A Darkness of the Heart Page 6

  As we were on our way out, we ran into Nick’s daughter, Chloe, and her aide. When she spotted us, Chloe’s face lit up. “Did you see the dancing?”

  “We did,” Zack said.

  “My best was when the girl turned into the bear.” Chloe turned to her aide. “Carly’s best is the last one—the one where they take off their clothes. What was your best?”

  “The same as yours,” I said. “The bears. I liked the way the lights shimmered.”

  Chloe beamed. “My dad did the lights.”

  Delicate-featured with shoulder-length, silky raven hair, Chloe was a beauty. From afar, she appeared as would any healthy fourteen-year-old who had the latest fashionable clothes and haircut, but her too-guileless eyes revealed the heartbreaking truth behind her beauty. As a child, Chloe had been in a car accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury. Nick had been driving the car when they were hit. Krystal Kovacs started divorce proceedings while her daughter was still in the Alberta Children’s Hospital, reputedly the best treatment centre in Canada for children with injuries like Chloe’s. Zack said the alimony Krystal demanded was exorbitant, but Nick never questioned it, nor did he question his fate. He had a child to raise, and he believed she was his blessing.

  As we said goodnight to Chloe and her caregiver, Nick’s daughter beamed at us. “It’s been a great time,” she said.

  Zack and I both smiled, but without the exuberance of youth on our side, we were ready to call it a night.

  * * *

  —

  I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I didn’t awaken until Taylor kissed my forehead. “What time is it?” I said.

  “A little after two.”

  I yawned. “When Broadway babies say goodnight. It’s early in the morning.”

  “That reference blew right by me,” Taylor said.

  “It’s a line from an old song,” I said. “How was your evening?”

  “Transcendent.” Taylor snuggled in.

  “Your hair smells like almond prawns,” I said.

  “It was that kind of night,” Taylor said. I had no idea what she meant, but I was still smiling when I turned over and drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I’m usually the first one up at our house, but Saturday morning when I padded barefoot into the kitchen, it was close to nine-thirty—four hours later than usual for me. Zack was already showered and dressed. “Good morning,” he said. “I fed the dogs, gave them bones from Clancy’s to comfort them for your absence, and they’re out in the snow, burying their bones, digging them up, and burying them again. Taylor is having breakfast downtown with Vale Frazier, and as you can see, breakfast is ready when you are.”

  Zack has perfected the art of breakfast. That morning the coffee was made; the grapefruits were segmented; the porridge was bubbling, and the rye bread was in the toaster. I absorbed the scene. “Have I been declared redundant?” I said.

  “Never.” Zack’s look was searching. “How are you doing?”

  “Still a little off base, but I’m getting my bearings.”

  “Roy’s news was a lot to process,” Zack said.

  “It was,” I agreed. “And I can’t stop thinking about Des. He was a terrific human being in every way. He lived with his arms open. It sounds like a cliché, but Des was always ready to embrace new experiences, new people, new ideas. He welcomed everyone into his life. I don’t remember ever hearing him say a cruel or dismissive word about another person.”

  “A generous spirit like you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m not nearly as open as Des was. I’m more like the father I grew up with—inner walls within inner walls.”

  “Nurture versus nature?” Zack said, and his voice was gentle.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I imagine that particular conundrum is going to be front and centre in my thinking for a while.”

  Zack wheeled closer to me. “How can I help?”

  “Just be there,” I said. “And remind me of Taylor’s twirl in the parking lot last night. Zack, I never realized she was troubled by the idea that there was no blood tie between us. When she said, ‘Knowing we’re really family just makes everything better,’ she was so happy.

  “Mieka, Peter, and Angus never knew either of my parents, so I don’t imagine the disclosure that Desmond Love was their biological grandfather will be a blow. They’ll have questions, of course, but I doubt the news will have much effect on them.”

  “So we should make certain that Mieka, Peter, and Angus realize how much it means for Taylor to know she’s related to them by blood,” Zack said.

  “I am so glad you’re around,” I said.

  “So am I,” Zack said. “So am I.”

  * * *

  —

  After we’d cleared off the breakfast things, we took our coffee to the table overlooking the creek. It was snowing, and the birdfeeder was doing a brisk business.

  “More shovelling,” I said. “But I love the snow.”

  “It is beautiful,” Zack said, but I heard the note of resignation in his voice.

  I touched his hand. “I know snow complicates your life.”

  Zack shrugged. “There are worse complications, and if need be, my Renegade chair is guaranteed to let me ‘blaze my own trail.’ So no more talk of that.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s talk about our daughter’s ‘transcendent’ evening. Did you get any details?”

  Zack put down his mug. “A few,” he said. “Incidentally, our daughter tells me details are now called ‘deets.’ ”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Anyway, the gathering took place at Ainsley and Gabe’s condo. Living Skies has arranged accommodations for the main players in that new building on Broad Street, and Ainsley and Gabe are in a penthouse on the twenty-seventh floor. Apparently, it’s mega cool—tons of floor-to-ceiling windows and a sweet view of the city.”

  “I wonder if Ainsley and Gabe are enjoying their sweet view,” I said. “Did you notice there didn’t seem to be any communication between them last night? That dance program Ainsley directed was brilliant, but Gabe didn’t even watch it. He was over by the entrance talking to a group of other very rude people while the dancers were performing.”

  “Gabe hasn’t exactly won your heart either, has he?” Zack said.

  “He likes to pay for kinky sex, is quick with his fists, and is indifferent to his wife—not my kind of guy. And from what Shawn said last night, Gabe’s sexual proclivities are not secret. I wonder if Ainsley knows.”

  Zack’s sigh was weary. “My guess is that she probably does, but either way, it stinks. If Ainsley knows, that’s a helluva thing to live with. If she doesn’t, she’s in for a nasty surprise sooner or later.” Zack turned his chair so he was closer to the window. “Let’s not waste this shining day on dark thoughts,” he said. “I have more party deets to share. I know you’ve heard about the plethora of almond prawns, but I’ll bet you didn’t know that Roy and Brock’s eyes were locked on each other all night.”

  “Score one for Zephyr,” I said.

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “What Zephyr wants, Zephyr gets.”

  “Did our daughter meet anyone fascinating?”

  “As a matter of fact, she became reacquainted with Vale Frazier,” Zack said. “She and Taylor bundled up and spent much of the evening on one of the balconies looking down at the Christmas lights and talking.”

  “Taylor’s been missing her best friends,” I said. “She and Isobel and Gracie text and Instagram all the time, but it’s not the same.”

  “Apparently, Taylor and Vale really hit it off,” Zack said. “And they got right down to essentials.”

  “Such as…?”

  A program from Zephyr’s tribute was on the table, and Zack slid it across to me. Our daughter’s handwriting was distinctive—vertical, with small letters so neatly formed they looked like printing. I read out loud the words she had written at t
he top of the page: “We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”—Joseph Campbell.

  “I take it Vale has recommended Joseph Campbell’s work to our daughter.”

  “Indeed she has, and if you’d been awake, you too would have gained insights into what comparative mythologies can teach us about human existence.”

  “Good for Vale. I remember how exciting it was to talk about ideas when I was Taylor’s age,” I said. “If the Joseph Campbell recommendation came out of the young women’s bundled-up-on-the-balcony time, Vale must be perceptive. Taylor is in a major transition. She knows where she’s come from, but she doesn’t know the shape her future’s going to take.”

  “Right now,” Zack said, “she needs this time to take a breath.”

  “She does,” I said. “Last year was traumatic for us all, and it hit Taylor hard. Gracie and Isobel both lost parents, and Taylor lost a friend who’d been part of her life since I’d adopted her. But she handled it. She kept her grades up, she was always there for Gracie and Isobel, and she produced some impressive art.”

  “And now she’s looking for answers,” Zack said. “I’m supposed to ask you if we have any books by Joseph Campbell.”

  “We have The Hero with a Thousand Faces,” I said. “I might as well get it while I’m thinking about it.” I kissed the top of his head. “Thanks for breakfast. This was a very nice way to start the day.”

  * * *

  —

  Despite having moved back to our house over a year ago, there were still boxes to unpack, and the Joseph Campbell book was in one of them. Our garage is attached to the house, but it’s never truly warm, so I threw a jacket on over my pyjamas and went out to search.

  I’d just unearthed the book when I heard someone at the front door. Our caller was impatient and when the doorbell continued to ring, I sprinted back into the house to answer to a petite young woman holding a large and unwieldy package.

  She was out of breath. “I apologize for leaning on the doorbell,” she said. “But this was urgent. We do our best to wrap deliveries against the weather, but this plant is a showgirl and she doesn’t like the cold.”

  I held out my arms. “Then by all means let me take her inside,” I said.

  The showgirl was not a lightweight, and when I got to the kitchen, I was relieved to see that the top of the butcher-block table was clear and I could put the plant down. Our gift was a poinsettia, the largest I’d seen outside a public space, and it was a beauty: bushy with dark green foliage and rich burgundy bracts. I opened the card. The note on it was puzzling: “So a kingdom was lost—all for the want of a nail.” Thanks for taking charge. Gabe.

  I was deliberating about where I could move the plant so it would get plenty of light and humidity when Zack wheeled in.

  He eyed my bare feet, pyjamas, and ski jacket. “Damn,” he said. “You had to answer the door. I heard the doorbell, and I tried to get off the phone, but my client just kept rattling away.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. I gestured towards the poinsettia. “Look what we got.”

  Zack whistled. “Spectacular.”

  “It is,” I said, handing him the gift card. “What do you make of this?”

  Zack glanced at the card and laughed softly. “My God, it must be thirty years since I even thought of this, but I still remember every word. Listen and be amazed:

  “For want of a nail the shoe was lost,

  For want of a shoe the horse was lost,

  For want of a horse the knight was lost,

  For want of a knight the battle was lost,

  For want of a battle the kingdom was lost,

  So a kingdom was lost—all for the want of a nail.”

  Still smiling, Zack shook his head at the memory. “This was one of Fred C. Harney’s favourites.”

  “Ah, the famous Fred C. Harney.”

  “Yep, the lawyer I articled with was right about many, many things, including this. He taught me that the failure to anticipate some initially small problem will lead to successively more critical problems and ultimately to an unpalatable outcome. The lesson for a lawyer is simple: “Never ignore what may appear to be an insignificant mistake, because if it’s not caught and dealt with, it can cause you to lose your case.”

  “Well, I think there’s been some kind of a mistake here. The name and address on the delivery were correct, but I’m guessing that Gabe ordered this poinsettia for someone else, and the card got switched with ours. I’ll call the florist to figure out what’s going on.”

  After I read the note on the card, the woman at Gale’s thanked me, said she would phone the other person to whom their shop had delivered a poinsettia that morning, and call back.

  When I stepped out of the shower, Zack met me with a towel. “Gale’s called,” he said. “Our card read, ‘Hoping that unpleasantness didn’t ruin your evening. Looking forward to the next time.’ and it was signed ‘Gabe.’ So, mystery solved.” He gave me a satyr’s smile and wheeled closer. “Do we have time to fool around?”

  “Why not?” I said. “Save me the trouble of getting dressed twice.”

  * * *

  —

  I’ve always found the sentence “Next year Christmas will be different” heartbreaking. In November the year before, reeling from three sudden deaths, we went through the motions of celebrating. We decorated the house, put up a tree, and exchanged gifts, but as Taylor said, it was as if everyone else’s Christmas was in full colour and ours was in black and white.

  Now it was next year, and I was determined that this Christmas would be merry. The outdoor lights were up and ready to blaze; the utility room closet was filling with gifts; and on a day worthy of Currier and Ives, Zack, Taylor, and I were about to drive out to the country to have lunch and choose Christmas trees.

  It was a fine day for a drive. Pristine snow blanketed the fields and tree branches. The air was clear and the sky a sharp cobalt blue. We were having lunch at the farm seventy-five kilometres south of the city where our son Peter, his wife, Maisie, and their fourteen-month-old twin boys, Charlie and Colin, lived. Maisie had grown up on the property and she moved back there with Peter shortly after their wedding. Built before the First World War, the house was solid and beautifully maintained, but it had not been accessible, the rooms were small by twenty-first-century standards, and the only bathroom was on the second floor and had cranky plumbing.

  Change was necessary. A new wing had been added, and with one exception, every room in the house was extensively renovated. Maisie had asked that only the parlour remain untouched. The room contained the twin desks where she and her late sister, Lee, had done homework and the twin pianos where they had practised forty-five minutes a day. So the old parlour, with its starched lace curtains and gleaming, dark formal furniture, sat like a revered dowager among the spacious bright new rooms that made the Crawford Kilbourn house warm, welcoming, and child- and wheelchair-friendly.

  That Saturday as we gathered at the table to enjoy Peter’s company dish, the Barefoot Contessa’s macaroni and cheese, I was struck by how markedly the lives of everyone at the table had changed in the past year. For varying reasons, all of us had let go of the life we planned and accepted the life that waited for us. The deaths of three of Zack’s law partners had been an incalculable personal loss, but the deaths had also created the need for major restructuring at his law firm.

  Our younger son, Angus, had been moved from Regina to the Calgary office of Falconer Shreve Altieri Hynd and Wainberg. His romance with Patsy Choi, a woman of whom we were all very fond, survived the separation. Angus and Patsy had both racked up a lot of frequent flyer points since Angus’s relocation, and she would be joining us for the holidays. Maisie, whose twins were only a month old when the tragedy occurred, had been on maternity leave. Peter was a veterinarian committed to continuing his sister-in-law Lee’s work with heritage poultry and livestock on the Crawford farm, and he and Maisie had planned t
o spend her maternity leave working out the logistics of their new life. Within two days of the deaths, Maisie was back full-time at Falconer Shreve.

  At thirty-five, our daughter Mieka had settled well into the life she had made for herself as the single mother of two daughters—Madeleine, ten, and Lena, nine—and the owner of two small businesses. But Mieka’s life, too, was about to change. She and a man named Charlie Dowhanuik had grown up together. As adults, their lives had, in Charlie’s wry description, “bifurcated only to bifurcate again.” Now the bifurcations had come to an end.

  Charlie was still living in Toronto, but that would change when he came back to Regina in January, and he and Mieka were married. Charlie’s late mother and I had laughingly plotted their marriage when the pair were weeks old and sharing a laundry-basket crib at a political event. I would give anything for Marnie to have lived to see their wedding day, but my happiness was big enough for us both.

  Zack revelled in being a grandfather. When we ate with Peter and Maisie, Zack liked to position himself between the boys’ high chairs so he could chat with them while they ate. That day, Peter and the Barefoot Contessa had not failed us. We all had second helpings of mac and cheese. When Colin and Charlie refused their steamed broccoli, Zack said, “Mmm…my favourite” and dipped his fork in Colin’s bowl and then Charlie’s. The boys watched with interest as their grandfather put the cold, mushy green stuff in his mouth.

  When Zack swallowed, they both laughed, and Charlie said, “Again.” Zack obliged and miraculously the boys picked up their spoons and followed suit. It was clearly a triumph. They had earned dessert, and after Charlie and Colin had picked all the best fruit off the Pavlova Mieka brought, Maisie and I scooped the boys up to get them ready for their naps.

  The twins’ nursery was my favourite room in the house. Painted a warm, lemony yellow, it was spacious with a long, low, built-in window seat that the boys could climb up on to watch the heritage birds that strolled around their backyard and to see, past the fence, the Jersey cattle Peter had chosen to breed because each cow had a distinct personality.