Finding Home (2 page)

I knew then that I had to make a decision.
Just as I had when Jay moved back to Vermont to take care of Becky.
But this time it would be final. I wouldn’t forgive him again. He’d
had his second chance and he’d blown it. I couldn’t take Becky
always coming first. No. Absolutely not. I loved Jay more than
anyone, ever. But I could not live with a man who, when it came to
the crunch, loved someone else more than he loved me.

Even if that someone was his own
daughter.

I wasn’t proud of that. After all, one of the
things I admired about Jay was his commitment to Becky, especially
since her accident. And I’d spent enough time with Becky to love
her like a sister. But I didn’t always like her. I especially
didn’t like her passive-aggressive methods. To me, her surface
sweetness masked a deep bitterness and rage she hadn’t dealt with.
Being disabled didn’t give her the right to manipulate people,
especially her father. Somehow or other, in the end, she always got
what she wanted.

I’d often thought it would be easier if Jay
had someone else in the usual way. Then I could be openly jealous.
But how could I rage against someone who’d been paralyzed from the
waist down since she was twenty-two?

Especially someone like Becky. Plucky little
Becky. So pretty. Always smiling. Willing to accept her fate,
adjust to her changed circumstances. She worked at an accounting
firm, competed in wheelchair sports, volunteered at a nursing home.
She revered Jay and accepted me. I was ashamed of the little wormy
part of me that resented, sometimes even hated, her.

But I couldn’t deny its existence.

So I didn’t drive down to Vermont as planned
the next morning. I needed to go somewhere by myself to think.
Usually I spent my days off in Ottawa, if I wasn’t going to see
Jay, but I needed a complete change. So when he called first thing,
and Odette wanted to know what to tell him, I said, “Tell him I’ve
gone to Montreal.” I don’t know why; the words just said
themselves. But I knew that was exactly where I wanted to go.

Then I grabbed my backpack and rushed out the
door. Garou, our black Lab, bounded over and stood waiting beside
Baptiste’s rusty old truck. He was used to going everywhere with me
and barked in hopeful expectation. “Sorry boy,” I said, “not this
time.”

The last summer guest was also heading out. I
couldn’t quite figure why he’d stayed on this long. His family had
gone home a week ago. And although he had all the right gear – he
looked like he’d just stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalogue – he
hadn’t the first clue about fishing. Not that I cared. We got all
kinds at the lodge and if some wanted to waste their time and money
pretending to be an outdoorsy fisherman type, it wasn’t my
problem.

“Going far?” he called over to me. He seemed
to be having some trouble stowing all his tackle into his Jeep.

“Here,” I said, “try loading the rods this
way.” I didn’t really have to help him, but I couldn’t bear to see
such fine equipment mangled. “I’m off to Montreal. You?”

“Oh, back to Toronto. I may never fish again.
Didn’t catch a thing.”

“I know.” We both laughed then. He’d been
fishing for two weeks, sometimes off the dock, sometimes from a
canoe in the bay, sometimes from one of our motorboats out in the
far reaches of the lake. But in spite of an abundance of fish –
walleye, pike, bass, speckled and brown and lake trout – and even
with Baptiste’s help, he’d had no luck at all. And Baptiste, who
normally didn’t comment, had finally said to me one morning as we
were filling the gas tanks, “Dat guy, why the heck he here?”

Anyway, that guy pulled out right behind me,
talking on his cellphone already. If I’d known who he was calling,
and why, I would have turned back right then. But as it was, I just
made a quick right onto a rutted side road, the shortcut to the
main highway, and lost him.

The road I took skirts Lac-Poisson-du-Ciel
for a short way, then slips west through high rugged hills. In
summer the verges are bordered with bright orange tiger lilies,
blue chicory and creamy Queen Anne’s lace. Sometimes I’ve seen an
entire hillside, cleared for pasture, so completely covered with
daisies it looks like fresh snow. That day though I noticed fall’s
first gentle touches: whole wide fields of goldenrod and wild
purple aster spread between the sumacs’ surprising splashes of
scarlet.

When I reached the main highway, which
follows the Gatineau River south, my thoughts settled on the next
big question. If this was the end for Jay and me, what next?

Did I want to buy Auberge Ciel and go ahead
on my own? Yes.
Absolutely
. But I couldn’t see how. I didn’t
have enough money saved, and doubted I could get a loan by myself.
I had no collateral and my job didn’t pay much above my room and
board.

But if I couldn’t buy the lodge, what then?
Where to go and what to do? I couldn’t simply give up my dream just
by wanting to. I pictured a long, empty life wandering the world
alone. I’d never get over my loss, and forever regret what might
have been. I felt hugely sorry for myself. In fact I can’t remember
much else about that trip to Montreal, except for wallowing in
self-pity. I spent the time in my hotel room, crying.

There was just the one other incident, the
beginning of the bizarre chain of events that would change my
life.

Forever.

Just before leaving Montreal I drove up to
Mount Royal, the mountain park in the middle of the city. I needed
to go for a run. I parked near the lookout, then jogged along the
wild woodland paths. The day shone with that careless September
blue which hides the coming ache of autumn. I ran all the way to
the lake, then circled back to the lookout. There I stopped and
stood stretching my legs against the stone guard wall.

The view out over the city of Montreal and
the St. Lawrence River was magnificent. Throngs of tourists milled
about, exclaiming and snapping photos. But I couldn’t appreciate
the scenery. I was too aware that I was facing south, looking
directly towards Burlington, Vermont, where Jay and Becky
lived.

I knew it was over with Jay. I had to let him
go. Still, I missed him with heart, body and soul. And I couldn’t
forget how miserable I’d been the last time we broke up. The loss
had left me bleeding with pain.

There was a huge chalet at the lookout, and I
wandered inside feeling wretched. Usually running cheered me,
really lifted my spirits, but that day it hadn’t worked. I was sure
I’d never be happy again. At the snack bar I bought a bottle of
water and stood staring at the menu, knowing I should eat something
but not the least bit hungry. Then I had the feeling of someone
watching me.

I turned and saw some guy eyeing me, the way
hunters at the lodge did just before they hit on me. There was no
mistaking that obnoxious expression. Semi-interested, slightly
amused, supremely confident.

I ordered some frozen yogurt and when it was
ready I hurried past him towards the open area at the front of the
chalet, where plastic tables and chairs were arranged by the
windows. There was something familiar about the guy. Something that
made me uneasy. Maybe he’d stayed at the lodge before and
recognized me from there. All the more reason to dodge him.

But he followed.

Get lost loser, I wanted to say. You’re not
my type. You’re not Jay. Just because you’re good-looking and we’re
both dressed for running doesn’t mean I want to meet you. But I
knew that wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t even make a dent in his
attitude. He must have money, I thought. That kind always did.

I chose as public a table as possible, near a
large tour group, to put the guy off. He followed again. I couldn’t
eat with him watching me like that. As I stirred the yogurt I gave
him a dirty look, then turned to study the paintings over the
chalet’s windows, which depicted Montreal’s history.

And then he came over and spoke. “Lucienne?
It
is
you!”

I dropped my plastic spoon.

“Don’t you remember me?” he said. “Nick
Talbot? From Middleford? West Grove High?” He held out his
hand.

“Nick?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as
shaky as I felt. I remembered him all right. I recognized his blunt
chin and square shoulders, his disturbing blue eyes. I didn’t shake
his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Just what I was going to ask you.”

“God, Nick, I never would have known you, I
mean, you look so, um, well, I’m sure I do too, so much, oh you
know ...”

“Older?” He sat down beside me at the table.
“Well, you don’t. I knew you right away. You look terrific.”

My shorts and T-shirt felt damp and sweaty
and shabby. “Hey,” I said, “do you live in Montreal or
something?”

“Oh no, Toronto. I’m just here on
business.”

I had to laugh. When we were in high school
Nick had his own business – he spent his time selling pot. “Are you
a millionaire yet?” I asked him.

He smiled and shrugged. He had that muscular
look of someone who works out a lot. “So, Lucienne Smith,” he said.
“My secret adolescent passion. Where the hell did you disappear to,
when was it anyway? Ten, fifteen years ago? I mean nobody knew,
suddenly you were just gone. And you never came back.”

I couldn’t look at him. “Well,” I said. I
didn’t want to think about Middleford. Or the reason I’d left.
“Yeah, well,” I said, and didn’t continue.

“Got time for coffee?”

He was gone to the snack bar before I could
refuse. I stirred my yogurt some more. Then I stared up at the gray
stone squirrels perched high in the rafters which decorated the
ceiling of the chalet, feeling queasy. The squirrels sat silently
watching as, against my will, my mind slipped back.

My teenage years were so totally repressed,
the only time in my life I’d ever tried to fit in. I’d actually
believed I could be someone else by living a quiet, studious life,
going to church every week with the Wembles, blocking out my past.
Dating safe Gordon Clark. Avoiding guys like Nick Talbot.

And he hadn’t lost the potential to affect
me, I realized as I watched him return with the coffee. Though not
tall, he seemed to take up a whole lot of space, and gave off a
vibrant physical energy. He wore a black T-shirt and shorts,
top-of-the-line runners, and moved with the authority of a man used
to being in control. A man who held power. A man who could, and
would, have anything he wanted.

He set a styro cup in front of me, then a
handful of cream and sugar packages. “Want these?”

“No, thanks, I just take it black.”

“Me too.” He actually smirked at me, as if
this small common taste now linked us forever. “So, why weren’t you
at the West Grove High reunion?” he asked. “I looked all over for
you.”

“Huh?” I made a face. “Not really my kind of
thing.”

“Did you even know about it?”

“Vera Wemble mentioned it in a letter, I
think.”

“Well, you’ll just have to tell me everything
now.”

I warned myself to be careful. I didn’t like
the cozy intimacy he was assuming. And I knew my current situation
made me very vulnerable. I was heartbroken over Jay. If Nick asked,
I might just pick up and follow him anywhere, out of sheer
hopelessness.

“Oh, there’s nothing much to tell,” I said.
“One day I just suddenly realized there had to be more to life than
living happily ever after in Middleford, Ontario, with Gordon
Clark. So I left.” Not the real reason at all, of course.

“Gord was devastated,” Nick said, shaking his
head. “Me, too.”

I tried to look contrite. “Gord wasn’t
interested in women,” I told him. “I did us both a favor,
really.”

Nick sipped his coffee. “So you knew Gord was
gay?”

“Oh, not at the time, though looking back it
all makes sense.” I had to smile as I recalled our chaste
relationship. “But that was the whole point, you see. Gordon was
safe. He kept me out of trouble, made me respectable. When I was
going with Gord and living with the Wembles, that was the first and
only time I ever stayed in a foster home for more than three
months. But you know that.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, “I do remember the
Wembles.” He picked up his coffee, then set it back down without
drinking any. “Gord went into the ministry, you know, to heal his
sorrow over losing you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I certainly wasn’t the
only reason. Vera Wemble wrote me all about the United Church
accepting gay ministers, and Gord coming out.” I tasted my frozen
yogurt, which was supposed to be raspberry, but was far too bland.
“Actually, it was years before Vera gave up hope I’d see the light
and get religion again and come home to Middleford.”

“But you didn’t.” There was more than a hint
of accusation in Nick’s voice. “I mean, I thought that maybe, I
mean, after we, well, you know…”

I didn’t speak. Let him think I’d forgotten
all about Prom night and everything else. Not that I ever could,
but I wasn’t going there now.

Finally Nick said, “Okay, we won’t talk about
that. What about after you left?”

“I got a job at the Toronto Children’s
Agency. Back then you could still be hired as a caseworker without
a degree of some kind, and as a crown ward I had plenty of
experience with the system.” I watched my frozen yogurt melt in its
little plastic dish. I was remembering so much more than I was
about to tell him, and I struggled to hold back the memory of
things long forgotten. I didn’t want to relive any of it, and most
certainly not for Nick’s sake. But he stayed quiet, waiting for me
to continue.

“Anyway, I worked at the Children’s Agency
for ten years. But I guess I worked too hard and I let it get to
me, so I ended up with nothing but a bad case of burnout.” No need
to mention Jay, and his part in my breakdown.