A Darkness of the Heart Page 4

  “My God. That’s terrible. Hadn’t someone told you beforehand?”

  “Probably someone did,” I said, “and I just didn’t understand. Anyway, for the next thirteen years Bishop Lambeth was my home. The school was eight blocks from our house on Walmer Road. I once overheard a teacher refer to me once as ‘one of those orphans with families.’ That stung.”

  Zack touched my cheek. “Jo, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. A wave of sadness swelled inside me, but I swallowed it down. “I have a great life. No regrets, including my time at Bishop Lambeth. It was a fine school, and given the situation with my parents, it was probably the best place for me. Learning about Des just opened a door I thought I’d closed long ago.”

  A log sputtered and rolled towards the hearth. I rose, took the poker from the fireplace toolset, and pushed the log back into place.

  “Why don’t you come back here, so we can talk some more,” Zack said.

  I curled up on the couch with his arms around me. “This feels good,” I said. “But I don’t have much more to say. One of the things that drew me to you from the moment we met was your refusal to speculate about ‘what ifs.’ ”

  “That’s because speculating about what might have been is pointless. People spend their lives lining up all their dominoes in a pattern they’re certain will get them where they want to go, and when they’re sure everything is in place, Fate comes along and topples the first domino in the line. After that, the sequence continues until everything’s knocked down.”

  “So we start again?” I said.

  “That’s one option,” Zack said. “But if you’re smart, you take a look at where all those fallen dominoes have taken you. Sometimes what you end up with is better than what you planned. Look at me. My plan was to become an ace pitcher for a major league baseball team, but after I was sure I’d lined up all my dominoes, I got hit by a drunk driver on my way home from practice and ended up in a wheelchair. So instead of spending every waking hour perfecting my curveball, I went to law school, discovered law is a kick-ass profession, married you, and adopted Taylor. If I’d hung around after practice that night, or if somebody had taken the drunk’s car keys away and poured him into a cab, I might have ended up with the life I’d planned, and I would have missed out on what we have.”

  It was a nice moment, but when I leaned in to kiss my husband, Pantera emitted a long, curiously mellifluous and potent fart. Zack and I groaned and sprang apart. “Want to reconsider your choice?” I said.

  “Nope,” Zack said. “I’ll stick with what we have, but let’s get out of here while we can still breathe.”

  * * *

  —

  We had decided it would be best if Taylor and I were alone when I told her the news. Zack was in the shower, and Taylor and I were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the pizza we’d ordered for dinner when I relayed the story about Roy Brodnitz’s visit that morning. Like Zack, our daughter listened without question or comment. When I handed her the file, she read the contents carefully, then closed the folder, and looked at me. “There’s no possibility of a mistake, is there?” she said.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Des was my father, so that makes Sally my half-sister and you my niece.”

  Taylor’s smile was ironic. “And your daughter.”

  I laughed. “Right, and after that, it gets complicated, but nothing fundamental has changed.”

  “Except now you and I know that we have the same DNA—or at least some of the same DNA.” Taylor held out her hand and led me to the living room. A painting Sally had given me not long before she died hung over a low, paint-splattered wooden worktable that had been in her last studio.

  Standing so close that our bodies touched, Taylor and I gazed at the painting. “Did I ever tell you about the night Sally delivered this to my house?” I said.

  “Yes, but tell me again,” Taylor said. “I want to hear all the stories about you and Sally and Des again.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, it was bitterly cold. I was in the kitchen working on a lecture for my Political Science 101 class, and suddenly Sally was there with this huge packing case. She ripped it open, propped the painting against the wall, and said, ‘It’s called Perfect Circles. So what do you think?’ ”

  “What did you think?” Taylor said.

  “I didn’t think anything. I was mesmerized,” I said. I gazed at the painting. “I still am.”

  The scene was of a tea party in the clearing down by the water at the Loves’ summer cottage. The picture was suffused with summer light, that soft incandescence that comes when heat turns rain to mist. In the foreground there was a round table covered with a snowy cloth. On either side of the table was a wooden chair painted dark green. Nina Love sat in one of the chairs. The eyelet sundress she wore was the colour of a new fern, and her skin was translucent. The light seemed to come through her flesh the way it does through fine china. She was in profile, and the dark curve of her hair balanced exactly the pale line of her features: yin and yang. Across the table from her sat a girl of fifteen, very tanned in a two-piece bathing suit that did nothing to hide a soft layer of baby fat. The girl’s braided hair was bleached fair by the sun. Her expression as she watched Nina’s graceful hands tilt the Limoges teapot was rapt—and familiar. The girl’s face was my own forty-five years earlier, and it glowed with admiration and love.

  The woman and girl bending towards each other over the luminous white cloth seemed enclosed in a private world. In the distance beyond them, the lake, blue as cobalt, lapped the shore.

  There were other figures in the picture, and I knew them too. Under the water, enclosed in a kind of bubble, were a man and a young girl. I could recall the slope of Desmond Love’s shoulders and the sweep of his daughter’s blond hair as she bent over the fantastic sandcastle they were building together in their own little world under the waves.

  “Even now, when I look at this painting I can feel the heat and the endlessness of those summer days,” I said. “Your mother told me Perfect Circles was the only painting she ever made of Nina. She said Nina was so beautiful she could almost forgive her.”

  “I hardly remember my grandmother,” Taylor said. “But you do, don’t you, Jo?”

  “Nina was the centre of my world,” I said. “Look at the expression on my face in the painting. Sally told me that the one good thing Nina did in her life was to love me. I’ve tried to hang on to that.”

  “Were you able to forget the rest?”

  “You mean forget that she killed your grandfather and your mother and father? No. What Nina did to them was inhuman. But I’ve spent years trying to sort out the evil she did to them from the good she did for me.” I pointed at the canvas with my forefinger and described a circle around Nina and me. “Taylor, if Nina hadn’t given me a place in her perfect circle, I would have been lost. She was a monster, but she saved me.”

  Taylor bent towards the canvas and looked more closely at Nina’s face. “I understand why Sally wanted to paint her—at least once. Nina’s features are flawless, you know. The proportions are exactly right. How could she be so exquisite and so twisted inside?” Taylor shook her head. “There’s so much I don’t understand.”

  “Same here,” I said.

  Taylor put her arm around me and snuggled in. The warmth of her young body was comforting. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room came from the traffic on our street. The air was heavy with the words my daughter and I longed to say to each other, but before we could begin, the doorbell rang. The words would have to remain unsaid. The pizza man was waiting.

  CHAPTER

  3

  The invitation to Celebrating Zephyr had suggested that guests wear “festive attire”—a new dress code category for me, but Google was helpful, directing me to a site that explained the words festive attire gave guests “the go-ahead to have fun and play with their look, especially with their accessories.”

  I’ve never had fun
playing with my look, so I slipped into what the festive attire site referred to as my “Go-To Little Black Dress,” added my favourite Navajo silver and turquoise dangly earrings and bracelet, picked up my black clutch, and turned my attention to Zack.

  His closet door was open and he was staring meditatively at his tie rack. “How formal is this shindig, anyway?” he said.

  “What you’re wearing is fine,” I said. “A charcoal suit and a white shirt is always acceptable, but the invitation called for ‘festive attire.’ You’re supposed to play with your look and have fun with your accessories.”

  Zack made a moue of disbelief, spun his tie rack, and selected a silk tie with a swirl of colours that evoked Scheherazade. He tied it in a Windsor knot, tucked in a matching pocket square, and turned his chair to me. “Good to go?” he said.

  “Dazzling,” I said.

  Taylor always instinctively knew how to dress for an occasion. That night she chose fitted black cigarette pants, a tailored white-silk man-style shirt, hot-pink ankle boots with side zippers and three sets of buckles, and a vintage black-and-white beaded crossbody bag she’d found at a flea market when we were in New York.

  Celebrating Zephyr was being held in Sound Stage 1—at 15,000 square feet, the largest of the three sound stages of the Saskatchewan Film Production Studios on College Avenue. As Zack slowed at the building’s entrance, Taylor pointed to a banner on the building that read, “Welcome, The Happiest Girl!!!”

  “There’s your sign, Dad,” she said.

  Zack glanced at it and beamed. “That never gets old,” he said, and he had every right to be pleased about the banner which had gone up last January. When his term as mayor ended, Zack had not accomplished everything he’d set out to do, but he had resurrected the moribund Saskatchewan Film Production Studios, and that was good news for the city.

  Fifteen years earlier, the fine arts building of the old University of Regina campus had been gutted and reconstructed as a movie and TV studio facility. The production companies came, lured by a lucrative provincial tax credit, a pool of talented people eager to work, and Regina’s relatively low cost of living. For almost a decade, the facility flourished, producing B movies and TV series. But when a new and conservative provincial government was elected, it scrapped the tax credit and the bubble burst. Production companies moved to more fiscally hospitable provinces, and the shining, state-of-the-art Saskatchewan Film Production Studios became a white elephant.

  As mayor, Zack had lobbied aggressively to bring movie making back to the city. When first Caritas, a small production company that had flourished in Regina then decamped, moved back into its old offices, followed in short order by Living Skies, my husband had been one happy guy. The sound stages were once again humming with activity. Film jobs were green and lucrative, and now the provincial government was being pressed to restore the tax credit. The future of the Saskatchewan film industry looked bright.

  Throughout her life, Zephyr Winslow had been a tireless advocate and supporter of the arts. Zephyr’s seventy-fifth birthday and the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of her dance studio coincided, and Roy and Ainsley had come up with the idea for an evening dedicated to celebrating her contributions to the culture of our city, and especially to the lives of her students. When he was mayor, Zack had pressed for something larger and splashier than a private gathering.

  Tonight, after an evening of dazzling performances by dancers from The Happiest Girl, my husband’s successor, Mayor Lydia Mah, would announce that in recognition of Zephyr Winslow’s commitment to creating and sustaining a vibrant cultural life in our city, on the Monday of the May long weekend the Saskatchewan Film Production Studios would be officially renamed the Zephyr Winslow Studios. The occasion would be marked by a city-wide public celebration of the arts: dance, theatre, music, the written word, ceramics, drawing, painting, sculpture, printmaking, design, crafts, photography, filmmaking, architecture, and textile and conceptual art. It was exactly the celebration Zephyr deserved, and we were excited about tonight’s public announcement. As soon as we parked, Taylor jumped out of the car, held out her arms, and twirled in a circle. “This is going to be such a great night,” she said, “and, Jo, knowing you and I are really family just makes everything better.”

  Gabe Vickers met us at the entrance. He greeted us warmly, but his focus was solely on Taylor. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “I wanted to escort you to Sound Stage 1 on your first visit.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” Taylor said. When she gave him her most dazzling dimpled smile, I felt a pang.

  Gabe bowed his head in acknowledgement. His aftershave was distinctive and pleasant—woody, spicy, and fresh. “It’s my pleasure. I know Roy and my wife will be delighted that you’re joining us.”

  “I spent some time with Roy today,” I said. “I’m hoping that when the celebration for Zephyr is over, Ainsley and I can get together.”

  “I’m sure she’d enjoy that too,” Gabe said. “She’s been here since the beginning of November, and between rehearsals and meetings with the artistic designers of the film, Ainsley’s been putting in long hours.”

  “Well tonight will give us a chance to at least welcome her properly,” Zack said. And with that, the four of us set off.

  Our progress to the party was slow. It seemed all who were making their way to the sound stage wanted a word with either Gabe or Zack. I could tell from the set of my husband’s jaw that he was eager to put some distance between Gabe Vickers and us, and when he spotted Nick Kovacs, his poker partner of close to three decades, Zack’s face relaxed.

  Nick was a rough-hewn, large-featured, burly man who had worked at his family’s business, Kovacs Electric, after school and on weekends for as long as he could remember. He earned a diploma in electrical engineering from Saskatchewan Polytechnic, and during the halcyon days of the film industry, Nick had worked closely with lighting designers on films and TV shows. It was a first-rate apprenticeship, and even after the production companies left, Nick continued to learn. Kovacs Electric was now a large and successful company that provided lighting for film, theatre, rock and pop tours, corporate launches, TV, and industrial shows, and Nick was the lighting designer for The Happiest Girl.

  Zack and Nick had spent the previous Wednesday night together with their usual cronies playing Texas Hold’em, but they greeted each other like long-lost brothers.

  Nick had a transforming smile. He was a tough guy but when he smiled, he revealed an endearing sweetness. “I’m so glad the three of you are here to see this. We’re doing the lighting for the show tonight, and you really are in for a terrific evening. Chloe and her aide are already in their seats waiting for the event to start.”

  “I take it Chloe is excited,” I said.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Nick said. “A month ago, she drew a star around this date on her calendar, and the countdown was on. She had so much fun shopping for what to wear. There were two outfits she couldn’t choose between, so we ended up buying them both.”

  Zack grinned. “You’re setting the bar pretty high for the rest of us fathers.”

  “Chloe’s the only child I have,” Nick said. “I do whatever I can to make her as happy as she makes me.”

  “She is happy,” Taylor said. “Every time I see Chloe, she gives me the loveliest smile.”

  “That smile of hers is something special, isn’t it?” Nick said, and the pride in his voice was edged with pain. He glanced at his watch. “Time for me to make tracks. My crew will be wondering where I am.”

  “We’ll pay special attention to the lighting,” I said.

  “Prepare to be impressed,” Nick said. “An anonymous donor, who happens to be front and centre at tonight’s event, poured some serious money into upgrading the equipment in this place. I’m like a kid in Toyland.”

  “The facilities are excellent. So are our crews,” Gabe agreed. “Thanks to the anonymous donor and her extensive network of friends and former studen
ts, this production studio is equipped with the best of everything.”

  “Spread the word,” Zack said. “Film companies are a boon for the city, and—”

  Taylor had heard her father’s spiel many times. As she finished his sentence, her expression was impish. “—they’re good neighbours,” she said.

  We all laughed, but the camaraderie didn’t last. A man, fit and well-dressed but clearly agitated, approached from behind us, grabbed Gabe’s arm, and, oblivious to our presence, began blasting him. “You have to talk to your wife,” he said. “My performance is on a par with that of anyone else in the company. Ainsley has replaced me in tonight’s finale because she says I’m not projecting raw sexuality, that I’m grimacing. My ankle may be injured, but I’ll do what it takes for the show.”

  Gabe’s tone was caustic. “Has your contract been terminated, Shawn?”

  Shawn appeared to be assessing whether Gabe’s words were a threat. He narrowed his eyes and spat out a single-syllable response. “No,” he said.

  Gabe’s lips formed a fraction of a smile. “Then you have no cause for complaint. You’ll receive a paycheque, and as a model for a computer-generated image, there’ll be no need for you to project raw sexuality. Face it, Shawn. You’re getting old.”

  Gabe’s assessment was unkind but accurate. Shawn was clearly a man who took meticulous care of himself, but age was making its inroads. His hair was thinning, and a delicate tracery of wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his mouth and eyes. He fought to control his voice. “I owe everything to Zephyr Winslow,” he said. “Tonight is my chance to honour her.”

  “I doubt if watching you struggle to execute moves you’re no longer capable of performing would make Zephyr’s heart go pitter-pat,” Gabe said. “The decision was Ainsley’s, and I’m not going to ask her to change it.”