What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  “Lee told me how close you’ve always been to her and Maisie,” I said. “I know this is devastating for you.”

  “Devastating for us all,” Bette said. “Bobby’s like a zombie. She was finally going to marry him. He’s always been quiet, but after he put the engagement ring on her finger, he couldn’t stop talking about the life they were going to have together.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Anyway, none of it’s going to happen now.”

  “Bette, there are no words to tell Bobby how sorry I am, but please let him know we’re thinking of him.”

  “I will,” she said. “And thank you. Bobby will be all right. He’s like me – the farm will save him. Right now, he’s in the barn working on an old seeder. We haven’t used it for years, but Bobby will take it apart, clean the pieces, put it back together, and the seeder will be like new.”

  For a few moments we were silent, lost in our own thoughts. Then Bette opened the door of her vehicle and handed me the picnic basket. “I didn’t know whether Maisie and Peter were planning to spend the night here or in the city, but I figured wherever they were, they’d have to eat, so I’ve brought a shepherd’s pie over. It’s Maisie’s favourite.”

  I took the basket. “Maisie and Peter will be glad they don’t have to worry about dinner,” I said.

  “Any time,” she said. Bette paused. Clearly there was something else on her mind. “Joanne, do you have any idea what Maisie and Peter’s plans are? I’m not prying. I’m sure that among the neighbours we can handle the chores for as long as necessary, but if Maisie is going to need someone long-term, we should talk about how to find the right person. It’s been years since she lived out here, but I know the community.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” I said.

  “Could you also tell Maisie that the neighbourhood ladies will make the lunch after the funeral. I don’t know where she’s planning to have the service, but Colin played the organ at the United Church every Sunday for thirty years, and after … after he was gone, Lee took over.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as they make a decision,” I said.

  Esme’s bark was growing hoarse, but she didn’t quit. “Lee’s dog is really suffering,” I said.

  Bette was matter-of-fact. “Purebreds don’t make good farm dogs,” she said. “They’re too high-strung.”

  “Esme misses Lee,” I said. “But we’re doing the best we can.”

  “That’s all any of us can do,” Bette said. She reached forward to turn the key in the ignition and winced. “Sciatica,” she said.

  “I understand that’s very painful.”

  “There’s worse pain,” she said tightly.

  As Bette turned her truck and headed for the road, Esme was still howling. Before going back inside, I bent and rubbed her head. “We’re going to have to work on that barking,” I said.

  After I put the casserole and salad in the refrigerator, I took the kettle off the stove, warmed the pot, and made tea, and then Esme and I wandered through the house. The living room had the air of a place unchanged for generations. The furniture was all solidly built – sturdy but plain; the hardwood floors gleamed and the deep red geraniums on the windowsills were flourishing. Two pianos faced each other across the room. When she had taken us on a tour of the house, Lee sat down and played a few minutes of one of the Brandenburgs.

  Zack, who played by ear, was dazzled. “I wish I could do that,” he said.

  Lee’s smile was impish. “Take lessons from the time you’re six, and practise every day with Colin Brokenshire sitting across the room from you, and you’ll nail it.”

  “Did you rebel?” I said.

  “No. I loved the piano. I’ve always loved everything about this place, but Maisie wanted more. If you push her, she will admit that the discipline of all that practising helped her in law school and sports. But the piano was never her thing – just as this farm was never her thing.”

  “So you both ended up where you belonged,” I’d said.

  “We did,” Lee agreed.

  Lee’s office at the front of the house was a hybrid of present and past. The computer, printer, scanner, and shredder were new, but Lee’s desk, her chair, the filing cabinets, and the bookcases were made of oak that glowed with the patina of wood that for generations has been lovingly polished. Two shelves of the bookcase nearest the desk were devoted to leather daybooks. On the desk, there were two silver-framed photographs: one of Colin Brokenshire flanked by Lee and Maisie. The twins appeared to be in their late teens; Colin was greying and his complexion was weathered, but his eyes were alive with intelligence, and his smile was a young man’s smile, open and full of hope. The second photo was of three adolescent boys: Colin, Mansell Donnelly, and George Sawchuk. They were clowning for the camera and clearly having the time of their lives.

  When Esme started barking again, I went back to the kitchen. Peter and Maisie were walking in from the barn. I arranged the tea things and some of Bette’s cookies on a tray.

  “My grandmother would say you must have smelled the tea,” I said.

  “Thanks for staying around, Jo,” Maisie said. “It would have been hard coming into an empty house.”

  “I’m glad I was here. Bette Stevens came by with a shepherd’s pie and salad for your dinner. I put everything in the fridge.”

  “Shepherd’s pie,” Maisie said, pulling out one of the chrome chairs. “It’s great to have neighbours.”

  “It is,” I agreed. When the tea had steeped, I poured. Maisie held out the plate of gingersnaps to Peter and me, and then took one herself. “So did Bette say anything about Bobby?”

  “Not much, but she’s optimistic. She says the farm will save him.”

  Maisie eyes were thoughtful. “She could be right. This farm saved Lee after Colin died.” She took a breath. “Jo, Pete and I have been talking pretty well non-stop about what we’ll do with the farm. We’ve decided to move out here permanently.”

  Peter reached across the table and laced his fingers through his wife’s. “We want to carry on Lee’s work,” he said. “It’s the right time of year to put in a garden and get the orchards in shape and we’re going to re-establish the heritage poultry-breeding program. There’s a lot to be done. The farmhouse will need renovating. The house isn’t accessible and we want to open it up, so there’s more room and more light.”

  “That’s a major change, of course, for both of you,” I said. “Are you sure this is the right decision?”

  “It’s the only decision,” Maisie said. “Jo, I can’t lose this farm – it would be like losing Lee all over again. As long as I can sleep in this house, and walk on this land, Lee will be with me. If we sell the farm, the buildings will be torn down, the orchards will be ripped out, and the fields will be ploughed under. Everything Colin and Lee cherished will be lost.”

  “We’re not going to allow that to happen, Mum,” Peter said. When I heard the resolve in his voice, I knew the discussion was over.

  “Then let’s do what needs to be done,” I said. “Where do we start?”

  Peter gave Maisie a searching look, and when she smiled and nodded, he cleared his throat. “How about with some good news?” he said. “Maisie and I are expecting twin boys at the end of September.”

  My eyes welled. “Twins at the end of September – that’s only four months! And you’re hardly showing. That’s amazing. And you’re feeling well?”

  “Very well. Everything was perfect until …”

  “I know,” I said. “But, Maisie, you’re not alone. Everyone in our family is ready to help.”

  Maisie gave me a small smile. “Are you ready to help now because I’m having difficulty staying focused on the idea of a service for Lee. All I’ve come up with is a book called The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. Have you heard of it?”

  “I read it a few years ago,” I said. “I was impressed.”

  “Lee certainly was. Wait till you see her copy.” Maisie disappeared down the hall and returned wi
th a dog-eared, water-swollen book. “Lee backpacked across Tibet with this,” she said. “After Colin died, she and I read parts of it together. One sentence keeps coming back to me.” Maisie opened the book and read, “ ‘Death is a mirror in which the entire meaning of life is reflected.’ ” Her gaze was steady. “Lee lived a meaningful life. Her death doesn’t reflect that. But her funeral can. Jo, I want people to understand the entire meaning of Lee’s life. I want them to leave the church committed to making her vision a reality.”

  “We’ll start planning tomorrow morning,” I said. “In the meantime, try to eat some of Bette’s shepherd’s pie and get some sleep.”

  “I am tired,” Maisie said.

  “Curl up on the couch,” Peter said. “I’ll walk Mum to her car, then I’ll come back and get lunch started.”

  When Esme followed me, Peter shot me a curious glance. “It’s weird how Esme has latched on to you.”

  “She probably smells Pantera on me,” I said.

  “She probably smells those dried liver treats you always carry in your pocket,” Peter said.

  “Those treats have kept Zack panting after me for three years,” I said. When Peter laughed, I put my arm around his waist. “Esme seems to have decided that she belongs with us and that’s fine with me. I miss Willie, and you and Maisie don’t need to deal with a heartsick dog. You’ve had four major life changes in the past few days.”

  “Three,” Peter said. “The babies were started well before the wedding.”

  I hugged him. “Something is lost and something is gained. That seems to be the pattern.”

  Peter lowered his eyes. “That doesn’t make the losing any easier,” he said.

  At five o’clock, Zack called to say he had three interviews with media scheduled, a shitload of messages to return, and he was ready to snap hubcaps with his bare teeth.

  “Sounds like you’re at the end of your tether,” I said. “Declan and Taylor have plans for the evening, and I don’t feel like cooking. Why don’t I meet you at the Sahara Club for a full-bodied red, a sizzling porterhouse, and some cool jazz?”

  “You’re on,” he said. “I’ll be there at seven.”

  The Sahara Club is on Dewdney Avenue, six blocks from our condo in a strip called “nightclub row.” Most of the clubs lost their glitter decades ago, but in summer they keep their doors open, and while the bands inside blare, kids too young or too broke to be inside a club dance on the sidewalk, pleasantly buzzed on weed, music, and the joy of life in the Warehouse District. The area was sketchy, but if the weather was pretty, Zack and I often wandered over there in the evening. I’d always savoured nightclub row’s rakish charm, but since the previous September when a former client of Zack’s died and left us, among other holdings, the building that housed the Sahara Club, I’d viewed the area from a new perspective. Once Milo agreed to stay in town after the election, I suggested he move into the spacious, comfortable apartment available over the Sahara Club, and he’d been living on Dewdney ever since. As I walked past the lot reserved for restaurant guests and the building’s single tenant, I checked to see if his motorcycle was parked there. It wasn’t.

  The Sahara Club is an anomaly. For one thing, it is not a club. It’s a steakhouse and piano bar, and in a down-at-the-heels neighbourhood, it is as lovingly maintained as the overripe beauty of an aging showgirl. The steps are always swept or shovelled. The window boxes are always seasonally celebratory: tulips in spring; geraniums and ivy in summer; chrysanthemums in fall; and fragrant evergreen boughs in winter. The black paint on the club’s front door is always glossy, and, whatever the season, the legs of the neon camels marching on the sign over the entrance move with the precision of the Rockettes. The website description of the Sahara’s dining experience nailed it: “The best steaks, big wines, all the while you are surrounded by a surplus of polished oak and red velour booths.”

  All in all, the Sahara Club was the perfect place to recuperate from a tension-filled day. Zack grinned and began wheeling towards me as soon as he came through the door. “Life just got better,” he said and he moved in close.

  When the server came to take our drink order, I turned to Zack. “I walked over, so I’m the designated driver tonight. Go crazy.”

  “In that case I’ll have a very dry double martini,” he said. “And thank you.”

  “Water’s fine for me,” I said. “I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.”

  After the server left, Zack took my hand. “Tell me something good.”

  “How’s this for good,” I said. “Peter and Maisie are expecting twin boys at the end of September.”

  Zack smiled widely. “That is the best news.” His brows knit, and he leaned across the table. “I’m no expert, but if Maisie’s five months pregnant with twins, shouldn’t she be showing?”

  “Women carry differently,” I said. “Maisie’s tall, and she’s in fantastic shape, but those little boys will make their presence known soon enough. What matters is that everybody’s fine. And, Zack, we have to do everything we can to make sure it stays that way. There are going to be many changes in Peter and Maisie’s lives. They’ve decided to move to the farm permanently and carry on Lee’s work.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big decision.”

  “It is, but they’re convinced it’s the right one.”

  “I can’t imagine Maisie giving up law,” he said. “She loves the courtroom.”

  “My guess is that Maisie will stay at Falconer Shreve. Renovations aren’t cheap, and she and Pete will need a source of income.”

  “We’re in a position to help them.”

  “We are,” I said. “But Peter and Maisie are well-educated, independent people and they’re proud. We can help, but we’ll have to take our cue from them.”

  “I can drive a tractor,” Zack said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, I had a client who was a farmer and a paraplegic. After his trial was over, we went out to his farm and he showed me how to drive his tractor. The tricky part was transferring my body from the chair to the tractor cab, but once I was behind the wheel, I was king of the world. The tractor had hand controls, so I could control the clutch and gas. I drove around for about an hour. Fresh air. Sunshine. Freedom.” Zack stretched his arms widely, embracing his agrarian future. “Give me the simple life,” he said.

  “Maybe we should cancel that double very dry martini,” I said. “You’re already euphoric.”

  Zack craned his neck so he could see the bar. “Too late,” he said. “It’s already on its way.”

  It didn’t take us long to decide on our order. As always I steered Zack away from the thirty-two-ounce Kobe Tomahawk he longs for and we chose the Chateaubriand for two.

  Despite the maelstrom that surrounded our lives, Zack and I managed to stick to our rule about keeping dinner conversation light. Zack genuinely loved children, and the prospect of being the grandfather of two baby boys thrilled him. He was also pleased that Peter and Maisie’s renovations included making the main floor of the house wholly accessible. And experienced tractor driver that he was, the idea of playing a role in a working farm intrigued him. We took time with our meal, and we both ordered dessert. It was close to nine o’clock when we decided to leave the restaurant.

  The sun had set, and I felt the frisson of anxiety I always felt when Zack and I were in our neighbourhood after dark. But the parking space was brightly lit, so after a quick check of the area around our car, I slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Don’t put on your seatbelt yet,” Zack said. “I’m in the mood for love.”

  “We’ll be home in five minutes.”

  “Just one kiss,” Zack said. “But we’ll make it a good one.” As soon as he was in the car, Zack drew me to him. “We need more evenings like this,” he said. “No tensions. No complications.”

  “The simple life,” I said. “You on your tractor, and me waiting at the door with your martini at the end of the day.”


  Zack shrugged. “Sounds good to me,” he said, and then he zeroed in for another kiss.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Thursday is liver lovers’ day at the City Hall cafeteria. Since he’d become mayor, Zack and I had made Thursday lunches at the cafeteria part of our weekly routine. Filling our plates, then sitting down at a big table and waiting to see who joined us was always an adventure. Shoptalk was encouraged, and we were both learning a great deal about what worked and what could be improved in the various city departments. The impromptu lunches should have failed for a dozen reasons, but despite the odds, they succeeded. People were eager to talk about their jobs; colleagues had a way of making certain no one monopolized the conversation and that the table talk didn’t turn into a grievance session. Zack and I enjoyed the company and we both loved liver.

  When Zack called as soon as he got to the office to say he was swamped and lunch was out, I phoned Peggy Kreviazuk and asked her to join me at City Hall at noon. She was quick to accept. “I’m available and I’m gardening all morning, so I’ll be hungry.” She paused. “Joanne, could I invite George Sawchuk to join us? He called me this morning and he’s down in the dumps about Lee.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Colin Brokenshire, Mansell Donnelly, and George were close when they were boys. Lee had a picture of the three of them on her desk. George must have known her from the time she was little. It may help him to be with people who cared about her.”

  As soon as I said goodbye to Peggy, Peter called to ask if I could come out to the farm to talk about Lee’s service. I was free until lunchtime, so three-quarters of an hour later, I was sitting in the farmhouse kitchen with Maisie, Peter, and Chesney Langen, the minister from Wesley United Church, drinking lemonade and talking about the funeral.

  Chesney was a diminutive, middle-aged woman with hair the colour of dark honey and the keen intelligence and clear, carrying voice of a person to be reckoned with. Maisie had told me that when Chesney was chosen as circuit minister for Wesley United and three other rural congregations, she and Lee became friends. Like Lee, Chesney was fascinated by the nature of faith, and she and Lee spent hours mulling over the similarities and differences in the world’s religions.