Burden of Memory (26 page)

“He wasn’t in camp when the fire started, that’s true. But his father died in a house fire when he was a child. Dave was burned, quite badly. I don’t know much of the story. His mother wasn’t home when it happened, but Dave and his father and sister were in the house. The father died, the sister escaped unharmed. ’Cause it hasn’t been hot, you probably haven’t noticed that he never takes his shirt off. He never does, no matter how hot it gets. His chest is terribly scarred. He’s terrified of fire, won’t go near it. Isn’t that right, Rachel, Jessica?”

“It’s true,” Jessica said, shivering despite the sun’s warm, caressing rays.

“He won’t help make our fire,” Willow piped up. “Sits way back. Where it’s cold. When we roasted marshmallows I had to cook his for him. And he waited till they were all cold and yucky before he would take them. Ug.”

“Doesn’t fit my image of him,” Elaine said.

“It wouldn’t, would it?” Rachel shrugged. “He’s got a nasty streak, that boy. And I’m sorry for him because of what happened when he was small, but I won’t make excuses for his behavior as an adult.” She ripped a hunk off her sandwich and chewed viciously. “He’s made things difficult for the rest of the group because he refuses to throw off that chip on his shoulder. I won’t be sorry to cast him adrift. Lots of people have had a tough life, but they don’t try to make everyone around them suffer because of it.”

“Dave doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder, Rachel,” Willow said from behind a mouthful of milk. “I would have seen it.”

The women all laughed, and Moira rubbed the girl’s head. “I’m sure you would have, sweetheart. You’re welcome to come back next year, you know.”

“Thank you, dear Moira.” Rachel’s green eyes swelled with unshed tears. “But we’ll simply have to see where we all are. Will that be all right?”

“Of course.”

“Look, Rachel, look.” Willow bounced up and down in her seat. “There are ducks, coming to see us. Can I take them some bread, please? I’ve finished my lunch.” She remembered her manners. “It was very nice, thank you, Lizzie.”

“You can take the rest of your bread down to them,” Lizzie said. “Break it up into tiny pieces, but remember to throw the bread, don’t let them eat out of your hand or they might bite you. Without meaning to hurt you.”

“I won’t.” And the girl took off, braids and bright yellow ribbons streaming out behind her.

“She’s a lovely girl,” Maeve said with a smile. She had stopped crying long ago and was enjoying her lunch, the conversation, and the company.

“That she is,” Rachel said. “But she isn’t my daughter. I’m guessing you think so.”

“I did make that assumption,” Elaine said. “But it’s none of my business.”

“Her mother was my late sister. Danielle was murdered by her ex-husband last winter. Willow saw the whole thing.”

“How awful for her.” Elaine placed her fork on the side of her plate. The chocolate cake had lost all appeal. “And for you.”

Moira’s face was tight with anger: she’d heard the story before.

“I took Willow and I love having her. She’s recovering, but it’s a long, slow process. We were doing all right, living in Toronto. But in the spring Jim, that’s my sister’s husband, God rot his soul, finally went to trial.”

“He didn’t get off?” Elaine gasped, horrified at the thought.

“Oh no. I don’t think I could have lived with that. He got life. But his new girlfriend, Irene, started calling me up, wanting to see Willow, wanting to take her to Kingston to visit Jim in the pen. Then it got worse; she demanded weekends and visitations, saying she was Willow’s stepmother and had rights.”

“And does she?” Maeve asked.

“None at all. Irene isn’t married to Jim and even if they had been married it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Jim hasn’t asked to see Willow. Thank God for that, at least. He swears that all this harassment has nothing to do with him.

“She was crazy, started making threats against me. Said if I was dead then Willow would have to come live with her.” Tears dripped down Rachel’s cheeks. Jessica leaned over and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“So I decided we had to get away. Jess and Karen were leaving, off on a road trip they said. They asked us to come along.” She smiled at them through her tears. They were crying also. Karen rose to her feet and settled her thick Irish cream knit sweater over her friend’s bony shoulders.

“Will you be safe in Victoria?” Moira asked.

“I hope so. My mother married again after our dad died, so her last name is different from mine. Irene has a pretty short attention span. I suspect she’s forgotten all about us by now and gone on to torment someone else. What a poisonous couple they were, Jim and Irene. Truly a match made in hell.”

“I’ll take the plates in. You sit still, Lizzie. You deserve a bit of a break.” Elaine scrambled to her feet to gather up crockery and glassware. She always was so helpless when tossed in a sea of emotion. What a nice normal family she came from. How boring she had always thought they were. One brother was a doctor, a common and garden variety family practitioner in Vancouver. The other some sort of a banker, a financial planner he called himself, in a small Nova Scotia town. Her parents had retired early, financially secure.

Phoebe and Alan were in the kitchen, finishing up their own lunch, when Elaine walked in and started loading the dishwasher. As much as Elaine had insisted that she could manage, Lizzie had equally insisted that she would help, and followed her in.

“That’s more drama in one morning than I’ve had in my whole life up until now,” the cook said.

“What’s happened?” Alan asked.

“Nothing. Someone’s life story.”

“Makes me realize how lucky I’ve been,” Elaine said.

“It’s good to remember that, now and again.”

“So what’s your deep, dark secret, Alan?” Elaine teased, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“I don’t have one. I’m what you see.”

“What’s this about art? Charles made it sound awfully insulting this morning. Like in your private life you run a child labor sweatshop or something.”

“Nothing. He was ticked off and had to attack someone. And there I stood. The bull’s-eye proudly painted on the front of my shirt.”

“Don’t you know?” Phoebe said brightly. “Alan’s a painter, a really good one. He does landscapes, mostly. Moira lets him live here and have a studio and everything if he helps out.”

“I see. I had wondered about the reference to smoke damage the morning after the fire. Then I forgot about it. Can I see some of your work?”

“No.”

“You already have,” Lizzie offered. “In the hall, near the staircase. One of Alan’s is hanging there. A woman’s hat in a field of flowers? Beside a dark, tired painting by some old guy? Alan’s is much better.”

“You did that?” Elaine remembered the perfection of the light and the depth of emotion the work had elicited in her.

Alan shifted in his seat. “Not a particularly good piece.”

“It’s wonderful. I’d love to see the rest of your portfolio. May I?”

“No.”

“Of course you can,” Lizzie said. “Alan’s a bit shy, that’s all. I’ll take you up there.”

“Lizzie.” The word was a low warning.

“Oh, all right. I won’t. But you should let Elaine see. Alan never shows his unfinished work to anyone,” Lizzie explained. “But right now he has a lot of finished pieces he’s getting ready for a gallery showing over Christmas.”

“A gallery! How wonderful.”

“That fire really would have been a disaster, in more ways than one, if it had gotten out of control and passed into the cottage,” Lizzie said, tucking the remains of cheese and cold meat into plastic wrap. “Thanks for the help, Elaine. But there’s no rest for the wicked. His lordship will be finishing his lunch and wondering why the dirty dishes haven’t magically disappeared.”

“And I also have enormous tasks ahead of me,” said Phoebe, preparing to take her leave with a martyred sigh. “What with the stern taskmaster watching my every move.”

Alan shifted uncomfortably and watched his fork with rapt attention as it finished off what remained of his dessert.

“If you don’t want to show me, that’s all right,” Elaine said. “But can I come to the gallery?”

“Can’t stop you. It’s a public place.”

“I love the painting in the hall. It’s quite wonderful. Kyle admires it too. He told me so. Does he know you painted it?”

“No.”

“Oh, have it your way. I’ve had enough of pulling teeth.” Out of nowhere, Elaine was suddenly angry. “I’ll be in the library for the afternoon, if you need anyone to chop wood or lug water.”

“Elaine, I…” Alan mumbled, but the end of his sentence was swallowed up in a loud knock on the kitchen door.

Elaine admitted a smiling Greg, arms laden with a potted cyclamen in full glorious pink bloom. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,” he said sweeping into the room.

“Christ, Josepheson. Thinking of taking up residence? Why don’t you move right in?” Alan stood up so fast his chair crashed to the floor behind him. “I’ll go and see how Kyle and Dave are getting on.”

“Bit testy today,” Greg said, watching the door slam shut.

“It’s been a hard day. For everyone,” Elaine said.

“Well, I’m here to make it better.” Greg passed her the plant pot. “And to ask if you would like to have dinner with me tonight.”

Lizzie and Phoebe skittered out of the kitchen.

“I….”

“You need to get out of here. Have a bit of fun. Say yes.” He opened his eyes wide and cocked his head to one side, blinking furiously in the manner of a toddler trying to look loveable.

It worked.

Elaine laughed.

The tiny network of laugh lines around his eyes crinkled with amusement and the edges of his moustache twitched.

“Yes. That would be nice.”

“I know you’re here to work, so I’ll leave you to carry on. But I’ll be back, say around seven?”

“Seven would be good.”

Elaine returned to the computer in her room. She had some research notes she wanted to check out, details of the Canadian Army in Italy during World War Two. She logged on to her Internet account and waited for her day’s batch of e-mail to download, thinking more of the painting in the hall by the staircase than the prospects of a dinner date.

Chapter Thirty-nine

May 1945. VE day. Throughout England and around the world joyous men, women, and children massed in the streets in celebration. At the hospital, the nurses and orderlies had been given time off duty to join the party. But someone had to keep on working and Moira volunteered to remain on duty. The skeletal hospital staff went to a good deal of trouble to make things nice for the patients. A party was set up in the gymnasium. The nurses had decorated the hall with a bit of bunting and crepe paper, dragged out of who-knows-where. Someone brought in a phonograph and piles of records. There was plenty of food, carefully stored over the last few months in expectation of the oh-so-very-long-awaited day. And beer for everyone, unlimited free beer, flowing in a steady stream like nectar from heaven. All the ambulatory patients gathered eagerly, and everyone who could be wheeled in, came—bed and all, if necessary.

Moira had never in all her life had a drink of beer. Her mother had taught her and her sisters that it was not a suitable beverage for ladies. But she was swept up in the festivities and accepted a drink from a soldier with a laughing face that was no more than a mass of scars and raw tissue. The man was blind, but he was already beginning to recognize people by their step or their voice and had volunteered to help distribute the beer.

“Don’t have to walk through the crowds then,” he explained with a twisted smile, handing over the bottle. “Stepping on toes and such. Better they all come to me.”

The drink tasted strong and bitter. She didn’t like it, but drank it down, wanting to be part of the party.

At midnight, Moira stepped outside for some air. The sky was bright from bonfires all over the town and she could hear singing and laughter. She had been told that they were burning blackout curtains as well as Hitler in effigy.

Inside the gym a soldier cried out in pain, too much partying for a broken body, and Moira turned to go back in.

She would remain in Europe for two more years, working with the lost, the dispossessed, the dying.

Chapter Forty

The evening started off well.

Greg escorted Elaine to the dining room of one of the many exclusive resorts that dot the Muskoka lakes. He was charming and witty, the food excellent, the wine plentiful. Their table looked out over the golf course, beautiful in its stark simplicity—the greens brown and silent, lined with naked trees outlined by the white light of a full rising moon.

“I wanted to see you tonight, Elaine,” he said over coffee and liqueurs. A cognac for him, a Drambuie for her. “Because I’m going back to the city tomorrow.”

“Work?”

“A group of prospective clients are arriving for a long-scheduled visit Monday morning, and we have a lot to do to get ready for them. Things that can’t be done long distance.”

“Your parents must have been happy that you were able to spend the time that you could.”

“My parents weren’t the only reason I’ve been hanging around.”

“That moon is beautiful, isn’t it,” she said, not wanting to hear why he had stayed up north.

“Yes it is. But….”

She hailed a passing waiter. “More coffee please.”

“As I was saying….”

“Do you have any idea who might have caused the fire?”

“What? No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that I’ve been wondering. No one’s talking about it. The police seem to think that it was arson. They have their eye on Dave, over at the island, but I think that’s only because Charles so much wants it to be him.”

“The police have been wrong before, Elaine. It’s an old building. Bad wiring, no doubt. Nothing much in the way of fire codes when it was built.”

“But the Madisons have looked after the property so well.” Everything except the servants’ cabin in the woods. She didn’t mention that.

“But it’s still an old place, old wood.”

“That’s true. Did you meet Donna Smithton?”

“Who?”

“Donna Smithton, the woman who drowned Labor Day weekend off the Madison dock.”

“I don’t remember if I spoke to her or not. I was at the party, so were a lot of people.” At the table next to them, a man threw back his head and roared with laughter. Greg scowled at him. One of the man’s companions saw Greg looking at them and hissed at the man to be quiet. He ignored her.

“Why do you keep asking these questions, Elaine?”

“Something’s going on there, and I want to understand.”

“You’re upsetting yourself over nothing. No one has any reason to harm the Madison family. You’ve been chasing ghosts again.” He laughed in an attempt to take some of the sting out of the words.

“I don’t chase ghosts.”

“Of course you don’t. But maybe you let your imagination get away from you, a tiny bit.”

“I don’t imagine things, either, Greg. And no one imagined the fire, or Donna’s death.”

“I just think you’re reading too much into a couple of unrelated, tragic events. Care for another Drambuie?”

“No. Thank you. It’s time for me to get back.”

On the drive home, Greg chattered amiably about his company, the hopes he had for this new client. One with deep pockets. Elaine watched the dark trees speed by. She remembered the fire, and later the incessant voice inside her head telling—ordering, demanding—her to see to Moira.

She was not imagining things!

***

The cottage was dark and quiet as she let herself in. She waved to Greg as he sped up the driveway, the wheels of his car spinning. She had ignored his hints that he be invited in for a nightcap.

The comforting quiet of the old home didn’t last long. True to form, Hamlet and Ophelia dashed down the hallway, barking and snarling.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you two ever shut up?” she said.

“Not when people are mean to them,” came a voice from the darkness.

Alan stepped forward and switched on the hall light. He whistled once and the dogs returned to his side.

“I’m not mean. I have a problem with being barked at every time I show my face, as if I were here to steal the family silver or something.”

“They don’t know that. But if you’d make an effort to get on with them, then they would.”

“So all a burglar has to do is treat them nice and he can help himself to the aforementioned silver?”

“They’re not watchdogs, Elaine. They’re not trained that way. They’re Moira’s pets. And she’s indulged them a bit too much.”

“Sorry. Nice doggies?” She held out one hand.

Ophelia sniffed the air, but didn’t move. Hamlet growled.

“Have a nice night?” Alan asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Why not? Fire in the kitchen? Flat tire? Run out of gas?”

“Boring company.” And she drifted up the stairs, leaving an incredulous Alan, a shocked Augustus, and an amused Elizabeth staring at her wake.