The Nesting Dolls (23 page)

Alwyn sliced and wrapped the cake. Then she reached into her knitting bag, pulled out a
DVD
and a greeting card, and handed both to me. “The
DVD
of the memorial service is for Delia, but the card is for Jacob,” she said. “It was the Michaelses’ holiday greeting last year.” The red holiday frame was snowflake-spangled, but the photograph it surrounded was of a family enjoying a summer day: Nadine and Abby, wearing ball caps, shorts, and T-shirts, standing between Hugh and Peggy Michaels. Peggy’s straw hat shaded her face and she was squinting against the smoke curling from her cigarette; Hugh was in his three-piece suit, his small self-mocking grin fixed as firmly as his four-in-hand tie.

Alwyn handed the card to me. “At some point, Jacob might want to know about his mother,” she said.

I thought about Taylor. I dropped the card in my purse. “He will,” I said. “And when the time comes, he’ll be grateful for this. You’re a good soul, Alwyn.”

We embraced and promised to stay in touch, and then I started back to the hotel. When I passed Our Lady of Mercy, I remembered how Nadine’s eyes had shone and how her face, washed clean of guilt and misery, had seemed suddenly young again.

A question flicked at my consciousness. It had to do with perspective.

Zack and Delia were working on the assumption that Abby’s final irrational actions had been driven by a revelation about her life partner. But the comforting words Father
Quines offered to Nadine opened another possibility. Perhaps Abby had changed her will not because she believed that Nadine was unfit but because she had stumbled upon a fact that convinced her that Jacob was Delia’s responsibility. That prospect carried a dark coda: whatever Abby discovered had been devastating enough to destroy not only Abby Michaels’s faith in God but in herself.

Howling winds and horizontally blowing snow met our plane when it landed in Regina Sunday night. Noah was there to pick up Delia, but he had parked their car at our house and driven ours to a waiting area outside to minimize the distance Zack had to push his chair. I was grateful for that and, as always, for the fact that we lived so close to the airport.

The kids had shovelled the driveway, so the pavement to the garage was clear. Declan Hunter’s Acura was parked out front; so was Pete’s old beater. When we walked into the kitchen, the phone was ringing, and jazz that was live, loud, and surprisingly solid was soaring in the family room. The dogs heard us and bounded into the kitchen. Pantera leaped on Zack, knocking over his wheelchair. Willie gave me a cursory sniff and slunk away, sulking because I’d abandoned him. In an hour he would forget my betrayal and assume his habitual place by my side. We were home.

Pete helped Zack back into his chair and went out to get our bags, and Zack and I headed to the family room. Taylor
was sitting cross-legged on the couch with her sketchbook, Bruce and Benny curled up beside her, and Declan and his trio were wailing. When they spotted us, the music stopped, and Taylor jumped to her feet. “I didn’t hear you,” she said. “I’m sorry. We could have helped bring in your stuff.” She hugged us both and waved towards the musicians. “Declan’s band came over to jam. There was nobody here but Pete, and he didn’t mind.”

Declan put down his guitar and moved close to Taylor. His stance was protective. If she was in trouble with her parents, he was beside her – gold-star behaviour in my books. “I’m sorry if this is a problem,” he said.

Zack grinned. “My only problem is that you’re not inviting me to sit in.”

“Consider yourself in,” Declan said. He gestured towards the trumpet player, an intense young man with a shaved head. “This is Nigel Fleming.”

“I recognize you from the symphony,” Zack said. “Nice to meet you.”

Declan pointed to the drummer. “And this is Natty-bedhead.” Natty greeted us with a lick on the drums and a dazzling smile. “You really want to sit in?” he asked Zack.

“One number,” Zack said.

“Blues in F,” Declan said, picking up his guitar.

Zack moved over to the Steinway. He had slept during most of the flight to Regina. He’d awakened feeling tired, but I could see the life come back into him as he began to play. After six or seven minutes, I could also see the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beading on his forehead. When the music faded, I stepped in.

“That was terrific,” I said. “But the piano player needs to hit the sack. He came home with the flu.”

Surprisingly, Zack didn’t resist. He called out a casual “later” to the band and wheeled towards the hall that
led to our bedroom. The boys took this as a cue to call it a day and had just begun packing up their instruments when Declan’s cell rang. He waved as we left, but his face was grave.

Zack was undressing and I was turning down the bed when there was a knock on our bedroom door. Declan and Taylor were there, hands linked.

Our daughter spoke first. “Dad, I know you’re feeling rotten, but we need help. Declan’s mother’s in trouble.”

Declan and Taylor exchanged a quick look. It was clear they had decided beforehand on how they would present this problem, and it was Declan’s turn to take the lead. His tone was matter-of-fact. “My mother thinks she hit someone with her car.” Declan lowered his gaze. “She’s been drinking, so who knows what really happened.”

Zack started rebuttoning his shirt. “Is she at the police station?”

“She says she’s at home.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zack said. “Not a hit-and-run?”

Declan’s laugh was short and derisive. “No, she never does anything that normal. Apparently, my mother brought the man she hit home with her. I guess he’s sitting in the living room. My dad’s in Houston. I was going to call Noah Wainberg. He spends a lot of time with my mother, but Taylor thinks we need you.”

“Taylor’s right,” Zack said, and he looked hard at me. The weather was wretched, he was sick, and our city was full of lawyers who, in that stunning phrase from Deuteronomy, would “circumcise their hearts” to handle a file for Leland Hunter. Zack knew all this, and none of it mattered. He wanted the case.

“At least let me drive you,” I said.

Zack hacked. “Thank you, Ms. Shreve. I could use help tonight. Okay, Declan, why don’t you go through your
mother’s story again? We don’t want to be met with any surprises. The Boy Scouts are right about being prepared.”

We were committed. Taylor ran down the hall and returned with Declan’s jacket and her own. Declan took his jacket, but shook his head when Taylor started to put on hers.

“I should be there,” she said.

“No,” Declan said. “You shouldn’t. My mother would never forgive you if you saw her when she was drunk.”

The insight was both mature and poignant. Declan might have appeared to be fortune’s favourite, but being the only child of Leland and Louise Hunter brought its own burdens. Declan touched Taylor’s arm. “I’ll call you,” he said. He turned to Zack. “You know where we live. I’ll meet you there.”

The Hunters’ house was a new and massive structure in a neighbourhood of other new and massive structures. The neighbourhood was a favourite of professionals and executives who were on second or third marriages to much younger women. With their elaborate topiary, lacquered doors, great rooms, and sparkling chandeliers, the houses had all the artful surgery, high gloss, and fragile beauty of their young mistresses. Like them, the houses seemed temporary – not places for the long haul.

The scene we walked in on was surreal. A knapsack and a battered sign with the words
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
hand-lettered on cardboard had been tossed on the marble floor in the entranceway. In the great room, a man in an army surplus camouflage jacket, waterproof pants, and steel-toed boots slumped on a loveseat upholstered in silver silk. Louise sat facing him on the twin of the loveseat. Between them was a rectangular glass table that held a bucket of ice and a bottle of Grey Goose. Louise and the man both had
drinks in hand. They looked like a couple on the world’s most mismatched blind date.

When we came in, the man bolted up and shot an accusing look at Louise. “That’s Zack Shreve. I’ve seen him on the news. You didn’t say anything about a lawyer. You just said your kid was coming.”

Zack took control. “Relax. Declan happened to be at our home visiting, so my wife and I decided to drop by to see Louise. Just obeying an impulse. Declan, why don’t you sit with your mother’s guest. Mr.…?”

“Usher. Paul Usher.” Louise’s visitor was surly but he wasn’t stupid. Zack hadn’t thrown him out. Paul Usher resumed his seat, no longer looking like a man on the defensive. He had sniffed money.

Zack nodded pleasantly. “Mr. Usher. I’ve seen you and your sign many times on the traffic island at College and Albert. I pass by you on my way to the office. You’re hoping to get home for Christmas – a commendable wish – and I think if we all act wisely, your wish may be granted. Now, please excuse us. Declan will refresh your drink while my wife and I chat with our hostess.”

Declan knew how to pick up a cue, and long practice had taught him how to pour drinks.

Louise’s step was unsteady as she led us down the hall, but she didn’t spill a drop of her vodka. The overhead light was blazing in the study; Louise doused the light, turned on a floor lamp that cast a gentler glow, and lowered herself carefully onto a creamy leather chair by the window. I sat in the chair that faced it. Zack wheeled in close to Louise. “This must be a nightmare for you,” he said.

Zack wasn’t going to condemn her, and Louise’s relief was palpable. She put her drink on the end table and clasped her hands on her lap like an obedient child. “There seems to be no end to my stupidity,” she said.

Zack moved closer. “We all have nights we wish we could redo. Let’s see what we can do to salvage this one. Now, tell me exactly what happened. Take your time, but I need to know everything.”

“I spent the afternoon at my studio practising,” Louise said. “Leland has promised to drop by Christmas morning, and I planned to surprise him by playing the Prelude in C from
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Our first Christmas together I played him the entire work, and he was charmed. Of course, that was in another lifetime. I’ll never be that good again, but the Prelude in C is so easy that it’s a study piece for students. I thought there was a chance I could carry it off.”

She raised her drink to her lips, hesitated, and then replaced the glass on the small inlaid table beside her. “I’ve been practising every day. It’s been going well, but today I was having problems with my hands. They were shaking. I thought one drink would steady me.” Louise looked longingly at the tumbler on the little table, but she didn’t touch it. “The rule is no drinking in the studio.”

“Is that your own rule?” Zack asked, and his voice, roughened by his cold, was oddly intimate.

Louise shook her head. “It was Noah’s idea, as was the studio, but I agreed. He thought – we thought – I needed a place where I had to stay sober to do what mattered to me.”

When Louise didn’t continue, Zack touched her arm. “But today that didn’t work,” he said.

Louise’s face contorted with self-loathing. “The first drink helped, but of course for me there’s no such thing as one drink.”

“It’s a lonely battle, isn’t it?” Zack said.

Louise had been skittish, waiting for the whip of opprobrium. When it didn’t come, she relaxed. I remembered Noah commenting once on Zack’s tenderness with his clients. “He’s like the Horse Whisperer with them. It’s fascinating to
watch. No matter what they’ve done, he somehow convinces them he understands, that he’s able to see the world through their eyes. They stop being afraid and they start trusting him. That’s the first step to a successful defence.”

By anyone’s criteria, Louise Hunter’s behaviour during the past ninety minutes had been lunacy, but her account was straightforward and unapologetic. She trusted Zack to get her through. “I was very drunk when I left the studio. Actually, I’m still drunk.” She flexed her hands and stared at them. “Sadly, events are starting to come back to me. The old couple who live in the other apartment on my floor were getting off the elevator when I was getting on. They were carrying groceries and I bumped his arm, knocked the bag out of his hand. All these grapefruit rolled out. What would old people need with all those grapefruit? I started to get down on my knees to help, but the old man stopped me. He has Alzheimer’s but he has moments of clarity. He said, ‘You’ve been drinking. If you get down, you won’t be able to get back up.’ He was right, so I got in the elevator and went out back to the parking lot. I was driving very slowly and very carefully. I didn’t want to do anything … ” Louise narrowed her eyes, searching for the word. “Irretrievable,” she said finally. “I didn’t want to do anything
irretrievable
. I guess I was driving too slowly because I thought I saw a police car starting to follow me.”

“But you do have your licence back, don’t you?” Zack said. “You only lost it for six months and that was in the spring.”

“The May long weekend,” Louise said. “The Great Victoria Day
DUI
round-up. And I didn’t – I don’t – want to lose my licence again, so when I saw this man standing on the traffic island, I opened up my car door, jumped out, handed him the keys to the Mercedes, gave him my address, and told him to drive me home.” She tried a laugh. “You have to admire that kind of thinking. The folly of what I had done hit me when he followed me into the house.”

“Had you invited him in?” Zack asked. There was no censure in Zack’s voice.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d promised to pay him, but when I saw him standing in my living room I panicked. That’s when I went into the bathroom and called Declan.”

“And told him you’d been in an accident,” Zack said.

Louise appeared beaten. “It was the simplest explanation. I don’t remember hitting Mr. Usher, but he says I did, and I’ve been wrong before.”

“Whatever happened, calling for assistance was the right thing to do.” Zack’s voice was raspy. “Why don’t you go upstairs and relax. We’ll take it from here.”

Louise pushed herself to her feet. Her step was unsteady. She held out her arms. “What’s the matter with me?”