The helicopter appeared over the trees and began to sink, its downdraft kicking up hot, dry dust. Young Michael, at his mother’s side, tugged down his hat brim and yelled something toward her ear. She handed over a pair of sunglasses from her caftan pocket, stifling a cough with her other hand. Jake moved forward with Mylo half a step behind. Lacey waited a protective arm’s length from Kitrin, whose cough wracked her whole thin body. The dust began to settle.
The helicopter side door opened from within. The first passenger scrambled out. He was about Lacey’s height, sandy-haired, broad of shoulder, with sturdy arms extending from his red golf shirt. Built, in other words, exactly like Dan. Golden-red hairs on his arms caught the sunlight, like Dan’s did. Her hand reached for her throat. She forced it down, breathed in through her nose, out through pursed lips. Repeated twice more, thankful that the helicopter noise would cover the faint hissing of her breath. Damn Dan for still causing that instinctive panic.
Not-Dan stepped away from the helicopter. A boy jumped down next, his face and hair hidden by dark glasses and a ball cap pulled well down. The first man helped a slender, dark-haired woman out. The next passenger was an older man, taller than Jake and equally craggy. His silver hair rivalled the helicopter’s white cowling.
As the chopper noise gradually died, Jake made introductions. “Orrin Caine, Mylo Matheson. Of course, you’ve been in touch already, over the cattle drive stuff.”
Up close, the sandy-haired man was easily twenty years older than Dan. His name was Earl, and he called Orrin “Dad.” The woman beside him, her loose, dark hair artfully highlighted, was Sloane, Orrin’s wife and definitely not Earl’s mother, being at least a decade younger than him. She introduced her son, Tyrone, as Orrin’s youngest child. The boy left his shades and hat on, hanging back until she prodded him to shake hands with Mylo and Kitrin.
Michael Matheson stared at Tyrone. After a moment, he tugged Kitrin’s hand. “Mommy, can he come swimming with me?”
Kitrin smiled. “That’s a great idea. Sloane, can Tyrone go play in the pool with Michael? Our nanny, Georgie, will get him a swimsuit and keep an eye on him.”
Jake, Orrin, and Mylo strode across the lawn, with Earl at his father’s heels. The two mothers with their young sons followed. A couple scrambled from the helicopter after they’d moved off. Terry, assuming the role of second-in-command, introduced himself and Lacey.
“Bart Caine,” said the younger man. He was built like Earl, but with dark hair and an easy smile. “My wife, Andrea.”
Terry fell into step with them. Lacey followed, tasting the helicopter’s dust and oil on the hot summer air. Something was crawling over her neck. She put up a hand, but no insect buzzed off, and she belatedly recognized the sensation: that creepy feeling triggered by memories of Dan or emails from him. Today’s tipping point was likely the proximity of the phone alert to the arrival of a Dan-lookalike. Plus the two trophy wives. With their dark hair and bright jewellery and big smiles glinting in the sun, Sloane and Andrea looked like brunette versions of Camille Hardy and her posse from the Art Museum board and were probably equally devoid of conversation that didn’t involve shoes, vacations, and gossip about people she’d never met. Suppers with those Camille types had been their own kind of purgatory, and this one also included Orrin Caine’s legendary foul mouth and Mylo Matheson’s arrogance. Jake’s food would be excellent, but even if Lacey’s taste buds could be coaxed into enjoying it, her stomach had already compressed like a coal seam under granite.
Up ahead, Terry laughed at something Bart said. Had he gotten past his ire, or was he putting on a good front for his boss’s guests? As part friendly neighbour and part lowly part-time employee of Jake’s contracted security company, Lacey must do the same. She caught up to Andrea, hoping her smile looked more casually friendly than completely insincere.
What an awful man! Predinner conversation over drinks had been bearable, even pleasant with Bart and Andrea, but being trapped across the table from Orrin Caine was horrid. Jan leaned back in her wheelie armchair as the “old gay-basher” jabbed his bloody knife at his daughter-in-law. He’d already waved it at both his adult sons, Earl and Bart. Jake hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Rob wouldn’t enjoy this meal. Or when he said most guests would be around her age. He and Orrin were the oldies, in their seventies, then Earl and Mylo, both pushing fifty. Bart and all the women were thirty-five or younger and as good-looking as they were healthy. Except for Kitrin. Sitting beside sturdy, tanned Earl, she resembled a consumptive from a Victorian illustration. Jake sat between her and Orrin’s dark-haired, elegant wife, Sloane, who answered only when spoken to and matched Orrin’s wine consumption to the mouthful. Mylo, Kitrin’s egotistical husband, was tucked between Dee and Lacey at the far end of the table, talking non-stop. Lacey’s pursed mouth suggested she was stifling a yawn.
“Five years Bart’s been married to Andrea,” Orrin said, exposing teeth smeared red by the juices from his prime rib, “and not a kid in sight. When I was thirty I had two.”
Bart muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “That you know about.”
Orrin’s eyes narrowed. “I always heard people in those shithole South American countries popped out babies by the dozen. Bart picked a dud.”
Earl said, “At least he’s consistent.”
Andrea, her face unnaturally calm, ignored the whole exchange and asked Jake about his ranch in the Milk River Valley. Jake was always happy to repeat the old outlaw tales of that region, but Orrin talked over him about his own ranch west of Sundre.
“I know every foot of my land,” he boasted. “Been riding the bounds since before Earl was born. Had him in the saddle when he could barely walk. Bart here,” he waved the knife again, “never took to horses. Scared little pussy. His ma babied him.”
Earl gave Bart a smirk better suited to a sulky teenager than a grown man. No love lost between those brothers. Jan rubbed the dent between her eyebrows, trying to stave off a headache from the tension.
Eventually, all the wine Orrin poured down his throat had the inevitable result. He kicked back his chair and marched off along the corridor. As he vanished, Sloane put down her wineglass and picked up her fork. Andrea put down her fork and squeezed her husband’s hand. He smiled in return. Kitrin asked Earl about his life down in Denver. Soon she had him chatting about his wife and daughters, who’d recently finished their annual month at Orrin’s ranch.
Bart said to Jan, “Did I hear right that you’re a retired art historian?”
“Not exactly retired.” Jan pointed at her armchair on its wheeled base. “I haven’t figured out yet how to make my career fit around my limitations.”
“That’s quite the contraption,” he said. “A custom job, obviously.”
“Jake had it made to match the rest of the furnishings.”
Jake overheard. “My company sponsors Beakerhead every year. You know about Beakerhead, right?”
Bart nodded. “The arts and sciences fair that used to run the catapult contest at Olympic Park.”
“That’s them. We paid to bring in the giant mechanical elephant from France one year, and another time a desert hut that keeps itself cool and collects drinking water from the air. Some young fellows in the parade had mounted armchairs onto power wheelchair bases and were letting people drive them around. I asked them to convert one of mine.”
When the attention to the chair faded, Jan said to Bart, “So what do you do when you’re not at work?”
“Enjoy rock climbing, mostly, and I can sometimes be convinced to go rowing with my wife. Andy’s a regular at the Glenmore Canoe Club near our place. Anyway, about this art history thing. Maybe this movie could use your help with finding art from the turn of the century. Previous century, that is.”
Andrea laughed. “Since when has Hollywood been concerned with historical accuracy? If it was a BBC production, maybe. A docudrama involving families living entirely like the early settlers?”
Jan grin
ned back at her. “One winter in a mud-chinked log cabin would be more than enough for the actors and the viewers. They could make an art film, though. Lots of famous artists used to come to the Rockies every summer. There’s a great book detailing their hiking routes, with photos from the places they set up their easels, and then a picture of the painting the artist did of that spot. Back in the plate-glass negatives era, one painter took a full camera set-up on a six-week horseback trek. Boxes of fragile glass squares and all the fixing chemicals bounced along on a pack horse through the mountains near Banff. At summer’s end, he carried all his plates back east by train and spent the winter painting from the photos.”
The word camera had attracted Mylo. “Name of the book?”
“Hiker’s Guide to Art of the Canadian Rockies. It’s recently been reprinted.”
“Get me one for my art director.”
“Please,” Kitrin added quickly. “I’d like to see it, too, Jan. You were always good at dating paintings from the clothing and scenery and things. But I guess you haven’t gone hiking to find the vantage points yourself.”
Terry joined the conversation at last. “We did a few before she got sick.”
“Our Jannie,” said Jake, “knows pretty much every painting ever made in these parts. She can tell you the history of every piece I own and which related one hangs in which neighbour’s collection.”
“Great,” said Mylo. “You can work with my art director, make sure we get the right subjects and styles for my indoor sets. If you find me all original paintings, I might even win an Oscar for art direction.”
While Jake beamed like a benevolent king and Mylo detailed which of his films had won which awards against what other films, Terry frowned at Jan. He wouldn’t want her sacrificing her scarce energy for money they didn’t need. But a job like that could safely test her new medication on a part-time, flexible work schedule, local enough to go home for rests. She wouldn’t be working directly for Mylo, either, which was a real point in its favour. Still, no need to tackle Terry here and now. Time enough to fight that battle if Mylo formally offered.
She turned to Andrea and said, “Bart told me earlier that you used to be a vlogger?”
“Call me Andy, please,” said Andrea. “And yes, I was a daily smash on YouTube before I got married.”
Lacey, who had been in the silence camp with Terry, said, “Vlogger: that’s a video blogger? I don’t quite understand how you make money doing that.”
Andy shrugged. “If you’re talking about things your demographic is interested in, or demonstrating some skill they want, you get lots of hits and subscribers. Advertisers pay to place their products either right in your videos or in ads on the home page. Every ad seen gives you a small credit. Once enough eyeballs are seeing enough ads, you can earn a decent living. Or could.” She fiddled with her fork. “It got to be too big a time-sink to keep up daily. I shut it down after we got married.”
Bart took over. “Viewers want to think they’re in your living room, and that you’re just a normal person like them, only with ten times more drama. Basically you have to strip your soul naked every day to keep them coming back. It was bad enough before the wedding: strangers dissecting every aspect of our engagement, gift registry, home decor. They’d have been even worse after it, speculating about a celebrity smash-up or pregnancy whenever Andy had baggy eyes.”
Mylo stared at Andy. “What was your topic?”
“Eating disorders,” she said and looked at Kitrin.
Mylo’s face hardened. He turned his shoulder to her and began telling Dee about an old-school stunt director who thought safety harnesses were for wusses. “Eight takes it took before he admitted the stunt double couldn’t cling to the car’s hood in a tight turn without one.”
Kitrin didn’t seem to notice any of it. Her prime rib lay on the plate with her abandoned cutlery, diced into a million pieces, of which Jan estimated she had eaten fewer than five.
Andy raised her voice a fraction. “I was very open about my eating disorder, and that resonated with a lot of young women. It began in college, with all the stress there.”
Kitrin didn’t look at Andy, but she picked up her fork and put another tiny shred of beef into her mouth.
Lacey said, “How did you get into vlogging?”
Andy smiled along the table. “Totally by accident. In my third semester of school I got so weak, I couldn’t sit at a keyboard to write term papers. When I went into treatment, my therapist encouraged me to keep a video journal instead, talking through my feelings from my bed. After a year and a lot of hours digitized, we went through the recordings together. It was incredibly helpful to see myself as sick as I had been, and to hear my own thoughts from the depths of my disorder.
“Mainly I started to put it out there for my own benefit, kind of claiming my real self in a world where appearances are everything. Soon the comments showed me I could speak to other women caught in the same mess. I learned to edit older clips in with new stuff, sharing my reflections on the journey back to health. My subscribers soared. I had a list of resources right on my home page, helping desperate people find support in their region. So I kept going. Now I’ll talk to anyone about it, any time.”
She left the last statement floating and picked up her wineglass. “I might start up again when I get pregnant and am learning about babies. That’s an area where I have absolutely no clue, but now that I’m healthy enough to take on a child, I could interview pediatricians, child psychologists, other mothers …”
Orrin marched into the room. “That’s what I need: grandkids. Sons are expensive. Ain’t that right, Sloane? A million bucks a son, I promise them, and I get what I want. ’Bout now I’d pay that much for a grandson.”
Dee’s voice was cold. “Don’t you have daughters? What did you pay for those?”
Earl glared at her. Bart sucked in his breath. Andy dropped her eyes to her plate. God, they were all terrified of this hideous old man.
Orrin guffawed, and the three relaxed visibly. “Good money for a girl? Naw. Earl’s big sister, now, I invested in a feller’s golf course over in New Jersey, and he married her to his son. Not a great money-maker, that course, but Debbie’s husband is a lousy golfer and I clean up on side bets.”
Dee set down her fork and left the table, probably too furious to keep her mouth shut if she stayed. To distract everyone, Jan leaned forward to make eye contact with Mylo. “What’s your movie about? All I know is that it’ll be shot around here.”
“Cattle drive,” said Orrin. “That’s my part. We’ll run a hundred head or so up and down the valley, fly over them with choppers, shoot from every angle. Isn’t that right, Mylo?”
“I remember cattle drives,” said Kitrin out of the blue. “Down around the Cypress Hills, where I’m from.”
Mylo started to talk, but Orrin turned his full attention onto Kitrin. “Cypress Hills? Saskatchewan or Alberta side?”
“Saskatchewan,” she said. “My mother’s from Maple Creek. She lives in Regina now.”
Orrin watched her with narrowed eyes. She dropped her gaze to her plate and stirred the slivers of meat around with her fork. Jan shivered in sympathy. Orrin’s stare was really unnerving. When would this horrid meal be over?
She asked again, “Mylo, what’s your movie about?”
“Think Bridges of Madison County meets Brokeback Mountain,” he said, “with a side of Canadian art history. That’s where your knowledge will come in, Jan. Real artists and art as background.”
“There are a few to choose from,” said Jan. “A.Y. Jackson came to paint here, for one. He taught at the Banff School of Fine Arts in the 1940s. But I doubt I can line you up a loaner Jackson painting.”
“Too late, anyway. I’m going for the early 1900s. A lonely rancher’s wife rents out a room each summer to a pair of visiting artists, both men. Of course she falls in love with one of them, a clean, erudite man who brings the life and culture she craves to her isolated mountain valley.”
Mylo elaborated on the palette of her life: grey clothing, beige curtains, cloudy skies. The artist would wear bright clothing and be shot in sunshine or lantern’s glow, meeting her eyes, in strong contrast to the dour, dusty rancher she’d married, who would always be looking past her. Mylo’s smile spread across the table toward Sloane. She lifted her wineglass to hide an answering smile.
Orrin, oblivious, bragged about his Rocky Mountain art collection and invited Mylo — who nodded at Jan — to come see it any time at his Mount Royal home. Now there, he said, was a house that deserved to be in a movie.
When he shoved another slab of beef into his mouth, Terry seized on the lull to say to Mylo, “Where does Brokeback Mountain come in? Just the scenery?”
Mylo’s fickle attention left Sloane. “Oh, in their third summer the woman will discover the artists in a flagrantly sexual situation. That precipitates her crisis and drives the last, tragic act.”
Earl’s fork hit the table. Bart’s knuckles whitened on his knife. Sloane emptied her wineglass and signalled for a refill. Orrin choked on his meat.
“You’re talking about fucking faggots? You’re not gonna film a faggot movie on my land.”
As Jan’s temper boiled up, Bart gave a small shake of his head. She let out a breath that felt like lava in her throat. Don’t insult your husband’s boss’s friend. Especially not after you were warned about Orrin’s foul mouth and gay-bashing. She dropped her hands to her lap and flexed the fingers, trying to shake out the urge to throw something — even words — across the table. Too bad she couldn’t slip out unremarked like Dee. Curse this wheelchair.
Terry, she saw, was looking at Jake as if willing him to say something. It wouldn’t happen. Jake wouldn’t disrupt his business dealings with Orrin over a comment no worse than many he’d heard and maybe said himself in his younger years.
Why the Rock Falls Page 3
