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A Darkness of the Heart Page 11
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At that moment, my phone rang. When I saw Zack’s caller ID, I felt it was a good omen. “Perfect timing,” I said. “Roy and I just decided we needed a lawyer, and here you are.”
“You may want to use another lawyer,” Zack said. “Because I’m obviously non compos mentis. Pete called this morning. He and Maisie are taking the boys to see Santa. He wondered if we wanted to come, and I said we’d be there.”
“Great. So what’s the problem?”
“We’re supposed to meet them at Falconer Shreve Childcare in twenty minutes.”
“Roy and I just finished,” I said. “I can do that.”
“Are you angry that I’ve given you such short notice?”
“Nope. But you understand that Roy and I will be expecting to get the firm’s discount on those papers you’ll be drawing up for us.”
“You’ve got it,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear all about it. See you in twenty.”
I said goodbye to Roy, left Ben Bendure a message, and then headed out the door. Toyland was calling, and there were contracts to be drawn up and signed.
CHAPTER
7
The day Margot Wright became an equity partner at Falconer Shreve, she began pressing for on-site daycare. She was forty-one years old, drop-dead gorgeous, and, according to my husband, the second-best trial lawyer in the province. Margot had no interest in marrying or having children. Her reasons for advocating on-site childcare were philosophic and pragmatic. She believed working mothers and fathers made significant contributions to the companies that employed them and the employers should give them the support they needed. Closer to home, she had seen too many promising young lawyers leave the profession because the demands of a traditional law office made it impossible for them to raise a family while practising law.
Margot was persuasive, and within a year Falconer Shreve had a shiny new childcare centre on the second floor of the building that housed their offices. Time passed, and when Margot Wright Hunter, now a widowed mother of two very young children, returned to work, she knew her daughter and son would be well cared for. Best of all, she knew that Lexi and Kai were only a quick elevator ride away.
That day, when I walked into Falconer Shreve Childcare, Margot was the first person I saw. For two and a half years, her family and ours had lived across the hall from each other in the restored warehouse building she owned on Halifax Street. I had been with Margot on the day her husband died, and I was in the delivery room when both her children were born. We had been with each other through the best of times and the worst of times. Now it seemed we had both finally reached that most desirable and elusive of states, relative equilibrium.
Margot was back at Falconer Shreve, working part-time, which, as Margot was quick to point out, meant eight hours a day, five days a week, and as required on weekends. I’d grown accustomed to seeing her in what she ruefully referred to as the “wash-and-wear/who-gives-a-care” clothes of mums at home with very young children, but that afternoon she was in sleek, stylish, stiletto-wearing lawyer mode. Whatever Margot wore, her smile was always high wattage.
“How was your weekend with your family in Wadena?” I said.
She cocked her head. “I think I had a great time, but it was a blur. My sister kept trying to count all the kids—she has six, my four brothers have four each, and I have three although Declan’s away at university. So there were twenty-four legit cousins, but a lot of the legit cousins brought friends, so the numbers fluctuated. Anyway, a good time was had by all, and bonus, Brock texted me just before I started the drive home and told me that he and his friend were making dinner for us and would help carry all our stuff in from the car and get the kids to bed.”
“Another gold star for Brock,” I said.
“And a big gold star for his friend. Roy Brodnitz actually knows how to cook. He made the best sliders and chopped salad I’ve ever eaten. The kids cleaned their plates, and after dinner Roy promised them that as soon as they had their baths and were in their PJs, he’d show them how to tap dance. Lexi just about leapt into the tub, and as you well know, my daughter has her own ideas about personal hygiene. That man is magic.”
“So you liked Roy?”
“How can you not like a guy who teaches your kids how to do a shuffle? But to answer your question, I liked him very much.” Margot’s smile was mischievous. “Of course, not quite as much as Brock likes him. He is smitten, and Roy is smitten right back. Every time they looked at each other, they blushed.”
“Zephyr Winslow will be pleased,” I said. “She set them up.”
“If Zephyr set them up, she’ll make it happen,” Margot said. “I handle her legal work. She’s a whiz at deal-making.”
“Why do you handle Zephyr’s file?” I said. “You’re a trial lawyer.”
“I’m also a senior partner, and after the horrific event last year, there weren’t many of us left. Zephyr’s a blue-chip client who demands blue-chip representation, so I stepped in. I’ve already said more than I should. Your turn now. I saw Pete with the twins a few minutes ago, but I was running after Lexi, and he was headed to the bathroom to clean up the boys up for their Santa pictures, so we didn’t have a chance to talk. He looked a little overwhelmed. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“Zack and I are backup for Pete and Maisie today. After the boys see Santa, we’ll probably all have lunch.”
Margot groaned. “A visit to Toyland. Yet another blow to Zack’s reputation as the legal community’s Prince of Darkness, and your daughter-in-law is already breathing down his neck.”
I was incredulous. “Maisie? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Maisie is not afraid to get blood on her hands. She has a high-stakes trial on right now. I wouldn’t count on her for the Santa thing, but if she makes it, it’ll be when court recesses for lunch. And I’ll bet you a box of Timbits that when she goes back to the courthouse, Zack goes with her.”
“Is he worried about her case?”
Margot chortled. “Hardly. Maisie’s client may be a dickwad, but he’s smart enough to know he’s got himself a dynamite lawyer. Zack will drop in on Maisie for the same reason other trial lawyers do—she’s scary as hell, and she’s fun to watch.”
“I’d like to see her in action,” I said.
“Let’s find a time when our schedules mesh, and I’ll go with you,” Margot said. Her gaze shifted to a point past my shoulder. “The current Prince of Darkness approaches,” she said.
Zack wheeled over to join us. “Am I interrupting?”
“Nope,” Margot said. “I should get back upstairs. Have fun with Santa, you two. Jo, I’m home tonight. You can drop the Timbits by anytime.”
Zack shot me a questioning look. “What was that about?”
“Predicting your behaviour,” I said. “Now let’s find Pete and our grandsons and hit the road.”
* * *
—
Our excursion to Toyland was a flop. Maisie called while we were still at childcare to say she was running behind and she’d meet us at the mall. Charlie and Colin were dapper in their matching red corduroy overalls and green-and-white checked shirts, but they had resisted attempts to tame their springy copper curls and they looked as if they’d been caught in a wind tunnel. Maisie wasn’t there when we arrived, so we joined the line of parents and kids and kept an anxious eye on the mall entrance.
Toyland was starting to show its age. The gingerbread on the roof of Santa’s Workshop needed a paint job, the giant snowman guarding Santa’s big green chair was wearing a battered ball cap, and the lollipop garlands linking the giant candy canes on Toyland’s lawn had a forlorn droop. The line wasn’t long, and as it shortened, I grew tense. There was only one child between us and Santa when Maisie, breathless and apologetic, arrived. “I made it,” she said. “I am so sorry. I just couldn’t get out of there.”
“Perfect timing,” I said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”
Maisie ran her long, strong fingers through firs
t Charlie’s and then Colin’s hair, and their curls sprang into place.
“How did you know to do that?” I said.
Maisie raked her own copper curls. “Practice,” she said.
The child on Santa’s knee had whispered his list, had his picture taken, been given his toy and candy cane, and was on his way to join his mother, who was huddled with the photographer. It was the turn of the little girl ahead of us, an angelic blonde wearing a poufy, cotton-candy-pink dress. She looked to be about two and half, a dangerous age. When her mother took her by the hand to lead her to Santa, the child shook her off and began to wail. The mother reached for her again, but the child was wily. She threw herself down on the Styrofoam snow and began to kick. The mother and Santa’s elves attempted to calm her, but the little girl had youth and temper on her side, and she was clearly prepared to go the distance.
The twins and I had made some preliminary forays into etiquette. I had been teaching them the old standby I had taught all the children in our family: “Two little magic words that will open any door are these / One little word is ‘Thanks’ and the other little word is ‘Please.’ ” Charlie had been standing by his father, watching with interest as the little blonde’s writhing and keening reached epic proportions. Finally, he decided it was time for action. He took a few steps towards the little girl, pointed at her, and shouted, “Please!” The little girl sat upright, gave Charlie a comradely smile, and bolted for the exit, with her weeping mother in tow.
It was our turn. When the elves helped them onto Santa’s knee, Colin clouded up, Charlie looked grim, and Maisie’s phone buzzed. “I have to go back,” she said. She turned towards the photographer. “Please, just do what you can.” She touched Peter’s arm. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“You were here,” he said. “That’s all that counts.”
Zack gave Pete and me a quick glance. “It seems we’re through with Santa,” he said. “If you don’t need me, I’m going to drop in on Maisie’s trial for a few minutes.”
“We’re fine,” Pete said.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But I owe Margot a box of Timbits.”
When the realization dawned, Zack’s face fell. “Margot bet I’d go back to the courthouse, and you bet I’d stay with you,” he said. “I am a selfish prick.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “Plans go awry. This one did. That’s all. What do you want for dinner?”
“Captain Jack’s is on the way home from Margot’s,” Zack said. “After I drop off the Timbits, I could get fish and chips.”
“You’re in luck,” I said. “I’m grateful that you’re covering my gambling debt and I’m in a grease-and-salt frame of mind. All is forgiven.”
* * *
—
I’d just arrived home and curled up with the dogs, a cup of tea, and C.P. Snow’s The Masters when Ben Bendure returned my call. His voice was deep and melodious, and he always spoke slowly, as if he had carefully considered every word he was about to say. The documentaries he made often raised uncomfortable questions that, even as the film ended, were not answered, but Ben himself was a comforting presence. Portly, bald, and bearded, he was partial to long-pocketed vests, well-worn Oxford cloth shirts, roomy slacks, and stout walking boots—a look more country squire than filmmaker, but it suited him.
Ben and Izaak Levin had frequently occupied the Loves’ guest cottage—separately or, on occasion, together—during our summers at MacLeod Lake. Ben and I had a shared history, and we were always delighted to have a chance to pick up where we left off. After I gave him a quick rundown on what everyone in our family was up to, I told him that Roy Brodnitz was interested in doing a project on the Love family, and I wondered if Roy and I could visit him on a day that worked for him.
Saskatoon is two hundred and sixty kilometres from Regina, but despite the distance, I could feel the chill in Ben’s voice. “I’m not a vain man, Joanne, but I’m proud of The Poison Apple. I respect Roy Brodnitz’s work, but I believe my film about Sally was scrupulous and just. Frankly, I don’t see the point of making another film on a subject that many feel has already been dealt with competently.”
I rushed to reassure him. “You and I both know that The Poison Apple goes well beyond competence. It’s become the gold standard against which other documentaries on artists are measured. Roy’s project is a TV series, and the approach would be fictional.” I took a breath. “Ben, there’s something else. I was hoping we could discuss it face to face, but I’ve gotten off to a bad start, and I don’t want to leave you with the wrong impression. Last Friday, I learned that Des Love is my biological father.”
He didn’t respond. When the silence between us became uncomfortable, I said, “I’m sure this has been a shock for you too. If you have questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“So much time has gone by,” he said. “I’d hoped that particular painful chapter was behind us.”
I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. “You knew?”
“I knew,” he said wearily. “So did Izaak. So did Nina.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I said.
I sounded like a petulant child, but Ben’s response was gentle. “Des wanted to,” he said. “When your father told Des he was sending you to Bishop Lambeth because he felt you’d be safer there than in the house with your mother, Des was adamant about taking you to live with Nina, Sally, and him.”
“Why didn’t he take me?”
“Because your mother convinced your father that giving you up would lead to questions that would destroy her reputation and harm your father professionally. Your father’s refusal to do what was best for you was a bone of contention between Des and him that lasted until Des died. Your father suffered for that afterwards.”
My mind was racing. I couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. Finally, I said, “I guess it really doesn’t make any difference now.”
“Maybe not,” Ben said. “But I can tell from your voice that the news has hurt you. I’d like to see you, Joanne, and I have no plans for Thursday. Come, and bring Roy Brodnitz along. I’m interested in meeting him and in hearing what he has in mind.”
After Ben and I had agreed on a meeting time and said our goodbyes, I texted Roy and told him Ben had agreed to see us Thursday morning at 10:30. Roy texted back a few minutes later to say he’d booked us on a flight to Saskatoon at eight in the morning and a return flight at four in the afternoon, and that our family was invited to a dinner Gabe and Ainsley were holding for Rosamond Burke on Saturday evening.
Father Gary Ariano said he would welcome a visit Thursday afternoon because he was always pleased to talk about Sally and he’d read the reviews of The Happiest Girl and was eager to meet the playwright. My dance card was filling rapidly.
* * *
—
When Taylor bounced in at half past four, I was back on the couch with a fresh pot of tea, The Masters, and the dogs on the floor beside me. Our daughter stepped carefully over Esme and then Pantera and perched at the end of the couch. As she always seemed to be these days, she was breathless. “Just going to change into something more artsy,” she said. “Vale has an interview scheduled with this online arts magazine from New York, Nexus. They’re doing a big piece on Rosamond Burke, and she suggested they talk to Vale and to me too.”
“About Rosamond?”
Taylor shook her head. “About us.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “You and Vale both started your careers when you were young and you’re both successful.”
Taylor was thoughtful. “That’s true,” she said. “But there are differences. Theatre is collaborative. Vale’s work has always been connected to what other people do—not just actors, but playwrights, directors, producers, set and costume designers, tech people, her own manager. She needs other people for her work.”
I smiled. “And you don’t need anybody,” I said.
Taylor rubbed my foot. “I need all kinds of people, but you’re ri
ght, not for my work. Darrell’s gallery sells my paintings, and Dad and I oversee the business with Corydon, but apart from that it’s just me in the studio.”
“And you prefer working alone?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” Taylor said. She stood and stretched. “But that question might come up in the Nexus interview, so I guess I’d better figure out an answer. Vale’s been doing interviews all her life, but I haven’t and I don’t want to look like a dork. And something else…do you have any idea where that red coat of mine with the black belt is?”
“The one you loved so much you couldn’t give away even after you outgrew it?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s in a garment bag on a clothing rack in the utility room. Every time I asked about giving it away, you said you were waiting until you found someone who would love it as much as you did.”
Taylor grimaced. “Now that is dorky.”
“I always thought it was kind of sweet,” I said. “Like something in a fairy tale.”
“Well, I’ve finally found someone I want to give it to. Her name is Lizzie. I met her through Vale, and at times Lizzie does seem like a girl from a fairy tale. I just hope I can convince her to keep the coat and wear it.”
“It’s a beautiful coat,” I said. “Why wouldn’t she wear it?”
Taylor frowned. “Lizzie has issues,” she said. “Not bad ones. She’s just…I don’t know…she’s just different. Anyway, she can’t bear to see anyone unhappy.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” I said. “You were like that when you were little. You’d start to cry if you saw someone else cry. You wanted everyone to be happy all the time.”
“And you told me I couldn’t kiss away every hurt and dry every tear,” Taylor said. “You said I should always do my best to help, but I couldn’t take care of the whole world. Lizzie doesn’t understand that, but she’s my age, Jo. She gives everything she has to other street people, and she doesn’t take care of herself. She’s still wearing a summer windbreaker. Vale tried giving her money to get something warmer, but of course, Lizzie gave the money away. We’re hoping if I give her this coat, she might wear it.”