What's Past Is Prologue, page 5
Blake Falconer, a senior partner at Falconer Shreve with an MBA in addition to his law degree, drew up a list of potential members for a new board that would support strategies to ensure that Leland’s vision of a multipurpose educational and recreational centre in the core became a reality. Blake announced he would take a year’s leave from the firm to make certain Peyben’s employees, shareholders and competitors knew the corporation was on solid ground.
Zack followed suit, taking a year’s leave to build the alliances necessary and raise the money to pay the bills for the newly named Racette-Hunter Community Centre. Our lives and the lives of Margot’s family merged, and the closeness was something all of us came to hold dear.
Margot was born into a large family who loved her as much as she loved them, but the Wrights lived in Wadena, 207 kilometres away. Zack and I lived across the hall, so we were the ones in the delivery room with Margot when she gave birth to her daughter, Lexi, who was happy, healthy and utterly irresistible.
Not long after Lexi was born, Margot began considering having a second child, and I was her sounding board as, lawyer-like, she marshalled the arguments for and against enlarging her family as a forty-four-year-old single mother.
She and Leland had been truly in love, and Margot found it difficult to consider sex with a casual partner. Donor insemination seemed to be her only option, but Margot was uneasy about conceiving and raising a child whose father would always be a question mark.
A conundrum, but it was resolved when another option opened. Brock Poitras, an Indigenous man who had grown up in a single-parent home in North Central, was smart, focused and principled. He was also gay. Protected — at least in part — from racism and homophobia by his athletic skills, Brock became a wide receiver for the Saskatchewan Roughriders and later earned an MBA from Queen’s.
From the day Zack recruited Brock, a rising star in the field of asset management, to be second-in-command of the team that would make the Racette-Hunter Centre a reality, Zack knew he’d made the right choice. Brock not only possessed the skill set for the job, he shared Leland Hunter’s belief that through mentorship and job training the people of North Central could change their lives and change our city.
For months, Brock and Margot had worked together closely and well. Collegiality ripened into friendship. As a gay man, Brock Poitras had accepted the fact that it was unlikely he would ever father a child, but the decision that Brock would be Margot’s sperm donor felt right to them both. Kai Poitras Hunter was born on Valentine’s Day, an irony that did not escape his parents. From the beginning Brock and Margot knew that in Kai they had found the child who completed Lexi’s life and theirs.
Kai was a strikingly attractive child with Margot’s cornflower blue eyes and sculpted features and Brock’s tawny skin and shining black hair. As quietly reflective as Lexi was exuberantly imaginative, Kai was the ideal playmate for a sister who was just a year and six weeks older than him.
When Zack and I moved back to our restored house on the creek, Brock moved into the condo across the hall from Margot’s. After the November tragedy that killed three of Falconer Shreve’s four remaining senior partners, Brock took over management of the shattered firm. He brought order and a sense of camaraderie to the firm’s personnel, instilled confidence in their clients and established a solid future for the firm. So Brock and Margot worked together, lived across the hall from each other and raised children together. Margot could be fiery, and despite their mutual respect and deep affection for each other, Margot and Zack frequently locked horns, but I never heard Margot and Brock exchange an angry word. The arrangement worked for them, and more importantly, it worked for their children who were blooming.
Margot’s relationship with Libby Hogarth was both professional and personal. After Margot became serious about focusing on criminal law, Libby, at that time an Ireland Leontovich partner, mentored her. Libby was not a coddler. No omission slipped by her, and she was quick to pounce on an error of judgment or of fact that she believed threatened a case. She never sugar-coated her criticisms. Margot was not a snowflake, but she told me that when one of Libby’s stinging rebukes brought her to the verge of tears, Libby had been curt. “We aren’t making brownies for the school bake sale. We’re protecting our client’s constitutional rights, and we can’t fuck up.”
When I told Margot that Libby Hogarth had agreed to deliver the School of Journalism’s Mellohawk Lecture and that Ed Mariani was organizing the event, Margot moved fast. She picked up her phone, tracked Ed down at the university, delivered an impassioned précis of her history with Libby and told Ed that there was no need to look for someone to introduce Libby because the position was filled. Ed told me later that being on the receiving end of Margot’s call that day was like standing in front of a firehose. Still smiling at the memory, I walked down the hall to join my husband. Anticipating the evening ahead, I felt a fizz of excitement.
* * *
The turbulence that had turned our city into a snow globe for most of the day had calmed by the time we set out. Leah and Angus drove downtown in their station wagon, and Sawyer came with us. Our drive was pleasant and uneventful. Ploughs had been clearing the city streets since early morning, and we arrived at the warehouse district in plenty of time to show Sawyer the Racette-Hunter Community Centre. Still strung with holiday lights and surrounded by fresh snow, the centre promised warmth and welcome, and Zack and I exchanged a quick proud and grateful smile.
The four-storey converted warehouse on Halifax Street where Zack, Taylor and I had lived for two and half years was artfully illuminated for the holidays, but surrounded by a five-metre-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire, it was far from welcoming. Still visible on the building’s brick face were the words “COLD STORAGE.” The message was ominous, but our family had been happy there.
As I went through the familiar ritual of tapping in the code to open the security gate, pulling up in front of the entrance and waiting as Zack reached into the back seat to pull out his wheelchair and reassemble it, the sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me. It didn’t last long. As a kid, Sawyer had been quick as a cat. He still was. When Zack transferred his body from our Volvo to his chair, Sawyer was waiting for me to slide out of the driver’s seat and hand him the keys.
Seeing Sawyer, ready as always to take charge, awakened another memory. Angus had been nine years old when his father died. I struggled to keep our family life on track, but I often fell short of the mark. More times than I cared to remember when my older children Mieka and Peter had activities that kept them late after school, when Angus and Sawyer returned for a quick meal before basketball practice, I would be staring off into space with a pile of unpaid bills on my desk. Without prompting, Sawyer would open a box of Hamburger Helper and make supper for Angus and him. When they returned from practice, Sawyer always came in to say goodnight to me.
As I stepped out of the car and Sawyer offered me his arm, I moved in close and embraced him. “It’s good to have you back in our lives,” I said.
“It’s good to be back,” Sawyer said, giving me a final squeeze before he slid into the driver’s seat. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed you all,” he said.
“It’s the first of January,” I said. “Right on target for a new year’s resolution.”
“And I just made one,” he said. “Stock up on Hamburger Helper, Joanne. Sawyer MacLeish will be coming to town — a lot, and as always, he’ll be hungry.”
* * *
When we arrived on the third floor, Margot and Brock met us, dressed for the outdoors. “Lexi and Kai wanted us all to go up to the roof garden so you could watch their new puppy, Rosie, burrow through the snow,” Brock said. “When we picked up Rosie, Neal, the young man we bought her from, took Rosie and her littermates outside for a last romp together.” Brock had a smile that could light up a room and at that moment, it was full wattage. “Until Margot, Lexi and then Kai became part of my life, my Christmases were pretty bleak. But now — watching our kids yesterday, playing in the snow with those six puppies was better than anything I could have imagined.”
Margot linked her arm through Brock’s. “And we have plenty of Christmases ahead of us.”
Brock turned and met her eyes. “We do, don’t we?”
It was a tender moment short-circuited by the arrival of a six-year-old girl and her five-year-old brother who were chomping at the bit to take the elevator up to their building’s roof garden and show their new puppy the city’s holiday lights and take in the wonder of a starry January evening.
Twenty minutes later we were back at Brock’s condo where Brock’s aunt Beatrice, Kokum Bea, was waiting with the kids’ favourite meal: hamburger stew and bannock. Kokum Bea had come to help the previous fall when Brock was felled by a nasty flu and Margot was putting in twelve-hour days on a big trial. By the time Brock returned to robust good health and Margot’s trial ended, Kokum Bea had become part of the household. When Lexi heard Kokum Bea making plans to leave, she pointed out that Kokum Bea was “in our family and that means you’re here for good.” Kai was less chatty than his sister, but he knew the importance of clarity. “That means forever,” he said, and the deal was sealed.
I was tempted to stay when I heard that Kokum Bea’s plans for the evening included not only hamburger stew and bannock but sitting in front of the fireplace reading Lexi’s current favourite, Michael Kusugak’s Hide and Sneak, whose protagonist, Allashua, was a young risk-taking Inuit girl with a temperament much like Lexi’s, and Kai’s choice, Doreen Cronin’s Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type, whose typing cow protagonists rebel when Farmer Brown tries to shut them down.
Books about a risk-taking girl and a union of typing cows were a powerful lure, but I knew Allashua and the activist cows would always be there, and tonight I was interested in learning more about Libby Hogarth.
* * *
Libby and Ed had been invited to join the rest of us on the roof garden with Rosie, but Libby had a late appointment, and she and Ed were just getting out of the elevator when Zack and I said our final goodnights to Kokum Bea and the children, so the six of us entered Margot’s condo together.
The foyer of Margot’s condominium was spectacular: an open concept plan with a vaulted ceiling and skylights. Two storeys of light, hardwood, granite and glass. The furniture was all simple and elegant, soft pale leather couches and chairs, bronze lamps that cast a gentle glow, huge ornamental jars filled with dried grasses. It was a stunning setting for a woman who was pretty stunning herself.
Margot was a natural blond with creamy skin, delicately arched brows, full lips and dagger nails that were always painted a shade of red that hinted at danger.
On that wintry evening, Margot’s condo could not have been more inviting. The fireplace was lit, and a semicircle of comfy armchairs separated by glass-topped woven rattan tables, just large enough to hold drinks and a small plate of appetizers or dessert, faced the fireplace. Brock took our drink orders: scotch for Libby and Ed; martinis for Zack and me; and a glass of Riesling for Margot who was already passing around small plates holding savoury wild-rice cakes with forest mushrooms and smoked whitefish and white bean spread.
After one bite of his rice cake, Zack sighed with contentment. “I could make a meal of these.”
“Well, don’t,” Margot said. “There’s more food coming. Brock knows the menu.”
“I chose the dishes,” Brock said. “Not an easy task when all the Sioux chef’s options are excellent. We’re having butternut squash soup, cedar-braised bison, roasted root vegetables, bannock of course, the Three Sisters salad that Margot loves, and for dessert, something that we think is fun.”
Brock stood. “Now, it’s time for me to hit the kitchen and get things moving. Anything else I should bring when I come back with the drinks?”
Ed Mariani smoothed the front of the shirt, which he had tailored to hide his ample girth. He owned at least two dozen of these shirts in fabrics of varying hues and weights. Tonight’s was midnight-blue Merino wool. “What else could we possibly want?” he said. “From this point on, as guests, our only task is to savour and be grateful.”
Libby had chosen the chair next to mine. “I’m up for savouring and being grateful. It’s a pleasure to be in such a warm and welcoming home. Margot, thank you for arranging this evening.”
Margot looked thoughtfully at the last rice cake on her plate, made a quick decision, picked it up and gave Zack a wicked grin. “Do as I say, not as I do,” she said and popped the rice cake into her mouth.
After making quick work of the rice cake, Margot turned back to Libby. “Brock and I always intend to entertain, but with the kids and our jobs, we never seem to get around to it. Planning this evening is getting our year off to a good start.”
“Glad we could be of service,” Ed said.
Libby smiled and shifted her position, so she was facing me. “Joanne, I need to apologize for not congratulating you on Sisters and Strangers when I was at your house today.”
“No apology necessary,” I said. “You had something to deal with, and Zack and I were glad we could help.”
“That’s very gracious. But I do want to talk to you about Sisters and Strangers. I watched the series when it debuted, and I watched it again last week. Ed tells me that it’s a true account of your early life. Working on that script must have been difficult for you.”
“It was,” I said. “I told Zack there were days when I felt like I was watching my own autopsy, but there were so many misconceptions about the Love family — especially about Sally — and I wanted to show the truth.”
“For Taylor,” Libby said.
“Especially for Taylor,” I said. “But for me too. Writing that series was a way of laying my ghosts to rest.”
Libby’s azure eyes were piercing. “And you’ve done that?”
“It took over forty years, but yes I think I have.”
“Do you feel at peace?”
“About that part of my life? Yes.”
A fleeting shadow crossed Libby’s face. “And now you and Zack are together. You’re both very lucky. Some people never get the chance to lay their ghosts to rest.” There was no masking the deep regret in her voice, and a sudden silence fell over our small group.
Anxious to lift the pall, I carried on. “I am grateful,” I said, “for that and for the fact that Sisters and Strangers gave me a chance to work with all the gifted people on the production team. Stepping into their world was an Alice in Wonderland experience for me.”
When it was clear Libby was still looking inward, Ed picked up the thread. “And Joanne made it possible for me to step into Wonderland too,” he said. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of being a fashion designer, and Joanne introduced me to Hal Dupuis, who was head of the production’s Costume and Wardrobe department.”
“The clothes in that series — especially the evening gowns — were breathtaking,” Margot said. “Down to the last detail, they were perfect. It must have been a daunting task, but your friend pulled it off, Ed.”
“He did,” Ed said, “and Hal told me he’d never had more fun in his life. He adores vintage clothing, and recreating gowns by Balenciaga, Cardin and Yves Saint Laurent was a labour of love for him. It wasn’t easy. Those designs, especially that one-piece lace-and-net Rudi Gernreich jumpsuit Sally wore, demanded skillful hand sewing.”
Zack raised an eyebrow. “There can’t have been much to hand sew,” he said. “I’m not an expert on costumes, but there didn’t seem to be much lace on that jumpsuit, just a lot of net and a lot of Sally.”
“Rudi Gernreich was an advocate for advancing women’s sexual freedom,” Ed said. “His designs made a statement.”
“That jumpsuit certainly did,” Zack said.
“It made the statement Sally wanted it to make,” I said. “That night Nina arrived at the dinner first. She was wearing a classic, sculpted red velvet Balenciaga. The gown was the perfect complement to her dark hair and Dresden doll colouring. She was the belle of the ball. Then Sally sailed through the door in her Rudi Gernreich jumpsuit, and Nina was forgotten.”
“Hal and I talked about how Sally and Nina used their fashion choices as weapons that night,” Ed said. “That kind of conversation was a dream come true for me.” His moon face creased with joy at the memory. “Watching Hal as he worked will always be one of the highlights of my life. Libby, everyone here already knows this, but I grew up in a very small Saskatchewan town, and I was afraid to share my interest in fashion with the kids in my class.”
“I wish you and I had known each other then,” I said. “I had sketch pads filled with designs for clothing and accessories.”
Ed’s jaw dropped. “Jo, you have less interest in clothes than anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t believe that you ever had a passion for fashion.”
“Well, I did. As a student at Bishop Lambeth, I wore a uniform five days a week from the time I was six until I graduated at eighteen. I loved the school and I was comfortable wearing uniforms. I made the drawings because I wanted to see my name and one of my designs in a comic book I liked.”
“Katy Keene,” Ed said, and his tone was reverent. “I lived for those comics.”
Margot, relieved by the turn our conversation had taken, chimed in. “I missed out on Katy Keene,” she said. “Could one of you fashionistas fill me in?”
“Katy was a fashion model, and readers were invited to submit designs of outfits or accessories for her and her friends,” I said. “The best designs appeared in the comics with the name of the person who’d submitted the design.”
