Gail Bowen - The Last Good Day

“Without setting foot in this place, I can already see one reason why it’s doomed,” I said. “Don’t restaurants count on alcohol sales for a hefty source of their revenues?”

“They do,” Zack said. “I’ve already decided I’m going to have one perfect martini and switch to water.”

“You shouldn’t have to be the designated driver just because you’re the man,” I said. “We’ll flip a coin.”

“Let’s hear it for gender parity,” Zack said. “If I win the toss, I get to drink as much as I like, and you get your way with my Jaguar and me.”

“I can live with that,” I said.

“Then you’re on,” Zack said as he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the restaurant.

We were the only clients at the Stone House. The manner of the young woman who ushered us to our table in front of the window was as welcoming as the bright sunflowers hand-painted on her sleeveless shift, but her face was drawn and her eagerness to please brought tightness to my throat.

“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Marian Doherty, and my husband and I own the Stone House. I know you’re short of time, so I’ll bring the menus and your martinis.”

When Marian left, I turned to Zack. “You ordered for me when you made the reservation?” I said.

“Working on the assumption that Ultimate waits for no man, that’s exactly what I did. If you don’t care for your drink, reorder. We’ll dump the martini on the potted plant. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” I said.

Marian returned with the martinis and the menus. One sip and I knew the potted plant was safe. The martini was sublime. The food offerings were even better: homegrown and imaginative.

“Great menu,” I said.

Marian beamed. “While we were renovating this place we planned our menus for an entire year. That was one of the really fun parts.”

Zack put down his menu. “Do you need time to mull?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “Pickerel cheeks are one of God’s great gifts to this province.”

“So are rabbits,” Zack said. “I’m going to have the braised bunny.”

“With a side order of carrot sticks?” I asked.

Marian laughed. “If you two want to take your drinks and wander around while we get your meals, you’d make us very happy. We’re really proud of this place.”

After she left, Zack turned to me. “Care to wander? It’s not as if we’d be disturbing anybody.”

The Dohertys had done everything right. The hardwood floors gleamed; the deep chintz-upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace offered a seductive invitation to curl up and dream; the garden roses at the centre of each table were dewy, and the unmatched plates and cutlery on the snowy linen tablecloths evoked memories of family dinners generations ago. Everything was flawless, but Zack and I were the only paying customers in sight.

“In the best of all possible worlds, this place would work,” I said.

Zack widened his eyes. “Whatever made you believe this was the best of all possible worlds? Come on, let’s go back to our table and flip that coin. I’m feeling lucky, and I could use another martini.”

Zack won the coin toss, and when his martini came he offered me a sip. When I shook my head, he frowned. “You’re going to be eating, and you won’t be behind the wheel for an hour and a half. I’m sure you could even have a glass of wine with impunity.”

“I’ll stick to mineral water,” I said. “This morning someone with whom I share a surname told me he got into a lot of trouble using that logic.”

“The Ultimate player?”

I nodded.

“So does he need a lawyer?”

“No. He’s in the clear.”

“Good. Then tell me about the game. Am I going to like it?”

“You’ll love it,” I said. “You’re combative by nature. It’s a cross between basketball and football but non-contact, played with a Frisbee. There are two teams, seven players each. In the RUFDC, the teams have to have both women and men.”

“I’m in favour of that,” Zack said. “What’s the RUFDC?”

“The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club,” I said.

“Sounds Trekky.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” I said. “Ultimate is about playing hard and not whining. The object of the game is to score goals. The thrower isn’t allowed to take any steps, so the only way to move the disc is by passing. Any time a pass is incomplete, intercepted, knocked down, or sent out-of-bounds, the opposing team immediately gets possession. You score a goal by passing the disc to a teammate in the end zone of the opposing team.”

“You’ve watched a few games, then?”

“And been in a few,” I said. “Every so often if a team is short a female player, I’m the desperation draft.”

Zack smiled. “That’s flattering.”

“It’s annihilating,” I said. “Those kids are in phenomenal shape. The last time I played, I had to mainline Ben-Gay for a week.”

Our meals came and Zack and I talked of other things – music, travel, past adventures – the stuff of first dates. We both kept an anxious eye on the road outside. No cars came.

“I think the six months you gave the Dohertys may have been optimistic,” I said.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Zack said. “If they can’t pay their suppliers they won’t make it till Labour Day.”

“Hard to watch your dream turn to ashes,” I said.

“Isn’t that what dreams do?” Zack said. “Marian and her husband will be tougher next time.”

“And less hopeful and idealistic,” I said. “Disillusionment is a terrible thing. It hardens the heart. I hate to think of that young woman with the sunflowers on her dress turning into a cynic.”

Zack put down his fork. “I hate to think of it, too. That’s why I suggested we come to the Stone House.”

“So Chris was right,” I said. “You’re one of the dreamers. The night of the barbecue he called you Don Quixote.”

“I thought Chris knew me better than that,” Zack said. “I never undertake a quest unless I’m sure I’m going to succeed. And I don’t dream impossible dreams.”

“But you do dream.”

“Everybody dreams. Wise people know when to cut their losses. At one point in my life I wanted to be a baseball player. Obviously, that didn’t work out, so I became a lawyer.”

“It can’t have been that simple,” I said.

“It wasn’t,” Zack said. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“What happened?”

Zack turned his gaze so that he was looking not at me but at the driveway to the Stone House. “One spring afternoon I was on my way back from ball practice, and a rich drunk ran a light. I was in the middle of the road at the time. I was ten years old. When my mother got the letter from the rich drunk’s insurance company offering her five thousand dollars if she’d sign a full release, she dropped to her knees on our kitchen floor and thanked God for his many blessings. I imagine when my mother hand-delivered the signed release to the insurance company, their lawyers offered up a few prayers of thanksgiving themselves.”

I reached across the table and covered Zack’s hand with mine. The move was instinctive, but Zack was clearly taken aback. He stared at our hands as if they were something apart from us. Then he looked at me hard. “You know how to get a good vibe going, Ms. Kilbourn. Suddenly, I wish that I could spend the whole evening just sitting here holding hands with you.”

“I’d like that too,” I said. “But it’s getting late.”

Zack motioned to Marian for the check, then he leaned towards me. “For the record, I had a great time tonight.”

“For the record,” I said, “the evening’s not over.”

We left the restaurant together but, instead of going straight to the car, Zack moved his chair to the edge of the empty parking lot. I followed him.