“That she was a girl?” I said. “She says she always knew.”
“But she tried to be what her parents wanted her to be,” Taylor said. “She tried and it just didn’t work.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happened.”
At that point, Willie was stricken with anxiety by the sight of a passing semi and began barking. By the time the girls calmed him, their attention had drifted to other matters. Lulled by their soft whispers and muted laughter, I gave myself over to the pleasures of driving to the cottage at Lawyers’ Bay along a road I had driven a dozen times in the hazy heat of the summer just past.
It had been a pivotal summer for us all. As they had every year since law school, the partners of Falconer, Shreve, Altieri, and Wainberg had gathered at the lake for a Canada Day party. I had rented the cottage of a friend who had once been a Falconer Shreve partner, and my plans were simple: I would dedicate July to reading fat novels in a hammock, eating ice cream, and getting in some serious beach and tennis time with Taylor, and with Angus and his girlfriend, Leah Drache, who had found jobs at the lake. In August, my daughter Mieka and her family would join us and my older son, Peter, who had just bought a vet practice in Regina, would come up on weekends. Idyllic, but as Robbie Burns so famously said, “the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley,” and our plans had been shattered by a tragedy that ripped through the tranquil beauty of Lawyers’ Bay with the primal destructive power of a hurricane. On the Canada Day weekend, Christopher Altieri committed suicide, and his death brought revelations that devastated the partners that had known and loved him since law school.
My first impulse had been to pack up and allow Chris’s friends to grieve in private, but Zack Shreve urged me to stay, reasoning that his partners and their families needed to attach themselves to what, from now on, would pass as normal life. It was a sensible offer that turned out to benefit us all. During the month of August, the partners worked from the lake, going into the city only when professional demands made trips necessary. Most nights, we ate together; most days, in one combination or another, we came together for a walk, a swim, a bike ride, or a tennis game. Suddenly, there were many holes in the Falconer Shreve family, and my grown kids with their competitiveness, their bruising sibling humour, and their obvious love for one another smoothed over some bad moments. But the real joy had been my granddaughters. Wearing their flip-flops, bright bathing suits, and flowery sun hats, they solemnly dug holes in the sand and when the waves filled the holes with water, they dug again, reminding us all that, like it or not, life goes on.
August was a transforming month for Zack and me too. We had been drawn together by the heady mix of a hot summer night and powerful sexual attraction, but by the time the first leaves turned, we were not just lovers but friends. The deepening of our relationship surprised us both; so did the fact that Zack, who had always been a loner, gravitated towards my family and liked what he found. His relationship with Taylor and my grown sons was easy and uncomplicated; his relationship with Mieka less so, but he won my granddaughters’ hearts and they won his. His wheelchair was an impediment to keeping up with an active three-year-old and a ten-month-old who could scurry across the sand like a crab, but Zack had an actor’s voice, full timbered, rich, and strong, and he brought genuine feeling to the story of “The Pigeon and the Hot Dog” that was one of Maddy’s summer favourites. She never tired of hearing Zack repeat the Pigeon’s description of a hot dog as being “a celebration in a bun.” Neither did I.
Zack had been so absorbed by his work that this was the first time we’d all be at the lake together since Labour Day. It would, in a very real sense, be a family reunion, and as I drove past fields brilliant with the palette of a prairie autumn, I felt my heart skip with anticipation. Zack was right. It was going to be a great Thanksgiving.
If the first hours were any indication, the weekend was also going to have its share of surprises. For starters, there was an unexpected guest. When I approached the gate to the road into Lawyers’ Bay, my son Peter’s blue half-ton was parked by the side of the road. Peter was sitting on the tailgate, and so was Howard Dowhanuik’s son, Charlie.
Charlie was a complex man who evoked complex emotions, but as I saw him lazily swinging his legs and blowing smoke-rings from his cigarette, I felt a wash of pleasure. Of all the Dowhanuik children, he was the one who had been closest to Marnie and the one who, except in one chilling particular, most resembled her physically. Charlie had his mother’s clear and penetrating hazel eyes, her finely carved features, and her beautiful wavy hair, but Charlie also had a birthmark that covered half his face like a bloodstain and made strangers avert their eyes.
I rolled down my window. “Perfect timing,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of stuff to unload.”
As soon as he heard my voice, Charlie jumped off the tailgate and came over. “I’ll do whatever it takes to cadge a free weekend,” he said. “This was a last-minute decision. I didn’t have time to call and ask if I could join the party.” His voice, rich and comforting as dark honey, was Charlie’s livelihood. His national radio show – part music, part advice, part riffs on life – was wildly popular with the hotly lusted after fifteen to twenty-five demographic.
I grinned at him. “You can stay, and as soon as I park the car, you can get started.”
“Bring it on,” Charlie said. “I’m thin, but I’m wiry.”
Peter had followed Charlie over. My son gave me a peck on the cheek. “Charlie has promised to behave himself.”
Charlie ground his cigarette into the dirt, then picked up the dead butt and slipped into his jeans’ pocket. “Environmentally responsible,” he said. “Am I off to a good start?”
“Dazzling,” I said.
After I punched in the numbers that opened the gates to the cottages on Lawyers’ Bay, Pete and Charlie hopped into Pete’s truck and followed me in. As soon as we pulled up in front of Zack’s cottage, Willie and the girls were out of the car. When the girls started off, I called them back. “Not so fast,” I said. “The car needs to be unloaded.”
“Let them have fun,” Charlie said. “I can pick up the slack. Truthfully, Jo, I’m glad to be here.” His tone was no longer playful. “I spent most of the afternoon chatting with cops – hard to do a radio show when you’ve got two orangutans in blue uniforms sitting across from you looking bored.”
“What was the problem?” I asked.
“A bomb,” Charlie said.
“At Falconer Shreve,” I said. “I know about it. Why were the police talking to you?”
“I was the one who got the call from the mad bomber.”
I felt a chill. “What did the person who called you say?”
