Chapter Twenty
It was Christmas Eve, and Julian’s nerves were as jagged as barbed wire. Iris, seated beside him at C-Shell, facing the ocean-view window, gripped his right hand as if it was the only thing holding her together. He knew how hard this was for her, but she was by his side. Her hand was as much his lifeline as his was hers.
The past week had been the roughest of his adult life. After Wednesday evening’s strategy session, he’d Skyped with his bandmates, an emotional but—thank God—supportive call. Thursday morning, he had notified his label, who’d said they’d consult their lawyer, and he’d told his story to Iris’s family, who’d been shocked. When he called CBC Radio, the promise of an exclusive got him a Vancouver studio interview on Friday morning. Aaron had flown him over and back in his Cessna, a private flight he refused to let Julian pay for.
The CBC host had been excellent. She was gentle about not pushing too hard for details, but sincerely troubled, enough that at one point she’d choked up.
No, the interview hadn’t been the worst part. Nor, even, was the social media firestorm that followed. What Julian truly hated were the phone calls Forbes and Sonia received from islanders, berating them for letting their son tell such dreadful lies. And the fact that media had camped out in front of the house.
When Miranda had talked to the owners of C-Shell—Rachelle and Celia, a married couple she knew fairly well—about this dinner, she’d warned them that media might appear at their door. They were not only willing to take the last-minute group reservation, but Rachelle said she’d ensure no paparazzi made it inside.
She had kept that promise. Shortly after the appetizers arrived, there’d been a commotion at the entrance. Turning, Julian had seen Rachelle, a stunning, chocolate-skinned woman dressed in black, firmly refuse entrance to several people. “Fucking media,” Forbes had muttered.
Iris told him that Rachelle had rearranged the restaurant, squeezing tables closer together in order to give their group a semi-private long table in the prized location by the wall of windows. The windows were unscreened, and the view was a harmonious blend of lights from the boats in the harbor, and reflections of the restaurant’s candles and holiday lights. Fishing nets draped down from the ceiling, studded with glass floats and colored bulbs, and the tables had centerpieces of red-berried holly and gold-sparkled cones. If only this meal were simply a Christmas Eve celebration.
Forbes said they mustn’t cringe under the storm of gossip and media attention, but stand proud and stand together. His dad, who couldn’t even stand solidly on his own two feet without crutches, had rallied this amazing group. The gratitude Julian felt for the people surrounding him would, if he were standing, have brought him to his knees.
His dad and Sonia were across from him, then Luke and Miranda and also Luke’s in-laws, Annie and Randall. Not only were Eden and Aaron there but also her parents and younger sister. Also her aunt and uncle, Di and Seal SkySong, the old friends of Forbes’s. Glory, his fangirl from the seniors’ facility, who was a friend of Eden’s and Miranda’s, had come. Christian and Jonathan from B-B-Zee were here, and Jonathan’s wife. And so were Camille, Roy, and Andi.
Julian’s bandmates had, after conspiring with Forbes, taken him by surprise last night when they’d arrived on the ferry, complete with luggage, instruments, and the van the band used for gigs. None of them had family in Vancouver, but all the same they’d walked away from whatever holiday activities they’d planned. They said they were not only rallying around to offer support, but they figured it would be a good opportunity to work on music. Camille and Roy were staying in the grandkids’ room at Forbes and Sonia’s house, and Andi was camping out in the music studio.
On Iris’s other side were her dad, her aunt, and then her mom. To associate themselves with him, and the public censure aimed at him, was a huge thing for the Yakimuras, who valued fitting in. But, like Iris, they were people of principle.
All the people at this table believed him and supported him, at substantial personal cost. Whenever he thought about it, he had to fight back tears.
The mood at the table was odd. The islanders knew each other and chatted about everything going on in their lives: Forbes’s recovery, Luke and Miranda’s wedding, Sonia’s students, and the commune video game Luke’s mother-in-law was developing. The B-B-Zee guys talked music with Camille, Roy, and Andi. The conversations were determinedly cheerful, with an underlying aura of tension. It was an “in your face” to the islanders who condemned Julian.
Julian’s salmon was delicious, but he had little appetite these days and only managed to fork up an occasional mouthful. To his chagrin, Iris was barely eating either, and through their linked hands he felt tremors of anxiety quiver through her.
One day, he would write a song about tonight.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether he’d even have a career left.
Forbes had told Julian, Iris, and her family to sit with their backs to the room, so they could ignore what was going on elsewhere in the restaurant. A spot between Julian’s shoulder blades itched and he knew they were under constant scrutiny. He overheard an occasional loud comment: “That’s him, that’s Julian Blake.” “He should be ashamed of himself.” Even worse, “What’s Ken Yakimura doing with that scandal-monger?” Every now and then he was aware of someone approaching the table and of Rachelle or one of the servers warding them off.
Now, behind him, he heard Rachelle speak quietly but firmly to someone, no doubt another ill-wisher or journalist. The response was equally quiet, male. Across the table, Julian saw his dad scowl and then a man came up behind Julian and said hesitantly, “Excuse me?”
Steeling himself, he turned his head to see a skinny older guy with thin gray hair, a lined, brown-skinned face, and a troubled expression. Not accusatory, though. “Yes?” Julian asked. “Can I help you?”
The man swallowed audibly. “You didn’t lie, did you?”
How about that? Someone who was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “No, sir. I didn’t. Every word was the truth.”
“I was afraid of that, when I saw all these good people here with you.” His voice broke and, to Julian’s astonishment, the man’s faded brown eyes filled with tears. He looked as if he was about to collapse.
Julian jumped to his feet, still holding Iris’s hand. “Here, have a seat,” he told the man, turning his chair and offering it. He heard whispers, not just among his own group but all around the room as people became aware of what was happening.
The man sank into it as if his body weighed much more than it did. With tears trickling down his cheeks, he stared up at Julian. “I think maybe I should have believed my son.”
“Your son?” It was Julian’s turn to gulp. “He was abused by Jelinek, too?” Julian tried to use his body to block the distraught man from the view of curious diners. Iris’s fingers dug fiercely into his hand.
“Maybe so. He was twelve. He told me and his mom, but we didn’t believe him. He’d been getting in trouble, acting out. We thought this was just another thing, you know?”
Classic symptoms of abuse, but Julian didn’t say that.
“Making up stories,” the man said. “We thought the school gave him the idea, telling the kids about ‘inappropriate touching.’ Adults touch kids all the time, to show them how to do stuff or to be affectionate.” He grimaced as if the last word left a foul taste in his mouth.
It did in Julian’s.
The older man said, “We couldn’t believe it was more than that. I mean, Bart was . . .”
Grimly, Julian finished for him. “A respected community leader. How old’s your son now? Is he doing okay?” He had to wonder whether the boy might come forward and tell his story, or would that be even more traumatic for him?
“Al would have been twenty-two in January.” Tears slid unchecked down his face.
“Oh crap.” The words slipped out, and he heard Iris gasp. Looking down into the man’s bloodshot, tear-drenched eyes made Julian’s heart clench, and he couldn’t ask what happened. Instead, he rested his free hand on the guy’s shoulder in silent sympathy.
“He was fourteen when he killed himself,” the man said. “My wife and I blamed ourselves. Not that we believed his story about Bart, but we blamed ourselves for not being better parents. Our marriage had been troubled. She said I spent too much time at work, and it was true. I said she was too lenient on Al, she let him run wild. Maybe that was true, too, I don’t know. Anyhow, we never got over it. We divorced a year after Al died.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.” Julian squeezed his eyes shut. If he’d told the truth all those years ago, maybe he could’ve convinced Forbes. Maybe they could have stopped Jelinek. Saved Al. “It’s my fault.” The words grated past the ache in his throat. “My fault for keeping quiet.”
The man studied him, looking dignified despite his obvious agony. “Yours. Mine. My wife’s. We can never make up for that.”
No one was more aware of that than Julian. “No.”
The man surprised him by holding out his right hand. “My name’s Jorge Martinez.”
Iris freed Julian’s hand so he could shake Mr. Martinez’s. “Thank you for telling me your son’s story. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. Tomorrow—no, that’s Christmas. On Boxing Day, I’ll go to the police and tell them.”
It would bolster Julian’s accusation against Jelinek, but he had to warn the man. “If you do, there’ll be negative attention. From islanders and from the media.”
The older man bowed his head. “Yes, but Al deserves to have the truth told. Finally.”
Julian nodded. “If you ever want to talk, just let me know.”
“No, wait.” The quiet, urgent voice was, to his surprise, Iris’s. When he glanced at her, she said, “I’m not sure you should discuss what happened. If Jelinek’s charged, I think it might weaken the case against him. Remember the Ghomeshi trial?”
“Ghomeshi,” he echoed. Yeah, he remembered. The guy had been a celebrity, the host of a popular national radio show; he’d interviewed Julian a few times. Ghomeshi had lost that job when he was accused of several counts of sexual assault, but at trial he’d been acquitted. The witnesses had lacked credibility, Julian recalled, in part because they’d communicated before the trial and discussed details of the alleged assaults. “I think she’s right,” Julian said.
“Here!” This time the urgent voice was his dad’s. “Look at this.” He held his phone out.
“Forbes,” Julian said, “this isn’t the time—”
“Look at it,” he insisted.
Iris leaned closer as Julian took the phone. A headline blazed from the screen: “Second Victim of Julian Blake’s Pedophile!” His eyes widened as he scanned the first couple of paragraphs. A thirty-three-year-old high school teacher in Victoria—Sam Gupta, a married man with a child—had come forward to say he, too, had been abused by Bart Jelinek as an adolescent and a young teen.
Iris let out a quavering breath and Julian passed the phone to Mr. Martinez. The man read slowly and then said, “Now the police will have to take us seriously.”
Hope bloomed inside Julian, some of the stress of the past week falling away. “Yes. Yes, they will.”
* * *
To Iris’s relief, Rachelle and her staff’s persistence eventually wore down the reporters, and when their group left C-Shell, the street was quiet. Julian gave subdued but sincere thanks to everyone and then Iris hugged her mom, her dad, and her aunt. “Thank you so, so much for being here tonight,” she told them.
Her father said, “We’re glad to stand with Julian. I’m only sorry that we’ve supported Jelinek over the years.”
She noted that it was no longer “Bart,” but “Jelinek.”
Aunt Lily clasped Iris’s hand in hers. “I know we never exchange Christmas gifts.”
Iris nodded. The Yakimuras instead donated money and books to a literacy foundation.
“So this isn’t a gift,” her aunt went on. “Just another act of support from all of us. I’m going to stay at your parents’ house. I think you and Julian could use a sanctuary where you can escape the world and be alone together, until he returns to Vancouver.”
Which he would do in less than a week. His band had a New Year’s Eve gig.
But Christmas Eve wasn’t the time to think about him leaving, or about missing him. After thanking her aunt, she returned to his side and stretched up to whisper Lily’s offer. “Do you want to spend the night tonight?” Always before, when she was stressed to the max she had sought solitude. But Julian was so easy to be with; in some ways his presence was even more soothing than being alone. If she woke with him on Christmas morning, it would create a memory to treasure forever.
He studied her for a long moment, and she hurried to say, “I know you’re an introvert, too, and if you need privacy to unwind, I’ll completely understand.”
“I’d love to be with you, but I was wondering if that is what you really want.”
“Trust me, it is. Forbes and Sonia don’t need your help at night anymore, right?”
“No, he’s pretty self-sufficient now. Besides, Roy and Camille will be there.”
He went to have a quiet word with his dad and stepmom, and then he took Iris’s hand. In peaceful silence, they strolled through the gaily lit village and then along the oceanfront walk to her condo. Almost every boat in the harbor was strung with colored lights, and trees along the path had sparkly white mini-lights. If there’d been snow, it would indeed have been a winter wonderland, but so far this year Blue Moon Harbor had seen nary a flake.
Even when they got home, Iris felt no need to speak, and it seemed Julian didn’t either. The evening had been so full and intense, but she felt as if the two of them shared their perceptions and feelings without needing speech. After they undressed and got ready for bed, they slipped under the covers, both naked, and made love. Slowly, silently, with an intimacy that touched the deepest part of her soul.
Christmas morning, though, was a whole different matter. They made love again, but couldn’t linger in bed because they’d been invited to join Julian’s family at Luke and Miranda’s house to watch the three kids open gifts. The adults had decided to forego gifts for everyone except the kids. Instead, they donated money, and any gifts they’d already purchased, to charities that supported victims of abuse.
Iris loved watching Miranda’s little girl and Luke’s twin boys down on the floor by the tree, tearing into their presents and squealing with joy. She so hoped to one day be sharing this holiday magic with children of her own. And when she noticed Julian gazing at the kids, she thought she saw the same sentiment in his eyes. But of course that was just her imagination; he’d made it clear he didn’t want a long-term relationship or a family.
From his stepbrother’s house, Julian and Iris went to her parents’ for a Yakimura Christmas lunch that reflected their own blend of traditions: roast turkey, wild rice pilaf, stir-fried Asian veggies, and maple syrup pie for dessert. They all spoke in French, and her dad and aunt were almost as gregarious as her mom, making Iris feel as if they’d truly accepted Julian.
After lunch, Iris and Julian had a couple of free hours and they drove to the old commune, where they wandered around, holding hands.
“This is where it all started,” Julian said. “If I hadn’t met you here, I’d have hated every day on Destiny. God knows, I might not have found the perspective to get closer to my family, nor the courage to report Jelinek.” He stopped walking and put his arms around her. “I’m damned sure I wouldn’t have written the songs for the new album. I owe you so much.”
“I owe you even more. Thanks to you, I’ve become more courageous myself and my horizons have widened. Not to mention, I’ve learned what it’s like to make love with someone I care very much for.”
“When we said we wouldn’t exchange Christmas presents,” he said, “at first I felt kind of weird about it. Then I realized, we’ve shared so many things, wonderful times and tough ones. Giving a material gift would almost trivialize all of that.”
“I agree. The gift of your company, your honesty, your trust, that’s everything I could possibly want.” She swallowed, and made a silent revision: That’s everything I could realistically want. Because, of course, in her heart of hearts, she wanted a future with him. She wanted to spend every Christmas with him, and every other day of the year as well. She wanted them to have, or adopt, kids together, to build a family, a life, a future together in Blue Moon Harbor.
“The time’s getting on,” he said. “We have more turkey waiting for us.”
“Yes, we should go. It would be rude to be late.”
They climbed back in the van and she said, “I guess it’s no surprise that Sonia and Forbes would do turkey.”
“Nope. She foregoes her Italian roots at Christmas. It’s all the classic stuff: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, brussels sprouts. Mince pie and Christmas pudding.”
“I’m glad Forbes is feeling up to it. And to having so many unaccustomed guests.” Julian had told her that the holiday dinner was usually just three generations of family, from Sonia’s mother down to the twins. This year, not only were Miranda and Ariana included, but also Iris, Camille, Roy, and Andi.
Julian reached over to touch her hands, which she’d clasped in her lap. “You okay? Is it too much for you, all this socializing?”
“No, it’s not too much. The quiet time at the commune recharged my energy. I’m looking forward to dinner.”
And even more than that, she was looking forward to going back to the condo after, when it was just her and Julian. What better way to end Christmas day than to cuddle up in bed together?
* * *
Late Thursday morning, a couple of days after Christmas, Iris was sitting on a battered leather couch in Forbes’s music studio, listening to Julian and his band work on his new songs. Iris was so glad his bandmates had come to Destiny. Thanks to them, Julian could spend hours every day focusing on the positive, creative part of his life.
And, thanks to her parents telling her to take the day off work at Dreamspinner, she got to witness the band collaborating to refine the tunes he’d worked on over the past couple of months. It was also deeply flattering when they asked for her input.
These three people were Julian’s other family, a family that had pulled together to support him. Roy, with his neatly trimmed ginger hair, beard, and mustache, freckles, and big smile. Camille, who with her silver-streaked, curly long hair, looked like an aged edition of Carole King on the cover of Grandmother Rose’s Tapestry album. Andi, with her spiky, green-streaked black hair and multiple piercings and tattoos. All of them with huge hearts as well as huge musical talent.
A key clicked in the lock of the studio door, and Miranda, toting a couple of reusable shopping bags, pushed the door open. The band, in the middle of a number, kept playing, but Iris rushed over to relieve her of one of the bags. Forbes hobbled inside on his walker and Miranda closed and latched the door behind them. Miranda had this week off work to prepare for the wedding on Saturday, and today she had offered to drive Forbes to and from his morning physical therapy session, in exchange for Sonia babysitting the three kids for the day.
Iris put down the bag and lent Forbes a supportive arm as he transitioned from his walker to the couch.
The band wound up their number and Julian said, “Must be lunchtime.”
“We brought it with us,” Miranda said.
Julian and his bandmates rose from the stools they’d been sitting on, put down their instruments, and stretched. He went over to the window that faced the driveway and peeked through the closed blinds. “No media?”
“Nope,” Miranda said. “Looks like they got the message about no interviews.”
Julian, his family, and his bandmates had consistently told reporters that they had nothing to add to what he’d already said in that radio interview.
He came over to Iris and hugged her. Despite the Yakimura avoidance of PDAs, she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to melt into his arms and hug him back. It felt a little surreal, though. On the one hand, this was her friend and lover, a man whose body she knew intimately. But he was also the center of a growing media firestorm. And, as this morning’s music session had clearly demonstrated, he was also Julian Blake, JUNO winner.
She rested her cheek against his T-shirted chest, feeling the hardness of his pecs, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric. She loved the intimacy of this embrace, and she loved that everyone else in the room accepted it—her and Julian, like this—as perfectly normal.
“Have you guys checked social media recently?” Miranda asked.
Julian shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
Iris didn’t. She’d rather exist for another few hours in this lovely cocoon.
“Yeah,” Miranda said. “You do. That awesome video of Iris has gone viral.”
“Oh no,” Iris moaned, burying a burning cheek against Julian’s chest.
“You did great, Iris,” Forbes said. “It’s a beautiful thing.”
Yesterday morning, Boxing Day, she’d walked to work and found a half dozen journalists in front of Dreamspinner. She turned to go around to the delivery entrance, but one of them spotted her and she was mobbed. Phones and faces invaded her space; questions flew at her so fast they created an insane babble.
Animals reacted to danger by fighting, fleeing, or, like rabbits, freezing in place. If I don’t move, you can’t see me. Iris was a bunny. When she had an anxiety attack, her muscles locked, like she’d been cast in concrete. Even her brain shut down. The only parts of her that remained alive were her thready, racing pulse and the nausea churning her stomach.
It would have been a really good time for that oft-threatened “big one” earthquake to finally happen, for a fault line to open and suck her in. But of course that didn’t happen, and she did her best to breathe. If she fainted, this horde would probably trample her to death.
Breathe. Center. Stay even.
Her frozen-bunny imitation did, surprisingly, calm the flurry of questions. The reporters stared at her, looking baffled.
Maybe if she continued to play statue, they’d get bored and go away. But it seemed that was wishful thinking. One woman, phone held high, said, “I’m with Julian Blake’s girlfriend, Iris Yakimura. Iris, what can you tell us about the accusations Julian has leveled against Bart Jelinek?”
She had to support Julian. Silence wasn’t going to do it. Stay even. It’s not about you, it’s about Julian. Breathe. Breathe again. She straightened her shoulders and swallowed. Her muscles were working again, but she wouldn’t use them to turn tail and run, no matter how badly she longed to.
“I believe Julian.” She spoke quietly, and the reporters were silent. “I believe in Julian.” She considered, but what else was there to say? There was no point quibbling over the term girlfriend. “Please let me go to work.”
To her surprise, the crowd parted.
Her legs were stiff, but she managed to walk toward Dreamspinner, where Mr. and Mrs. Claus cozily rocked and read in the window. More questions came, bashing her from all directions, but she ignored them. She unlocked the door, seeing the display tables and shelves of amazing books, the festive holiday touches honoring the traditions of various religions and countries. It would be sacrilege to have the horde of paparazzi invade this wonderful space her family had created, a sanctuary to be shared with other book-lovers, not with sensation-seekers.
There was no way she could stop the reporters. But she had to try. So she would try the same technique she did with little kids when they explored the board books and picture books. She’d let the paparazzi know she expected good behavior. In the doorway, she turned to face them. “This is my family’s store. You will not dishonor it by seeking interviews inside.”
Pulse racing, she stepped inside and closed the door. She did not turn the latch. And not a single person followed her inside.
What they did do, though, was upload videos of her to social media. She had refused to look, but her friends said she’d been poised, succinct, and highly effective. Amazing how being scared spitless could come across as all those other, far more desirable, qualities.
Sadly, she’d found it impossible to maintain that same equanimity over the course of the day. Boxing Day was always a busy one, as Dreamspinner, like most of the shops in Blue Moon Harbor, had a sale. But this year, the islanders who came into the store were less interested in buying books than in asking her how she could be so gullible as to believe some drugged-out rock musician over wonderful Bart Jelinek, and berating her for her part in bringing the nasty paparazzi to the island—as if she’d have ever chosen to do that.
This was tough on her parents and aunt, too. Her family trusted Iris’s judgment, wanted to trust Julian, and had strong moral principles, yet facing censure from their neighbors and customers made them cringe. But what could you do? Only the right thing, no matter how difficult. In her family, there was no other option.
Now Forbes said, “Iris’s words have become a mantra. There are T-shirts. People have made signs, and pickets are starting.” There was smug satisfaction in his voice.
Iris lifted her head. Pickets?
“Pickets?” Roy said, pulling out his phone. Andi and Camille were already on theirs.
Life had been so much easier when Iris was a little girl, before everyone seemed to require a 24/7 digital link to the entire world. She was happy to have her hands on Julian’s warm back, not on an electronic device, and even happier that he seemed content to hold her and wasn’t reaching for his own phone.
“Yeah, in front of the RCMP detachment here,” Forbes said. “People have come from the other Gulf Islands, the mainland, and Vancouver Island. The signs—”
Roy broke in with a loud whistle. “Oh man, yeah. The signs say ‘I Believe Julian,’ ‘I Believe in Julian,’ ‘Throw Jelinek in Jail,’ and—”
“‘Lock Up the Pedophile,’” Andi said. “This is fantastic. Julian, you gotta take a look.”
“Honestly, I’d rather not,” he said, not letting go of Iris. “I mean, I’m happy for the support, but I never wanted this to turn into a circus. I just want him stopped.”
“And punished,” Forbes said, his gaze on his own phone’s screen. “Sometimes it takes a circus to make sure justice gets done.”
Miranda shoved aside the clutter of magazines on the coffee table, to reveal the beautiful, intricate woodwork Forbes was known for. She delved into one of the reusable bags and set out food. “Sandwiches and wraps from the deli, fruit, and Destiny Bars, courtesy of Iris’s mom.”
The band members dragged chairs over and made their selections. Iris hated to step out of Julian’s arms, but he needed to eat. She sat at the end of the couch, giving him the seat between her and Forbes, and selected half of a shrimp croissant-wich. Julian took a roast beef sandwich.
Miranda selected half of a tuna sandwich and sat in a battered leather chair. “There are still a bunch of islanders who are defending Jelinek.” She wrinkled her nose. “And saying nasty things about Julian and all of us. But they’re not as vocal as yesterday. With Mr. Martinez and that teacher, Sam Gupta, going to the police, people have to wonder.”
“A lot of other folks are getting their five minutes of fame,” Forbes said, leaning forward to pick up a ham and cheese wrap. “Other musicians saying Julian’s a good guy, women who’ve dated him saying nice stuff about how well he treated them and stupid stuff like how they just wished he’d let them be the one to heal him. Psychologists all too happy to share their wisdom. Some blogger ranting about how it’s not right that sexual assault’s almost always viewed as a women’s issue.”
“Damn right it isn’t,” Andi said, through a mouthful of corned beef on rye. “It’s a people issue. There are male victims, not just female, and women abusers as well as men. Not to mention spouses who turn a blind eye when their partner commits abuse. Which, by the way, makes me wonder about Jelinek’s wife.”
“Cathy,” Forbes said. “Sonia and I have talked about that. If she’s innocent, this must be hell for her. But it’s hard to imagine she never had a clue. She’s always taken a back seat to Bart, but she’s a smart woman with a good job.”
“All the same,” Iris said quietly, “there have been cases where the spouse was genuinely innocent. Let’s not condemn Cathy when there’s no evidence against her. Bart is a highly persuasive, manipulative man.”
“Good point,” Forbes said.
“I wonder if she’ll leave him or stick by his side?” Andi said. “I hate it when women stand by husbands who are assholes.”
“His lawyer will sure hope she does,” Forbes said.
Camille had been quiet, sitting on a hard-backed chair across from them, eating the other half of the shrimp croissant-wich with one hand and manipulating her phone with the other. Now she said, “Julian, I’ve been going through your email.”
“You know how much I appreciate that, right?” He’d told Iris that Camille had volunteered, to save him from having to deal with hate messages from trolls as well as steamy ones from women who wanted to have sex with him. She’d promised to send “thank you” responses to those who supported him, and filter out any business stuff for his attention.
“I do,” Camille said. “Here’s one you’ll want to see.” She passed the phone across.
Julian juggled it one-handed, still holding his sandwich. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Iris asked.
“It’s another one. A grad student at McGill. Jelinek abused him.” He put down the sandwich.
That would support the case against Jelinek, but Iris felt Julian’s pain. The student was younger than him. Julian was thinking that he might have been able to prevent what happened. She rubbed his jean-clad thigh in silent sympathy.
“Poor bastard,” Forbes said gruffly. “Is he willing to go to the cops?”
“Yeah, he says he will. After he tells his family and his boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?” Forbes asked.
“Henri Bellefontaine.”
Iris gasped. “Oh, poor Henri.”
“You know him?” Julian asked.
“He used to come into Dreamspinner. He’s an introvert, likes to read poetry. His mom, Thérèse, buys a lot of self-help books. He has a teenage sister who’s always fighting with her mom over what kind of books she’s allowed to read.” She glanced at Julian. “You saw them in the store.”
“The father, Pierre Bellefontaine, is a chef,” Forbes said. “He works at camps—mining exploration, oil sands—in Northern Alberta. They fly him in for two, three weeks at a stretch, then he’s home for a bit, and then away again.”
“Was he doing that when Henri was a boy?” Julian asked.
“Yeah, he’s always done that kind of work. He likes the wilderness, the adventure, not to mention the money. He says one day he’ll quit and open his own restaurant, but I don’t know if he really means it.” Forbes cleared his throat. “So Henri might’ve been open to Jelinek trying to mentor him, act like a father figure. Same thing as with Sam Gupta after his parents split up and his dad moved to Surrey, remarried, and started a new family. And Al Martinez, when his dad was at work all the time and his parents were fighting.”
Julian nodded. “Jelinek’s a predator. He weeds out the weak ones in the flock.”
“Not weak,” Iris protested.
“No,” Forbes said, his voice grating. “Vulnerable. Because your damn parents weren’t doing their jobs. And we will never, ever forgive ourselves for that.”
Julian gave a tired sigh. “For what it’s worth, if there’s any forgiving to do, then I forgive you. If you’ll forgive me for being so self-centered that I didn’t see that, even if you were in love with Sonia, you still loved me, too. That you’d have been there for me if I’d told you the truth.”
“Son . . .” Forbes couldn’t seem to find words but instead reached over to catch Julian in a rough one-armed hug.
Iris brushed her fingers under her eyes to flick away tears and noticed Andi, the brash young member of the band, doing the same. Andi gave her a wry smile and Iris smiled back.
In the past year, Iris’s life had changed in so many ways. Yes, she had unwanted media attention, but she also had an amazing lover and her social circle had expanded by leaps and bounds. Had she somehow changed or could she have done this all along, rather than cocoon herself away like a hermit within the protective shell of her shyness?