North Battleford, but Ethan’s prognosis was a constant source of worry. And, as always with Zack, there were new files: the juiciest involved a government minister who had allegedly harassed, stalked, and then attempted to poison a colleague.
I had my own distractions: writing a mid-sabbatical report on my work, Christmas shopping, sorting through the dozens of invitations to parties Zack and I were expected to attend, deciding if my good black dress could survive what was shaping up to be a punishing social schedule.
Then there was Howard. He had pled guilty to obstruction of justice and been sentenced to a month at the detox centre and two hundred hours of community service. He was working off his sentence at the food bank, and I joined him in the warehouse two afternoons a week to pack Christmas hampers. It was a chilly job, and Howard was never without his scarlet, merry elves toque. When the other workers called him Old Saint Nick, he didn’t seem to mind.
Every night at six o’clock, Zack came home to have dinner with Taylor and me, and afterwards the three of us went over to check out developments at the new house. The renovations were proceeding at a pace that made me wonder if our new home would always be a work-in-progress, but McCudden was unflappable. He assured us that, contrary to appearances, we would be able to move in on January 1, and he spoke with such conviction that we continued to plan as if we would.
Every Sunday, without fail, Zack came to church with Taylor and me. When we had formally asked the dean of our cathedral to marry us, he hadn’t been quick to agree. He suggested that before we discussed the matter further, he and Zack have a talk alone. I didn’t question James’s judgment. I was a known quantity, and Zack was a very large question mark. The two men met several times. When I asked Zack what they’d discussed, he was circumspect. “Mostly, we talked about the kind of person you are and the kind of person I am. Then James asked me if I knew the difference between a contract and a covenant.”
“Did you?”
“Sure. A covenant is a contract made with the heart.”
A week before Christmas, Taylor came back from a shopping expedition with Gracie and Isobel, went to her room, and returned with a package in a gift bag. “Do you think Zack could get this to Ethan?” she asked.
“Zack always seems to find a way,” I said. “Could you tell me what’s in there?”
Taylor looked away. “Drawing pens and a sketchbook.”
When I gave Zack the package, he nodded approvingly. “I’m grateful to Taylor,” he said. “This present takes one name off my Christmas list. And I wasn’t looking forward to trying to find a gift for the kid who has nothing.”
“Is Ethan making any headway?”
“Without revealing too much, my client thinks his life is over. He may be right, but he still has another sixty years to put in on this planet, so he’s going to have to figure something out. Taylor’s present was inspired. I’ll see what else I can find to give him a reason to wake up in the morning.”
My family had always been hidebound traditionalists when it came to Christmas. We always bought the same kind of tree, put it up on the same day, and decorated it with the ornaments we’d used since the kids were little. We always unwrapped one present Christmas Eve and saved stockings and the rest of the gifts until morning. Even the suggestion that we might experiment with the recipe for the Yorkshire pudding we served with the Christmas rolled prime rib was rejected out of hand.
We were a family who found comfort in settling into the old grooves, but that year, for many reasons, the old grooves were no longer a comfortable fit. Mieka and Greg were still together, but they’d come to Regina at the end of November to tell us they were going to give their girls the best Christmas possible, then separate in the New Year. I was heartsick, but I was powerless to change the situation and so I focused on getting us through holidays.
It wasn’t easy. Greg had been at the centre of our festivities for thirteen years. He was the one who made the eggnog, led the carol singing, and shook the sleigh bells outside the window to tell us all that Santa was on his way. Knowing that this would be the last time he would be a part of our traditions would be painful for us all.
Taylor, too, was a concern. When I first broached the subject of moving, she was reluctant. The Regina Avenue house was the only home she could remember, but since the morning of her birthday the bad memories had crowded out the good. When she told me she no longer felt safe at the old house, I realized that Christmas there would be, at best, a mixed experience for her. Finally, there was Zack. He was, as Taylor memorably put it, my big sparkly top banana, but he had played no role in the years of Christmases we had celebrated on Regina Avenue.
It was time to start over, and so we went to the lake. Our decision was a good one. Zack’s partners and their families came out for the holidays too. The weather was cold and bright, and the snow was carol-perfect: deep and crisp and even. We skied, skated, tobogganed, ate too much, and went to bed early. We bought the last tree from a lot in Fort Qu’Appelle. The tree, of uncertain parentage, was frozen solid, and when it thawed, we discovered serious flaws. We strung it with lights that we paid far too much for, turned its bad side to the wall, and decorated it with paper snow-flakes and marshmallows. We all agreed it was the most beautiful tree ever.
Given the circumstances, it was a good Christmas, and there was an unexpected gift. Over the holidays, Pantera found the owner with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Pete and he had tried to make a go of it, but Pantera was too gregarious to spend days cheering up ailing animals at the clinic and too rambunctious to be left alone. Pantera did, however, love Zack, tolerate Taylor and me, and get along surprisingly well with Willie. And so, Zack and I left the lake to begin our life as a family with our daughter, her two cats, and our two dogs.
After Zack and I had announced our engagement, there had been no shortage of suggestions about the kind of wedding Zack and I should have. Angus was persuasive about the delights of a destination wedding – preferably somewhere he and Leah could surf and toss around a Frisbee. The idea of getting married on a beach with the waves splashing against the shore was appealing, but travel was difficult for Zack, so Bali was out. Taylor loved the idea of a formal wedding. When we cleaned out the basement, she unearthed the picture of the wedding gown I’d drawn for
When we told James that we wanted the quietest of weddings, he pointed out that in the Anglican Church, couples can marry during the ordinary morning service. The provision is an old one, a leftover from the days when flushed, apple-cheeked lads and lasses donned their Sunday best, stepped forth during the service to be married, and went back to picking hops or hoeing turnips the next day. The simplicity of the service appealed to us both, and so Zack and I were married during the Cathedral’s 10:30 Eucharist.
