What's Past Is Prologue, page 15
“And that changed,” I said.
“It did,” Kevin said, and his voice was warm with the memory. “Christmas is not an easy time for many of us who live alone, but this year, Devi and I spent the holiday together. Nothing was planned. We just brought in food and wine we liked, listened to music we liked and talked. We talked about everything including the possibility of our relationship becoming something more than just a friendship. In the end, we both realized that living in the same building with a person we could trust and talk to openly was enough, and that by pushing it to another level, we would be risking something of great value to us both.”
“That sounds like a very wise decision.”
“We thought so, but now Devi’s stopped trusting me. She won’t even talk to me. Joanne, I’m worried about her.”
“I understand, and I’ll do what I can,” I said. “If you’ll give me Devi’s telephone number, I’ll try calling. I don’t think she’ll pick up when she sees my name, but I don’t know what else I can do. I still think Kam Chau is our best bet. It would be natural for him to knock on her door.”
“And it would be natural for Devi to respond quickly. She takes her responsibilities as the building owner seriously. But the woman who hung up on me is not the Devi that Kam and I know.” Kevin’s voice was thin with defeat. “I’m not sure anyone will be able to reach her.”
“All I can tell you is that I’ll do everything I can,” I said.
When I met him over twenty years ago, Kevin was a confirmed misanthrope. Experience had mellowed his outlook, and time had sanded his sharp edges. Kevin’s humanity was on the ascent, and he deserved support. “Kam Chau will be at Taylor’s opening tonight. I’ll talk to him then.”
“Joanne, I haven’t forgotten that tonight is Taylor’s opening. I wouldn’t have thrown a shadow on a celebratory day for your family if there had been an alternative. There wasn’t one.”
“I understand, and you haven’t thrown a shadow on our day. It will be a wonderful opening and I promise I’ll send pictures.”
“I’d like that,” Kevin said. “Joanne, I hope you know how happy I am for you and your family.”
“I do, and Kevin, I’m glad we’re friends.”
* * *
I’d tried Devi’s number and Kam’s. No results, and I’d just returned to what was fast becoming a marathon reading of the December 21st issue of the New Yorker when Taylor and Sawyer arrived home rosy with cold and beaming.
“I don’t need to ask how your morning went. Obviously, the Mercury Cafe and Grill met and exceeded expectations.”
“It did,” Sawyer said, “and our breakfast was on the house. When we finished our meals, we asked for the check, and our server, Rylee, said that Slate Fine Art Gallery was a good customer and a good neighbour, and the staff and management of Mercury wanted to show their appreciation. Rylee also said that she and a friend would be at the opening.”
“Any day that begins with Rylee and a free breakfast is a winner,” I said.
“And it continued to be great,” Taylor said. “We paid Mieka a visit so Sawyer could meet Des.”
I turned to Sawyer. “And?”
“And Des also met and exceeded expectations,” Sawyer said. “I’ve never spent much time around babies, but Des is a lot of fun.” Taylor moved closer and patted the shoulder of Sawyer’s ski jacket.
“That’s Des’s drool,” she said. “Sawyer had been playing peek-a-boo with him, and when we started to leave, Sawyer handed Des to Mieka, and Des hollered.”
“So I took him back, and he was so happy, he drooled,” Sawyer said.
“The ultimate expression of love,” I said. “Now you have one more reason to make frequent visits to Regina a new year’s resolution.”
“You’re preaching to the converted, Joanne. I’m already planning my next visit.”
“Okay, now that’s taken care of, it’s time for the tour of my studio,” Taylor said.
* * *
An hour later, when they came back from the studio, Sawyer said, “Taylor and I talked about art. There is so much I don’t know.”
“But you have all the time in the world to learn it,” I said. “Speaking of time, I took the cover off the pool if you still have time for a swim.”
“Taylor tells me this swim is for medicinal purposes, so we definitely have time,” Sawyer said.
After their swim, Taylor and Sawyer padded up the hall in their flip-flops, looking relaxed and very happy. “That is one gorgeous pool,” Sawyer said.
“The pool was here when we bought the house,” I said. “The previous owner had a health condition that swimming helped ease, and the pool is large. But until Taylor worked her magic on the walls, the pool area was bleak.”
“It’s not bleak now,” Sawyer said. “Those frescoes Taylor painted are magical, especially in January. It’s wonderful to be able to shrug off the world and walk into a room where it’s always summer. Thank you both for a morning I’ll never forget. Now it’s time for me to dry off, put on my lawyer clothes, meet Libby and get back to sharpening my mind.”
* * *
After a stop at Pacific Fish in Cathedral, Taylor and I did our shopping for the weekend at the 13th Avenue Safeway, and by three o’clock, we’d purchased everything we needed and some very nice-looking fresh pickerel fillets for an early dinner before the opening.
When we passed Eden Sass’s building, I pulled over and parked.
“What’s up?” Taylor said.
“I’m trying to decide whether I should go and knock on Devi Sass’s door. Kevin Coyle called this morning. He’s in Bequia, and apparently the plan was that Devi and Eden would join him. When he called her this morning, she seemed unaware of what he was talking about and she cut off the call.”
Taylor frowned. “That’s weird. I’d never met Devi until Ed’s party last night. I was hoping I could talk to her about how much it mattered to me, and to all of us who treasure the heritage buildings in this city, that she had rescued the old mansion on 13th Avenue and had it renovated with such respect for its original design. But when I approached her and began thanking her for what she had done, Devi looked right past me. I waited for her to respond, but Devi’s focus on whoever was behind me didn’t waver, so I wished her a pleasant evening and moved along.”
“You’re right, that is weird, and it’s also uncharacteristic,” I said. “Devi Sass is not a person who reaches out, and she does not suffer fools gladly. But she was rude to you and openly hostile to Libby last night. When we had tea together, she was gracious and thoughtful. Something’s wrong. Kevin asked me if I could check on her. I’ve been calling on and off all day, but she hasn’t picked up. Kam Chau lives in that building too, but he’s in meetings. There’s probably a logical explanation for Devi’s behaviour and normally I’d let the situation just work itself out, but Kevin’s down there, and he’s worried sick. The least I can do is knock on the door.”
I had turned to face Taylor. She was looking past my shoulder. “You don’t have to knock on the door, Jo. Look across the street.”
Devi was just coming out of her house. She was wearing her red midi coat, with the hood up, but the wind blew the hood back. I was across the street from Devi, and I only saw her for a few seconds, but that brief glance was enough to convince me that Kevin was right to be concerned. Devi’s face was knifed with an emotion I couldn’t identify. It could have been anger, pain, resolve, but whatever it was had transformed her.
“She doesn’t look the way she did last night,” Taylor said.
My daughter watched as Devi, heedless of traffic, crossed the street and headed towards the supermarket.
“What are you going to do?” she said.
“I’m going to email Kevin and say I just saw Devi leave her house, cross the street and apparently go shopping.”
Taylor’s forehead wrinkled. “The truth, but not the whole truth,” she said. “You wouldn’t have let me get away with that.”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t. But Kevin has finally burst out of his lifetime cocoon of misanthropy, and he deserves at least a few more days believing in a world where people can be good.”
Kevin had obviously been waiting for my email, and he responded immediately. “Thanks for the reassurance. If Devi can walk across 13th to carry on with daily life, she’s not suffering physically. It won’t be easy, but I’ll wait until Devi’s ready to get in touch with me. We agreed that we would always allow each other to have private space. In the meantime, I’m going to hope that Devi and Eden will be joining me for brunch in Bequia with Susan Toy and her husband on Sunday.”
I handed Taylor my phone so she could see Kevin’s response. She read it without comment until we’d pulled into our garage, and I turned off the motor. As she handed my phone back to me, she said, “This is one of those moral grey areas we used to talk about when I was growing up. I remember you saying when you make a decision in an area that’s morally grey, you’ll never be certain you did the right thing.”
“And I’m not certain that I did the right thing now. But Kevin will have a chance to enjoy his holiday. It may not last long, but it will be better than never having had the chance at all.”
Chapter Eleven
Isobel Wainberg, the third member of the triumvirate that had been central to Taylor’s life since Zack and I met, had sent our daughter a bouquet of perfect white tulips to celebrate the opening of her show, NEXT?? Taylor had arranged them in a Delft pitcher that had belonged to my grandmother, and the tulips were now the centrepiece on the table where Gracie, Taylor, Zack and I would have an early dinner before the opening. Taylor had sent Izzie a photo of the tulips in the Delft pitcher, with a note saying, “Wish you were here, but these tulips will bring you close.”
The Pinot Grigio was chilled; the asparagus were trimmed; the new potatoes and baby carrots were scrubbed; and the wasabi mayonnaise for the pickerel was mixed. The meal would be the perfect prelude to what we were sure would be a perfect evening.
But as Robbie Burns wrote in “To a Mouse,” “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley.” Gracie’s plane from Saskatoon was delayed, and she now would be arriving at 5:20, and the opening was at seven. We lived ten minutes from the airport, so Gracie could be at our place at 6:10. Concerned that Gracie was missing out on the pickerel, Taylor asked if I could make a pickerel fishwich for Gracie to eat as soon as she and Gracie got back from the airport.
That’s how the evening began. At 6:10, Gracie came through the front door. She had just endured a gruelling set of examinations, but she appeared to be in fine fettle.
“You told us to expect a zombie,” Zack said, “but you’re fresh as a daisy.”
Gracie kicked off her Sorels. “I slept on the plane.”
Zack narrowed his eyes. “That flight only lasts forty-five minutes.”
Gracie unzipped her ski jacket and shrugged it off. “The two major lessons of med school are sleep whenever and wherever you can, and eat fast because you’ll probably get called away.”
I handed Gracie her pickerel fishwich. “That last skill is about to come in handy,” I said. “You know where the shower is.”
Gracie took a bite of her fishwich, gave me the thumbs-up and she and Taylor disappeared down the hall. I turned to Zack. “Time for us to spiff up.”
“Is this event coat and tie?”
“It is for you because you’re the father of the artist whose work is being exhibited. After Taylor told me that she and Sawyer watched the Homage to Zephyr video this morning, it occurred to me I could just wear what I wore that night: my go-to black dress and the Navajo turquoise bracelet and dangly earrings that Sally gave me.”
“What did I wear that night?”
I narrowed my eyes in concentration. “Your charcoal suit, a white shirt and that tie and pocket square I liked but you didn’t, so you gave them to Angus.”
“So I’m on my own tie-wise?”
“If called upon, I will advise,” I said.
* * *
Zack and I were dressed for the evening and watching the clock when Taylor came in. She gave us a quick glance, then looked down at the outfit she’d chosen. “We’re all wearing what we wore to Zephyr’s thingy, except, Dad, you’re wearing a different tie and pocket square.” She paused. “That was the night Vale and I sat on the penthouse balcony at the after-party, wrapped in blankets and talking about Joseph Campbell. It was an important evening for us both.”
It was the first time our daughter had been able to make a reference to her former girlfriend casually and without emotion, and I attempted to keep the conversation flowing forward. “Now you’re on your way to another important evening,” I said, “and that outfit is absolutely perfect.”
Taylor’s look was urban chic: close-fitted black cigarette pants, a white button-up shirt, hot-pink ankle boots with side zippers and three sets of buckles and a vintage black-and-white beaded crossbody bag she’d found at a flea market when our family went to New York City. “That’s exactly right for the occasion.”
“Thanks, but wait till you see Gracie. She’s a knockout.”
Zack and I exchanged a look. Gracie Falconer had never evinced the slightest interest in fashion. Tall and athletic, she had her father’s thick wavy hair, his enviable peaches-and-cream complexion and his grey eyes. Gracie’s passion was basketball and she was good — very, very good. In her two years at the University of Notre Dame, she’d scored an average of 13.3 points a game, an accomplishment which Taylor was quick to point out was stellar.
That night, for the first time in my memory, Gracie was wearing makeup — not much, just a hint of grey eyeshadow and a touch of coral on her full lips. Her red-gold hair, still damp from the shower, fell gracefully to her shoulders. The black silk slacks she’d chosen were tailored to showcase her perfectly toned and long, powerful legs. A scarf that was a mesmerizing swirl of glowing colours was knotted at the base of the deep vee neckline of her ivory silk shirt.
“Taylor’s assessment was right on the money,” Zack said. “You’re a knockout, Gracie.”
“I agree,” I said. “Everything about that outfit is so right for you, and that scarf is absolutely glorious.”
“It’s Hermès. My dad gave it to me on my last birthday before . . .” Gracie drew in a deep breath. “Before everything changed,” she said. “On the card, he wrote, ‘I know this scarf belongs with you because it is all the colours of Gracie.’”
It was a poignant memory, and there were no words that would lessen the sting. When our silence became uncomfortably long, Zack whipped out his phone.
“Picture time,” he said.
For the next few minutes we handed Zack’s phone around, laughing and taking photos of each other in every possible permutation and combination. When finally I had it again, I zeroed in on Taylor and Gracie. “Time for a photo of you two — no goofiness. I want a picture of you just the way you look tonight.”
Both young women turned a little; Taylor tilted her head slightly so that she and Gracie could be looking at each other. The moment the photo captured was as self-contained as teardrop, and it revealed a truth about the relationship between Gracie and Taylor that they might not yet have known themselves.
Zack gazed at the photo thoughtfully. “This is the one we get framed — three copies: one for Taylor and Gracie, one for us and one for my office.”
“That’s a task for tomorrow,” I said. “Tonight’s task is to get to the opening. If we leave now, we’ll be on time.”
“Gracie and I will probably want to go somewhere to wind down afterwards,” Taylor said. “Let’s take two cars.”
* * *
The building on 13th Avenue that now houses Slate Fine Art Gallery has a history. Built in 1929 as a Safeway, it has, over the years, been transformed to meet the changing needs of the community, becoming variously a Salvation Army haven, a furniture store, a children’s indoor play area, a CrossFit gym and now a bright and airy gallery that features the work of many of our province’s finest visual artists.
Parking was often problematic on 13th Avenue, and Gina Fafard, who owned the gallery, had suggested that we use the employee parking at the back. Her suggestion was both pragmatic and sensitive. Winter sidewalks were difficult for Zack to navigate in his wheelchair, and using the employee entrance would give Taylor and the rest of us time to remove our outerwear and freshen up before we greeted the guests who had come to NEXT??
When Taylor peeked through the window of the door that opened into the gallery, she gulped. “There are already people in there, looking at the paintings and talking. What if they hate everything?”
I’d been to this movie before. Two of our daughter’s paintings had been chosen by the curator of a charity auction when she was fifteen. Taylor had been giddy with delight when she heard the announcement, but on the night of the auction when I called upstairs to ask if she was ready to go, she didn’t respond, and I went to her room. The outfit she was planning to wear was on her bed, but the room was empty. I found her in the space in our condo that she used as a studio. She was wearing her robe, staring at the blank canvas on the easel in front of her.
There had been other openings since, and for Taylor, all of them had stirred up doubts about her talent. I started towards her to offer reassurance, but Gracie was already at our daughter’s side, her hand resting on Taylor’s forearm.
“You’ve got this,” she said. “You know this is the best work you’ve ever done. It’s time to go through that door.”
