Scare the Light Away (16 page)

“And like all of us, I have my own demons. Working with glass and metal tames them. I started making jewelry seriously when my first marriage broke up. It helped me through a hard time. Your niece Jackie is experimenting in stained glass. She made this.” Aileen opened a display case and picked up a pair of earrings. Tiny, beautiful pieces of glass, glowing with perfectly clear green light as if they had been plucked directly from a medieval church window.

“Stunning.”

“These pieces are beautiful,” Aileen said. “And I’m proud to put them up for sale. But Jackie has a long way to go yet. She has perfected one style and tries desperately to stick to it. She is afraid of trying something new.”

“I’m off, Aileen.” Chrissie waved from the front door. She’d put on a coat, too heavy for this weather, mittens, and scarf, and had pulled a woolen hat tightly down over her ears and forehead. “Nice to meet you, Rebecca. Ask Aileen to bring you over to the café for lunch. Perfectly hideous food and horrible psychic energy, but a nice view.” She disappeared with a wave and cheerful tinkle of the doorbell.

I laughed, “That’s certainly a ringing endorsement.”

“That’s Chrissie. Never stops hinting that she would like more hours in the store. But what can I do? This is a seasonal business. Nine months of the year it’s all I can do to keep the wolf from the door.

“But lunch is still a good idea. I have a lot of paperwork to do. You’re welcome to stay here, or take a stroll through town, not that that’s likely to prove dreadfully exciting. Take the car if you want to go somewhere further. Then we can catch up over a late lunch.”

“Can I help at all?”

“No. It’s paperwork mostly. The odd customer might drift in. But there are unlikely to be many serious buyers, it being a Friday in early May.”

“Fortunately I never go unprepared. I have a paperback in my bag. I’ll take a walk and perhaps find a coffee shop somewhere. Is there one?”

Aileen laughed. “All the modern amenities.”

“I’m sure I’ll amuse myself. It’s been a long, long time since my last appearance in this town.”

Like the forest that surrounded it, Huntsville struggled to wake up after a long winter. The sidewalks were thick with mud and dust, not yet washed away after being left behind by the melting snow. I walked slowly through the light foot traffic, stopping now and again to peer into the shop windows. Several were closed, either for the season or permanently, signs still in place but with windows covered by newspaper or cardboard. Algonquin Park outfitting stores were doing a light but steady business. A pretty ice cream store, perfect in the traditional pink and white, beckoned. But storm clouds were gathering, the wind was rising, and the air hung heavy with moisture. It didn’t seem like an ice cream sort of day.

I stopped in the middle of the bridge that crossed the river running through the center of town. The water level was low: A bicycle and several hubcaps littered the shallow water at the edges of the river. The middle of the channel was green and impenetrable.

Presumably this bridge marked the spot where Jimmy and Aileen had met after his release from prison. The bridge that started their romance. A romance that, wonder of wonders, appeared to have lasted longer than the first bedding.

I spent a pleasant, relaxing afternoon exploring the town, watching the traffic pass by, and reading my book over a frothy cappuccino. For the first time in a long time, I had no particular place to go and nothing in particular to accomplish. It felt nice.

I held the door for a customer as she bustled out, clutching a shopping bag and quite obviously thrilled with her purchase.

“A sale. Congratulations,” I said to Aileen once I was inside the shop.

“One of Janet’s. Part of the last batch I got from her.” She pulled two paper bags out from under the counter. “I called Chrissie and asked her to bring some sandwiches and soup up from the café. We’ve had more customers today than I expected, and we can eat here while I keep an eye on the store. Is that okay?”

“Great. Whatever’s in that bag smells wonderful.”

Aileen handed me my lunch and peered into her own bag.

I pulled out a sandwich, a container of soup, a bottle of juice, and a pile of napkins. We ate standing up, leaning on the counter.

“I love your store, Aileen.” I bit into the thick, juicy turkey, tomato, and sprout sandwich. “Wow, this is good.” I peered between the layers. “This dressing is wonderful. I’ll admit that I was rather worried about what I’d get. Chrissie sort of implied that the café food is dreadful.”

“She didn’t imply, she came right out and said it.” Aileen spoke around a mouthful of her own generous sandwich. “The food there is great. It’s a hugely popular place with the locals as well as tourists. She doesn’t like working there, and makes sure everyone knows it.”

“Why do they keep her on then? Nothing worse for business than a disgruntled employee.”

“The owners are her parents.”

I burst out laughing and took a sip of my soup—lentil, thick and hearty. “I appreciate you bringing me out here, to see the store and all. I had no idea my parents were doing this sort of thing.”

“You knew it all along, Rebecca. Your mother always quilted for the church ladies’ bazaar, and your dad has been carving in his workshop for years. But as long as they only made things for charity bazaars or for use by the family no one thought their things were of any value.” She held up one soupspoon-clutching hand. “Hear me out. I don’t mean ‘you’ as in ‘you, Rebecca.’ I mean you, everyone. When I first met them, Bob was selling his furniture for a fraction of the price he could get in Toronto considering the quality of the work. But it brought in a bit of extra income and he was very proud of that.

“Your mother’s work, of course, didn’t earn her anything. She made it for all for charity or family. No one considered it to be art. It was something that women make, therefore not real art. It was crafts.”

I made a ball of my empty sandwich wrapper and stuffed it back into the paper bag. “Was the store your idea?”

She laughed. “Forgive me if I get on my high horse sometimes. It makes me so mad, the way that our world devalues women’s traditional art. But to answer your question, yes. I’ve always wanted to own a craft shop. I love to make jewelry, but I work very, very slowly. There is simply no way I could ever produce enough to make a living out of it. When Jim and I married I still had a bit of my aunt’s money left, and the idea was growing in the back of my mind that I should open a shop. The first time I saw what your mom and dad had sitting out in that shed I almost died. Janet didn’t like the idea of putting her work up for sale. She was afraid she’d be embarrassed, that no one would buy it if they didn’t think they were being altruistic and making a donation to the church at the same time.

“But Jim and I persevered.” She lifted her arms and held out her hands. “And here we are.”

I was literally speechless. In my real life, I’m a vice-president with an investment bank. The people who work for me lend hundreds of thousands, millions, of dollars every day of the year, and all of it moves under my supervision. My people have a good reputation, a great reputation, of being solid, reliable, honest, and their reputation extends through them to me and through us to the bank. Most of our deals are good—only a few turn belly up, and it isn’t often, if ever, because of something we missed or didn’t follow up on. I wasn’t kidding when I told Bob Reynolds I could buy and sell Hope River and every business in it with a phone call.

Yet all the while my family had been struggling to put together this business. This lovely shop that gave my parents pride in their old age along with much-needed income, which put the sparkle into Aileen’s eyes, and some purpose into Jimmy’s life.

“We’ve talked all day about this shop and how Jim and I met, but I still don’t know much about you, Rebecca. And me, the psychologist! What sort of work do you do? Jim told me you’re with a bank.”

“Yup. Bank of Western Canada. Small business loans, mortgages. Boring stuff, but it makes the world go round.” Aileen must have been good at her previous profession, she actually looked interested.

“Tell me, Aileen.” I studied my hands. “Does Jimmy ever talk about our grandfather? Big Jim we called him, when I was a child. And my brother was always called Little Jim? To everyone except my mother, and me. She forbade me to ever say Little Jim.”

The bell over the door tinkled. I was standing with my back to the door and paid it no attention, willing the customer to leave, concentrating on getting an answer to my question. Until I saw Aileen’s eyes open wide and all the color drain out of her face. I whirled around.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

The very last people you would expect to find in a store with a name like Cottage Art and Design.

Jack Jackson and his skinny friend.

Chapter 29

The Diary of Janet McKenzie. April 12, 1948

James. They called him James.

I don’t think that I can bear it.

I took ill while still in the hospital. Pneumonia, I was sick for days. They took the baby and held him to the bottle. Of course he likes it—it is so much easier for him. Now he refuses my breast and my milk has dried up. So I have to give him the bottle. The nurses and the other mothers smirk.

While I lay ill, Bob and his father went to the courthouse and registered the birth. James Arthur McKenzie, they wrote.

I will choke every time I say that name.

April 15, 1948

Home at last. That was a joke. The hospital was better than this. Mrs. McKenzie, of course, dotes on the baby. Little Jim, she calls him. I tried to tell them that his name is Arthur, but none of them will listen to me. Little Jim, my father-in-law said, all the while eyeing me as if I were a prize sow at the autumn fair. Little Jim, he said looking me straight in the eye. And to my everlasting shame, I flushed and looked away.

Once the baby is old enough to travel we will leave. I will take Shirley and Arthur back to England. My father and his wife will be happy to take us in. I know they will.

June 1, 1948

Dead.

Dead.

Dad

is

dead.

A letter this morning from his wife. Her words so drenched in sorrow that I’m sorry that I’ve never met her. An accident, a stupid, stupid accident. He was walking down the road from our house, taking Bonnie for her morning walk. Bonnie, so old now that she couldn’t get out of the way of a speeding motorcar. My father, Arthur, ran into the roadway to save her.

And there they both died.

I have not seen my father for several years, but he is still a presence in my life. His letters have reminded me that I am loved in the world. I have always known that I have someplace else to go.

Now he is gone. And I am alone.

No, I must not think that. I have Baby Arthur and Shirley. And I believe that Bob loves me still.

In his own way.

Chapter 30

Aileen moved around the counter in one liquid movement, all long earrings and flowing skirt. “May I help you? Gentlemen.” The last word was an afterthought, bitter on her tongue.

“Nice place you got here.” Jack casually flipped over the oval sign that hung over the door. It was hand-painted with two scenes of the same lake. One side showed the lake at midnight, the moonlight sharp on the still water; the other, a view in the daylight, children splashing in the sun-sprinkled water. One side said
Closed
, the other
Open
.

“Are you looking for a gift?” Aileen asked. She held onto the countertop as intensely as she earlier had gripped the steering wheel of her car when she feared that I would criticize her for her relationship with Jimmy.

I looked at my watch. “Will you look at the time? Almost closing time, already. Clay will be by in a few minutes to pick us up.”

Jack and Pete ignored me and walked into the store. Never before had I really appreciated the phrase “bull in a china shop.” Here we had one bull and one nervous piglet. Jack touched the edges of one of my mother’s bed-sized quilts hanging on the wall. It was made of intersecting circles in shades of orange and brown I don’t find attractive.

“Pretty blanket,” Jack said. I felt the need to pull it down from the wall and wash it.

“What do you want, Pete?” Aileen said.

“Nice store you got here,” the scrawny one said.

“Thank you. If you’re interested in buying a gift for your mother I’m happy to help, but otherwise, I would like you to leave. Please.”

Mistake that. Never say please. A polite word. A woman’s word, therefore a sign of weakness. Always a mistake.

Jack abandoned my mother’s quilt and picked up a glass carving of a duck. It showed nothing but the bird’s rear end in the classic feeding position: tail up, head buried underwater. He tossed it from one huge paw to the other, his ugly face twisted in confusion over what the carving was supposed to represent.

“No need to be rude, Mrs. McKenzie,” Pete said. He wasn’t distracted by the wealth of trinkets; his eyes were only for Aileen, with a peripheral glance for me.

“Well,” I said, “time for me to be on my way. I told them at the police station that I would be back soon to make a report on the theft.”

Pete stood in my way. He was smaller than I, shorter and lighter. But I have never been in a fight in my entire life. And we both knew it. For a wild, insane moment I considered asking him if he wanted to bargain for the rights to the funding deal for a computer company so red-hot the business press were calling it the Canadian Microsoft. Everyone on the West Coast wanted a piece of the action but my top lender, Ling Wong, was on the verge of closing the deal.

Pete sneered at me. Better not to mention the loan. “You got a big mouth on you, lady.”

“You’ve said that before. And I’m tired of hearing it. Tell us what you want and get the fuck out of here.”

“Rebecca, please, let me handle this.” Aileen’s voice sounded small and thin.

Jack tossed the glass duck, caught it. Tossed it and caught it again.

“Me and Jack want to let you know, Mrs. McKenzie,” Pete drawled, “real friendly like, that folks in Hope River are getting tired of that husband of yours fooling around with the girls.”

“My husband isn’t fooling around with anyone.”

“Shut up, bitch!” Pete yelled. His thin face turned red in an instant. The small, dark eyes grew narrow and hostile; the veins on his neck bulged with tension.

“Leave us alone, you jackass.” I made a dash for the phone, prominently displayed behind the front counter. Jack dropped the duck and grabbed me as I passed. The delicate glass carving hit the floor with a crash and shattered into a thousand bits. I stared at it: this duck would surface no more. Jack’s strong fingers dug into my arm. “Going somewhere, lady?” He leered into my face. Beer fumes washed over me.

He held my arm while Pete wandered around the store, picking up a few items and placing them back again, neatly, exactly where they belonged. Aileen watched him, her face so white I thought she might faint.

“If you want something from us, tell us what it is and then get the hell out of here,” I shouted. Jack raised his right hand, the one he wasn’t using to hold me, and struck me hard across the face. I would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding me up. The pain spread though my body, but as bad as it was, the humiliation was worse. Far worse than the pain. No one had ever hit me before. Words were the weapons of my childhood. Hands and fists, never. At least not directed against me.

Aileen gasped and the last of the color drained from her face.

“Me and Jack,” Pete said, “thought that it might help Jimmy-boy recover a bit of his memory, if we paid you a visit. Didn’t know loudmouth over there would be here. But that’s just a bonus, eh? Two of us. Two of you. We can have a nice party, and you can tell Jimmy-boy all about it, later. How’s that sound?”

The bell over the door tinkled once again.

“I see your sign, Aileen, please don’t be mad at me, but the door is unlocked, so I knew that it would be all right to pop in for a quick moment.” A woman filled the doorway, large and round, her face shining with the exertion of walking down the street, her mop of thin gray hair almost standing on end from the force of the wind. Behind her stood a younger woman, a teenager, probably her daughter judging by the similarity of their features. The girl was tall and lanky, with long fingers and a bird-like neck, her chin and forehead dotted with acne, and her mouth stretched in a grin of embarrassment. She, if not her mother, recognized the scene in front of her, not for what it was, but certainly as something private.

“Come in. Come in,” Aileen stepped forward. “Pearl, you are always welcome. This must be your daughter? So pleased to meet you. Your mother talks about you all the time. Here to collect our contribution for the Police Retirement Fund are you? And how is your dear husband, the M.P. for this district?”

Pearl looked at Aileen as if she had grown another head. Her daughter grinned. “Daddy is perfectly fine, thanks for asking. He’s busy down in Ottawa, and we miss him. But the work of the government never ends, don’t you agree?” she asked Pete, straight to his face.

Without a word he pushed past the women and headed out the door. Jack dropped my arm and followed.

I leaned against the counter and sighed with relief.

“I’m sorry, Aileen,” Pearl said, “but we aren’t here for the police fund. Are they soliciting? I hadn’t heard. I was rather hoping that you might have something to contribute to the auction we’re holding in June for the women’s shelter. It’s a wonderful cause, you know. The poor women are…”

“I think we’ve come at rather a bad time, Mother,” the girl said. “Ms. O’Connor doesn’t look at all well. Do you need some help here, Ms. O’Connor?”

Aileen reached the front counter and me. She hugged me tightly and I hugged her back. Her thin frame quivered beneath my arms.

“No. Thank you. We’ll be perfectly fine. My friend had a bit of a fainting spell, which gave me quite a shock.” She smiled up at me. If you could call it a smile. “But she seems perfectly all right now.”

“Oh dear,” Pearl quivered in sympathy. “Pardon us for interrupting. So very sorry. But as long as I’m here… Can I count you in for a contribution?”

“Not now, Mom. Let’s go. I’ll come back later.”

Pearl withdrew reluctantly. The bell tinkled behind her. The girl looked at Aileen. “Would you like me to call someone, Ms. O’Connor? The Police Retirement Fund, perhaps?”

“Thank you, sweetie,” Aileen said, “but no. Please don’t.”

The girl left.

My legs gave way and with my back against the counter, I slithered to the floor like a vertical crab. My face throbbed like a punk-rock drummer on acid. Aileen scurried to the door. With a loud snap the lock fell into place before she collapsed beside me.

“Who were those women?”

“The dumbest woman in the district and her daughter, the smartest girl. Everyone says that she has the inside track to a full scholarship at Queen’s next year.”

“I trust they don’t collect for the Police Retirement Fund?”

“Don’t even know if there is such a thing.”

My mind wandered and observed us from above. We were babbling about inconsequentials, thus not having to face the facts. “The mention of the M.P. was a touch of brilliance.”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t make that up. Pearl is indeed the wife of the esteemed Member of Parliament for Huntsville-Bracebridge. Dammed if I can remember his name.”

We burst into gales of laughter. Which stopped all too soon. I rubbed my face—the throbbing wasn’t going down—and struggled to my feet. “There’s a police station only a few blocks from here.” Aileen crawled over to the shattered remains of the glass duck. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll go and get them,” I said.

“No.”

“Eh?”

“Don’t go to the police. I need to clean up.” She picked up a shard of glass, one of the duck’s lovely tail feathers. Aileen’s beautiful skirt formed a soft puddle on the floor around her.

“Of course I’m going to get the police. That jerk attacked me. Shit, it hurts like hell. They threatened you and your property. God knows what else they would have done if Mrs. M.P. and her clever daughter hadn’t arrived.”

“I don’t want to talk to the police.”

“Aileen, listen to me. We were saved by the bell, quite literally. They might try it again.”

“I don’t want Jim to know.”

“What?”

She gathered the pieces of glass up into one hand, and felt all over the floor with the other, searching for invisible shards. She cried, silently, the sobs shaking her shoulders.

I turned my back to give her the privacy she seemed to need and fingered the sign on the door.
Closed
. Let it stay that way.

“I don’t want the police involved in this. We have enough attention directed our way these days. We don’t need any more. And I don’t want Jim to know. He’ll go after them, Jack and Pete. He’s not a young man anymore. Jim forgets that sometimes.” She took a deep breath, straight from the diaphragm, pulling air into her back and shoulders. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“I might not be here next time, Aileen, not that I amounted to any help at all. But the Huntsville version of Superwoman might not be here either. And then what?”

“There won’t be a next time.” She looked up at me, crouched on the floor, her full skirt all around her, and held out her hands. Shards of glass sparkled on her palms. Only the tip of the duck’s tail was recognizable. “They’ll get the person who took Jennifer and then those two will leave us alone.”

The argument died on my lips. There was nothing I or anyone else could say to Aileen. “If you’re sure that’s what you want, I won’t say a word to Jimmy, or anyone else. But you’re wrong. Let me lay a complaint with the police against Jack. I won’t even mention Pete. That’ll leave you out of it. If the cops are onto it, Jimmy won’t dare go after Jack and Pete.”

“He will. He will. And the police won’t stop at a charge against Jack. They’ll want the whole story. And they’ll wonder what Pete knows about Jim.” She struggled to her feet and dropped the pieces of glass into a dustbin. The tip of her index finger dripped blood. She sucked at it without thought.

“Was that duck worth much?”

“No. It’s worth nothing.”

Aileen locked up the shop and we drove back to Hope River in silence. I gazed out of the window and watched the dark forest slide past my window. I had no doubt that if we told Jimmy about what transpired at the store this afternoon he would be after Jack and Pete before we even finished speaking. And that would probably end up putting him in jail, the severity of his stay depending on the injuries inflicted. That was the Jimmy I knew. Quick with his fists. Fight now, think later. Manly honor above all. It made me sick. Aileen and I would go on living with the facts of the assault and the threats, but we couldn’t do anything about it because Jimmy couldn’t deal with the idea. A lot of men would approve of any action he took. But not the law. So Aileen was right to be afraid.

My mind drifted. The forest rolled by. A deer watched us pass. I scarcely noticed her.

Jimmy. My brother Jimmy. Did he have anything to do with Jennifer Taylor? Aileen didn’t want to draw police attention toward her husband. Did she have reason to be afraid? In my mind’s eye, my brother smiled at me over his breakfast table. Handsome as ever, the crooked smile, the eyes as blue and as deep as the lake sparkling over his shoulder, hard muscles bulging under his hand-knitted sweater. But wrinkles were crinkling the edges of his eyes and pulling the skin down around his mouth. His hair was streaked with gray. He grunted softly as he got up out of a chair.

Jennifer Taylor. She was what? Seventeen years old? Young. Innocent. She knew Jimmy; she wanted to be a carpenter, just like he was. Some might think that a strange choice for a girl who might rather be expected to dream of being a movie star, or a pop singer. A doctor or a lawyer. Perhaps a firefighter or a cop. Maybe even an investment banker. But not a carpenter in a two-bit Ontario town. A town so insignificant that it wasn’t even marked on some maps.

Jimmy had never had to force a woman in his life. What with his charm and his looks, he needed nothing else.

That was the man I remembered. But how long ago was that? He was now over fifty. To me he is still heart-stoppingly handsome, but in a few short years I’ll be facing the dreaded big 5-0 myself.

What might Jimmy look like to a seventeen-year-old girl?

Like a joke?

Like an old man who couldn’t keep his pants zipped up?

Did she laugh?

I peeked out of the corner of my eye at Aileen. She was concentrating on the road as dark rain lashed at the windscreen. Did she know anything? Or did she simply fear everything?

***

“Home. We’re here.” Aileen shook my shoulder and I struggled out of sleep. The rain fell with its full strength, and the wind bent the trees until they moaned, begging for relief. The lake tossed gray and white waves, angry and restless. With nowhere else to go they headed for the shore.