Mall while I get grilled by irate Edmontonia
ns.”
“I’m not sure I can take the time, with all these hail claims in addition to dealing with the Beckers and Leah and Brendan.”
“You could use the distraction.”
She reached for her wine. “You haven’t said how it went with our parents on Sunday. Mum sounded like she got along with your father okay.”
“Better than okay. They spent hours discussing gardening. I smell romance in the air.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Paula said. “Apparently, she called your father from the Stampede to ask if his garden survived the hail. I wonder how she and Walter are making out.”
“Maybe the romance is between them, not her and my dad.”
“I don’t know which would be worse. What did you do while they talked about plants?”
“Watched sports on TV It was the best visit I’ve had with my father in ages.”
When they finished eating and went into the house, Paula reread the note Leah had pinned on the fridge. Mom, Brendan Becker offered to let me stay at his place while I figure things out. He has a spare room he doesn’t need. With my crazy hours, it’s awkward for you and Gran. Thanks for everything. Love, Leah.
“This is my fault,” Paula said. “Why did I criticize Jarrett so much?”
Sam drew her to his chest. “How about we make out?”
“In the kitchen?” The last light of the day poured through the window.
“Give the room a send-off before we tear it up.” Sam nuzzled her ear.
It felt so long since she had been with him, so much had happened. He leaned her into the table, untied her bandana, washing away concerns about her mother, his father, Walter. Thank God the table was sturdy. Leah and Brendan, Erin and her tenants, Erin and Isabelle … She ran her hands down Sam’s back as he kissed her breasts, sucked her nipples. Hail, fraudulent violin claims, the Beckers, Johnny. Why had he searched her out? Pulled that stunt at the parade for her benefit? What did he want from her? Sam lifted her onto the table. She wrapped her legs around his thighs. Johnny? Who cared about him? Who cared about any of it?
* * *
The bedside phone jolted Paula awake.
