What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  I leaned forward. “Michael, I have an idea about the hearts,” I said. “There’s evidence suggesting that Bette Stevens might have acted with Slater to abduct Bridie. Bette was with Slater shortly before he was killed, and she has a farm not far from the first house where Bridie was kept. Most significantly for Bridie, Bette had a pair of western boots with a pattern of hearts tooled into the leather.”

  I could see the hope in Michael’s eyes. “Have the police arrested her?”

  “She’s dead. When the RCMP went to Bette Stevens’s farm to question her about the deaths of Colin Brokenshire and Lee Crawford, they discovered her body by a pond near her house. She’d shot herself in the base of her skull.”

  “So she’s no longer a threat to Bridie.”

  “No,” I said. “But Bridie doesn’t know that. How do you want to handle this?”

  “We have to take it slow, let Bridie be our guide. But you could help with this, Joanne.”

  As Michael explained to me how to use drawing to help Bridie talk about the boots, he spoke carefully and with sensitivity. He was as invested as any father could be in his daughter’s well-being, and for the first time I understood why Brock had cared about Michael Goetz for all these years. When Michael finished explaining how we might coax Bridie out of her shell, I said, “When do you want to do this?”

  “Let’s do it now. Zenaya wants to go into town this afternoon and I promised Bridie we’d go down to the beach. When Bridie and I start out, why don’t you and Zack just fall in with us?”

  At first Bridie held tightly to Michael’s hand, but when the dogs rushed for the lake, Bridie ran after them.

  “She seems to be doing better,” I said.

  Michael sighed. “That’s why it’s so painful to watch her. She appears to be improving, then the memory of what happened overcomes her and she starts drawing the hearts. When she’s awake, she never gets through an hour without the ritual.”

  That afternoon, Bridie lasted twenty-five minutes before the need for the ritual overtook her. As she threw sticks into the lake for Pantera and Esme, and watched the dogs retrieve them, she seemed carefree. Then suddenly she dropped to her knees on the sand, picked up a stick, and, face knotted in memory, began drawing the hearts.

  Heeding Michael’s instructions, I knelt beside her and watched for a few minutes, and then I took the stick from her. “I wonder if this is where you saw the hearts,” I said gently, and I drew a western boot around them. Bridie’s intake of breath was sharp. For a time, she simply stared at the boot, her pale complexion mottled with rage. Then she seized the stick from me and began stabbing the boot.

  “That’s good,” I said. “You’re making the boots go away. They won’t come back. Not ever. And the person wearing them will never hurt you again.” When Bridie turned to look into my face, her lips were white with terror. I took her hand and guided it over the wet sand until the image of the boots was obliterated. “You made the boots go away,” I said. “They’re gone for good. They can’t come back again and neither can the person who was wearing them.”

  Bridie seemed numb, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. She was trembling violently, but finally she spoke. “Promise?” she said.

  “Promise,” I said. Her small body was racked with sobbing. Michael drew her to him and held her until she had cried herself out. Zack handed Michael a tissue and Michael wiped Bridie’s face clean. “Do you want to go back to the cottage now?”

  Bridie nodded. “Yes,” she said. “But not alone. I don’t want to be alone ever again.”

  Michael carried Bridie up the hill in his arms. Zack and I watched until they were out of sight, and then Zack took out his phone and called Debbie. “Bridie was able to identify Bette’s boots,” he said. “So I guess this is finally over.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  As it always does, life went on. On July 1, Falconer Shreve held its annual Canada Day party. The first Canada Day party that Zack, Blake Falconer, Christopher Altieri, Delia Wainberg, and Kevin Hynd hosted at Lawyers’ Bay had been a celebration of their new law partnership. It had been a BYOB-and-burgers beach bash for old law school friends. Guests were asked to provide their own mosquito spray and sleeping bags. Twenty-eight years later, the affair was bigger, slicker, and more corporate. There were still friends on the invitation list, but the party had become a way to say thank you to Falconer Shreve staff and clients. It was always a lot of fun, but the event was now catered, the bar was professionally tended, and the fireworks display was in the hands of experts.

  The partners in the firm were still actively involved in the festivities. They usually double-teamed with the firm’s associates to drive the boats for waterskiers. That year Zack was able to put his position to good use.

  Mansell had moved to the Stevens’s farm the day Bette died, and it was clear the move was permanent. Quinn had made it known that she and Mansell were divorcing, and Mansell had resigned from his seat on city council and thrown himself back into farming. The life he had chosen was hard and solitary. Mansell worked fourteen-hour days and saw no one but Bobby. Since Bette’s death, Bobby, too, had avoided the company of others. His circle was limited to his uncle and to Maisie and Peter. When Zack told Bobby he could use some help with the boats for the Canada Day waterskiers, the ruse was transparent, but Bobby embraced it, and on July 1 both he and his uncle were on deck.

  The sun glinting off the lake, the scent of pines and bonfires, and the need to focus on something other than the tragedy seemed to be tonic for Bobby and Mansell, and as the afternoon passed, they appeared to be enjoying themselves. When there was a break in the waterskiing action, Bobby parked his speedboat parallel to the dock, and I brought him a Coke. He drank half the can in a gulp.

  “You look as if you’re having fun out there,” I said.

  “I’m doing my best,” Bobby said.

  “That’s all any of us can do,” I said.

  Down the beach, Warren and Annie were admiring the sandcastle Madeleine and Lena had painstakingly constructed. Our granddaughters were wearing matching red T-shirts and white shorts. The Webers, too, were decked out in patriotic red and white. They had brought good news to the party. Simon was doing well. Dr. Fidelak’s combination of talk and drug therapy was producing promising results. Simon had become serious about photography again, and he and Michael Goetz were talking about adding portraits Simon would take of at-risk youth to Michael’s upcoming book.

  Beside me, Bobby shifted his position so that he was looking out at the lake. For a long while, he was silent. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned to face me. “My mum always drew faces on the boiled eggs I had for breakfast,” he said softly. “Sad faces if she knew I was having a hard time; big smiles if she knew I had something good on the horizon. When I got hit with a puck and ended up with two black eyes, she drew black eyes on my breakfast eggs until the bruising went away. She never missed a school event or a hockey practise. She was always in the front row at my games.” He struggled to finish his thought. “She was a good mother.”

  “You’re proof of that.” I said. “Bette raised a fine young man.”

  “Does that make up for what she did?” Bobby’s gaze was piercing. “You don’t need to answer that,” he said, and the hopelessness in his voice brought tears to my eyes.

  Virginia Woolf wrote of moments so powerful that, even if the events themselves are inconsequential, the insights they bring are unforgettable. The anguish in Bobby’s face as he fought to preserve the image of the mother he had known was heartbreaking. As he pulled away from the dock and turned the speedboat towards a young skier waiting impatiently on the beach, I knew Bobby’s wordless affirmation of the power of love would stay with me forever.

  Two more such moments, unimportant in themselves, came that evening. Brock and Derek watched the fireworks on the bay with their arms around each other. As the last rocket sputtered into darkness, Brock drew Derek close for a kiss. The men had been so intent on each othe
r that they hadn’t noticed Margot and the children approaching. As soon as Lexi spotted Brock and Derek, she called out to them. When they heard Lexi’s chiming little girl voice, the couple sprang apart.

  Margot was exasperated. “For godsakes,” she said. “You’re not teenagers. Finish what you started. It’s good for Lexi and Kai to see you loving each other.” Her laugh was self-mocking. “Not so great for me to see, but definitely good for the kids.”

  Derek and Brock communicated wordlessly, the way caring couples often do, then reached out to Margot and the children. Their first pass at an impromptu family hug was a train wreck – Derek and Margot bumped heads, and when Margot uttered a choice expletive, Lexi chortled and Kai got caught in the squeeze and hollered. But they tried again. The adults stepped apart. Brock scooped up Lexi; Derek took Kai in his arms; and this time, amid laughter and hissed instructions, they reconfigured and created a passable family hug.

  Zack had gone off to talk to Warren and Annie Weber and our granddaughters, so he missed the action, but Milo and I caught it, and he was surprisingly moved by what we’d seen. “That was stellar,” he said. “Actually, this entire day has been stellar. Madeleine and Lena both got up on their water skis first try. You taught me how to make s’mores – which incidentally are really gross. Those ski jumps you have are wicked, and Pete’s team won the beach volleyball championship.”

  “Actually, you won the beach volleyball championship,” I said. “Angus already has dibs on you for his team next year.”

  Milo didn’t respond. It was too dark to read his expression. “Is something wrong?” I said.

  “Jo, I don’t know where I’ll be next year.”

  My heart sank. “I was hoping you’d still be with us.”

  “Part of me hoped that too. Part of me hoped I’d be with you forever, but I’m not a forever guy. This isn’t my scene, Jo. I’m a backroom boy, and there’s no backroom here any more. Zack won the election. His bylaws passed. He’s not running for re-election, and Brock’s not interested in being mayor.”

  “We can’t let Lancaster run a candidate who will undo everything we’re trying to do,” I said.

  “Lancaster can run whomever they can convince to slither out from under their rock, but I’ve got a candidate who can beat them. Now that Mansell’s resigned, there’s an opening, and I’ve been talking to a candidate with solid business credentials who has recently discovered her inner progressive.”

  “Who?”

  “Lydia Mah. I’ve been working on her, and she told me last week she’s going to make a run for it. I’ve already put together a profile and a playbook for her and given it to Zack.”

  “You told Zack you were leaving before you told me?”

  Milo half turned so all I could see was his profile. “Zack was easy to tell,” he said. “So was Brock. Taylor, Madeleine, and Lena were harder. And I just kept putting off telling you.”

  I was hurt and angry, but the sadness in Milo’s voice disarmed me. “Well, you’ve told me now,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Next year is election year in the States, and I’ve had a lot of calls. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to Tallahassee. The candidate’s a thirty-eight-year-old guy who owns a restaurant chain that hires the marginalized, has onsite daycare, offers flex hours for education and self-improvement, and makes a healthy profit. He’s running for a congressional seat, but there’ll be a senate seat open in the not too distant future, and he has backers for that.”

  “The perfect candidate,” I said. “Why does he need you?”

  “Because he’s running in a district that is politically to the right of Atilla the Hun, and he’s Muslim and gay.”

  “Your kind of odds,” I said. I was close to tears, and Milo knew it.

  “Jo. I’ve been working for you for a year. That’s the longest I’ve ever stayed anywhere.” He gestured towards the bonfire and the lake and the sleeping kids being carried to cars by their suntanned parents. “This isn’t me,” he said. “I’m the guy who comes in when a campaign is tanking. I don’t know anybody in the candidate’s campaign and I don’t owe anybody, so I’m free to do what has to be done. I figure out who’s deadwood and who’s necessary and I tell the campaign manager to throw the deadwood into the chipper. If the campaign manager is deadwood, I tell the candidate to throw the campaign manager into the chipper. After that, you know the drill. I do what I have to until E-Day, and then, win or lose, I move along.”

  “But you stayed here after Zack won.”

  “I stayed here because you asked me to.”

  “I thought it worked out for both of us.”

  “It did. And it was great. This has been the best year of my life.”

  “Then why are you leaving?” I reached out and touched his cheek. For a few moments we were as close as two people can be, then Milo spotted something over my shoulder and stepped back. When I turned, I saw Zack wheeling towards us.

  “The big man himself,” Milo said. “Jo, I want what Zack has, but that just comes along once in a lifetime, and it’s already come to you.”

  Zack was always sensitive to my mood. He waited until the last guest had left and we had closed our bedroom door before he broached the subject.

  “You’re very quiet.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Milo told you.”

  “Finally. After he told you, Brock, and the girls.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “Yes, but not at you. And not at Milo. Just – at life, I guess. I don’t like losing people I care about.”

  “And you care about Milo.”

  “You know I do. He’s made politics fun for me again.”

  “And without him, it won’t be fun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want a massage?”

  “Thanks, but I think I just need to sleep.”

  “What’s that old Russian saying you always quote?”

  “ ‘Morning is wiser than evening,’ ” I said. I leaned over to kiss Zack goodnight, but my heart wasn’t in it, and we both knew it.

  Milo was taking the early bird five-thirty flight to Toronto and then from Toronto to Tampa and on to Tallahassee. I drove him to the airport. He had protested vehemently, but my argument was persuasive. “I brought you to this dance,” I said. “And I’m taking you home.”

  I picked him up in front of the Sahara Club. He was wearing his uniform of choice – lace-up black Keds, chinos, black T-shirt, and ball cap – and he had a backpack. He looked pale and the shadows under his dark eyes were deep.

  I looked at the backpack. “No other luggage,” I said.

  “My Harley’s going business class,” he said.

  He got into the car and handed me the keys to the flat that had been his home for a year. I dropped them in my bag. “I hate this,” I said.

  “I’m not crazy about it myself,” Milo said.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive to the airport, and for the first time in my memory, we didn’t speak a word to each other. Milo was absolutely still. When we pulled into the departures dropoff, neither of us moved.

  Finally, we faced each other. Milo reached across and took my hand in his. “Did you sleep last night?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I kept trying to figure out what was happening.”

  Milo’s smile was shadowed. “Not worth the effort,” he said. “I knew what was happening – at least what was happening for me, and it wasn’t going to work out.” He picked up his backpack. “Maybe in the next life,” he said.

  “I hate to see you hurting.”

  He shrugged. “Bob Marley once said, ‘Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you. You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.’ ” Milo brushed my cheek with a kiss. “You’re worth suffering for, Joanne.” And with that, Milo slipped out of the car and disappeared behind the departures door.

  As I drove out of the airport parking lot, I was overwhelmed by a sense of loss I didn’t understand. I w
asn’t ready to go back to the lake, so I drove to a spot near the levee that the city had built on both sides of Wascana Creek to protect neighbourhoods from floods during spring runoff. I parked not far from the house I’d lived in before I met Zack.

  The creek was an oasis of peace and beauty in every season, and over the decades I’d often found solace there. On that hot July morning, the indigenous bushes planted on the creek banks were in full leaf and the wild roses were blooming. Joggers listening to their playlists dotted the bike path. Two Christmases ago, my kids had tucked an MP3 player into my stocking. I had been touched by their thoughtfulness, but I was old school. For me, the sounds of morning were enough, and that morning the creek was alive with the trill of birdsong and the plash of beavers, muskrats, and ducks. Music to smooth the jagged edges.

  My emotions were a jumble, but there were some things I was sure of. I was deeply in love with my husband. At our wedding, the dean who married us said that he was certain two people as passionate and thoughtful as we were could make a fine life together, and he had been right. Together Zack and I had more than I could have asked for or imagined. My life was filled with people who loved me and whom I loved. But when Milo walked away from me that morning, I was bereft.

  Following an instinct that was wiser than I was, I crossed the bridge to the path on the south levee that would take me by the house where Zack, Taylor, and I had lived before we moved into the condo. Not far from our old yard was a large, flat stone where I had sat whenever our old dog, Willie, and Pantera had decided to check out life on the creek. It was a good place to think, and I needed to think.

  Zack and I had fallen in love quickly and intensely. My friends and family had tripped over one another offering reasons why our relationship was a mistake. At first I ignored them, but finally I could no longer turn a blind eye to all the red flags. When the situation came to a head, Zack and I were in an elegant hotel suite in Saskatoon. He was giving a speech at a colleague’s retirement dinner, and we’d seized upon the occasion to arrange a romantic getaway. The bed was inviting; the champagne was on ice, and the view of the South Saskatchewan River took my breath away.