The Gifted (11 page)

The line inched along. We paid for our purchases and headed home. Taylor was wearing her triangular bangles. As we drove through the dark city, she kept her forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window in the back seat. The evening had left us all with plenty to ponder.

CHAPTER
5

The Racette-Hunter working team was gathering mid-morning at Margot’s for a debriefing about the art auction, so Zack and I had planned a leisurely breakfast.

When the dogs and I came back from our run, it seemed as if the leisurely breakfast was right on target. The porridge was on the stove and a copy of the local newspaper, still folded, was beside my plate.

I unhooked the dogs. “Anything going on around here?” I said.

“Nope,” Zack said. “Taylor’s still sleeping.”

I topped up Zack’s coffee, poured myself a cup, and picked up the paper. On page one beneath the fold was a large picture of Taylor standing beside
BlueBoy21
. Without comment, I handed the paper to Zack. He peered over his glasses at the photo. “Nice picture of Taylor,” he said. “And the photographer certainly captured Julian’s glory. All over the city, kids are choking on their Cap’n Crunch as they get an eyeful of Julian’s jewels.”

“Kids don’t read newspapers any more,” I said. “And if someone’s offended by Julian’s jewels, the paper can argue that it’s art.”

“True,” Zack said, “but a Joe Fafard bronze calf sold for $40,000 last night, and I don’t see the calf on the front page.”

I stood over Zack’s shoulder and started to read the article. The opening sentence got my attention and raised my ire. “Taylor Shreve, the fifteen-year-old daughter of famed artist Sally Love and Regina trial lawyer Zachary Shreve, was the star of the show at the Racette-Hunter Art Auction last night.” The piece was long on human interest: “a Grade Ten student at Luther College High School donated a work she’d created and the painting sold for $25,000.”

“So you and Sally are Taylor’s parents,” I said. “I guess that puts me and Taylor’s biological father in our place.”

“You have every right to be pissed off,” Zack said. “I expect our daughter’s not going to be any too happy about the reference either.”

“She won’t be, but she’ll be pleased about the photograph and about the attention her work’s getting.” I filled our bowls with porridge and took Zack’s to him. “When Sally donated her fresco to the Mendel Gallery, there were people prepared to run her out of town on a rail. She didn’t turn a hair. She was content with the way the fresco turned out, and that was all that mattered.”

Zack sugared his oatmeal and flooded it with cream. “Did I ever tell you that I actually saw
Erotobiography
?”

“No,” I said. “After three years, you still have secrets.”

“Not many,” Zack said. “Anyway, I was in Saskatoon on a case, so I went over to the Mendel with some of the other guys to check out the action. Sally’s fresco really was something – that big sea of blue with all those penises and clitorises floating around.”

“The owners of those penises and clitorises weren’t as amused as you are,” I said. “They all belonged to people with whom Sally had been intimate.”

Zack guffawed. “How the hell would they know? I couldn’t
pick out my penis in a police lineup. Now your clitoris is another kettle of fish.”

I shook my head. “You really do have a way with words,” I said. “Time to clean up our act and call our daughter.”

When Taylor came down, she picked up the paper, gazed critically at the photo, and tilted her head. “I wish the light had been better,” she said. “You can’t see the shadings.”

Our refrigerator door is what our younger son, Angus, calls a zonk board, that is, a space for sharing information: photographs, weird tweets, bizarre blog fragments, and party invitations. Taylor went to the drawer where we kept miscellanea, took out a pair of scissors, clipped the photo but not the article, and attached the clipping to the refrigerator door with a magnet from Mr. Electric. Then, without further discussion, she joined us at the breakfast table. “I know porridge is good for me,” she said, “but do we have any crumpets?”

Taylor always ate her crumpets over the sink so the melted butter wouldn’t drip on her shirt. When she was young, she needed a stool to reach the basin. She didn’t need a stool any more, but the sight of her savouring her crumpet while saving her shirt always made me smile. That morning, just as Taylor finished her crumpet, her cell rang. She answered, then half turned away from Zack and me. “I can’t talk right now,” she said. “I’ll call you back.” She slipped her phone back into her pocket, put her plate in the dishwasher, and, without quite looking either of us in the eye, muttered, “I’m going to get back to work.” Then she raced upstairs.

When we heard the door to Taylor’s studio close, Zack said, “So what are the odds that our daughter’s caller was one of her
BFFS
?”

“Minimal,” I said.

“Am I right to worry?” Zack said.

“Taylor’s almost fifteen. Most girls her age have been giggling on the phone with boys for a couple of years.”

“Julian isn’t most boys,” Zack said.

“Let’s hope Taylor realizes that sooner rather than later,” I said and began to clear the dishes. Zack picked up his cellphone, hit a number, and listened. After a moment, he turned it off.

“This isn’t good, Jo – I’ve been trying Vince all morning. His cell is off, he’s not at the hospital, and when I called the house, Lauren said he hadn’t been home at all.”

“Do you think he went on a bender after the auction?”

“I’m afraid that’s a real possibility.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I said. “I could call motels and see if Vince is registered anywhere.”

Zack shook his head. “If he’s drinking, he won’t register under his own name. Desk clerks require a financial incentive to cough up information about a guest who doesn’t want to be discovered, and that’s a transaction that has to be handled person to person. I’m going to take a little drive before the meeting and check out some of Vince’s old holing-up places.”

“I hope you find him,” I said. “For everyone’s sake.”

I’d just finished making our bed when Ben Bendure called. I hadn’t heard his voice since he delivered one of the eulogies at Sally’s funeral, but I recognized his rich, rumbling bass immediately.

“Ben, I was going to call you today to thank you for the
DVDS
. That was very thoughtful.”

In his note, Ben had mentioned that he was in failing health, but he still had an ear for nuance. “Very thoughtful,” he said, “but you haven’t watched them yet.”

“I tried,” I said. “I couldn’t get past that scene of you, Nina, and me having lunch at the lake.”

Unexpectedly, Ben laughed. “Even dead, Nina controls us,” he said. “I tried to edit out the scenes she was in, but I couldn’t.”

“Nina was part of our story,” I said.

“She
was
our story,” Ben said flatly. “She wrote our script; she directed us; she was our star; and she was so damn beautiful, it was almost impossible not to forgive her.” He paused. “I loved her, you know.”

“So did I,” I said.

Ben laughed again. “More fools us,” he said. “But I didn’t call to reminisce. I saw the picture of Sally’s daughter in the paper this morning. She’s obviously turned out well. That child lived through a nightmare. It’s a miracle that you got her past it.”

“She’s not past it yet,” I said. “Taylor never talks about her life before she came to live with me.”

“Does she remember it?”

“She says she doesn’t. She never mentions her father, although she lived with him for the first four years of her life, and she never mentions Nina.”

“Who was also a big part of her life,” Ben said. “Does Taylor talk about Sally?”

“She follows what’s said about Sally online.”

“Don’t we all? She’s been dead eleven years, but Sally still fascinates. The travelling retrospective of her work is a hot enough ticket for Nation
TV
to replay
The Poison Apple
in January.”

“So the network will be promoting the show during the holidays,” I said.

“Good news for me but obviously not for you,” Ben said.

“I’m just concerned about Taylor. When she was little, she wanted to hear everything I could remember about Sally. She couldn’t get enough information. Once, when she was just five or six, we were visiting friends who owned one of Sally’s paintings. We found Taylor standing in front of the painting tracing its lines. She said, ‘My mother touched this, and now I’m touching it.’ ”

Ben’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “That must have been very moving.”

“It was. But now Taylor won’t look at the art Sally made.”

“I’m sorry, Jo.”

“So am I,” I said. “But I don’t know what to do about it.”

“From hard experience, I can tell you that the worst thing to do is ignore the problem,” Ben said. “That’s what I did for years after Sally died, and it tore me up. Finally, I decided I had to lay my ghosts.”

“So you made the documentary.”

“Dealing with all that archival material was pure hell, but it was worth it. When
The Poison Apple
was finished, I was finally able to move along. Of course, by that time I was seventy-eight years old.” For a beat he was silent. “Don’t let Taylor wait,” he said quietly, and then he broke the connection.

The dogs and I had just come down from our second visit to the roof garden that morning when Darrell Bell arrived with
Two Painters
. As he unpacked the crate, I felt a frisson of joy. Before we moved in, our condo had belonged to Leland Hunter. It had been decorated professionally, and the rooms were warm with the colours of Tuscany. One of the design features was a two-storey wall of exposed brick from the original warehouse. We had moved a round scrolled mahogany dining table and chairs close to the windows across from the wall so we could see the city as we ate. The area caught the morning light, warming the patina of the old brick. From the moment I saw
Two Painters
, I knew the piece belonged in that space. After Darrell hung the painting, we stood back and assessed it.

“You have a real prize there,” Darrell said. When I didn’t respond, he raised an eyebrow. “Buyer’s remorse?”

“Never,” I said. “That wall has been waiting for that
painting. It’s such a strong work. It anchors everything else into place, and it’s beautiful. I love the light and the colours, and I love the subjects. I could look at it forever.”

Darrell’s voice was gentle. “But …?”

“Sally and Taylor have their backs to each other,” I said. “They’re so separate. There’s no connection between them.”

Darrell shook his head. “There’s a link, Joanne. They’re both making art, and for them that’s enough.”

“But it’s not enough,” I said, and I was surprised at the emotion in my voice. “Sally and Taylor are more than strangers who happen to share a passion. They’re mother and daughter. Taylor told me once that making art allows her to see what she’s been thinking all along. Look at the empty space she’s left between Sally and her.”

“Art is about space as well as colour,” Darrell said. “Taylor’s choice not to fill that space reveals a great deal about her attitude towards Sally.”

“I know, and it saddens me. You’ve probably noticed that we haven’t hung any of Sally’s work in the condo. Three of the paintings are on loan to that travelling retrospective, but the rest are in storage. It’s museum-calibre storage, but it’s still storage. Sally would hate that no one’s seeing her work.”

“I’d be more than happy to sell any or all of Sally’s paintings for you,” Darrell said.

“Most of them are Taylor’s,” I said. “They were part of Sally’s estate. I keep hoping Taylor will want to have them around her some day.”

“She will,” Darrell said. “I don’t know much about kids, but I do know that Taylor is a person who cares about art and respects the people who make it. At some level, she already knows that it’s wrong to allow serious art to be locked away in a vault. She’ll come around.” He checked his watch. “Now you and I better get to that meeting. Last night at least six people who had art in the show offered their
services as mentors when R-H is up and running, and I’m keen to share the news.”

Margot was dressed casually in jeans and a lemon cowlneck sweater. As a trial lawyer, Margot’s killer red fingernails had been her signature. That morning as she let us into the condo, she held out her hands to me. The daggers were gone. Her nails were close-clipped and without polish.

“More motherly?” she asked.

“The first time you change a three-alarm diaper, you’ll realize that short nails are the only option,” I said.

Margot laughed. “Zack says seeing me without my killer nails is like seeing Samson after his haircut.”

“So Zack’s already here.”

“He is, and he brought Brock Poitras with him.”

“What’s he like?” I said.

“In a word – perfect,” Margot said. “And Brock hasn’t arrived a moment too soon.” She lowered her voice. “Zack filled me in on the situation between Vince and Lauren. It’s heartbreaking.”

“Did Zack have any luck tracking down Vince?”

“No, and he’s worried. So am I. The Treadgolds have been good friends to Racette-Hunter. Lauren’s inside. Her face is a mess, but she came anyway. I don’t know why. All she has to do is deliver a report, and I could have done that for her.”

“Maybe she wants to make certain that people see what Vince did to her,” I said.

“But we’re the only ones who know it was Vince,” Margot said. “I overheard Lauren telling someone she’d slipped at the gym.”

“Maybe she’s leaving the door open for a reconciliation,” I said. “Is Riel here?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I wish he wasn’t. He looks worse than he did the day of the photo shoot. When
I asked how he was doing, he snapped at me.” She stepped aside. “Come in. See for yourself.”

For a moment I stood in the doorway of Margot’s sun-splashed living room, taking in the scene. The mood was welcoming. Jasmina Terzic, the housekeeper who effortlessly took care of Margot’s household and ours, had set out a table with carafes of tea and coffee, bottles of juice and water, and baskets of fresh fruit and muffins. Riel was sitting alone in the corner. I started towards him, but Ernest Beauvais beat me to it. When Ernest moved a chair close to Riel and murmured something that made Riel chuckle, I relaxed and went over to introduce myself to the one person in the room I hadn’t met.