The Endless Knot (5 page)

My first impulse had been to pack up and allow Chris’s friends to grieve in private, but Zack Shreve urged me to stay, reasoning that his partners and their families needed to attach themselves to what, from now on, would pass as normal life. It was a sensible offer that turned out to benefit us all. During the month of August, the partners worked from the lake, going into the city only when professional demands made trips necessary. Most nights, we ate together; most days, in one combination or another, we came together for a walk, a swim, a bike ride, or a tennis game. Suddenly, there were many holes in the Falconer Shreve family, and my grown kids with their competitiveness, their bruising sibling humour, and their obvious love for one another smoothed over some bad moments. But the real joy had been my granddaughters. Wearing their flip-flops, bright bathing suits, and flowery sun hats, they solemnly dug holes in the sand and when the waves filled the holes with water, they dug again, reminding us all that, like it or not, life goes on.

August was a transforming month for Zack and me too. We had been drawn together by the heady mix of a hot summer night and powerful sexual attraction, but by the time the first leaves turned, we were not just lovers but friends. The deepening of our relationship surprised us both; so did the fact that Zack, who had always been a loner, gravitated towards my family and liked what he found. His relationship with Taylor and my grown sons was easy and uncomplicated; his relationship with Mieka less so, but he won my granddaughters’ hearts and they won his. His wheelchair was an impediment to keeping up with an active three-year-old and a ten-month-old who could scurry across the sand like a crab, but Zack had an actor’s voice, full timbered, rich, and strong, and he brought genuine feeling to the story of “The Pigeon and the Hot Dog” that was one of Maddy’s summer favourites. She never tired of hearing Zack repeat the Pigeon’s description of a hot dog as being “a celebration in a bun.” Neither did I.

Zack had been so absorbed by his work that this was the first time we’d all be at the lake together since Labour Day. It would, in a very real sense, be a family reunion, and as I drove past fields brilliant with the palette of a prairie autumn, I felt my heart skip with anticipation. Zack was right. It was going to be a great Thanksgiving.

If the first hours were any indication, the weekend was also going to have its share of surprises. For starters, there was an unexpected guest. When I approached the gate to the road into Lawyers’ Bay, my son Peter’s blue half-ton was parked by the side of the road. Peter was sitting on the tailgate, and so was Howard Dowhanuik’s son, Charlie.

Charlie was a complex man who evoked complex emotions, but as I saw him lazily swinging his legs and blowing smoke-rings from his cigarette, I felt a wash of pleasure. Of all the Dowhanuik children, he was the one who had been closest to Marnie and the one who, except in one chilling particular, most resembled her physically. Charlie had his mother’s clear and penetrating hazel eyes, her finely carved features, and her beautiful wavy hair, but Charlie also had a birthmark that covered half his face like a bloodstain and made strangers avert their eyes.

I rolled down my window. “Perfect timing,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of stuff to unload.”

As soon as he heard my voice, Charlie jumped off the tailgate and came over. “I’ll do whatever it takes to cadge a free weekend,” he said. “This was a last-minute decision. I didn’t have time to call and ask if I could join the party.” His voice, rich and comforting as dark honey, was Charlie’s livelihood. His national radio show – part music, part advice, part riffs on life – was wildly popular with the hotly lusted after fifteen to twenty-five demographic.

I grinned at him. “You can stay, and as soon as I park the car, you can get started.”

“Bring it on,” Charlie said. “I’m thin, but I’m wiry.”

Peter had followed Charlie over. My son gave me a peck on the cheek. “Charlie has promised to behave himself.”

Charlie ground his cigarette into the dirt, then picked up the dead butt and slipped into his jeans’ pocket. “Environmentally responsible,” he said. “Am I off to a good start?”

“Dazzling,” I said.

After I punched in the numbers that opened the gates to the cottages on Lawyers’ Bay, Pete and Charlie hopped into Pete’s truck and followed me in. As soon as we pulled up in front of Zack’s cottage, Willie and the girls were out of the car. When the girls started off, I called them back. “Not so fast,” I said. “The car needs to be unloaded.”

“Let them have fun,” Charlie said. “I can pick up the slack. Truthfully, Jo, I’m glad to be here.” His tone was no longer playful. “I spent most of the afternoon chatting with cops – hard to do a radio show when you’ve got two orangutans in blue uniforms sitting across from you looking bored.”

“What was the problem?” I asked.

“A bomb,” Charlie said.

“At Falconer Shreve,” I said. “I know about it. Why were the police talking to you?”

“I was the one who got the call from the mad bomber.”

I felt a chill. “What did the person who called you say?”

“He or she – I couldn’t tell which, quoted Shakespeare. ‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ ”

“The Merchant of Venice,”
I said.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “I guess whoever made the call didn’t get to the part where Portia talks about the quality of mercy. The cops seem to think the bomb was intended to kill.”

“Did they have any ideas about who it was supposed to kill?”

Charlie and my son exchanged a quick glance.

“Mum’s going to find out sooner or later,” Peter said.

Charlie shrugged. “The bomb exploded in the clients’ room outside Zachary Shreve’s office. Apparently, Zack wasn’t there at the time.”

“He was in the bathroom,” I said.

“Well, he caught a break there,” Charlie said. “Because I guess his office is pretty well toast.”

CHAPTER

3

Zack had been right when he’d said that threats were nothing new in my world. When my husband had been Attorney General, an increased volume of mad-dog phone calls and letters written in crayon was always a tipoff that a full moon was rising. As a member of
Canada Tonight’s
political panel for three years, I’d had my share of attention from the marginal and the delusional. Once, after our panel had sparred over the question of the nation’s place in the forests of the nation, a caller who asserted that Christ would return when the last tree was felled paintballed our house. But the distance between a paintball and a bomb is a big jump, and as Charlie’s words sunk in, I felt the familiar rat-a-tat of fear. The panic was short-lived. My cellphone rang just as I drove through the gate to Lawyers’ Bay. It was Zack, and when I heard his large, warm voice, relief washed over me.

“Great timing,” I said. “I just learned that you’re in the market for a new office.”

“Damn,” he said. “I was hoping that particular piece of information wouldn’t drift your way.”

“Think again,” I said. “This is Regina. Sooner or later everybody finds out everything.”

“And you have already found out that I’m fine.”

“Zack, you could have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t,” he said. “So let’s talk about something else. What’s it like at the lake?”

I tried to match his insouciance. “Gorgeous,” I said. “Not a cloud in the sky and there are leaves everywhere. The lawns look like they’ve been carpeted. The lake’s a little choppy, but we’ll be able to take the boat out.”

“I’ll hold on to that thought,” Zack said. “It might just keep me from driving myself nuts trying to figure out how to win a case that is probably unwinnable.”

“Where’s that famous optimism of yours?”

“I’m still optimistic,” Zack said. “I’m just not sure my optimism is justified. Anyway, as Gawain said, ‘it’s time for fate to take its course.’ ”

“Where did that come from? At lunch you didn’t know who Gawain was.”

“I looked him up on the Internet. Great story. Loved that Green Knight.”

“You amaze me,” I said. “Your office has just been bombed, you’ve got this huge case going on, and you’re playing around on the Internet.”

“It’s a lawyer thing,” Zack said. “I can’t stand people knowing things I don’t know. Anyway, gotta go.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you at the lake.” But it was too late. He was already gone.

During his first hour at Lawyers’ Bay, Charlie Dowhanuik was on his best behaviour. Our family was spread out over three of the five cottages: the place that I’d rented the summer before from Kevin Hynd; the house that the late Chris Altieri’s partners had bought from his estate to use for guests, and Zack’s. That meant that, in addition to unloading the car and getting dinner started, we had to air out three houses, make beds, and distribute more fresh towels than I cared to think about. Charlie’s manic energy was a godsend. By the time Mieka, Greg, and the little girls arrived, the cottages were ready; the big table in Zack’s sunroom was set for dinner; the casseroles I’d brought from home were in the oven, and the burgundy was breathing.

As always, the first few moments with Mieka, Greg, and the granddaughters were chaotic. As soon as she was liberated from her car seat, Maddy streaked for the lake. Quick as cats, Taylor and Isobel streaked after her. Lena, aware she was missing something, squirmed out of her mother’s arms and crawled after her sister. I scooped her up. In her small fist, she was clutching a Cheezie, sodden and half-chewed. I nuzzled her hair. “Who’s the luckiest grandma in the whole world?” I asked, and she rewarded me with a dazzling orange smile.

Mieka reached out to hug me. “It’s nice to have the luckiest grandma close enough for a handoff. I’m bushed.”

“Long week?” I asked.

Mieka sighed. “They’re all long,” she said. Greg put his arm around her shoulders. They were the same height, five-foot-eight. They had been together since they were eighteen, and in those days they had both been pleasantly rounded, but over the years, Mieka had grown very thin, and when I bought my son-in-law the Tilley shorts he was wearing, I’d been careful to order extra-large. On a good day, they made jokes about their reversal of the fates of Jack Spratt and his wife, but today was clearly not a good day. They both looked careworn.

Greg filled his lungs with pungent lake air and exhaled with a sigh. “It’s good to be away from the city,” he said.

“Problems with the business?” I asked.

“Nope. It’s thriving,” Greg said. He’d been a stockbroker, but when Mieka’s catering business took off, he’d quit to manage their company. “Your daughter has a knack for knowing what people want to eat. We’re getting a lot of corporate work, which is great, but we need to expand.”

Mieka shrugged off his embrace. “Can we talk about this later … please?” She read the worry on my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s no big deal.”

“Anything that affects you is a big deal,” I said. “Why don’t I take Willie and Lena down to the lake and give you two a chance to settle in?”

“Thanks,” Greg said. “We could use a few minutes alone.”

“Take all the time you need,” I said. “There’s wine on the counter, beer in the refrigerator, and fresh sheets on the bed. We’ll be eating around six-thirty.” I tightened my hold on Lena. “Ready for an adventure, little girl?”

Charlie seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Little girls are always ready for an adventure. Right, Mieka?” He had changed T-shirts. The new one was black, with the words
I Leave Bite Marks
written in spidery script across his thin chest. He took my daughter’s hand in his. “You and your husband can have a glass of wine together any night,” he said. “I’m a limited-time offer.” With that, he dragged my daughter, laughing but not protesting, towards the tip of the bay’s northern headland.

Greg shook his head in amazement. “Charlie still sucks up all the oxygen, doesn’t he?” He shrugged. “I may not be charismatic, but I am reliable. I’ll get us unpacked.”

I touched his arm. “Mieka did look as if she could use a little fun,” I said.

“Agreed,” Greg said. “I just wish she was having fun with me.”

Shorelines offer infinite possibilities for discovery and, after Taylor and Isobel left to explore the changes at the lake since Labour Day, my granddaughters and I puttered, oblivious to everything except the fascinating things that happened when we poked our sticks into the sand at the edge of the water. Good times, but we live on the forty-ninth parallel, and dusk comes early in October. When the last rays of the sun stopped reaching us, we wiped the sand from our hands and went back for dinner.

We were eating at Zack’s because his kitchen was the best equipped and his sunroom had a spectacular view of the lake. A mahogany partners’ table with fourteen matching chairs dominated the room. Outsized, ornate, and out of fashion, the set had gone cheap at a country auction. In its daytime life, the dark expanse of shining mahogany conjured up images of anxious heirs gathered for the reading of a wealthy relative’s last will and testament, but at night, set for dinner and warmed by candlelight, the table was welcoming.

I’d made beef bourguignon, a dish that was one of my son-in-law’s favourites. As the lid was removed from the yellow enamelled cast-iron casserole Greg and Mieka had given me for my last birthday, the aroma of beef and wine and mushrooms drifted towards us, drawing us together to dip baguette into rich winy sauce, drink a good but not great burgundy, and exchange news of our lives.

Our talk that night was light-hearted and punctuated by laughter. Just as we sat down to eat, Angus called to say he and Leah had arrived safely in New York and that Slava had scored tickets for the Yankee game the next day. The seats Slava got were right over the dugout, and, as she often did, Mieka led the discussion about how Angus had been born with horseshoes up his ass. Pete, who was seldom the centre of attention, had some funny stories about his adventures opening a vet clinic in the inner city, and Isobel Wainberg was rapt.

“I’d like to be a vet too,” she said. “Only I’d like to work in East Africa with elephants and water buffalo and lions and leopards and rhinos.”

Mieka smiled at Isobel. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a caterer. Boring, huh?”

Charlie swooped. “There’s nothing boring about you. I remember when you wanted to be Laurie in the Partridge family, rockin’ and rollin’ across the country in a Day-Glo bus, thumping a keyboard and singing backup for your brother and me.”

“That’s what I wanted when I was six,” Mieka said.

“Being six is a state of mind,” Charlie said. “I’m still rockin’ and rollin’. I have groupies. I get fan mail. I just don’t have a Laurie Partridge, with braces on her teeth, thumping the keyboard and singing backup.” Charlie turned to my daughter with an intensity that suggested the comments were no longer a joke. “The job’s open, Mieka. Interested?”

The charge that passed between Charlie to Mieka was too powerful to ignore. It had to be short-circuited or redirected. “I have some news,” I said. “I had a call from
Canada Tonight
. They want me to do a nightly report on the Sam Parker trial.”

“Cool,” Taylor said.

“Better than cool,” Charlie said. “We can be co-conspirators, Joanne, subtly convincing the Canadian public that Sam Parker deserves to be a free man.”

“I thought journalists were supposed to be objective,” Greg said.

Charlie looked at him coldly. “Nobody’s objective. Emily Dickinson says, ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant.’ In this case, slant is justified. Sam Parker’s a hero.”

“A hero who shot a woman while she was sitting in her backyard.” Greg’s tone was caustic.

Charlie’s eyes flashed. “The woman in question deserved to be shot.”

Her radar vibrating to unfamiliar tensions, Maddy’s gaze moved from the noodles and slivers of beef on her plate to her father and Charlie.

Greg gave Charlie a warning look. “Time to change the subject.”

Charlie gave him a mock salute. “Right-o,” he said. He turned to the rest of us. “You heard the man. Party’s over.” He began picking up plates.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Pete said.

“And I’ll get dessert,” Mieka said.

Greg watched them disappear into the kitchen and sighed. “Sorry, Jo, I didn’t mean to ruin the dinner.”

“Dinner’s not ruined, just temporarily derailed. And I was the one who brought up the Sam Parker trial. No matter what we say or don’t say, it’s going to be the elephant in the living room this weekend – especially with Charlie here.”

Greg ran a hand through his crewcut. “Every time I see Charlie, I’m glad we live in different cities.”

“I’ll try to run interference for you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m a big boy. So is Charlie. Someone should tell him that his act is getting a little stale. ‘Look at me. See what I’ve done. Guess what I’m going to do next?’ ” Greg shook his head in disgust. “We don’t let our girls behave like that.”

“Does Mieka share your opinion of Charlie?”

“Are you kidding? She and Pete and Charlie have this primal loyalty thing going. It goes back to when they were kids. There are months when they don’t connect at all, then one of them gets a problem and they’re joined at the navel.”

“Who’s the one with the problem now?” I asked.

Greg’s face tightened, then he looked past me and the tension disappeared. “Not Lena,” he said softly. “She appears to have packed it in for the day.” He reached over and removed his sleeping daughter from the high chair.

Mieka came in from the kitchen carrying a tray with apple pie, ice cream, and dessert plates. Charlie was behind her with the coffee. I reached for my granddaughter. “I’ll take the baby, Greg,” I said. “You stay here with the others and have your dessert.”

Mieka glanced at her husband. “You stay,” she said. “You love apple pie. I’ll go with Mum. Madeleine looks like she’s flagging too.” She leaned over and picked up her daughter. “Time for bed, short stuff.”

I patted Willie’s flank. “Better get a move on,” I said. “This is a tough crowd. Nobody here is going to let you lick the bowl.”

The night was cool, still, and star-lit – and there was a bonus. “Madeleine, look at the sky,” I said. “That’s a harvest moon.”

“Goodnight, moon,” she said. Then, unbidden, she began to pipe the words with which three generations of children, including my own, had been lulled to sleep. As Maddy told the story of the small rabbit who prolonged his bedtime by saying goodnight to everything in his great green room, Mieka and I slowed our pace. Even Willie waited without complaint. Maddy didn’t miss a word. When she was through, I caught my daughter’s gaze.

“This is as good as it gets,” I said.

“I know,” Mieka said, and there was a catch in her voice. “You don’t need to beat me over the head with your motherly subtlety. I know I’m lucky: two healthy kids, a kind husband; a family who loves me. I’m just tired and PMSing and I’m thirty-one years old and I have to figure a few things out.”

“And Charlie’s helping.”

“He’s a good listener,” Mieka said. “He doesn’t jump in to tell me I should be grateful that my cup’s full, when I know it’s overflowing.”

“The way I just did,” I said.

“You meant well,” Mieka said.

“Don’t put that on my gravestone,” I said.

I juggled Lena so I could open the door to the cottage. Unlike the rest of the summer homes at Lawyers’ Bay, the cottage where Mieka and Greg were staying was a real cottage: shabby, comfortable, and filled with photographs and memorabilia from decades of happy summers. It smelled the way a cottage should – of wood smoke and the fishy-weedy odour that works its way into bathing suits and beach towels and never comes out no matter how much time they spend airing on the line.

Greg had turned down the girls’ beds and left their pyjamas on their pillows: Madeleine’s were pink fleece with cupcakes and lollipops, and Lena’s were mauve with a pattern of hearts. I shoehorned Lena into her pyjamas and Mieka took Madeleine to the bathroom. In a few minutes they were back. “Smell my breath,” Madeleine said. “We got princess toothpaste.”