by Gail Bowen
We touched glasses and took our first sip. Zack wheeled close to me. “Time to listen to Billie.” He touched Play and the quiet night was filled with Billie Holiday’s warm, intimate, and heartbreakingly wise voice. She was a storyteller, and as she sang about how the strong get more while the weak ones fade, my throat closed. By the time “God Bless the Child” finished, I’d come to a decision.
Zack peered at me carefully. “Still no glow,” he said. “Let’s take in the lights. That will cheer you up.” He pointed to the star the construction crew had hung on the scaffolding of the Racette-Hunter Centre. “I really like that star,” he said. “Let’s come up with some sort of snazzy lighting to mark the R-H Centre when it’s finished. We want to remind everyone – especially the people of North Central – that we’re there.”
“Snazzy lighting is always a crowd pleaser,” I said. “That can be your first official act as mayor.”
“Whoa,” Zack said. “What happened to the dozen reasons why I shouldn’t get into the race?”
“They’re still with us,” I said. “But they’re overridden by the one reason you should. We can’t have kids hurling rocks at strangers’ cars because they know that nothing good will ever happen to them, and we can’t have FAS babies whose lives are over before they’ve begun.”
“And you think we can change that?” Zack said.
“I don’t know. I just know we have to try.”
Zack turned his chair to face me. “You’re one helluva woman, Joanne.”
I leaned down and embraced my husband. “And you’re one helluva man.”
Zack’s lips were cold and so were mine, but a kiss is still a kiss.
When the kiss ended, I straightened. “Let’s listen to Billie Holiday again,” I said. And as Billie Holiday sang the final hopeful verse of “God Bless the Child,” Zack and I joined our gloved hands, looked down at the city together, and dreamed our separate dreams.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to:
Lara Hinchberger, my editor, and her associate Kendra Ward, for giving me the kind of collaborative editing experience writers dream about.
Heather Sangster for her eagle eye.
Ben Bowen-Bell, my seven-year-old grandson, for the cover concept, and Terri Nimmo for making Ben’s concept a reality.
Barbara Weller, LICSW, for reading the manuscript and for giving me expert advice about psychology.
Rick Mitchell, retired Staff Sergeant in Charge of Major Crimes Section, Regina Police Service, for his insights into the lives of the people of North Central.
Darrell Bell for great conversations about art.
Najma Kazmi, M.D., for her sensitivity and professionalism.
Hildy Bowen for sharing her knowledge about the many things I don’t know.
Ted Bowen, my love of forty-four years, for making all things possible.
Finally, thanks to the City of Regina, which has provided me with such rich material over the years. I have always tried to portray our city truthfully, but my novels are fiction and in The Gifted I have envisioned a dream outcome for the un-played (at the time of writing) 2013 Grey Cup. As well, I invented out of whole cloth a mayor and city council who served my narrative purposes. My civic scoundrels bear no resemblance to our real mayor and city council, all of whom are dedicated public servants.
