Chapter 22

 

Paul caught the early bus Saturday morning, but an accident snarled traffic. He bolted into Morelli’s with seconds to spare. He hung his jacket in the back and tapped on the office door, one arm hugging the padded envelope he’d smuggled out of the apartment.

His boss turned from an open cabinet drawer. “Ah, Paul. Is it still raining?”

“Just drizzle now. Mr. Morelli, would it be okay for me to put something in the store safe? Just for a little while?”

Morelli’s shrewd eyes studied him briefly. The store owner spread his palms. “Of course. As long as it’s not your dream guitar from the front.”

Paul grinned. He didn’t realize he’d wished so loudly. He held out the manila envelope, standard magazine size but much thicker and sealed with packing tape. Not fancy, but all he could find.

“Thank you. Someone broke into our place last week, so I don’t feel comfortable leaving this at home. It’s only paper, but I wouldn’t want to lose it.” No lie there, although a thousand hundred-dollar bills made “only” a bit of an understatement.

Morelli’s thick brows drew together. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was anyone at home?”

“No, the police think they were watching for us to be gone. And they didn’t take anything, just did damage.”

“Vandals and thieves are too common these days. I will lock this up immediately, and you tell me when you’re ready to reclaim it.”

“Thanks a lot.” Harry’s letter hadn’t said how to open the desk’s hidden drawer, but a bit of poking and prodding had solved that problem. Paul jerked his head toward the storefront. “I’d better get out there.”

 

~~~

 

Carol put on her favourite dress and a pair of flat sandals to meet Patrick on Sunday. He’d phoned Thursday night to make sure things were okay, and mentioned a new exhibit at a private gallery she hadn’t visited before.

Art rested Carol’s spirit. After labouring yesterday over a letter to her convict brother, she needed it. And it would keep her from wondering about tonight and rehearsing verbal defences to throw at Joey. Not that she planned to speak to him.

Carol stepped out of the bathroom and tapped on Paul’s door. “If I’m not back by 5:30, eat without me. We need to leave by 6:15. See you later.”

His “Bye, Mom” sounded muffled, like he had a mouthful of cookies. Eyeing the container on her way through the kitchen, Carol suspected he might.

The sticky note on the back of the door reminded, “glasses,” and she instinctively touched the bridge of her nose. Camouflage in place.

Creepy Voice was bad enough. The last thing she needed was some news-hungry journalist recognizing her — and the Calgary letter-writer tracking her here.

Carol undid the safety chain and let herself out into the early afternoon sunshine.

Patrick’s glossy black Porsche eased around the corner of the building five minutes later and stopped behind her tired-looking Toyota. Carol hurried from her seat on the Johnstones’ wooden stairs, but he was already out of the car.

He opened her door. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I came out early for some fresh air.” Cecilia’s barrels of giant pansies edged the fence behind the parking area. Carol liked the way the sun turned them to velvet. It wouldn’t be long before the cool autumn nights finished them. “I need to be home before six. Should we take both cars?”

“And hope to find two parking spaces? It’s unfortunate you don’t have more time. I’d thought we could share dinner.”

Carol clipped her seatbelt and settled her purse on her lap. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I promised Paul I’d go somewhere with him this evening.” Maybe he’d meant this as a date. Or maybe not. Friends ate together too.

Patrick shrugged and slid the car into reverse. “I’ll take a rain check.”

Linden House Gallery and Antiquities stood a few blocks aloof from the trendier art establishments, its elegant grey stonework and ivy-green trim evoking classic rather than current fashion.

The parking lot was nearly full. Patrick found a spot under the spreading limbs of a maple whose leaves already showed orange edges. Carol didn’t want to think about winter. It wouldn’t be anything like the marrow-freezing periods she’d endured in Calgary, but there’d be snow, and that awful grey slush. And cold.

They followed a slate path to the gallery’s entrance. Inside, water rippled down the sides of a dark marble pedestal in the centre of the foyer. Groups of paintings hinted at what lay beyond the French doors that opened to each side and the rear. Nature. Impressionist work. Still life.

A small knot of people stood in front of the nature scenes, conversing in low tones. Patrick touched Carol’s elbow. “That’s the new exhibit. Shall we begin there?”

She nodded, and he led her past the spectators into the exhibit room. “We can view these paintings later.”

Calligraphy on a white card beside the door announced, Waters, Michael Stratton. Carol glanced around the room as they entered. “Patrick, these are amazing.”

“Indeed.”

They circled the room slowly, rarely speaking. Peace welled in Carol’s soul as she studied each painting. As the exhibit name implied, water was the uniting theme. Running water, in streams, fountains, waterfalls, even a whale’s spray.

Ordinarily Carol preferred the softly blurred Impressionist effects, Monet in particular. These paintings, with their sharp, almost photographic detail, gave a different meaning to “timeless.” Not eternal but immediate. Moments in time, fresh, strong, eclipsing past and future.

The painter’s chosen moments sparkled with vitality. Carol lingered before a long, narrow view framed in weathered grey wood. Droplets of water cascaded from the battered spout of a blue metal watering can onto yellow and orange marigolds blooming in a faded work boot. Diagonals of sunlight caught the drops, filling each one with life.

Patrick called her to the next painting, a summer lake scene in a dark green frame. The picture spoke of early morning stillness, with shreds of mist curling from the water. A stillness shattered by a pair of mallards landing near one edge. She could almost hear the splash.

Another, of the gentle eddy around a canoe paddle working through a mat of green lily pads, glistened so Carol felt she could dip her fingers into the cool liquid.

When they reached the door, they strolled through the other exhibits as well. Patrick glanced at his watch. “Care to investigate the antiquities on the next level, or take tea in the solarium?”

“Mmm, tea would be good, if we have time.”

“We have time. I want to visit the Waters room again before we leave. My company has a small budget to support Canadian artists, and I need a new painting for my office.” He smiled. “If clients see new décor from time to time, it fosters the impression that business is thriving. Which it is.”

Potted greenery among the solarium’s tables lent an intimate atmosphere. Carol chose a seat with her back to the other patrons.

The waitress brought Carol’s mint tea in a rose-covered pot with matching china cup and saucer. Patrick’s espresso came in a demitasse patterned in geometric earth tones. He raised it for an appreciative sniff. “Ahh.”

Carol swirled her tea gently in the pot, then poured it. Tendrils of steam drifted from her cup. “You were right. Since the break-in, the apartment breeds stress. I did need to get out. And this is a perfect place to spend an afternoon.”

A smile softened Patrick’s lean cheeks. “See? Trustworthy and reliable.”

The smile hadn’t touched his eyes. Carol laid her fingertips on the nubby linen of his jacket. “You miss her a lot, don’t you?”

The green eyes blinked twice in rapid succession. “Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe not to anyone who hasn’t grieved.” Carol pulled her hand back. “It’s not something to hide. You only miss her because you loved her. Isn’t that better than never knowing her in the first place?”

“Not in the dark just before dawn. For the other twenty-three hours each day, I agree. But I didn’t invite you out to weigh you down. Any progress with your intimidating caller?”

“You were right about Harry’s hidden stash. This guy thought that was why I moved here.” Carol sipped her tea. Garraway’s warning not to talk about it probably didn’t extend to someone with Patrick’s reputation, but anyone could be listening on the other side of the broad-leafed plant.

Patrick tilted his head sideways, a slight furrow between his eyebrows. “What are you going to do?”

“Write my ex-brother and ask him about it. It’s worth the contact to clear this up.” Carol sighed. “I mailed the letter on Saturday, but nothing moves over the weekend.”

“Think of how good you’ll feel when this is behind you.”

The tea had cooled enough for her to take the teacup in both hands. Carol settled her elbows on the pale peach tablecloth and rested the rim of the cup against her chin where the mint could calm her.

Patrick finished his espresso and patted his lips with a snowy cotton napkin. “Where are you going tonight? Not that it’s my business.”

“Church.”

His eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t realize you were religious.”

“It’s Paul’s idea. My — remember the man I thought was a friend, but you were suspicious?” Heat crept up Carol’s neck over their argument in the café. “Well, he spoke at Paul’s school for drug awareness. He’s going to talk tonight about the difference faith made in getting him out of drugs. Paul wants to see if he’s telling the truth, and he asked me to go along.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, face serious. “This fellow has already deceived you once. Is it wise to go back for more?”

Carol’s fingers tightened around the teacup. “I don’t plan to talk to him. I want to hear how he explains himself, but mostly it’s for Paul, making sure this isn’t some cult thing. He has a Christian friend who’s going, but I need to hear for myself.”

“Could this Joey be using Paul to find another way into your life?”

A giggle cracked her tension. “I’m hardly worth that much effort.”

“Aside from your being an attractive woman, if he’s after the money, he needs to stay close to you.”

Patrick’s cool tone belied the “attractive woman” bit, but the warning lifted the tiny hairs along Carol’s arms. She swallowed a last mouthful of tea and set the cup in its saucer. “Then I’ll be there to see if anything happens.”

“Why let your son attend?”

Carol rolled her eyes. Just like Paul would do if she’d told him to stay home. “Based on speculation that borders on the ridiculous? Besides, Paul’s going as backup for his friend if Joey’s not on the up-and-up. She’s arranged to interview him.”

“So you’ll let him protect her, but I can’t protect you.”

Carol breathed out slowly through her nose. “A: I’m a grown woman, and B: you’re welcome to come along.” She dropped the napkin she hadn’t realized she’d clenched. “I appreciate your concern, Patrick, but I really don’t want to spoil the afternoon by arguing.”

“I apologize. Of course this fellow may not be what I fear, and if he is, you’re on guard. Adding church into the mix makes me question him more. Faith presumably helps spiritual issues, but it isn’t much good against addictions. Or disease.”

“Your wife?”

Patrick slid his espresso cup aside and spread out the white napkin. Starting at one edge, the first two fingers of each hand rolled it into a tight cylinder. “Rita had faith, even at the end. I tried —”

He sucked a sharp breath, gaze fixed on the table linen. “I’d have done more than that to save her. When the doctors couldn’t help, we tried everything from alternative medicine to faith healers. Even this bizarre Mexican clinic where they filled her with vegetable juice.”

Patrick pushed the napkin roll into a U, then a circle, then pulled the ends to make a white bar. “Rita fought valiantly, but it wasn’t enough. Her final wish was to die at home, in peace.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “And to never see another vegetable.”

“That’s so sad.”

“The doctors, licensed and otherwise, did their best. The faith healers put it back onto Rita and me. We weren’t believing hard enough. The last one — a whale of a man, hardly any hair and bright pink lips — he shook, and he ranted, and the spittle flew. Rita fainted from fright, but the cancer thrived.”

Patrick unrolled the napkin and folded it into a neat square. It reminded Carol of grave-cloths. She pushed back her chair. “Let’s look around some more.”

“Good idea.”

Patrick paid for their drinks and they wandered back through the exhibits. Carol wondered if he saw any of the paintings. The room wasn’t crowded, but she kept her voice low. “When Joey talked about faith, it sounded gentle, not pushy. Like it wasn’t about rules but opportunity. Maybe there are different kinds of faith.”

“Perhaps.”

They stopped in front of a cascading waterfall. One supple branch, weighted with swollen buds, drooped over the torrent, coated in glistening beads of spray. It stirred something in Carol’s heart. “I’d like to believe in a God who did miracles. But...”

She glanced at Patrick, standing stiff beside her. Sad story for sad story. Maybe it would take him out of his thoughts. “In Calgary, I worked with a woman who was a real holy roller. She’d been healed of a brain tumour. When I found out Keith was into drugs, she helped me pray for him.”

The memory still leaked acid into Carol’s stomach. “She said he’d break free. She prayed it and claimed it. I was so relieved. The next week, Keith was gone.”

A hand took hers, surprisingly gentle. Patrick’s eyes said he understood. A bitterness Carol couldn’t quell pushed out the rest of the story. “She blamed me. She’d had faith to be healed, so it wasn’t her. My failure killed my son.”

“Carol, a real God wouldn’t make someone else suffer because you or I couldn’t manufacture enough faith to appease Him.” Patrick stared at the painting, no doubt giving her time to collect herself.

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue as three stout ladies in flowered dresses approached. She’d seen a washroom beside the solarium. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

When she returned, Patrick stood at the entrance to the Waters exhibit, talking with a dark-haired young man in khaki Dockers and a creamy yellow polo shirt. Patrick looked over as she approached, and beckoned her to join them.

“Carol, meet Michael Stratton. This is his exhibit.”

Friendly blue eyes met hers, and Carol liked the artist on sight. He couldn’t be past his mid-twenties. Young, to achieve a showing like this one. She held out her hand. “Your paintings are beautiful.”

Michael shook her hand, then clasped both of his behind his back. “Thank you. Water speaks to me, but it’s tricky to capture on canvas.”

Carol’s gaze strayed to a mid-sized painting grouped with three smaller ones. A waterfall, with three vignettes of spray-drenched foliage. “You’ve done it, though. The drops sparkle, and the water looks alive.”

“Thank you again.”

Patrick took a business card from the semicircle table under the exhibit sign and studied it. “You’re based in Nova Scotia?”

Michael rocked slowly from heels to toes and back. “I’m in the process of relocating, but my website and email address won’t change. The gallery owner will include the new information when she delivers your painting after the show.”

Carol glanced at Patrick. “Which one did you choose?”

“The lake with the ducks.”

“Splashdown. I liked that one.”

Michael acknowledged her words with a gentle nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I ought to mingle. It’s been good to meet you both. Thank you, Mr. Stairs.”

Carol smiled as she watched him introduce himself to an elderly couple admiring a picture just inside the exhibit room. “He’d rather be painting.”

“Schmoozing is part of the job. He’ll get used to it.”

“Without losing the part of him that sees the magic in the water, I hope.” Carol touched Patrick’s arm. “Do we have time for a last look before we go?”

“A brief one. Your son won’t think much of me if I’m late taking you home.”

Gallery staff had already placed a “sold” card below the frame of Patrick’s lake scene. Carol’s soul drank from each painting, a last bit of refreshment before heading back into the fray that was her life.

Threatening callers. Writing to her convict brother. Joey... and church.