The Gifted (3 page)

His entrance caused a stir, but when Julian joined us he didn’t have the air of a young man who had just completed a star turn. He shook hands politely with Zack and lowered his eyes bashfully as he greeted Kaye and me. “I was afraid that Kaye and Lauren Treadgold would be the only people here I knew,” he said.

Zack’s interest was piqued. “How do you know Lauren?” he said.

Julian tossed his head. “From work. I’m a server at Diego’s, and Lauren’s one of our best customers. Anyway, I
didn’t want to ruin Lauren’s evening or Kaye’s by trailing around after them.”

“You couldn’t possibly ruin my evening,” Kaye said. “But there are people here that I know you’ll enjoy.”

“Let me take you around and introduce you,” Zack said. “Kaye mentioned that you were interested in opening a gallery. There are a couple of people here tonight who might find that idea appealing.”

Lauren was part of a group not far from us. When she overheard Zack’s words, she joined us immediately. “Count me among them,” she said. “Running a gallery with Julian might be a lot of fun.”

“You two know each other from Diego’s?” Zack said.

“Celeste introduced us,” Lauren said. “It’s the only nice thing Vince’s daughter ever did for me.” Lauren stepped back and gazed thoughtfully at Julian’s costume. “The myth of Narcissus has always made me sad,” she said. “Something about the death of beauty, I guess.”

Julian’s voice was low. “You’ll never have to worry about that, Lauren.”

Ignoring the rest of us, Lauren slid her arm through Julian’s. “Let’s find a quiet place and talk about that gallery.”

We watched as Julian and Lauren made their way across the room and disappeared through the double doors.

“Well, that was smooth,” Zack said.

“Too smooth,” Kaye said. “Julian’s only nineteen. He shouldn’t get involved with a woman like Lauren Treadgold. I’ll talk to him.”

“Be careful,” I said. “Julian may be young, but he’s an adult. He won’t appreciate you telling him what he should do. My kids have taught me not to press too hard. You can lose them.”

I was surprised when Kaye’s grey eyes filled with tears. “I shouldn’t have come tonight. I thought a party might help, but it’s just making everything worse.”

“Is something wrong?” I said.

“Just the same old ache,” she said. “It’s been twenty years this week since the accident.”

I understood the reference. As a young woman, Kaye had suffered an unthinkable tragedy. Her husband and child were killed in a car accident, and Kaye herself was badly injured. Except for a slight limp that became noticeable only when she was tired, Kaye had recovered physically. Her determination to recover psychologically was nothing short of heroic. Many would have been embittered forever by such a cataclysmic loss, but Kaye poured her energies into the young people who every September entered the university bright with ambition and dreams. Teacher, mentor, and friend, Kaye had changed lives, and her pretty bungalow near the campus was filled with paintings and drawings sent by grateful former students.

I put my arms around her. “I know that nothing I can say will help, but, Kaye, you’ve given so much to so many. Our daughter thinks you walk on water, and Zack and I agree. Taylor’s thrilled about the art she’s been making since you began working with her.”

The reminder of what she’d accomplished with Taylor seemed to lift some of Kaye’s sadness. “Taylor
should
be thrilled. Having two pieces accepted for a major art auction is quite a coup.”

“It is indeed,” Zack said. “And that brings us back to Julian Zentner. Joanne and I are still in the dark about Taylor’s portrait of him.
Two Painters
has been propped up in our living room for weeks, but the portrait of Julian remains shrouded in mystery.”

Kaye chose her words with care. “It’s possible Taylor believes that you and Joanne might not approve of the approach she took to her subject. I’ve seen both pieces, and in my opinion,
Two Painters
is a better piece of art. It’s bold,
and the way Taylor uses space and light on that canvas is sophisticated for a young artist. But
BlueBoy21
is the piece that will get the attention. For a fifteen-year-old to paint a twenty-first-century version of one of the world’s most famous portraits took confidence, but Taylor brought it off.
BlueBoy21
is stunning.” Kaye’s voice grew wistful. “After the auction, life is going to change for Taylor.”

Zack was clearly perplexed. “Kaye, I’m not getting this.
BlueBoy21
was a student piece. Taylor told us that herself. She was simply working in a genre with which she was unfamiliar. Why should that change Taylor’s life?”

“People – important people – are going to notice her work,” Kaye said. “They’re going to have ideas about what she should do next.”

“She’s not even fifteen years old,” Zack said. “What Taylor does next is up to her and her parents.” He moved his chair slightly closer to Kaye. “And to you, of course.”

“Thank you for that,” Kaye said. “It’s good to know I still have a role to play.” Her eyes travelled the room. “No sign of Julian. I’m worried. He can’t handle a woman like Lauren Treadgold. He’s so vulnerable.”

“Julian doesn’t strike me as vulnerable,” Zack said.

“He tries to hide it,” Kaye said. “But Taylor captured his sadness in her portrait of him. His beauty but also his longing.”

My mind jumped to the possibility that Julian had been attracted to the artist painting him. “What’s Julian longing for?” I said as casually as I could.

“The kind of gift Taylor has,” Kaye said. “But he simply doesn’t have it. He was in my first-year drawing class last year. He worked harder than anyone, but at the end of term, Julian and I both knew the truth. He came to me and asked for an honest assessment of his abilities.” She bit her lip, looking close to tears again. “I gave him what he’d asked for.”

Zack winced. “That must have been tough for both of you.”

“It was,” Kaye said. “Julian knew, of course, but hearing me say the words was a blow. I suggested other paths: sculpture, photography, video, but Julian’s dream was to become a great realist painter, and he was devastated. If I had it to do over, I’d equivocate.”

“In the end that would be crueller,” Zack said. “You did the right thing, Kaye.”

Kaye’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “I wish I could believe that.” She zipped her jacket. “Imagining what Lauren Treadgold is doing with Julian is making me sick. I’m going home.” She started towards the door, then turned back. “If you see Julian, tell him … tell him he is loved.”

CHAPTER
2

After Kaye left, Zack and I went our separate ways. Zack made a beeline for Warren and Annie Weber. Warren had made millions in farm machinery. He was crowding eighty, and Annie was a luscious twenty-something. With a winning sense of irony, they had come as “Daddy” Warbucks and Little Orphan Annie.

I talked to a husband and wife, both surgeons, who were dressed in furs as Dr. Zhivago and Lara; to the Treadgolds’ next-door neighbours, who were a little too deeply into character as George and Martha from
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
; and to three Oscar Wildes, one of whom was Zack’s dentist. Zack’s dentist was a nice man, but he was no Oscar Wilde, and I was relieved when Ernest Beauvais, the First Nations elder who was advising the Racette-Hunter project, rescued me with a gentle request to have a few words about the mission statement we’d worked on together.

The idea of inviting an elder to be part of our committee had been Riel’s. He had recommended Ernest, a bear of a man – tall, big-boned, large-featured, and gentle. It had been an inspired choice. A retired ironworker, Ernest Beauvais
was deeply rooted in traditional ways but knowledgeable about the character and skills people needed to succeed in the trades. At meetings, he listened attentively and spoke rarely, but when he did speak, people listened.

That night he was dressed in construction worker’s gear. His leather jacket bore the ironworkers’ union logo and it was clearly vintage. “I’m guessing your jacket has a history,” I said.

“It was my grandfather’s,” Ernest said. “He was one of the Mohawks from Kahnawake who helped frame New York City’s skyscrapers and bridges.”

“One of the famed Mohawks who don’t fear heights,” I said.

Ernest chuckled. “Mohawks have as much fear of heights as the next guy. They’ve just learned to deal with it. They take a lot of pride in ‘walking iron.’ My kids are more Cree than Mohawk, but all of them, including my daughters, are ironworkers. I taught them just the way my father taught me and my grandfather taught my father.”

“Four generations” I said. “That’s impressive.”

Ernest nodded. “I’ve been blessed,” he said. “I know that I’m part of something larger than myself. I know that my family has a proud history. I know that the work I do is valued. And I know that my children look up to me. If we can give those blessings to the people who come to Racette-Hunter, we will have done our job.”

“We will indeed,” I said.

Ernest held out his hand. “I’m glad we’re working on this together, Joanne,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wake to attend on the reserve tomorrow. It’s a long drive, and I’ll need to get an early start.”

As I watched Ernest move, unrushed, towards the door, someone touched my arm. I turned to see Vince’s daughter
standing beside me, dressed in a shapeless mid-length skirt, sturdy brown walking shoes, and an ancient cardigan. Celeste Treadgold was a boyishly gangly young woman with wavy hair the colour of butterscotch and deep-set eyes that were the same icy blue as Vince’s.

When Celeste returned to Regina after years at boarding school in Toronto and a disastrous first year of university, I was still teaching and Vince had asked me to talk to his daughter about straightening out her academic record. When Celeste and I met for coffee, we chatted easily. Our biographies were remarkably similar. Both our fathers were doctors whom we loved deeply but seldom saw. Both our mothers had chosen a path to nowhere. Celeste’s mother committed suicide by driving through a blizzard until she found a spot outside the city where she could park her Mercedes and vanish forever into the snowy fields. When the police found her, she was barefoot and, except for her full-length chinchilla coat, naked. Celeste told me that her dreams were haunted by that image.

My mother was an alcoholic who had no interest in raising a daughter. Celeste and I had both attended the same Toronto boarding school, three decades apart, for the same reason: it was easier for everyone if we were out of the way. But as similar as our histories were, they were different in one salient particular. I had survived relatively unscathed. Celeste had not. She was a very angry young woman, and most of that anger was directed towards the stepmother who had urged Vince to ship his daughter off to a private school more than two thousand kilometres from her home.

After our first meeting, Celeste and I had coffee a few times. We enjoyed each other’s company, but we led very different lives, and we were both busy. That night, she greeted me with an endearingly lopsided smile. “Finally,” she said. “A familiar face. Who
are
all these people?”

“The usual suspects,” I said. “The only surprise guests in our demographic are the shiny new replacement wives.”

“The Lauren contingent,” she said. Celeste scanned the room. “I’m guessing that Little Orphan Annie falls into that category.”

“She does,” I said. “Rumour has it that she’s a very nice woman and that she’s making ‘Daddy’ Warbucks a very happy man.”

“Good for them,” Celeste said. “I wish it had worked out that way for my father. Have you seen him?”

“There was an emergency. He had to go back to the hospital almost as soon as he got here.”

Celeste whistled. “I’ll bet Cleopatra was not one bit pleased about Caesar’s defection.”

“Understandably,” I said. “This is her birthday party.”

“Stay tuned,” Celeste said. “Lauren will make my father pay. She always does – it doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”

When Zack wheeled over, Celeste looked thoughtfully at his yellow silk pyjamas, leaned over, touched the Phalaenopsis aphrodite in his breast pocket, then gave me the quickest of once-overs. “Nero Wolfe and Archie,” she said.

“Not bad,” Zack said.

Celeste’s expression was mischievous. “Don’t be grudging. That was nothing short of brilliant. Now, it’s your turn.”

I studied her drab outfit and noticed that one of the threadbare cardigan’s pocket was strangely bulging.

“Are we allowed to see what’s in your pocket?” I asked.

Celeste reached into her sweater pocket and took out a stone.

“Virginia Woolf,” I said.

Celeste examined the rock in her hand meditatively. “My poor, brilliant, tortured Virginia. She needed to make sure she’d drown when she walked into the river.” Celeste held
out the rock so we could see it more closely. Neatly printed on the stone’s surface were the words
Bay Roc Villa
. “This is one of my stepmother’s collection of stones from places where she and my father have holidayed,” Celeste said. “No thoughts of suicide there. Lauren is not prone to existential angst.” Celeste dropped the stone back into her pocket and turned her eyes towards the bar. “Well, well,” she said. “Julian came after all. He told me he’d been invited, but he didn’t seem keen on coming. I guess the birthday girl pouted until she got her way.”

Lauren was standing so close to Julian that her breast was pressing against his chest. When she brushed his shoulder with her lips, Zack made a moue of disgust and took Celeste’s arm protectively. “We don’t want to watch this,” he said. “I think it’s time for the three of us to check out the grub.”

The appetizers table was decorated with mini-pumpkins, owls, ravens, and tarantulas. Festive, but whatever the season, the club’s menu never varied, and although the hot hors d’oeuvres had been tarted up for Halloween, they were comfortingly familiar.

Zack and Celeste attacked the curried prawns simultaneously. When they reached for seconds, Zack turned to Celeste: “Are you okay?”