Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

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.”