Stain of the Berry (16 page)

I found two Blues in the bar fridge in the living room and joined my very own
Bachelor
contestant on the deck, taking the chair across from his so I could look directly at him. He looked even better in the candlelight, his skin a burnished gold, the strong features of his face falling in and out of flickering shadow.

"Do you want to get more comfortable?" I asked.

He looked startled.

I laughed. "No, I mean the shirt. You must be hot."

He smirked, put down his beer and unbuttoned his cuffs and several front buttons to the centre of his torso. Ripped.

"So how did he make you do this?" I asked after a couple seconds of silence-uncomfortable for him; me, I was having fun.

The face hardened and he shifted his head to one side. "Excuse me?"

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BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...

"Anthony," I said. "How did he get you to do this: sitting outside my house in wait, delivering yourself as my birthday present. He must have something really good on you. Or maybe he promised you a new wardrobe from gatt?"

The man tilted his impressive dimpled chin in an "I'll never tell" fashion and gave me a smile.

"Oh, come on. This can't be any fun for you."

"Maybe it is," he responded, his wonderful deep voice rolling over me like molten molasses over ice cream.

"Okay," I relented. "So you're a man who keeps his secrets. Tell me about yourself. Why might we be right for one another?" It wasn't a question I'd normally ask a date-although, not a bad idea-but this wasn't a normal date and my brain was still a little googly from my trip. I didn't have the energy or inclination to play demure.

His lips twitched with internal mirth; he was looking much more at ease with the situation now. "I think we'd look great together on one of those greeting cards we'd send all our friends and family at Christmastime to wish them a happy holiday but really to show off how perfect our relationship is," he answered, an enigmatic sparkle in his eye.

Swoon.

"So, Mr. Poitras, exactly who are you?"

I thought I saw him stiffen, but then he shrugged and looked out into the darkness of the backyard. He murmured, "Not a very interesting story."

"Oh, I doubt that. Anthony doesn't know uninteresting people. I know by your clothes that you're probably a businessman. Lawyer? Accountant? Am I right?"

He shook his head, letting a strand of dark hair fall attractively over one eye. "No, nothing like that."

I gave him a look telling him I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easy.

"I ah...I'm in security."

"Oh." Most of my experience with security guards was of the eighty-eight-year-old variety who stroll the university campus or man airport parking lot booths. "What do you secure?"

"Valuables."

"You're a bodyguard then?" That would explain the rocking bod.

"In a way."

Not very talkative. I sat silent, a trick I've learned over the years to demand more information without actually seeming demanding.

He fell for it. "My firm arranges security for people who need it for...well, for a variety of reasons."

"You mean like famous people?"

"Like that. And what about you?"

Was I done with him? Apparently so. "I'm sure Anthony has filled you in."

"You're a detective."

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I nodded.

"Are you working on anything interesting right now?"

"Yes, actually. There's this guy I'm investigating. I'm interested in finding out more about him, but he doesn't say much and I don't even have his phone number."

"I should go," Doug said, abruptly rising from his chair, his bulk throwing a dark shadow over me. "It's late."

I got up too, bringing us nose to nose. "Thanks for stopping by," I said, my voice a register lower than normal. I was surprised at my brashness, it wasn't like me-as far as dating-type situations-but there was something about this guy. I was surprised to realize-I wanted him to stay.

"Thanks for the beer."

I looked down and saw he hadn't touched a drop. "You're welcome."

"I'll see you soon." And with that he stepped out of the personal space I usually reserve for myself and special others.

I wordlessly led him back into the house, through to the front foyer and out the front door. On the front landing we stopped and looked at one another. It had been an odd encounter. Neither of us seemed prepared for it. Was this still a silly birthday prank or had something more happened here? This had gone far beyond flamingos on the lawn or a stripper in a cake. But what was it? I didn't know. And by the look on Doug's face, neither did he.

Doug held out his beautiful hand. "It was nice to meet you, M...Russell."

I grasped it and nodded a "likewise."

I watched him make long, purposeful strides down my front walk and out the gate to the street. I still didn't have his phone number.

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For my thirty-fifth birthday party, Errall was supplying the backyard, but the arrangements were all Anthony and Jared. It was supposed to be a wiener roast in homage to my beloved childhood memories.

But a wiener roast Anthony-style. This meant there'd be an open firepit in the centre of Errall's backyard around which the guests would gather, but that was about the end of any resemblance to the smoky, bug-infested, burnt marshmallow, ash tree switch, hickory-flavoured, Kool-Aid-soused events I remember from my childhood.

Waaaaaaay back then, my father would pile my mother, my two siblings, Bill and Joanne, and me into the Fargo quarter ton on sunny Sunday afternoons and haul us to the pasture. The truck would buckle and jump over dirt paths created by years of plodding cow hooves until we'd finally reach our destination, a favourite family spot about a mile or so (not kilometres back then) from the farmstead: it was a secluded grassy meadow between two groves of trees that met at a comely slough filled with tadpoles and leeches and other creatures, endlessly interesting to a curious, young boy like myself. Mom would spread out old blankets, and while we kids drank hi-cal Kool-Aid and busied ourselves making daisy chains or pictures out of clouds, she would pull the makings of a feast from the special-occasion wicker basket. After lunch of tuna or chicken salad sandwiches, chunks of sausage and hard-boiled eggs, seeded grapes, ripe peaches and sweet strawberries and usually finished off with some sticky icinged cake, Dad would haul out the baseball mitts and ball that were black with age and farm living, and the five of us would play catch for what seemed like hours in that sun-dappled field of wild grasses.

It wasn't until the afternoon grew old that it was time for the main event-the wiener roast, the thing that we were really there for. Dad and Bill would build the fire from sticks and lightning-cracked logs that Joanne and I had scrounged from the woods. Mom would pre-butter a dozen hot dog buns and mix together the ingredients for her spectacular homemade potato salad, which she'd kept cool all afternoon by immersing them in the shaded waters of the slough in watertight Tupperware containers. The most fun was finding the wiener roast sticks, the ash and birch switches that had to have just enough heft to hold a wiener aloft above the fire without drooping, yet not be too thick to properly impale the slender pink tubes of mm-mm goodness without splitting them in half.

Dad would have a Pilsner beer-also slough-cooled-while we roasted his wieners and ours. Mom would pour the rest of us tall plastic glasses full of frothy, homemade root beer, her mother's recipe, and hand out paper plates-the only time she ever allowed their use-with healthy dollops of the potato salad already in place. And then, when the wieners were bursting at the seams and dripping their juices into the fire, we'd plop them into waiting buns, squirt ketchup and relish and bright yellow mustard all over them and dine al fresco, prairie style. It was absolutely, excruciatingly glorious.

Moving ahead a quarter century, things had changed considerably. Anthony detested wieners and, despite my protestations to the contrary, refused to believe that I, and every adult the world over, did not as well. To give him credit, I was told (by Jared) that he did try his best to accommodate my childhood experience. He spent significant time researching gourmet wiener options, but alas, finding none which met his high standards, my birthday wiener roast became a pig roast. I'd only seen such a thing in pictures of Hawaiian luaus-a crispy-brown pig, slowly turning on a spit above a fire-but I had no doubt that if Anthony put his mind to it, he'd find a way to duplicate it in Saskatchewan.

In addition to the pig, Anthony insisted on an abundant collection of skewered foods, which in his mind, what with the whole meat on a stick theme, seemed a fine alternative to hot dogs. There'd be marinated shrimp and scallops, spicy beef and smoked porks, plump mushrooms and onions and a wide selection of succulent vegetables in a medley of summer colours. To balance out the menu, tortes and cobblers replaced sticky-icinged cake, and Kool-Aid and root beer and Pilsner were supplanted by Veuve Clicquot and frozen gin served in silver-plated flasks for that authentic out-in-the-woods feeling I so fondly remember.

Also under Anthony's careful tutelage, Errall's backyard was transformed into the Tribal Council area 70 of 163

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from
Survivor.
Just in case the actual outdoors didn't sound real enough, a series of specially burned CD's would fill the air with realistic outdoor sounds. You know how it is with hoot owls, burbling brooks and chirping blue jays, you can never rely on their sense of timing.

"You're not surprised," Errall complained when she opened her front door and caught the look on my face.

"I think you're supposed to wait to say that until you've led me to the backyard and everyone jumps up and yells Happy Birthday," I replied matter-of-factly.

"It was Anthony, wasn't it?" she said, pulling me into the house with her left hand-the other was holding a near empty bottle of Boh. What a lesbian.

"He really thought it was more important that I show up tonight appropriately dressed to entertain guests, rather than in dirt-encrusted jeans and uncombed hair like I usually do when invited for dinner at your house." I was being only half-sarcastic. Unless you've been in a wind storm or something, just how many times a day do you need to comb your hair? "Which, by the way, would have given it away anyhow."

"Whaddaya mean?" she frowned at me.

"You never invite me over for dinner."

"True. He's probably right anyway. You look nice."

Compliments were something new Errall and I were trying out with one another. It usually went better when at least one of us was drinking. I was wearing a pair of black linen, wide-leg panes that reached mid-calf and a loose black, cable-knit, summer-weight sweater with a deep V-neck. She looked good too in a petunia print, sleeveless frock, her dark mane in a sassy bob that swished just below her sharp jaw line, but I decided to keep that to myself until I saw just how fun this party really was.

As we made our way through the house toward my backyard surprise that wasn't a surprise at all, I needn't have fretted, for little did I know that this night would bring me more than my fair share of honest-to-goodness surprises.

When we reached the back door off the kitchen, the unusual silence that only occurs at surprise parties and never in real life was palpable. My smugness at being in on the whole deal was suddenly being replaced by something else, something that was gurgling in my tummy and feeding my brain endorphins.

Was it excitement or trepidation? I wasn't sure. I looked at Errall, waiting for her to make the first move by opening the door.

"There's something I have to tell you before we go out there," Errall whispered breathlessly.

Uhhhh, yeah, I know, surprise party ahead. I gave her one of those "duh" looks.

"Not that, idiot. I have a date with me tonight."

Gulp. Anthony had warned me, but I didn't believe it until now. Errall had had one or two dalliances since her breakup with her long-term partner, Kelly, a couple of years ago, but not with anyone she'd referred to as a "date." What did this mean?

Leaving no time for reaction, Errall placed her slender hand on the doorknob, mouthed the words

"Happy Birthday" to me, and threw open the door to a chorus of screams from the assembled guests revealed. On cue, someone plugged in multiple strings of festive patio lanterns, lit the tiki torches and started the music. I felt the palm of Errall's hand push me into the melee and then she disappeared.

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Although I'd been experiencing some-shall we say, discomfort-about the whole turning thirty-five thing, I have to say, every now and again, having a big ol' birthday party like your mama used to throw you when you were a kid is not to be underrated. For the first several minutes as I took in the collection of familiar, smiling faces, all there to be with me, to celebrate with me, wishing me well, I experienced a gushing fountain of oochy-koochy emotion stuff that I was unprepared for. I hugged and kissed and tickled and giggled and perfected a mock-shock look when asked if I was truly surprised. About half the people bought it. Beverly and Lilly from PWC were there with husbands and kids in tow, Alberta too, with a new beau, a guy who claimed to be training to pilot the first commercial space flight to Mars in 2009-I was guessing he'd already been to the moon-and by day was a librarian. There were Anthony and Jared, Marushka and Mary, a host of other friends, neighbours and even my mother, who'd made the trek from her little farm an hour away to surprise her "Sonsyou" (little son). But there was a glaring empty spot in the crowd, a space that, although she was physically small, seemed immensely huge in her absence.