Scammed (3 page)

G
reg informed his office of the situation at the hospital, but told them not to be concerned. After taking his mother home, and finding someone to look after her, he'd be returning immediately. His intention then was to stay as long as it took, into the small hours, if necessary.

The only thing that the plan didn't take into account was his parents' old minivan. It was sitting out in the hospital lot and his mother insisted she couldn't leave it behind. Since chauffeuring her home in the van would make a swift return to town impossible, there was no alternative but to follow in his car. It was getting on to rush hour, so the trip on the winding Malahat Drive was painfully slow, all the more so because the new widow crawled like a zombie.

The fifty-kilometre drive north to Duncan took an hour, with another twenty minutes to reach the spot, upstream on the Cowichan River, where the family had a small acreage. The entrance to the property was off a rural byway, the driveway curving though a stand of fir and cedar to an open area beside the water. There the Lothian house stood, fully exposed on the river side, but backed by the dense woods, out of which it appeared to have thrust its way.

The vehicles arrived in time to intercept a figure coming around the building, from the direction of Walter's studio. It was a woman, dark-haired and petite, probably in her late twenties, with round, open features that to Greg were vaguely familiar. She glanced at him as he got out of his car, but her main focus was on his mother in the minivan.

Since Mary didn't move immediately, the woman went to the driver's door and opened it. The two stared at each other wordlessly. Communication must have passed, however, because the woman whispered, “Oh, God! Really?”

Stony-faced, Mary nodded.

“Oh, Mary, I'm very, very sorry!” the other replied. Then his mother tumbled from the car, and they were holding each other hard.

The newcomer turned out to be Lucy Lynley, whom Greg had known all his life but not set eyes on for years. Her parents had bought the adjoining property, downriver, and Lucy had been born there. As the only close neighbour, she had hung about the Lothian place, tagging along after Jill, who—three years older—had tartly tolerated her. Older still, Greg had had less contact with the irrepressible little girl. He remembered her for not being afraid of his dad—who, in turn, was far more tolerant of Lucy than of his own offspring. But at thirteen, she had been sent to school in Vancouver, and though she'd come home for holidays, Greg had rarely seen her after that. Now here she was, to him a near-stranger, though this was clearly not the case with his mother.

After a long time, the women disentangled. With hardly a glance in Greg's direction, they headed into the house. Feeling a trifle left out, he followed. Not till they were in the kitchen and, unbidden, Lucy was putting on the kettle, did his mother make introductions. “Oh, Greg, dear—Lucy,” she said briefly. “Do you two remember each other?”

They both acknowledged that they did. Lucy, apparently very much at home in the house, smiled warmly. “I'm awfully sorry about your dad, Greg. It's a terrible shock. I'm going to miss him very much.”

Greg was astonished. He remembered Lucy as an unusually candid person—which somehow endeared her to Walter, who'd squelched any such tendencies in his own family—so he had to believe her sincere. But missing his father? That idea was novel, to say the least.

As if reading his thoughts, his mother said, “Lucy moved back home when her own dad died, Greg. She's become a wonderful friend.”

“Really?” Greg said, realizing that surprise had blinded him to the solution of a major problem. “Lucy, it's wonderful to meet you again, and I'm very glad you're here. Listen. could you—er—
stay
with my mum for a while?”

Lucy glanced at Mary, who shrugged. “Greg's just itching to get back to work.”

Greg felt himself reddening. “It's not that I
want
to,” he said hastily. “But I'm an accountant, and it's the end of April. Income tax time, you know. There's an absolutely huge pile of returns that have to be filed before midnight tomorrow.”

“I understand,” Lucy replied. “Your mum already told me about you.”

“Great. So do you think you could do that—keep her company?”

Lucy's initial response shocked him: she laughed, then put her arms about his mother. “Greg, what do you think? Of course I will. I was going to offer anyway.”

The whistling of the kettle drew her back to the stove, covering the moment of embarrassment. Greg's mother took his hand. Though her eyes shone with moisture, her face was composed. “Thank you for everything, dear,” she said quietly. “I know how hard it's been—especially since you and poor Daddy didn't always see eye-to-eye—but you've been wonderful. I'll be all right. Lucy will be with me.”

“Good.” Relief let his mind begin to resume its usual preoccupations, reminding him of the other unfinished business. “Mum—er—it seems you forgot to send me the tax stuff. Want me to pick it up while I'm here?”

His mother looked surprised. “Tax stuff?”

“You know, your receipts and . . .”

“I know what you
mean
, dear. But I'm sure I sent it. I mailed it at least a couple of weeks ago.”

“That's funny. Oh, well—don't worry. When it arrives, I'll get on to it. Bye, Mum. Call you later.”

“Thank you. Off you go now.”

Greg hugged his mother. She clung hard but briefly. Then, with a last peck on her cheek, and more awkward thanks to Lucy, he left the house, heading for his waiting tax returns.

A
s it turned out, Greg met the tax-filing deadline without further incident. On the night of his father's death, he returned to the office and did indeed stay till the small hours. But after that he was well caught up, so on the following day, April 30, several hours before midnight, every last return was completed, checked, filed and sent zipping over the Internet to the domain of Revenue Canada.

It was only then that the full impact of what had transpired hit him. On his way home from the office in the early evening, stopped at the light at the intersection of Oak Bay Avenue and Foul Bay Road, he realized that he was feeling almost weepy. Surprise at the unexpected emotion was mingled with a sudden guilty concern; since he had left his mother yesterday, work had consumed him so completely that he had not even called her, as promised. Though phoning while driving was against his principles, he pulled out his cell anyway. After a couple of rings, a voice said, “Hello?” Not his mother, but a voice that it took him a moment to remember must be Lucy Lynley's.

“Oh, hey, Lucy,” he blurted. “You're still there?”

Lucy gave her disconcertingly frank laugh. “Of course, Greg. What did you expect? I said I'd look after your mum.”

He remembered that. Also that yesterday, frantic to get back to work, he'd more or less dumped his mother on their neighbour. Embarrassed, he muttered, “Right, yes, I'm sorry. How is she doing?”

“What can I say? As well as can be expected. She's napping right now. How's your tax thing going?”

“All finished—thanks to you.”

She laughed again. “Thanks to your own hard work, I'm sure. When will you be here?”

Greg realized that it wasn't just exhaustion that had left his mind in such a jumble. He must be suffering from delayed shock, since he'd not even begun to think of what he had to do. “Actually, I'm headed out of town now,” he lied. “If the traffic on the Malahat isn't too bad, I should be there in an hour.”

“Okay. But drive safely. Your mother needs you in one piece, and I'm not going anywhere.”

“Thanks, Lucy, You're very kind.”

“Nonsense. I'm just doing what anyone would. See you when you get here.”

“Yes. Goodbye!” Then, with a gesture that gave him uncharacteristic satisfaction, he made a U-turn right in the middle of sedate Oak Bay Avenue.

• • •

He arrived as the last reflections of sunset were fading on the Cowichan River. Briefly he sat, staring at the house, a fresh layer of reality surfacing as he realized that his mother would now be living here alone.

The place had started as a log cabin, one of the first homes on this section of Riverbottom Road, built before the Second World War. Later owners had added a frame addition on one side, and cleared the land to give a better view of the river. Walter Lothian had acquired the property in the 1970s, when his paintings were beginning to gain national attention. Growing prosperity had allowed him to add yet another wing, a post-and-beam structure with a more-than-passing resemblance to a Coast Salish longhouse, plus a substantial studio, connected to the main building by a breezeway. The resulting agglomeration had mellowed with time and weather into a pleasantly harmonious whole, a fitting abode—as noted in arts supplements—for an important Canadian painter. In his youth, Greg had disliked the place, with its artsy clutter, and hated the isolation. Only later, after he'd created his own orderly space in Victoria, did he occasionally miss it, though nothing would have induced him to live there again.

Now, in the dying day, it looked, paradoxically, both brooding and cozy. Light glowed through the living room windows and in the front hall. Greg got out of the car, crossed the broad front deck and entered quietly. His mother must have awakened, for her voice could be heard from the kitchen. Greg headed in that direction, then paused. Though he couldn't make out what was being said, something about the tone made him apprehensive—and feel almost as if he were eavesdropping. He retreated to the front door and slammed it, calling loudly, “Hello! I'm back.” Only then did he walk into the kitchen.

His mother and Lucy were sitting at the table, a pot of tea between them. Both women looked around as Greg appeared, and he stopped short, caught by their expressions. Mary looked stricken, her face matching the tone that he'd heard from the hallway. What stunned him was Lucy. Gone was the sedate young woman he'd met yesterday and later talked with. The person who confronted him now was pale with shock and some deep emotion.

Greg had only a moment to register this, for Lucy composed herself and rose swiftly.

Forcing her features into the caricature of a smile, she came to him, impulsively taking his hand. The contact was brittle with tension. “Oh, good, you're here at last,” she said quickly. “Your mother will be so relieved.”

“Yes. But what . . . ?”

“Now I must be off,” Lucy continued, without pause. “Mary, I'm so sorry about everything. But Greg's here now. If there's anything more I can do, please let me know. Goodbye. I'll see myself out.”

Lucy let go of Greg's hand, using it to literally launch herself in the direction of the hall. A moment later came the sound of the front door closing.

Her departure was so instantaneous that Greg was at a loss for words. What had caused Lucy's manner to change so dramatically? It had to be whatever Mary had been saying when he arrived. But what could be so dreadful as to cause that reaction? Instinct told him that he didn't want to know. And when he turned back, he was relieved, albeit freshly surprised, to see his mother calmly pouring more tea.

“Did you get your work finished, dear?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, Mum, thanks. Sorry I had to run off yesterday.” He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but that seemed crass and obvious, so he continued lamely, “But I'm here now. And Jill will be over on the weekend, to—you know—help with the arrangements and everything.”

“I understand,” Mary said. “You're both good children. Daddy knew that, you know, though he didn't always show it. Lucy's a nice girl too. So open and honest. Hasn't changed a bit since she was a child.”

She sure changed a lot in the last hour,
Greg thought. But he said, “It certainly was a surprise to see her again yesterday.”

“She's been coming around a lot since she moved back. We've become real friends. Did you know that Daddy was giving her lessons?”

The revelations were coming thick and fast. “Lessons?”

“Painting lessons. She's very good, as a matter of fact.” Mary put down her teacup. “Want to see?”

Bemused, he stared, unable to read her. Something was going on here, more than just reaction to the recent tragedy, but he couldn't make it out. Masking it—or maybe part of it—was this strange charade. “See what?”

“Lucy's work. Come on!”

On the back of the kitchen door hung a familiar, old blue sweater. Mary heaved it on and took Greg's arm, leading him out and along the deck to the breezeway to his father's studio. This was a large building, finished in cedar board and batten, with windows on the river side and several skylights positioned for north light. The entrance was a heavy door, painted with Coast Salish designs, which swung inward to reveal the full sweep of the studio.

It was a veritable forest of paintings; every wall was hung with them, as high as the rafters, and easels displayed several more, in various stages of completion. In many places, except against the big wood stove in the centre of the room, canvasses were stacked six and eight deep. The subject of this vast outpouring of creativity was the wilderness of Vancouver Island: landscapes and seascapes, birds and animals and fish, in infinite variety and exquisite detail; form and composition, light and colour, drama and design, all treated with vibrant energy and consummate skill. Greg, who'd known this place since childhood, his familiarity blending with an innate—or perhaps reactionary—indifference, drew a sharp breath. Was it the length of time he'd been absent? Had more art appreciation seeped into his unwilling soul than he'd realized? Or was it simply that the turbulent creator of all this had finally departed? Whatever the reason, for the first time in his life, his father's work truly moved him. “Wow!” he breathed.