Dance For The Devil (38 page)

A pleasant jingle-bell chimed and Max looked up in surprise as the front door opened. His broad face broke into a welcoming smile. “Gillian, what in God’s name are you doing out at this hour?”

Gillian Leigh tugged off her woolen cap and sat on a stool in front of him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You neither, eh? Seems to be catching. How was the reunion?”

“The dedication was nice, but I spent the whole time missing my family.”

“Ah.” Max wagged a flour-coated finger. “Do you good to take a little break. You’re with that baby twenty-four seven.”

Gillian frowned. “That’s what Robert says. But... well.....”

“Mikey giving you a bad time?”

Gillian looked at him sharply. “How did you know?”

“Babies,” Max said, shrugging his shoulders. “They have a way of doing that. You feel guilty if you spend too much time with them, guilty if you don’t. Welcome to motherhood, kid.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re a confirmed bachelor.”

Max spread his hands wide. “This is my family. I see enough here to have raised a hundred kids.”

“I suppose you have,” Gillian said, mouth quirking.

“Ah, that’s what I like to see, my pretty girl smiling. Taste this peach muffin for me and tell me what you think – new recipe.”

“Max, if you keep tempting me like this I’ll weigh two-hundred pounds.”

“Ha, skinny thing like you? Never. Now, tell me about the reunion. Did you brag to all the old gang what a success you are?”

Gillian smiled and bit into the muffin. Delicious. “Sure. Told them I have I terrific kid, broken-down station wagon, colossal mortgage and a fledging artistic career. Impressed the hell out of them.”

Max chuckled. “You’ll hit it big, kid, I know you will. Talent like yours is always rewarded.”

“Posthumously at this rate.”

Max plugged his thumb at one of Gillian’s paintings hanging on the far wall. “People comment on that all the time. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I wanted to ask you but you’ll need to keep it a surprise.” He disappeared in the back for a moment, then returned, handing her photograph.

“What’s this? Looks really old.”

“It is. It’s a photo of my father and me, taken over sixty years ago, when I was just a youngster. It’s the only picture I have of Pops, and he doesn’t know it exists. He’s notoriously shy about having his picture taken, absolutely refuses, but this was taken by Lillian Covingtree, Raina’s mother. Raina found it a few months ago when she was cleaning her attic and though I might like it. You can see by my father’s expression he doesn’t realize it’s been taken, see? He’s
looking the other way. It would have been taken really soon after he emigrated from Germany, after World War II.”

Gillian squinted. “What a handsome man. He looks a lot like you, Max. I mean, you’re identical.”

Max laughed and handed her another peach muffin. “Sweet talk will get you everywhere, but I agree, there is a strong family resemblance. Of course, Pops was considerably younger than me in the picture and fifty pounds lighter. Anyway, I was wondering if I could commission a portrait of this. I’d like to surprise Pops with it for his birthday, next spring. Please say you’ll do it, Gillian, you’re the most talented artist I know.”

Now it was Gillian’s turn to laugh outright. She had been right to come here – she felt so much better. “I’m the only artist you know, you shameless flatterer. I’d love to paint this for you. It’ll give me a chance to repay all the wonderful things you’ve done for me over the years.” She pocketed the photo. “This muffin, by the way, is divine. What else have you got in your magic pantry?”

He plopped a plate in front of her. “Raisin and brandy cream pie with a crushed pecan base, my own creation. Now, did you manage to see your mom?”

Gillian frowned. “No. Was going to, but... chickened out. Maybe next time. You know, she didn’t even come to the dedication.”

“Oh, Gillie, I am sorry to hear that. Was hoping you might be able to patch things up, at least, make a start after all these years. You’d think she’d come around now there’s a grandbaby in the picture.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you.”

“Well, how about that old high school boyfriend? See him?”

“Brey? God, are there no secrets in this town?”

“None. Somebody sneezes and everyone else catches cold.”

“How do you even know about him? Its ancient history – from the dark ages. I didn’t even live on Cedar Island then.”

“What can I say? Such a romantic, tragic love story transports space and time.”

She snorted. “All high school romances are romantic and tragic.”

“True that. Which makes the reunion even more poignant. Come on, dish for an old bachelor, let me live vicariously. Did you see him or not?”

Gillian laughed again. “Yeah, I saw the bastard.”

“And?”

“And... he looks great, is highly successful and very funny.”

“Married?”

“Fiancée.”

“Ah.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Geez, Max, I am married,
happily
I might add. Why should care if he has a fiancée? He could have six-hundred fiancées and it wouldn’t bother me a bit.” She attacked the pie with gusto.

Max produced a bottle of schnapps and two glasses. “She was that gorgeous, huh?”

“Disgustingly so.” Gillian sighed and accepted the liquor. “You know the type: sleek blond hair, perfect little black dress, built like Barbie’s prettier younger sister.” She unconsciously put her hand to her own unruly hair which curled frizzy in the damp, night air. “She’s a lawyer or judge, or something. I tried not to pay too much attention. Did catch her name, though. Patsy Pennington. Now isn’t that too cute?” She took a sip of schnapps, rolling the liquor around her tongue, delighting in the inner warmth it created, then suddenly grimaced. “And you should have seen her nails: perfectly manicured. Not like mine.”

“You have the hands of an artist.”

“Yeah, broken nails, stained with oil paints. Very feminine.”

Maxwell looked up from his pastry and studied her shrewdly. “Something’s bothering you and I don’t think it’s your old boyfriend.”

Gillian hesitated. “No...” Her voice trailed. What could she say? That her family suddenly seemed like strangers? That everything in her house was weird? That she felt like she was on a roller coaster but couldn’t find the amusement park? Instead, she pasted on a bright smile and said, “I should be off, Max, I was looking for my dog until the welcoming lights of your deli sidetracked me.”

Max frowned. “Casper’s missing?”

“Yeah. He took off earlier like a wild dingo. Don’t know what got into him.”

“Why isn’t Robert looking for him?”

“Too busy sleeping.”

Maxwell harrumphed. “That doesn’t sound like Robert – he spoils that animal something fierce. I’m surprised he hasn’t called 911 again.” It was a standing joke on Cedar Island – a frantic Robert had once dialled the emergency number when Casper was on the losing end of a porcupine battle. Max glanced at Gillian’s glum face and said, before turning back to his pastry, “I wouldn’t worry too much, Gillie, not much danger on Cedar Island. He’s probably checking out a lady friend or two. He’ll come back when his heart is full and his gut is empty.”

Gillian thought about the dog’s strange actions. “You’re probably right.” Although she’d never been overly attached to the animal, she suddenly missed him very much.

**

Stacy Kennedy crawled through the secret passage which led from her bedroom closet into the attic and hid. Her skinny body easily fit through the narrow opening, although lately, her gangly ever-growing limbs were awfully cramped in the small space. As always, she reached for the hair brush and carefully stroked her waist-long wheat colored hair. Her hair had never been cut and she liked to touch the ends, imagining that they used to be on her head when she was a baby. Both the ritual and rhythm soothed her, and she hummed softly and tunelessly to herself, visualizing baby-Stacy as a separate entity. Stacy had strange, pale green eyes that changed upon her surroundings. Sea-foam green, she’d once told a kid at school, but the kid had called it pee-foam instead and laughed cruelly, and Stacy learned not to share her thoughts.

This was her favorite spot in the world and she spent many hours seeking solace. She had found this special place when she was five, and over the next five years she slowly transformed the gloomy space into her own private paradise. There was a sleeping area, with a soft quilt and pillows, a battery operated lantern, her best stuffed animals and a carton of old National Geographic magazines. If she needed to, Stacy could spend days here, and sometimes did.

Stacy crawled over to her kitchen area and double checked her food supply. It was getting low: only one tin of mandarin oranges and half a loaf of bread. Her juice supply ran out yesterday and her water jug was dangerously depleted. Plus, it was getting kind of brackish – it was now three days old, and Stacy had learned the hard way what happens when you drink old water. Even the tin can she used as her toilet needed attending: it was starting to stink. No doubt about it – she would have to make a run for it in the morning.

The idea sent shudders down her spine. What waited downstairs was frightening on a normal basis, but the last few days were anything but normal.

**

Zipping her jacket against the chill and stuffing her wild hair under the black woolen cap as best she could, Gillian left the deli and began to walk around Cedar Island, calling softly for Casper. The moon illuminated the quiet streets, casting long cedar tree shadows that danced in the breeze.

She knew these streets well, had spent the past decade strolling along them, first as a willful, angry teenager, then a restless, searching young adult, and most recently, a contented new wife and mother proudly pushing a baby carriage.

Gillian glanced at each house she passed, looking under hedges and into shadows for Casper. Each house had a personality of its own and most held some kind of memory for her, some good, some bad. The Masterson’s, so tidily kept with its white clapboard siding and yellow trim, where she’d earned spending money for a summer, mowing the lawn. Burt Masterson suffered a mild stroke last May, but still managed to keep the house looking perfect.

Next door, in jarring contrast, was the Kennedy house, always shabby and littered with old cars and the occasional beer can. It had been a nice house, once, but deteriorated with neglect. It was the subject of more than one community meeting, but no one could ever find the right wording to amend the bylaw. She allowed her gaze to linger – sympathy rising for Stacy Kennedy, who, against all odds, remained pleasant and bright. Stacy was Gillian’s star soccer player, often leading the bantam girls to victory, playing every game as though her young life depended on it. Stacy was the only girl whose parents never came to watch. Careful not to play favorites, Gillian nevertheless tried to make a difference for Stacy, giving her extra support, sometimes taking her out for ice cream or a burger in Aberdeen, wondering when the child’s last regular meal had been. Gillian remembered how miserable her own teenaged years had been, and Stacy – while appreciative – always maintained a polite yet protective shell.

“Casper,” Gillian called softly, making a mental note of each occupant’s name as she turned down Tamarack Street and onto Chestnut. She knew almost everyone who lived on Cedar Island. The Buckley’s, with their five children and three dogs, had dredged a swimming pond into their front yard and colorful water toys floated forgotten in the moonlight. Next door, Cedar Island’s long standing mayor, Tobias Tantal’s house, manicured and stately, his prized greenhouse glinting in the moonlight. Toby’s award winning flowers were famous in these parts, and sometimes folks came from all over to admire his gardens.

Gillian passed by Sergeant Becker’s house, surprised to see his silhouette in the window.
Another soul who couldn’t sleep,
she thought. Becker was staring at her, no doubt wondering why she was wandering the streets in the middle of the night. She raised her arm in a half-hearted salute but received no response. No surprise there – the widower was known for his cranky demeanor and general unfriendliness.
Probably remembering the time I got drunk at the beach when I was eighteen,
she thought uncharitably. Becker’s uncanny memory could recite every unsavory incident that occurred on Cedar Island, and some people, like Gillian, secretly thought he enjoyed lording it over them. A retired police officer, Becker served as Cedar Island’s official safety liaison.

Next stood Raina Covingtree’s home, with her old, pink Cadillac collecting frost in the driveway. Raina received the car a dozen-plus years ago as Mary Kay top regional sales consultant and somehow managed to keep it looking pristine. Everyone knew how she adored the tacky monstrosity – she drove her baby with pride and it always made Gillian smile to see Raina, with hair coiffed and makeup immaculately applied, cruising the streets of Cedar Island like a 1950’s flashback. A curtain fluttered, and Gillian looked up, unnerved to see Raina’s invalid mother sitting by the window, staring. She hastened her pace, chills spidering down her back. Half the town seemed to be awake, watching her.

Down to the beach, now, past the picnic tables and sandy area, thru the children’s playground, watching the mighty Fraser River rage past with amazing force. The river carved a few centimetres out of Cedar Island each year, and one day, a million years from now, maybe there would be nothing left.