Gail Bowen - The Last Good Day

“No use putting it off,” I said. “At some point you’re going to have to hand me the keys and slide into the passenger seat.”

“I have absolute confidence in you,” Zack said. “But this view always knocks me out.”

“It is amazing,” I said. I slid my hand along the back of Zack’s chair and touched his shoulder.

He looked up at me. “The good vibes keep on coming,” he said.

“So they do,” I said.

On the highway below us, cars moved purposefully, taking people out to the cottage for the night or into Fort Qu’Appelle for a movie or a meal. But the lake beyond the road was glass, and the hills around us were solid and constant. Even at the crest of the hill where we watched and waited, no wind blew.

“This is such a beautiful part of the country,” Zack said. “Nights like this make you understand the Twenty-third psalm – still waters and green pastures.”

“And the Valley of the Shadow of Death is nowhere to be seen,” I said.

“Do I detect a switching of gears?”

“Yes,” I said. “Chris’s death and all the ugliness that seems to have come in its wake are never far away.”

“Specifically?”

“Some friends of Clare Mackey’s are coming out to Lawyers’ Bay tomorrow night.”

“And their purpose in coming is…?”

“They want the partners at Falconer Shreve to know that they’re not buying the story that Clare left for a better job in Vancouver. They also want you to know they’ve gone to the police about Clare, and they’re doing their own investigation. They’re hoping one of you will talk to them.”

“Quite an agenda,” Zack said. “How come you’re telling me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

Zack stroked my hand. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Truly, I do.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his car keys. “You’re in the driver’s seat,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club tournament was being played just outside Fort Qu’Appelle on the kind of grassy, low-maintenance field reserved for T-ball or games of pickup. There were benches for the opposing teams, some rudimentary bleachers, and a small playground close enough to the bleachers for a parent to keep one eye on a child swinging on the monkey bars and the other eye on a child rounding the bases. There were also bushes, mosquitoes, blankets, bug spray, and the air of pleasant lassitude that settles on spectators at an outdoor event on an evening in cottage country.

I had given Zack a thumbnail sketch of the rules of Ultimate, but words could not describe the game’s poetry. To watch men and women who were more perfect than they would ever again be in their lives push themselves to their limits in the honeyed golden light of a fading day was to understand what it meant to be young, strong, fearless, and mortal. I’d once told Angus that Ultimate always made me think of the poetry of A.E. Housman. My son had looked baffled and slightly annoyed, but I knew that some day he would understand, more than most, the poignancy of Housman’s line about all those early-laurelled heads.

Zack had positioned himself by the bench where Angus’s team, Blackjack, had set up. He was watching the game intently – not cheering, just observing. Occasionally, he’d lean close to one of the kids on Blackjack and ask a question. He seemed perfectly at ease, as if there were nothing more pressing in his life than mastering the intricacies of a new sport.

Zack and I hadn’t talked on our way back from the restaurant, but our silence had been companionable rather than awkward, and when I’d pulled up to park behind the ball diamond, he had leaned across and kissed me. It was a good and serious kiss with the lingering effects a good and serious kiss always has. I wanted more, but I could hear my daughter calling, and so Zack and I had touched fingers and gone our separate ways.

As soon as I found a place on the bleachers, Delia Wainberg joined me. Her hair was spiky, there was the faintest dusting of blush on her pale cheeks, and her outfit – black shorts, a white T-shirt, and white runners – was youthful and flattering.

“How’re you doing?” she said.

“Fine,” I said. “And obviously you’re blooming.”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said. “I’ve decided Chris wouldn’t want me to disintegrate, so I’m making an effort.” She waggled her fingers theatrically. “No cigarette,” she said. “I’ve quit smoking – again.” Her voice made one of its appealing squeaky trills. “I haven’t had one all day, but I’m not to be trusted. If I come up with some phony-baloney excuse to leave, sink your teeth into my leg and don’t let go.”

I laughed. “Just watch the game,” I said. “Seeing the shape these kids are in will firm your resolve.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

We settled back to follow the progress of the disc as it arced through the summer air. Like Zack, Delia had questions about Ultimate, and I did my best to answer them. At one point, her attention was diverted, and she touched my arm.

“Look over there,” she said. “Hard to believe that an hour ago our daughters were asking us if they could have a party with the boys from the cottages down the shore.”

The girls had found the playground, and with the Merlin-like ability of preadolescents they had become kids again, abandoning the mysteries of growing up for the sheer pleasure of daring one another to go higher, faster, and farther.

“I’ve missed so much,” Delia said simply. “But no more. I’m going to do better. I’m going to be better.”

Remembering the plans of Clare Mackey’s friends, I felt a pang. Suddenly, I very much wanted Delia to have her chance.

In front of us, Leah, her face dirty and her hair soaked with perspiration, made a heroic leap, caught the disc, and hit the grass. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of her, and for an endless moment she lay motionless on the ground. When Angus ran over to see if she was all right, Leah shook him off angrily and pushed herself to her feet. The game continued.

“She’s tough,” Delia said admiringly.

“Not a bad quality in a woman,” I said.

“I agree,” Delia said. “Is she tougher than your son?”

“I’d say they were evenly matched,” I said.

“Are you and Zack evenly matched?” Delia asked mischievously.

“I don’t think that’s an issue,” I said. “We hardly know each other.”

“I don’t believe you,” Delia said. “I saw that kiss he planted on you in the car. In all the years I’ve known Zack, I’ve never seen him be publicly demonstrative with a woman. In fact, I’ve never known any of his women. I know they exist, but he keeps that part of his life separate from us.”

“Sometimes it’s wise to keep professional and private lives separate,” I said.

My only intention had been to switch the focus off the subject of Zack and me, but Delia seized on my words. “That’s always been a problem for us,” she said. “We’ve never been able to separate the personal and the professional. Noah and I can’t. Blake and Lily can’t. Chris and I couldn’t.”

Delia’s reference to her relationship with Chris shook me. An image from the night Chris died flashed into my consciousness: Delia standing behind Chris, her arms encircling him as if to keep him from slipping away. Had she been the woman with whom he’d had the affair, the woman who’d chosen not to go through with her pregnancy?

Innocent of my speculations, Delia peered intently as the opposing team advanced the disc effortlessly down the field. When they scored, she pounded her fist into her hand. “Damn,” she said. “Anyway, Noah and I have been lucky. We seem to have survived.”