The Nesting Dolls (19 page)

“Just think,” Zack said, “the Great Farini walked across that river.”

“With peach baskets on his feet,” I said.

“I can’t do the peach basket thing,” Zack said. “But say the word and I’ll toss fireworks into the sky for you, Jo. I’m very glad you’re here.”

I put my arms around him. “So am I.”

We met Alwyn and Delia in the Lantern Inn’s dining room at seven that evening. With its wood-burning fireplace, period art and decor, and cherry furniture, the room couldn’t have been more welcoming, but five minutes into the evening, I knew it had been a mistake to invite both
Alwyn and Delia for dinner. Zack often starts cases by asking clients the outcome for which they are hoping. Had Alwyn and Delia been asked that question, their answers would have signalled trouble ahead. Alwyn wanted to share a convivial dinner with an old friend and the old friend’s new husband; Delia wanted to unearth anything that would make her custody case invulnerable.

We ordered our food and a bottle of Ontario
VQA
Cabernet Sauvignon that Alwyn recommended. It was a pleasant choice to ease us into the evening, but as Zack and Alwyn and I chatted, Delia sizzled with impatience, drumming her fingers on the table, and answering every question with a monosyllabic response. Finally, Zack had enough. He glared at his law partner. “Dee, if you don’t smarten up, you’re paying for dinner.”

“I thought I
was
paying for dinner,” Delia said. “I apologize, Alwyn. I’m not good at small talk.”

“Abby wasn’t good at small talk either,” Alwyn said quietly.

The words were clearly intended to comfort her, but their effect on Delia was devastating. She flinched as if from a blow, and when she spoke her voice was tentative. “Tell me about her,” she said.

Alwyn’s brow creased in concentration. “It’s difficult to distil twenty-seven years of impressions into a few sentences. At the moment, what strikes me most is simply how much she was like you. Physically, the resemblance is startling. And something else … unless I’m mistaken, Abby wore the same perfume you’re wearing tonight.”

Delia bit her lip. “Chanel No. 5,” she said. “It’s the only perfume I’ve ever worn.”

“That’s remarkable, isn’t it? That without ever knowing one another, you’d choose the same scent.” Alwyn shook her head as if to regain her focus. “Let’s see. Even as a child, Abby set goals for herself, and like you, she was impatient
with anything that stood in the way of realizing them. Her parents – Peggy and Hugh – adored her, and they were wise enough to smooth her path, so Abby could achieve what she believed she had to achieve.”

Delia leaned closer to Alwyn. “They spoiled her?”

Alwyn shook her head. “No. It was impossible to spoil that child. She never wanted
things –
she wanted to
know
things. Of course, that made her a perfect fit for Peggy and Hugh. She was the centre of their lives.”

Delia leaned forward. “Yet they never told her she was adopted.” Delia reached for her wineglass with trembling fingers. “Why would they do that?”

“I’m sure they thought they were protecting her, just as they’d protected her all her life. Abby was home-schooled until she was in Grade Five – that’s when students begin at Trinity. Of course, her father taught there and Abby knew all the other teachers, so she was protected there, too. The faculty was like an extended family for her.”

“And she did well?” The mother’s inevitable question.

“Brilliantly. She had extraordinarily high standards, and she drove herself hard.”

Delia placed her wine, untasted, back on the table. “Did she have friends?”

“Not many, but the friendships she had were intense. The year she started at
TCS
, she linked up with a group – both boys and girls – who were as bright as she was. Nadine Perrault was among them. The students in that group were inseparable till they graduated.”

It was the Winners’ Circle all over again. Zack’s eyes moved to Delia, but her attention was still on Alwyn. “Was Abby’s sexual orientation a problem?” Delia asked.

“It never appeared to be,” Alwyn said. “Everybody, including Hugh and Peggy, seemed to know, but nobody ever made a big deal about it.”

“Nadine was the only partner?” I said.

Alwyn shrugged. “She and Abby were seldom apart. The world isn’t always hospitable to same-sex couples, but perhaps because they’d always been inseparable, Abby and Nadine were lucky. One of the memories I’ve been cherishing lately is of Hugh and Peggy walking down Walton Street with their daughter and Nadine last Thanksgiving. Jacob was in Abby’s old pram. Hugh and Peggy had ordered it from Britain. They always made certain their daughter had the best.”

Delia lowered her head and stared at her lap at the reference to Abby as the Michaelses’ daughter; Alwyn noticed and hurried through the rest of her narrative. “My point,” she said, “is that they were happy – all of them. It was one of those scarlet and gold early October days, and seeing Hugh and Margaret with Abby, Nadine, and the child they all loved seemed to affirm that the world can be a fine place.” Alwyn’s voice broke. “The next day Margaret and Hugh were killed on the 401, and you know the rest.”

Delia stared at Alwyn wide-eyed. “But we don’t know ‘the rest.’ We don’t really know anything.” She stood abruptly. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can take this tonight. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Of course,” Alwyn said. She touched Delia’s arm. “One of Abby’s friends recorded the memorial service this morning. She’ll burn it to a
DVD
. I’ll get a copy to you before you go back to Regina.”

“Thank you.”

“Nadine thought you might like to spend the morning quietly and come out to the country after lunch and see where Abby grew up and the home they shared.”

“She wants me to know Abby better,” Delia said bleakly.

Alwyn was clearly taken aback. “Don’t you want to?”

“I don’t know. Sitting here tonight, listening to you talk about Abby, made me realize how much I’ve missed out
on.” Then, her face pinched with misery, Delia turned and walked out of the dining room.

When our trout arrived, Zack ordered another bottle of wine, and the three of us tried to salvage the evening. By the time we were weighing the options on the dessert menu, we had covered all the conversational topics that mattered: books, movies, holiday plans, Pantera’s exploits, and the exceptional intelligence of Alwyn’s three-legged tuxedo cat, Wilson. Given the circumstances, the evening had been pleasant, and I welcomed Zack’s suggestion that we walk Alwyn home.

The night was mild and starry – perfect for sky-gazing or river-watching. Zack stopped in the middle of the walkway on the bridge over the Ganaraska, and I thought he was giving himself over to the pleasures of the evening, but his mind was on his case. “What’s Nadine Perrault like?” he said.

Alwyn moved closer to the railing and looked down at the inky, swirling water. “If you’d asked me two weeks ago, I could have given you an answer, but Nadine has been broken by this. I can’t predict anything about the woman you’re going to meet tomorrow.”

“What was she like before?”

“Complex,” Alwyn said. “As most interesting people are. She was a boarder at
TCS
from the time she was in Grade Five, and after university she came back and taught with us. I’ve been acquainted with her for much of her life, but Nadine doesn’t encourage intimacy.”

“Her attachment to the school must have been powerful to bring her back to teach,” I said.

“It was – it is for a lot of our students. Our Web site trots out the usual stirring phrases about developing hearts and minds, offering academic challenges, and building leadership skills. That’s for the parents; a lot of our students just want to find a place where they belong, and that’s what
Nadine found with us. When she first arrived, she was like a skittish colt that would bolt if you extended a hand to it. The school calmed her. Whatever had happened in the past, being part of the school taught her to trust. Then when Peggy and Hugh realized how close she and Abby were, they welcomed her into their family.”

“And they were aware that the girls’ relationship went beyond friendship?” I said.

“The girls were discreet, but they made no secret of their feelings for one another,” Alwyn said. “Hugh and Peggy accepted the situation. They loved Nadine because Abby loved her and that seemed to ease any problems the town might have had about the relationship.”

“Their deaths must have been terrible for Nadine,” I said.

“They were, but she and Abby were both practising Roman Catholics, and they seemed to find consolation in their faith.”

“So Hugh and Peggy were Catholic, then,” I said.

Alwyn hooted. “God no! Hugh was a staunch Darwinist. Every February 12th, he hosted a luncheon to commemorate Darwin’s birth and celebrate science, reason, and humanity. Peggy had her own religion.” Alwyn’s lips twitched. “I believe it had something to do with wood nymphs. The Catholicism came from Nadine. Abby was a convert.”

“If the conversion got them through the loss of Hugh and Peggy Michaels, it must have taken,” I said.

“It did,” Alwyn said. “Nadine and Abby were both devastated, but they seemed to feel they could survive, because they had their faith, one another, and Jacob.” Alwyn gazed at the water. “I wonder what Nadine’s position on God is now?” she said.

It had been a long day, and Zack and I slept well under our canopy. We awoke at eight – which for both of us was very late.

“Let’s get room service,” I said. “It’s too cold to sit on the balcony, but we can pull back the curtains and watch Port Hope spring into action.”

Zack sneezed. “Fair enough,” he said. “But this is a holiday – no steel-cut oatmeal and 600-grain toast. I want a manly breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, and home fries.”

“The defibrillator special.” I picked up the phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Zack and Delia were meeting the Michaelses’ family lawyer at nine-thirty to discuss the will; after that, they were meeting Nadine Perrault’s lawyer. Alwyn and I had both finished our Christmas shopping, but the town’s antique and specialty stores were seductive, and we were willing to be seduced.

When I found a leaf-shaped mercury-glass relish dish that I knew my friend Ed Mariani would treasure, I pulled out my credit card. “I hate shopping,” I said. “But shopping here with you is actually fun.”

“The stores are open year-round,” Alwyn said. “And you appear to have conquered your fear of flying.”

“Appearance is not reality,” I said. “I’m already starting to count down the hours till we’re in the air again.”

“Does Zack mind that you don’t fly?”

“No. Travel’s not easy for him either.”

“Because of the wheelchair?”

“That’s an indignity – there’s other stuff that’s harder to manage.”

“I like him,” Alwyn said.

“So do I,” I said.

The drive from Port Hope to the house in which Abby had grown up took fifteen minutes. The Michaels property was situated in a valley among gentle hills with ponds and ditches that filled with wildflowers in summer. The soil was
rich and the water supply so abundant that legend had it a toddler with a stick could stumble and find water. For years, most of the houses in the area had been century homes – over a hundred years old, solid brick, built to last, quiet and unprepossessing, close to the road. But Toronto money had moved to the country. Now the hills were crested with new homes that boasted spectacular views, triple garages, winding driveways, and million-dollar price tags.

The Michaels’ house had been built on thirty acres of land that was now considered prime real estate. One hour’s commute from the city, the property was treed and private with a tributary of the Ganaraska running through it. The house was a solid red-brick Georgian with shuttered windows and an oak front door with a transom and sidelights. Mercifully, there was only one step, so Zack managed to manoeuvre his chair onto the porch area without help before Nadine Perrault opened the door to greet us.

She was a slender, fine-featured natural blonde with deep-set hazel eyes that were red from weeping. When she came face to face with Delia, her intake of breath was audible. “I’m sorry,” she said, “It’s just … the physical resemblance is overwhelming.” She recovered quickly, inviting us in although she had trouble taking her eyes from Delia’s face. “You probably should leave your coats on,” she said. Her voice was low and commanding – a teacher’s voice. “I don’t live here,” she said, “so I’m keeping the thermostat low. I should have thought about it this morning, but the memorial service yesterday was very difficult for me. I apologize.” She threw her hands up in a gesture of impotence.

“We’re fine,” I said.

“We won’t stay long here,” Nadine said. Her hair was centre-parted in a good mid-length cut. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any. She led us into the room on the left. “Don’t worry about your boots,” she said. “These rugs have
endured a great deal over the years.” She shrugged. “As you can see, this house has been well lived in.”

The wood in the living room gleamed and the plants in the windows were thriving, but the fabric on the furniture was worn and faded. There were books everywhere. Over the fireplace was a family portrait. Delia was drawn to it immediately. Hugh Michaels was a bald, rumpled-looking man with grey eyes, heavy brows, and the quarter-smile of the ironist; his wife, tanned and blonde, had the sleepily content smile of a woman who revelled in the sensual. The eyes of both parents were on Abby, who stood in front of them, pale, intense, and impatient.

“I could look at that painting forever,” Nadine said softly. “It is so like them. Abby was fourteen. The artist wanted her to put on a dress, but she refused. Peggy insisted on wearing her garden hat and having a cigarette in her hand because she was never without a cigarette. And Hugh, of course, wore his invariable four-in-hand tie and three-piece suit.”

“Abby looks just like Isobel,” Zack said. “Same hair. Same eyes. Same focus.”

I turned to Nadine. “Isobel is Delia’s daughter. She’s the same age as Abby was in that painting.”

Nadine’s voice was dreamy. “Abby had a very happy life with them,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see that.”