Mieka shrugged off his embrace. “Can we talk about this later … please?” She read the worry on my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s no big deal.”
“Anything that affects you is a big deal,” I said. “Why don’t I take Willie and Lena down to the lake and give you two a chance to settle in?”
“Thanks,” Greg said. “We could use a few minutes alone.”
“Take all the time you need,” I said. “There’s wine on the counter, beer in the refrigerator, and fresh sheets on the bed. We’ll be eating around six-thirty.” I tightened my hold on Lena. “Ready for an adventure, little girl?”
Charlie seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Little girls are always ready for an adventure. Right, Mieka?” He had changed T-shirts. The new one was black, with the words
Greg shook his head in amazement. “Charlie still sucks up all the oxygen, doesn’t he?” He shrugged. “I may not be charismatic, but I am reliable. I’ll get us unpacked.”
I touched his arm. “Mieka did look as if she could use a little fun,” I said.
“Agreed,” Greg said. “I just wish she was having fun with me.”
Shorelines offer infinite possibilities for discovery and, after Taylor and Isobel left to explore the changes at the lake since Labour Day, my granddaughters and I puttered, oblivious to everything except the fascinating things that happened when we poked our sticks into the sand at the edge of the water. Good times, but we live on the forty- ninth parallel, and dusk comes early in October. When the last rays of the sun stopped reaching us, we wiped the sand from our hands and went back for dinner.
We were eating at Zack’s because his kitchen was the best equipped and his sunroom had a spectacular view of the lake. A mahogany partners’ table with fourteen matching chairs dominated the room. Outsized, ornate, and out of fashion, the set had gone cheap at a country auction. In its daytime life, the dark expanse of shining mahogany conjured up images of anxious heirs gathered for the reading of a wealthy relative’s last will and testament, but at night, set for dinner and warmed by candlelight, the table was welcoming.
I’d made beef bourguignon, a dish that was one of my son-in-law’s favourites. As the lid was removed from the yellow enamelled cast-iron casserole Greg and Mieka had given me for my last birthday, the aroma of beef and wine and mushrooms drifted towards us, drawing us together to dip baguette into rich winy sauce, drink a good but not great burgundy, and exchange news of our lives.
Our talk that night was light-hearted and punctuated by laughter. Just as we sat down to eat, Angus called to say he and Leah had arrived safely in New York and that Slava had scored tickets for the Yankee game the next day. The seats Slava got were right over the dugout, and, as she often did, Mieka led the discussion about how Angus had been born with horseshoes up his ass. Pete, who was seldom the centre of attention, had some funny stories about his adventures opening a vet clinic in the inner city, and Isobel Wainberg was rapt.
“I’d like to be a vet too,” she said. “Only I’d like to work in East Africa with elephants and water buffalo and lions and leopards and rhinos.”
Mieka smiled at Isobel. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a caterer. Boring, huh?”
Charlie swooped. “There’s nothing boring about you. I remember when you wanted to be Laurie in the Partridge family, rockin’ and rollin’ across the country in a Day-Glo bus, thumping a keyboard and singing backup for your brother and me.”
“That’s what I wanted when I was six,” Mieka said.
“Being six is a state of mind,” Charlie said. “I’m still rockin’ and rollin’. I have groupies. I get fan mail. I just don’t have a Laurie Partridge, with braces on her teeth, thumping the keyboard and singing backup.” Charlie turned to my daughter with an intensity that suggested the comments were no longer a joke. “The job’s open, Mieka. Interested?”
The charge that passed between Charlie to Mieka was too powerful to ignore. It had to be short-circuited or redirected. “I have some news,” I said. “I had a call from
“Cool,” Taylor said.
“Better than cool,” Charlie said. “We can be co-conspirators, Joanne, subtly convincing the Canadian public that Sam Parker deserves to be a free man.”
“I thought journalists were supposed to be objective,” Greg said.
Charlie looked at him coldly. “Nobody’s objective. Emily Dickinson says, ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant.’ In this case, slant is justified. Sam Parker’s a hero.”
“A hero who shot a woman while she was sitting in her backyard.” Greg’s tone was caustic.
Charlie’s eyes flashed. “The woman in question deserved to be shot.”
Her radar vibrating to unfamiliar tensions, Maddy’s gaze moved from the noodles and slivers of beef on her plate to her father and Charlie.
Greg gave Charlie a warning look. “Time to change the subject.”
Charlie gave him a mock salute. “Right-o,” he said. He turned to the rest of us. “You heard the man. Party’s over.” He began picking up plates.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Pete said.
“And I’ll get dessert,” Mieka said.
Greg watched them disappear into the kitchen and sighed. “Sorry, Jo, I didn’t mean to ruin the dinner.”
“Dinner’s not ruined, just temporarily derailed. And I was the one who brought up the Sam Parker trial. No matter what we say or don’t say, it’s going to be the elephant in the living room this weekend – especially with Charlie here.”
