apologetic smile.
“You just missed Zack,” she said. “He came in to check his messages, then he and his client went back to court.”
“Is it all right if I give Ed the art tour?”
Blake Falconer came out of his office. When he spotted us, he came over. At Zack’s party, Blake had looked careworn, but he seemed restored this morning. He was past fifty, and his reddish gold hair was greying, but he kept it scrub-brush short and his skin was ruddily freckled and youthful. He extended his hand to Ed. “Good to see you again,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk last night, but Ginny Monaghan seemed to be enjoying your company, and we try to keep our clients happy.”
“Very wise,” Ed said. “And luckily, I have no need of a lawyer. I’m just here to see the Falconer Shreve collection.”
“I can take you around,” Blake said. “I know nothing about art, but I’ve been with land developers all morning, I could use a break.”
Blake hadn’t exaggerated when he said he didn’t know anything about art, but as he filled us in on Falconer Shreve’s future plans and pointed out the new pieces, he was thorough if not inspired. That changed when he led us into the boardroom to see the Joe Fafard ceramic group portrait of the founding members of Falconer Shreve. “I must have seen this a hundred times since it arrived, but it gets me every time,” he said and his eyes were moist. “Anyway, that’s us – the way we were the year we graduated from the College of Law.”
I turned to Ed. “They called themselves the Winners’ Circle.”
“Because we were perfect in every way,” Blake said. “Or so we thought.”
“Zack told me that when he was invited to join the Winners’ Circle, he was like a drunk discovering Jesus,” I said. “Dazzled. Born again.”
Ed leaned in to look more closely at the witty figures of the founding five. Fafard had worked from a photograph taken on the day they’d graduated. They were wearing their academic robes: it had been windy and the robes swirled. “My God, Fafard’s good,” Ed said. “You can feel the wind at their backs.” He looked more closely at the young faces. “You can see the hope.”
Ed gazed at the expensively appointed boardroom. “It appears the Winners’ Circle realized its promise.”
Blake shrugged. “Appearance is not reality,” he said. “Let’s go look at the big man’s office.”
“Saving the best till last,” Blake said, but when he tried the door, it was locked. “Shit,” he said. “I should have remembered that Zack has a client who refuses to leave the office until she knows her possessions are safe. I’ll get the key from Norine.”
Francesca’s backpack with her bears was on one of the client chairs. Everything in Zack’s office had the high sheen of money and attention; Francesca’s bears were refugees from a sadder, crueller world. For a time when she was little, Mieka had collected Care Bears. With their cotton-candy-coloured furry bodies and the cartoon portraits proclaiming their identity and their special caring mission on their tummies, these emissaries from the cloud-land of Care-a-Lot had always struck me as too cute by a half. There was nothing cute about Francesca’s bears. Their fur was mildewed, patchy, and filthy; their faces and feet had been eaten away by rot or rats; and most of them were missing eyes or noses.
As he gazed at them, Ed’s face was suffused with pity. “What’s the story there?”
“That’s her treasure,” Blake said thoughtfully. “Zack says when the mayor kicked Francesca’s backpack, she felt as if he was kicking her children.”
“So she was trying to protect them,” Ed said.
“We all do terrible things for love,” Blake said. “At least Francesca still has her bears.”
“Blake, how did Zack end up with her case?” I said. “It’s not the kind of thing he usually handles – it’s not high profile, and I’m guessing it’s not big money.”
Blake’s answer was a beat too quick. “Just doing a favour for a friend,” he said. He took Ed’s arm and led him to the Ernest Lindner watercolour of a moss-covered stump behind Zack’s desk. “Give this one a closer look,” he said. “I didn’t see much here at first, but Joanne got me interested.” He turned to me. “This is called high realism, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Lindner was fascinated by the process of decay and regeneration in the natural world,” Blake said. “At least that’s what Joanne told me.” His smile was bashful, the schoolboy found out showing off, but I wasn’t deflected.
“So who was the friend who got Zack to take on Francesca Pope’s case?” I asked. “One of your developers with a heart of gold?”
Blake averted his eyes. “No. The friend was me.” He glanced at his watch. “God, look at the time. I’ve got a meeting. Have fun.” He kissed my cheek and pressed the key into my hand.
As Blake passed Ed, he patted his shoulder. Then, except for the lingering woody scent of his aftershave, Blake was gone.
“There’s a man living a lie,” Ed said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was surprised. Ed was careful with language and careful with assessments. “Blake’s had his problems, like all of us, but I would say he’s a lucky man.”
Ed’s face was troubled. “Maybe once upon a time,” he said. “Not any more.” Ed pointed to the intricate whorl at the heart of the fallen tree in Lindner’s watercolour. “Look at that,” he said. “Even with trees, destiny unfolds from the heart.”
Unlike Zack, I tend to drift off during trials. As a citizen I’m grateful that the wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine, but as a spectator, I’m aware only that at times they grind exceedingly slow. I knew that the outcome of the Monaghan-Brodnitz custody deliberations would alter the lives of Ginny, Jason, and their daughters, but that afternoon with the sun slanting through the courtroom windows, the air warming, and the lawyers wrangling about procedure and reading the law into the record, I found my eyes growing heavy. The parade of witnesses who marched up to be sworn in did nothing to stir my blood. In their civilian lives, these good people might have been witty and incisive, but the demands of testifying stripped them of individuality and muffled their voices in a thick fog of cliches and buzzwords. As an earnest young social worker who didn’t look old enough to flip burgers explained in jargon-riddled detail the difference between being an enabling parent and an empowering parent, Madam Justice Gorges’s sigh of impatience was audible. I wasn’t surprised when at a little after four, she declared that court was recessed.
The scene that greeted me after Ed dropped me off at home was a familiar one. Taylor and Gracie Falconer were sitting at the kitchen table, deep in conversation, with a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia between them. I liked all of Taylor’s friends, but Gracie was a favourite. Bouncy with mischief and energy, her skin ruddy and sprayed with freckles, Gracie’s sunny exuberance lit up a room. She was fun to have around.
“So what are you two up to?” I said.
Gracie held out her spoon. “Pounding calories,” she said. “I refuse to read what the carton says about the percentage of fat in this, but after basketball, I am so hungry.”
“How’s your team doing?” I asked.
“Great. Of course, we have the miraculous Brodnitz twins to save us from disaster and show us how the game is played. At least that’s what Coach tells us four hundred times a practice.” Gracie dug her spoon viciously into the ice cream and raised her voice. “ ‘Young women, if you’re serious about the game, watch Em and Chloe. They know how to win. They always respond to the challenge. They never give an inch until the final buzzer sounds. They’re fearless. They pay the price without whimpering. They always give 110 per cent because they know no one ever drowned in sweat. And they know how to focus.’ ”
Gracie had a talent for mimicry, and as she ripped through the hoary sports cliches, Taylor chortled. I laughed too. Encouraged, Gracie carried on barking in high coach mode. “ ‘Em and Chloe don’t look to me to tell them what to do. They’ve assumed responsibility for their own games. That’s maturity. That’s what makes a winning athlete.’ ” Gracie pulled her spoon out of the ice cream and licked the fudge meditatively. “The coach totally
“Maybe they just hold everything inside,” Taylor said.
Gracie nodded. “That’s exactly what they do. A couple of weeks ago, I forgot my watch after practice. When I went back to the change room to look for it, Chloe was sitting on the bench crying. She’d taken this really punishing
