Winter of Secrets

by Vicki Delany

The Champagne arrived; a bottle was presented to Dad and the cork popped. Dad tasted, nodded, and one waitress began to pour, while another placed flutes in front of everyone.

  And Wendy knew that this was going to be perfectly horrible.

  After they’d all been served, Dad raised his glass. Wendy glanced around the table. Not one of the friends looked as if they wanted to be here. Rob, she thought, was the only sensible one.

  “My son,” Dad said, taking a sip. The others followed. Even Jeremy, who knew how to knock a drink back faster than anyone Wendy knew, barely touched the wine to his lips.

  Another toast, another drink. “Ewan,” Dad said.

  Mom let out a small sob.

  Dad always did like the theatrical. Mom was sitting so low in her chair she was almost under the table. He absolutely hated the fact that his wife was a Member of the Order of Canada and he was not, and to cover up how much he resented it, he felt compelled to mention it at every opportunity.

  Sophie put her glass down and opened her menu. “What do you think looks good?” she said to no one in particular.

  “My daughter tells me you’re taking theater at McGill,” Mom said to Alan, sitting on her right at the round table. The restaurant was full, silver gleamed, candlelight flickered, crystal sparkled. The curtains were drawn back, and outside snow fell heavily. “It’s a wonderful school. I applied there for my undergrad, but they rejected me.”

  “Which they’ve been regretting ever since, I’ve no doubt,” Alan said with his boyish-charm grin. He was handsome enough, with deep brown eyes underneath long lashes, a mop of artfully tossed black curls, and a dimpled smile, to be a movie star. Whether he had any real talent, Wendy didn’t know.

  Mom put her company façade back on, laughed lightly, and took a sip of Champagne.

  “Do you think the salmon’s any good?” Sophie said. “I can’t stand dry fish.”

  ***

  Time was catching up with Eliza Winters. Designers in Paris and Milan had stopped calling long ago; the big magazines shortly after. That she still got any work at all, she knew, was due to the contacts and skills of her agent, Bernadette McLaughlin, who everyone in the business called Barney. Eliza had been so pleased last summer when she’d landed a job in Trafalgar—big budget, mega-star photographer, national exposure, and to top it all off she wouldn’t have to leave home. But the client company folded before the first picture was even snapped. Nothing suitable had come up since.

  Barney told the hostess they would require a table for two, not three, as reserved. Flavours was the best restaurant in Trafalgar. It was also the most expensive. In Eliza’s experience, those two adjectives were not always complementary, but in this case they were. The room was full, but the noise level not too high. People laughed while black and white clad waiters maneuvered heavy trays.

  “A moment, Barney,” Eliza said. “I see someone I know.” She leaned close to the older woman. “Just lost her son.”

  Barney followed the long-haired hostess with the thin hips to a table set into a private alcove at the back. It was prepared for a party of three, and the woman whipped the unneeded place-setting away as quickly as if a dog had passed and left its calling card. “Jonathan will be your waiter tonight,” she said.

  Barney couldn’t possibly have cared less what their waiter’s name was. As long as he brought the wine list.

  Eliza approached the large round table in the center of the main room. “Patricia. Lovely to see you.”

  The look of sheer pleasure that crossed Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth’s face was, Eliza thought, rather frightening.

  “Eliza! How wonderful. Please, won’t you join us? As you can see, we haven’t ordered our food yet. We’re having a glass of champagne in honor of my son and his friend.” She turned to the man across the table. “Ask them to bring another chair, dear.”

  The man half-rose.

  “No, thank you,” Eliza said. “I’m with a friend. Just the two of us tonight, I’m afraid. My husband’s working late.”

  “That’s perfect,” Patricia said. “You and your friend can join us. We’ve had a cancellation ourselves, so there’s plenty of room.” They were six at a table for eight. Menus were still on the table.

  “Thank you, but we have business….”

  Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth was on her feet. She waived to the hostess. “Two more to join us,” she said.

  The young woman ran for chairs and cutlery.

  Oh, dear.

  “You’re being most presumptions, Pat. This lady has plans.” The man was Patricia’s age; her husband probably. The rest of their group was much younger. The daughter, small and dark and scowling, was easy to identify, as short and lightly-boned as her mother. The others, one young woman and two men, must be friends as they bore no resemblance to the family.

  “Nonsense,” Patricia said to her husband. She hailed the hostess once again. “Ask my friend’s companion to join us.”

  Mr. Wyatt-Yarmouth sat down. Two more chairs and matching place settings arrived. Along with a rather startled looking Barney, clutching her linen napkin.

  Eliza had no choice. She took the offered seat.

  “Hi,” said the young man to her left. “I’m Jeremy. Nice to meet you.”

  “Eliza. My pleasure. This is my friend Bernadette.”

  Introductions were made. Another bottle of champagne ordered.

  Eliza sat between Patricia’s daughter and Jeremy. The daughter, Wendy, would have been plain, with her large nose and weak bone structure, except that her teeth were straight and white and perfect and her skin glowed with youth and health. Her hair, light brown streaked with blond, was cut into a highly attractive, and no-doubt highly expensive, chin-length bob. Her earrings were giant silver hoops, which suited her haircut perfectly. A long silver pendant dipped into the cleft between her small breasts.

  Wyatt-Yarmouth glared at his wife, and she kept her eyes demurely downcast, as a proper Victorian maiden should in company. Eliza tried to catch Barney’s eyes, to signal an apology, but at the first sign of the accent in the “’allo,” of the girl she was seated beside, Barney had launched into rapid-fire French. The girl’s face lit up and they chattered away.

  “Pardon us,” Barney said at last. “Dreadfully rude, I know, but now I’m living in Vancouver I so rarely get the chance to practice my French, I simply couldn’t resist.”

  It wasn’t as if anyone else at the table had anything to talk about. Eliza and Barney expressed their sympathies to Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth.

  He thanked them.

  Barney asked when they’d be going home.

  That was a mistake.

  “We should have been out of here tomorrow,” he snarled. “But the police are saying they need to keep Jason for a while longer. Let me tell you, I put in a call to the Chief of Police PDQ. I won’t have some two-bit, hick town cop sticking his nose into my son’s death and trying to score points by making a tragic car accident out to be something out of an episode of CSI.”

  “Eliza’s husband…” Barney began.

  Eliza silenced her with a look.

  “Please, dear.” Patricia said, her voice low and calm. “People are looking.”

  And they were. Chairs might have scratched the golden hardwood floor as diners at adjoining tables tried to eavesdrop without appearing to be rude.

  The young people shifted in their seats. Wendy, the daughter, bristled with anger. She opened her mouth to say something. And it would not have been polite.

  Eliza gathered her bag from the back of her chair and reached into a front pocket. “I think it best if we don’t interfere in your evening.” She got to her feet. Barney scrambled to follow. “Thank you for the champagne. It was a pleasure to meet you, Jack. My condolences again.” She touched Patricia on the shoulder and slipped her card into the woman’s hand. A bit pretentious, having a calling card in a town like Trafalgar. She rarely used them any more, and only for business. But she didn’t want to take the time to scramble for
paper and pen. “If you’re going to be here for a few days, perhaps we can have lunch, or another day at the spa. That would be fun. Call me, if you’re free.”

  Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth smiled at Eliza. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The waitress hovered to take their order.

  “Is the salmon dry?” Sophie asked.

  Eliza and Barney turned toward their table, only to find that it had been given to another party in the interim. They turned again, back toward the hostess table.

  “Having a nice family dinner, are you?”

  Eliza blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  The girl didn’t look much older than fifteen. She was dressed in a patched winter coat and a long scarf full of holes. Black mascara ran down her cheeks, mixed with melting snow or tears, it was impossible to tell.

  Incongruously, she wore a small pair of, if Eliza’s judgment hadn’t completely failed her, 14-carat gold hoop earrings.

  “Thought you could have your dinner without me, did you? We’ll I’m here, and I’m in mourning too, not that any you gives a fuck. But I’m going to tell you one thing, Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth…”

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” Eliza said.

  The patrons were no longer trying not to appear to be eavesdropping. The dining room was so silent that noise from the kitchen, clattering crockery, shouted orders, someone bellowing for carrots, goddamn it, could be heard.

  The head waiter hurried over, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Is there a problem?”

  “Apparently there is.” Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth was on his feet. “Now I don’t know who you are, girl, but I’d suggest that you leave.”

  “Sit down, Jack,” Patricia said in quiet voice, “and shut up. If you are looking for Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth, I am she.”

  “Oh, you are she, are you,” the girl took a step toward the table. She faltered and Eliza reached out a hand to steady her. The girl shrugged her off. Her breath was rancid with the sour scent of beer. “Well, I’m an even better she.”

  “Lorraine, get out of here.” Wendy’s chair sounded like a gun shot as it crashed to the floor behind her. “This is a private dinner and you haven’t been invited.”

  The girl, Lorraine, turned toward Wendy. “You think I don’t know that, you stuck-up rich bitch.” She dropped into the chair recently vacated by Eliza. “I’ve as much right to be here as he does.” She pointed at Jeremy. “More.” She bared her teeth at Patricia. “I’m Jason’s girlfriend, see. We were going to be engaged but before that could happen he…then he…died.” She burst into tears.

  The head waiter stood beside her, not at all sure of what to do.

  Eliza glanced at Patricia. All the blood had drained from the woman’s face, leaving it stark white. She might have been a ghost, except for the red in her eyes.

  Lorraine picked up a menu. “I’m going to have dinner. Dinner with the family what shoulda been my in-laws. What’s the most expensive thing?”

  “As you appear to know this person,” Jack yelled at his daughter, “do something.” He had resumed his seat at Patricia’s order.

  Wendy tugged ineffectually at the sleeve of Lorraine’s heavy coat.

  “Shall we go to the powder room, Patricia?” Eliza placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

  Patricia didn’t move.

  “What a good idea,” Barney said. “What do you think you’re you looking at, buddy?

  The man at the next table began sawing at his steak.

  A man ran into the dining room, shedding snow, looking around him as if he quite desperately needed to find something he’d lost. A waitress tried to stop him, but he stepped around her. He walked to the table that was the centre of the room, figuratively as well as literally.

  Eliza’s hand was on Patricia’s arm, guiding the woman to standing. Her legs wobbled and Eliza gripped harder. Barney took the other arm.

  “Come on, Lorraine. Let’s go home,” the new arrival said. The girl reached across the table and grabbed Patricia’s unfinished glass of champagne. The man plucked it from her fingers. “Let’s go.”

  The head waiter signaled to the hostess, who picked up the phone.

  “I haven’t ordered my dinner,” Lorraine said.

  “I’ll take you to dinner. Anyplace you like.”

  “I want to have dinner here.” Lorraine’s eyes were red and puffy and her nose ran. She swallowed a sob, and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her coat.

  “Please come with me.”

  The girl looked around. Her eyes fastened on Eliza, who was handing Patricia to Barney.

  “Tell them I belong here,” she said, her voice a weak whisper.

  Barney half-dragged Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth toward the back.

  “Christ, as if,” Wendy said in a laugh that was more like a bark. “You’re pathetic. We might as well have invited Geronimo to dinner. Jason cared more about that cat than he did about you.”

  “You,” Eliza said, “are not helping.”

  “Fuck off, lady.”

  “Will someone get this person out of here,” Jack bellowed.

  The door opened, bringing in a blast of drifting snow, wind and cold, and a figure dressed in dark blue.

  The head waiter, almost jumping up and down with excitement, spoke to the police officer. By now most of the restaurant patrons were standing to see better, the kitchen staff had emerged from the back, and the wait staff lined the walls, twisting fingers in white aprons.

  The cop crossed the room. She was young, pretty, blond. Her cheeks glowed red with cold, and fresh snow sprinkled the top of her flat blue hat with the light blue band.

  “Hi, Lorraine,” she said, in a warm and friendly voice. “Let’s go outside and talk. Gary can come with us.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Gary said.

  “No. I’m here to have dinner with my family. They should have been my family. They would have been. They would have, Molly. It’s not fair.”

  So, Eliza thought, this was Constable Molly Smith, who had driven John to distraction more than once over the summer.

  “Life’s not fair, Lorraine.” Smith dropped her voice so only the people immediately around her, which happened to include Eliza, could hear. “Gary, can you get her up? I don’t want to make a scene, but I’ve been called to get her out of here. How much has she had? And what?”

  “Just beer, I think. When I got home, Lorraine was in the kitchen. She had a couple bottles in front of her and was crying. I tried to talk to her, but I had to go to the can, and when I got back, she was gone.”

  “What’s the matter with this police department?” Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth yelled. His face was almost as red as Smith’s. But not from the cold, and the effect was not nearly as attractive. “I demand you remove this person.”

  “Shut up, Dad,” Wendy said, unexpectedly. “She isn’t going to shoot her, you know, even if you demand her to.”

  Jack spluttered.

  Sophie let out a burst of embarrassed laughter. Alan studied the tines of his fork. Jeremy leaned back in his chair, looking as though he were enjoying every minute of the other people’s misery.

  Gary managed to lift a wobbly Lorraine to her feet. Constable Smith talked to her in a quiet voice. Together they guided the crying girl toward the door.

  Eliza let out a soft sigh. Patricia had gone to the ladies with Barney and missed the scene. Jack was huffing and puffing and threatening to blow the straw house down. His daughter, Wendy, after throwing Lorraine a look that would freeze lava, resumed her seat.

  “I hope we’re going to eat now,” Sophie said.

  Only Eliza saw Gary hand Lorraine to Smith. “What?” the young constable’s lips said.

  Gary walked back to the table.

  “Pardon me, Ma’am,” he said to Eliza as he brushed up against her to reach the table. He put two big, hairy hands on a tablecloth as snowy white as the night outside. His nails were torn, the cuticles ragged, dirt trapped in the folds of skin. His eyes passed over We
ndy, then Sophie, and settled down to flick between Alan and Jeremy.

  Eliza glanced toward the door. Clearly Constable Smith didn’t know what to do. She was trying to keep Lorraine standing while watching Gary.

  “You guys. You come to our town and throw around your money and show off your flash cars and skis. You fuck our girls, and then you leave. Back to Mommy and Daddy and the trust fund.”

  “I scarcely think,” Wendy said.

  “I scarcely care what you think, kid. Get this straight, all of you. Your precious Jason was a whoremonger and a cradle snatcher. And, outside of this table, there aren’t many people bothered that he, or his friend, is dead.”

  He glanced out of the side of his eyes. Eliza followed, to see Constable Smith, still trying to hold Lorraine upright, coming back their way.

  “Gotta go,” Gary said. “Have a nice evening folks.”

  He straightened up, and pointed one finger toward Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth. “If you’re a religious sort, old man, you’d better pray my sister isn’t knocked up. Otherwise, you’ll be seeing my ugly mug again.”

  He crossed the room in several strides. “Ready to leave, Moon?” he said in a booming voice. “I sense we’re no longer welcome here. Enjoy your dinner, folks.” Gary waved at the crowd, watching him as if he were tonight’s floorshow.

  “I want to know what all that was about, and I want to know now,” Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth shouted at his daughter.

  Wendy didn’t resume her seat. “I don’t think so,” she said, heading for the door. She grabbed her coat from the rack by the exit.

  “How about we grab a pizza?” Alan said. “Pizza’d be good, eh, Sophie.”

  “Pardon?”

  “We’re going for pizza. Thanks for the champagne, sir.” Alan and Sophie followed Wendy at nothing much short of the speed of light. Jeremy followed at a more leisurely pace.

  Eliza was still standing in the middle of the floor. Thank heavens Barney had gotten Patricia out of here before that hideous scene.

  Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth was the only one remaining at the table. He stared at Eliza across the detritus of champagne bottles, crystal flutes, menus, and untouched plates. “Who the hell are you anyway?”