“Should I read it?” Jane asked, stricken by the obvious impact of the postcard on her new friend.
Charlie nodded. He wasn’t yet ready to speak. He had to digest this information. Was Jessie alive? Where was she? He held his breath in anticipation. He prayed the postcard would be the answer to not just prayers, but to a myriad of questions as well. It was only a few lines – but maybe this Arnie guy had more of the same in his possession – more evidence of Jessie’s survival.
Jane read in a subdued voice, her head inclined towards Charlie.
Dear Arnie, I hope this finds you well. You will be happy to know I have reached Tibet and am safely ensconced in a mountaintop cabin for a month or so. China was surreal. I fed, bathed and played with babies in the Ningdu orphanage. I stayed there for six glorious weeks. Tell your sister thank you for setting that up for me. I am well, the wrist has healed and the doctor at the orphanage gave it his blessing. I miss everyone desperately but I see they are going on with their lives, so that is good, although it breaks my heart not to be a part of it all. But such is life. Take care of yourself. J.
“Again,” Charlie whispered, as the sanctity of the words written in Jessie’s distinctive handwriting hit home.
Pausing, Jane looked beseechingly at Charlie. Their friendship was but a few hours old, rooted in the midst of a downpour, yet somehow she was delivering a message he would remember for the duration of his life. It was a missive of hope. Reading the words written by someone he cherished who disappeared inexplicably from his life more than a year earlier was a gift. Jane knew the implications, she understood the verity of the moment. The postcard she held in her hands, which featured a spindly mountain goat on the front, delivered a certain irreversible truth. Jessie Wheeler, missed and loved by the world, was alive.
She read more slowly this time while Charlie held his breath and tilted his head in closer to listen. Behind him, the Drifters friends laughed heartily at Stephen’s tales of mishaps on his last film, unaware of the drama unfolding twenty feet away.
Charlie paled noticeably as the realization sank in that Jessie, at least when this postcard was mailed, was alive. Despite the things she took with her, all of them couldn’t help but occasionally wonder if Deuce McCall had somehow engineered her disappearance, whether she was being beaten on a regular basis, held against her will. Or whether she had just called it a day and, like some Vancouverites who fell prey to the dreary grey skies, killed herself. Charlie could barely allow himself to configure those kinds of thoughts in his head.
They had looked for her, and for McCall, but neither search was even remotely fruitful. McCall sold his businesses and disappeared along with Jessie. Matt and Charles were relentless in their investigations, cooperating fully with the North Vancouver RCMP, the Vancouver City Police and Interpol, as well as the Charleston City Police. Now here, in Charlie’s bar in downtown Vancouver, staring at him through the beady eyes of a goat, was irrefutable proof delivered to him by a man with gentle, kind eyes and a bad smoking habit. Proof that Jessie was alive, somewhere in the world. What else did this Arnie guy know? Why did Jessie write to him? Why did she not send postcards to Charlie, to Charles and Dee – to Josh or Steve or Maggie?
“Jane,” he asked, trusting her with this great secret already. “What’s the date on the postcard?”
She peered at the date. “March twelfth.”
“Almost eight months ago,” Charlie responded, after figuring the math on his fingers.
Turning to look at the boys, the thought suddenly occurred to Charlie that maybe she had sent postcards to others. He couldn’t help but wonder, and the stink of jealousy contracted his stomach.
Just then Josh glanced his way and, this time, he didn’t look away. Instead, he straightened and stared at Charlie, his eyes narrowing. Charlie, who a few minutes earlier was relaxed, observing the patrons in his bar as they enjoyed some down time, was now pale and tense. There was suddenly something in Charlie’s eyes Josh at first didn’t understand – pleading? Desperation? A knowing? Steve caught Josh’s expression and glanced over as well. Charlie shook his head in disbelief, and then he grabbed the postcard and gestured to the bartender to hand him his jacket. They grabbed Jane’s coat as well, and left without exchanging a word with the Drifters gang.
“That was weird,” Steve muttered to Josh, watching Charlie’s hasty exit.
Josh just shrugged and took another swig of ginger ale. But as the night wore on, he wondered what was up. He knew Charlie well and it was plainly obvious that something had changed – maybe something to do with the blonde who joined him at the bar. Whatever it was, Josh was certain it had to do with Jessie. For he and Charlie shared a similar angst when it came to their girl, and the expression on Charlie’s face was unmistakable. It was the look of a man haunted by lost love, a knowing that Josh clearly understood, a fear that communicated itself louder than the artifice of the modern club and its clientele, past the red and green faded lights and the mollifying mellow rhythm of the music. It was a shot sent straight to Josh, which he received, and which he knew instinctively without a doubt, screamed Jessie.
***
Chapter Four
After a year of travelling the world, living on cash she’d spirited away in foreign bank accounts under a pseudonym, Jessie had grown tired of running. Spiritually, emotionally and physically, she was exhausted. The highlight of her year was lived in southeastern China, in the north central part of the Province of Jiangxi. Jessie spent time volunteering in Ningdu Chinese Orphanage near Nanchang – Arnie set it up for her. Ten years ago, his sister adopted a serene olive-skinned little girl from Ningdu, so she was versed on the region and on the political strings necessary to insert one Annie Hayden as a volunteer.
Hanging out at the orphanage feeding and bathing babies was a mixed bag for Jessie. Emotionally, it was tough. She fell desperately in love with the small children, many of whom would never know the affection and care of a family unit. She forged deep connections tied directly to the safety of the unconditional love that came straight from their little hearts. From kids with no idea who she was or what her disappearance meant to the world, it was humbling. Yet in the end, the Ningdu staff and orphans were just another group of people she felt she had to leave behind.
Jessie’s escape from obligation, expectation and fear, as Annie Hayden, took her part way around the globe. Her bobbed and dyed hair protected her real identity. Although some people glanced at her, speculating that she looked familiar, the change in hair was enough to set her free. After all, nobody in other parts of the world expected to run into the famous Jessie Wheeler, singer and actor. Many never even heard of her, for the world of celebrity entertainment was far from their collective radars.
Finally, after stints in Indonesia, China, Tibet, Japan, Africa, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, Belgium, Malta, France and Italy, she made her way from England on Ryan Air to Ireland and then, after a month, to Edinburgh, Scotland. She was bone tired of travelling, of all the different accommodations, languages, and cuisine. Weary, Jessie decided to settle somewhere, at least for a little while. Eventually, she had to stop running. After a year of newspaper headlines and International scrutiny, her disappearance had started to settle into the lore of celebrity mysteries. She felt it would finally be safe to stay in one place.
There were a few contributing factors linked to the decision to spend time in Scotland. One, she wanted an English speaking environment, although the rich Scottish brogue that welcomed her on the first taxi ride left her nervous. She was forced to ask the bespectacled longhaired driver to repeat himself more than once.
Second, she wanted to be in a city where she felt safe to dissolve into her new persona of Annie Hayden, a character she had adopted who telegraphed a slightly punk panache. Annie liked short skirts and white lacey tops; she accented her wistful eyes with smoky eyeliner and black mascara; she tinted the tips of her bobbed red hair with garish purples and blues; she piled on lots of bracelets and
necklaces.
Third, Jessie yearned for an environment not totally unfamiliar with North American customs and cuisine. As badly as she wanted to disappear, the singer also craved some semblance of home.
In Edinburgh Jessie rented a one-bedroom apartment near the neighborhood of Grassmarket, with the famous Royal Mile a short walk away. A stroll on the historic streets that make up the Royal Mile was a step back in time. The rectangular granite setts, similar to cobblestones except for the uniform shape, led her to Edinburgh Castle at the top, and Holyrood Palace, once a home of the tragic figure Mary, Queen of Scots, at the bottom. It was a suitable place for Jessie – amongst the famous Kings and Queens of Scotland, now long dead, she felt appropriately humbled.
She wasn’t brave enough to drive in Scotland, with the steering wheel on “an unnatural side of the vehicle”. She wanted to be able to walk to most locations, and so she did, day after day, a tiny blip in the many hundreds of tourists who visited the city each day. The Edinburgh Fringe Festival had wrapped up a few weeks before her autumn arrival, but there were still a number of artists congregating each night in the local dining establishments and pubs. Although Jessie was not interested in making friends, like is always drawn to like, and so she found herself hanging out where musicians gathered. Her dad’s Gibson remained staunchly at home most nights. She played it in the flat throughout each day but she didn’t want to risk taking it out at night. Instead, she was usually a cautious lonely observer who didn’t go back to the same pub twice in a row if anyone attempted to draw her into conversation.
Jessie was also initially careful about her consumption of alcohol and weed. She flatly refused to regularly go down that road in order to drown her sorrows – there were enough broken souls in the world that relied on chemical sources to dull their pain. Yet there were times when the hurt was too great and she succumbed; and so despite her good intentions, beer and weed became a steadily increasing habit. The thing about loneliness and loss is that sometimes it catches up to people. Other than staying in bed each morning, which was what Jessie’s mother did after the loss of her life’s love, sometimes the only option was to feed the ache.
It had been a long year trying to outrun her past. Now it was time to rest.
One Friday night as the sun was sinking into its pink-tinged orange-glowed slumber, Jessie wandered into a homey local pub with low ceilings. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting she exhaled with pleasure at the cozy décor. Plum-colored cushioned bench seats surrounded dark wood tables pockmarked with cigarette burns and ancient scratches. She dropped into one such booth and ordered a pint of Guinness, pausing to recall the night she and Josh had finally admitted their love for each other. They had started that dreamy night at Liam’s Irish Pub in the Kitsilano neighborhood of Vancouver with Kayla and her new boyfriend Paul. Frowning sorrowfully, the memory still raw, Jessie finger-drew a smiley face in the heady foam of her beer and then stared at it for a moment before lifting and sampling the heavy drink.
“That should be classified as a meal,” came a voice from her left side as a shadow fell over the Guinness.
Peeking to her left Jessie spied faded jeans with holes in the knees, tattered navy blue Converse Chucks, a brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows, and a guitar slung upside down over a lean shoulder. Steadying the instrument by the neck with his right hand was a slender dark-wavy-haired boy with deep-set brown eyes and thick eyebrows. Jessie jumped when he first spoke, so lost was she in her reverie. Looking up to his face was a second surprise, for the boy’s thoughtful eyes resembled those of the man she left behind in Canada more than a year ago. It hurt her belly to remember.
The voice came again, sincere, moderate and relaxed, like a full leafy tree on a late spring day, as the guy - in his mid-twenties - gestured to the Guinness. “Hope you’re not ordering food to go along with that, or you’re likely to explode.”
Grimacing, Jessie wriggled in her seat and figured she ought to respond. She’d been walking the Royal Mile today, checking out the shops and the quaint closes that veered off the famous street. Her feet were killing her and the beer had just barely arrived. She had no desire to shake this guy off by leaving the pub. Besides, her stomach was signaling its displeasure in her eating habits of late, and was emitting a regular, low growl.
“I did. I ordered bangers and mash.” She challenged him with a stare.
He didn’t waver. “Silly girl.” Then, “American, huh?”
She paused. This was not the first inquiry as to her Nationality. “Canadian. Toronto.” People easily bought that, and generally didn’t inquire further. She’d been to TO enough times that she could easily describe the city or converse with people who had been there, should any questions or discussion arise. She peered up at the boy, who seemed to have no intention of leaving her alone, which annoyed her and set up Jessie’s all-too familiar guard. She frowned, and leaned her elbows on the table, which further upset her since condensation from her glass was puddled where she laid her bare arms. Jessie’s denim jacket lay comfortably discarded on the bench behind her.
“I’m from California. Came over for the Fringe and decided to stay, at least until my passport decides I can’t. Although my boss is trying to help my friend and I extend our paperwork, get a visa, I guess, so who knows?”
Groan, Jessie thought, paperwork. She would be okay for a while. After that, who knew? Maybe she’d have to enlist Arnie’s help again.
Eyeing the guy’s guitar case she thought A singer. Oh yay. Although inside she was secretly thrilled. She missed sharing music talk with others who composed and sang their own songs.
He thrust out his hand. “John Paul. JP, to most.”
She took the hand without hesitating. Truce. She was tired. “J - Annie.” Phew. That was close. It wouldn’t be the last time she would almost slip. Nor was it the first.
John Paul glanced around the small pub and shrugged. Jessie realized he was hinting about sharing her large booth. Oh my. Well, sharing a booth did not mean they would be attached for life, nor did it suggest he would be able to get any closer to her than she allowed anyone else to come. She slid over, dragging her big pint along the table so it left a watery streak on the pockmarked dark wood. She lightened up a little, gesturing towards the guitar as her new friend took it off and set it on the opposite bench seat.
“A Gibson, huh?”
“Yeah,” he grinned, perching his butt a comfortable distance away from Jessie and planting his Chucks on the other cushion. “Best sound ever. Do you play?”
Ha! Understatement, she thought. Not because she was a successful, respected professional, but because she played all day, every day, sometimes. Music was her life. Music was Jessie Wheeler’s soul.
“Yeah, some,” she said, finally smiling.
John Paul ordered a Guinness and a plate of greasy bangers and mash for himself, and then he and Jessie – Annie - passed a comfortable evening chatting about the intricacies of music and songwriting. Surprising even herself, Jessie fell easily into conversation with the dark haired boy who she discovered was twenty-six, unattached, and who in fact did not make his living as a lead singer, but instead played rhythm guitar for a singer songwriter of certain local fame.
He only told Jessie this as they were finishing their second pints, shortly before he and the singer he played with were scheduled to take the small stage in the corner of the pub. They were playing three nights in a row this weekend, and this was night two, so their mics and amps were already set up.
Almost spitting out her beer, Jessie steeled her nerves before asking John Paul whom he played with. She didn’t want to run into anyone she’d met in her previous life as Jessie Wheeler. She could not risk being recognized. At this point, she did not want to go home. In fact, she didn’t know if she would ever want to go home. What was waiting for her there? Deuce McCall, who was likely sitting on his comfy ass somewhere just waiting for her to show up so he could wrap her around his little puppeteer’s finger
again? Stephen, whom she knew, sadly, she had badly hurt? Josh, who was constantly in the rag bags these days with his new girlfriend Michelle on his arm? No. This cozy little pub in Edinburgh would do just fine – for now.
Momentarily, John Paul’s friend wandered over just as JP was starting to wonder where in the hell he was. About five foot eleven, with layered curls of a light ash brown that just touched the top of his shoulders, and the most dazzling expressive blue eyes Jessie had seen in quite some time, he tapped John Paul on the shoulder as he walked by. As her new friend got up to go play, John Paul grinned back at Jessie.
“Think you’ll stay for the set?” he asked as he hoisted up his Gibson.
She thought about it before answering. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe. I mean if you suck, I might not.” The corners of her lips curved upwards in a hesitant smile. It felt good to have a friend, even one she would have to keep at arm’s length.
The waitress walked by then, and John Paul called out to her as she passed. “Keep the Guinness coming, to this girl and to us! The night is young.”
He went off to get set up, and Jessie snuck off to the ladies’ room. Two pints of Guinness and more to come – well, why the hell not? After, she settled back into her bench seat, which John Paul soon coerced her into sharing with some of the boys’ groupies. It was a cheery bunch, and Jessie found herself enjoying their banter immensely, although it hurt to remember another group of friends with similar sensibilities hanging out in Canada without her.
Drifters was over. This Jessie knew from her internet research as well as the occasional rag bags she allowed herself to peruse. At least, the shooting had wrapped a number of months ago, in June. Season three was shot without her, and as a result HBO pulled the plug on a fourth season. However, the little B.C. Gold Rush Western was still airing on television. Jessie caught some of the episodes from the second season, but they were painful to watch. Not only did the whole show become more organic and flow better as the cast and crew really gelled by season two, but also watching herself with Josh on screen was excruciating. She could recall when certain episodes were filmed, what time of year - hell, what she ate for lunch some days. It was too soon, and too close to her heart to allow herself the pleasure of watching Josh on screen anywhere. His films were in the theatres now. She stayed away.
No Greater Love Page 4
