“In the best of all possible worlds, this place would work,” I said.
Zack widened his eyes. “Whatever made you believe this was the best of all possible worlds? Come on, let’s go back to our table and flip that coin. I’m feeling lucky, and I could use another martini.”
Zack won the coin toss, and when his martini came he offered me a sip. When I shook my head, he frowned. “You’re going to be eating, and you won’t be behind the wheel for an hour and a half. I’m sure you could even have a glass of wine with impunity.”
“I’ll stick to mineral water,” I said. “This morning someone with whom I share a surname told me he got into a lot of trouble using that logic.”
“The Ultimate player?”
I nodded.
“So does he need a lawyer?”
“No. He’s in the clear.”
“Good. Then tell me about the game. Am I going to like it?”
“You’ll love it,” I said. “You’re combative by nature. It’s a cross between basketball and football but non- contact, played with a Frisbee. There are two teams, seven players each. In the RUFDC, the teams have to have both women and men.”
“I’m in favour of that,” Zack said. “What’s the RUFDC?”
“The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club,” I said.
“Sounds Trekky.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” I said. “Ultimate is about playing hard and not whining. The object of the game is to score goals. The thrower isn’t allowed to take any steps, so the only way to move the disc is by passing. Any time a pass is incomplete, intercepted, knocked down, or sent out-of-bounds, the opposing team immediately gets possession. You score a goal by passing the disc to a teammate in the end zone of the opposing team.”
“You’ve watched a few games, then?”
“And been in a few,” I said. “Every so often if a team is short a female player, I’m the desperation draft.”
Zack smiled. “That’s flattering.”
“It’s annihilating,” I said. “Those kids are in phenomenal shape. The last time I played, I had to mainline Ben-Gay for a week.”
Our meals came and Zack and I talked of other things – music, travel, past adventures – the stuff of first dates. We both kept an anxious eye on the road outside. No cars came.
“I think the six months you gave the Dohertys may have been optimistic,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Zack said. “If they can’t pay their suppliers they won’t make it till Labour Day.”
“Hard to watch your dream turn to ashes,” I said.
“Isn’t that what dreams do?” Zack said. “Marian and her husband will be tougher next time.”
“And less hopeful and idealistic,” I said. “Disillusionment is a terrible thing. It hardens the heart. I hate to think of that young woman with the sunflowers on her dress turning into a cynic.”
Zack put down his fork. “I hate to think of it, too. That’s why I suggested we come to the Stone House.”
“So Chris was right,” I said. “You’re one of the dreamers. The night of the barbecue he called you Don Quixote.”
“I thought Chris knew me better than that,” Zack said. “I never undertake a quest unless I’m sure I’m going to succeed. And I don’t dream impossible dreams.”
“But you do dream.”
“Everybody dreams. Wise people know when to cut their losses. At one point in my life I wanted to be a baseball player. Obviously, that didn’t work out, so I became a lawyer.”
“It can’t have been that simple,” I said.
“It wasn’t,” Zack said. “But I didn’t have a choice.”
“What happened?”
Zack turned his gaze so that he was looking not at me but at the driveway to the Stone House. “One spring afternoon I was on my way back from ball practice, and a rich drunk ran a light. I was in the middle of the road at the time. I was ten years old. When my mother got the letter from the rich drunk’s insurance company offering her five thousand dollars if she’d sign a full release, she dropped to her knees on our kitchen floor and thanked God for his many blessings. I imagine when my mother hand-delivered the signed release to the insurance company, their lawyers offered up a few prayers of thanksgiving themselves.”
I reached across the table and covered Zack’s hand with mine. The move was instinctive, but Zack was clearly taken aback. He stared at our hands as if they were something apart from us. Then he looked at me hard. “You know how to get a good vibe going, Ms. Kilbourn. Suddenly, I wish that I could spend the whole evening just sitting here holding hands with you.”
“I’d like that too,” I said. “But it’s getting late.”
Zack motioned to Marian for the check, then he leaned towards me. “For the record, I had a great time tonight.”
“For the record,” I said, “the evening’s not over.”
We left the restaurant together but, instead of going straight to the car, Zack moved his chair to the edge of the empty parking lot. I followed him.
“No use putting it off,” I said. “At some point you’re going to have to hand me the keys and slide into the passenger seat.”
“I have absolute confidence in you,” Zack said. “But this view always knocks me out.”
“It is amazing,” I said. I slid my hand along the back of Zack’s chair and touched his shoulder.
He looked up at me. “The good vibes keep on coming,” he said.
“So they do,” I said.
On the highway below us, cars moved purposefully, taking people out to the cottage for the night or into Fort Qu’Appelle for a movie or a meal. But the lake beyond the road was glass, and the hills around us were solid and constant. Even at the crest of the hill where we watched and waited, no wind blew.
“This is such a beautiful part of the country,” Zack said. “Nights like this make you understand the Twenty- third psalm – still waters and green pastures.”
“And the Valley of the Shadow of Death is nowhere to be seen,” I said.
“Do I detect a switching of gears?”
“Yes,” I said. “Chris’s death and all the ugliness that seems to have come in its wake are never far away.”
“Specifically?”
“Some friends of Clare Mackey’s are coming out to Lawyers’ Bay tomorrow night.”
“And their purpose in coming is…?”
“They want the partners at Falconer Shreve to know that they’re not buying the story that Clare left for a better job in Vancouver. They also want you to know they’ve gone to the police about Clare, and they’re doing their own investigation. They’re hoping one of you will talk to them.”
“Quite an agenda,” Zack said. “How come you’re telling me?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
Zack stroked my hand. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Truly, I do.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his car keys. “You’re in the driver’s seat,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club tournament was being played just outside Fort Qu’Appelle on the kind of grassy, low-maintenance field reserved for T-ball or games of pickup. There were benches for the opposing teams, some rudimentary bleachers, and a small playground close enough to the bleachers for a parent to keep one eye on a child swinging on the monkey bars and the other eye on a child rounding the bases. There were also bushes, mosquitoes, blankets, bug spray, and the air of pleasant lassitude that settles on spectators at an outdoor event on an evening in cottage country.
I had given Zack a thumbnail sketch of the rules of Ultimate, but words could not describe the game’s poetry. To watch men and women who were more perfect than they would ever again be in their lives push themselves to their limits in the honeyed golden light of a fading day was to understand what it meant to be young, strong,
