and all those good intentions could end up in such misery.”
“Why do you think they never told Abby that she was adopted?”
Alwyn sipped her tea. “My guess is that they simply wanted to believe she was their own flesh and blood. In retrospect, the charade they played out about how much she was like them is poignant. They were always talking about how they could see one another in her, but she bore no resemblance to either of them. Peggy and Hugh were both strawberry blondes, grey-eyed with high colour. Abby had that tangle of wiry black curls; her skin was pale, like Delia’s, and she had those same piercing blue eyes.”
“Abby’s father doesn’t appear to have made much of a genetic contribution.”
“Who is he?”
“No one knows.”
Alwyn shot me a sharp look. “Including Delia Wainberg?”
“Her story is that she was articling in Ottawa – working crazy hours – and she had a series of casual liaisons.”
“Is she the kind of woman to have casual sex?”
“No,” I said. “She isn’t. Delia’s one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met.” A pair of black-capped chickadees landed on the bird feeder. “Even on a wet day, chickadees seem cheerful,” I said.
“You’d be cheerful too if you’d hidden seeds all over the backyard. My bird books tell me that chickadees can remember literally thousands of hiding places.” Alwyn peered out the window as if to test her observation. “I can’t even remember where I left my glasses. May I warm your cup?”
“No, I should get going.”
“Take your husband some Christmas cake – remember what our grandmothers used to say, ‘Feed a cold; starve a fever.’ ”
“Zack has both, but he’ll appreciate the thought.”
Alwyn sliced and wrapped the cake. Then she reached into her knitting bag, pulled out a DVD and a greeting card, and handed both to me. “The DVD of the memorial service is for Delia, but the card is for Jacob,” she said. “It was the Michaelses’ holiday greeting last year.” The red holiday frame was snowflake-spangled, but the photograph it surrounded was of a family enjoying a summer day: Nadine and Abby, wearing ball caps, shorts, and T-shirts, standing between Hugh and Peggy Michaels. Peggy’s straw hat shaded her face and she was squinting against the smoke curling from her cigarette; Hugh was in his three-piece suit, his small self-mocking grin fixed as firmly as his four-in-hand tie.
Alwyn handed the card to me. “At some point, Jacob might want to know about his mother,” she said.
I thought about Taylor. I dropped the card in my purse. “He will,” I said. “And when the time comes, he’ll be grateful for this. You’re a good soul, Alwyn.”
We embraced and promised to stay in touch, and then I started back to the hotel. When I passed Our Lady of Mercy, I remembered how Nadine’s eyes had shone and how her face, washed clean of guilt and misery, had seemed suddenly young again.
A question flicked at my consciousness. It had to do with perspective.
Zack and Delia were working on the assumption that Abby’s final irrational actions had been driven by a revelation about her life partner. But the comforting words Father Quines offered to Nadine opened another possibility. Perhaps Abby had changed her will not because she believed that Nadine was unfit but because she had stumbled upon a fact that convinced her that Jacob was Delia’s responsibility. That prospect carried a dark coda: whatever Abby discovered had been devastating enough to destroy not only Abby Michaels’s faith in God but in herself.
CHAPTER 9
Howling winds and horizontally blowing snow met our plane when it landed in Regina Sunday night. Noah was there to pick up Delia, but he had parked their car at our house and driven ours to a waiting area outside to minimize the distance Zack had to push his chair. I was grateful for that and, as always, for the fact that we lived so close to the airport.
The kids had shovelled the driveway, so the pavement to the garage was clear. Declan Hunter’s Acura was parked out front; so was Pete’s old beater. When we walked into the kitchen, the phone was ringing, and jazz that was live, loud, and surprisingly solid was soaring in the family room. The dogs heard us and bounded into the kitchen. Pantera leaped on Zack, knocking over his wheelchair. Willie gave me a cursory sniff and slunk away, sulking because I’d abandoned him. In an hour he would forget my betrayal and assume his habitual place by my side. We were home.
Pete helped Zack back into his chair and went out to get our bags, and Zack and I headed to the family room. Taylor was sitting cross-legged on the couch with her sketchbook, Bruce and Benny curled up beside her, and Declan and his trio were wailing. When they spotted us, the music stopped, and Taylor jumped to her feet. “I didn’t hear you,” she said. “I’m sorry. We could have helped bring in your stuff.” She hugged us both and waved towards the musicians. “Declan’s band came over to jam. There was nobody here but Pete, and he didn’t mind.”
Declan put down his guitar and moved close to Taylor. His stance was protective. If she was in trouble with her parents, he was beside her – gold-star behaviour in my books. “I’m sorry if this is a problem,” he said.
Zack grinned. “My only problem is that you’re not inviting me to sit in.”
“Consider yourself in,” Declan said. He gestured towards the trumpet player, an intense young man with a shaved head. “This is Nigel Fleming.”
“I recognize you from the symphony,” Zack said. “Nice to meet you.”
Declan pointed to the drummer. “And this is Natty-bedhead.” Natty greeted us with a lick on the drums and a dazzling smile. “You really want to sit in?” he asked Zack.
“One number,” Zack said.
“Blues in F,” Declan said, picking up his guitar.
Zack moved over to the Steinway. He had slept during most of the flight to Regina. He’d awakened feeling tired, but I could see the life come back into him as he began to play. After six or seven minutes, I could also see the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beading on his forehead. When the music faded, I stepped in.
“That was terrific,” I said. “But the piano player needs to hit the sack. He came home with the flu.”
Surprisingly, Zack didn’t resist. He called out a casual “later” to the band and wheeled towards the hall that led to our bedroom. The boys took this as a cue to call it a day and had just begun packing up their instruments when Declan’s cell rang. He waved as we left, but his face was grave.
Zack was undressing and I was turning down the bed when there was a knock on our bedroom door. Declan and Taylor were there, hands linked.
Our daughter spoke first. “Dad, I know you’re feeling rotten, but we need help. Declan’s mother’s in trouble.”
Declan and Taylor exchanged a quick look. It was clear they had decided beforehand on how they would present this problem, and it was Declan’s turn to take the lead. His tone was matter-of-fact. “My mother thinks she hit someone with her car.” Declan lowered his gaze. “She’s been drinking, so who knows what really happened.”
Zack started rebuttoning his shirt. “Is she at the police station?”
“She says she’s at home.”
“Jesus Christ,” Zack said. “Not a hit-and-run?”
Declan’s laugh was short and derisive. “No, she never does anything that normal. Apparently, my mother brought the man she hit home with her. I guess he’s sitting in the living room. My dad’s in Houston. I was going to call Noah Wainberg. He spends a lot of time with my mother, but Taylor thinks we need you.”
“Taylor’s right,” Zack said, and he looked hard at me. The weather was wretched, he was sick, and our city was full of lawyers who, in that stunning phrase from Deuteronomy, would “circumcise their hearts” to handle a file for Leland Hunter. Zack knew all this, and none of it mattered. He wanted the case.
“At least let me drive you,” I said.
Zack hacked. “Thank you, Ms. Shreve. I could use help tonight. Okay, Declan, why don’t you go through your