Gail Bowen - The Glass Coffin

Bryn’s gaze shifted to her aunts. If she was hoping for a reaction, she got it. Tracy Lowell’s rictus grin freeze-dried, and Claudia scowled. The smile Bryn gave them was winning, but a sliver of malice undercut its Pre-Raphaelite perfection. “I thought you’d be happy for us,” she said sulkily.

Tracy’s behaviour so far hadn’t earned her a place on my Christmas card list, but I winced at her words to Evan MacLeish. “You promised that everything would stay the same,” she said.

“Let’s keep our private lives private.” Claudia’s tone was brusque. More tough love, but this time Tracy wasn’t buying.

Quivering with rage, she balled her small hands into fists. “I believed you,” she hissed at Evan. “Nothing was supposed to change. That was the agreement.”

“Nothing has to change,” Evan said quietly.

“Watch your step,” Tracy said. “Your mother’s not going to be any happier about this than I am, Evan. Ignoring what the rest of us want will be a big mistake.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Evan said.

“You’ll regret it,” Tracy said. “I’ve always been the third rail in your life. The only way you’ve stayed safe until now is by being very careful around me.”

Evan swept the room with his cool sentry gaze. “We’re wrecking the party,” he said. “Why don’t we finish this in private?”

After the double doors to the dining room clicked shut behind Tracy and Evan, there was a moment of agonizing awkwardness, followed by a flurry of attempts to restore equilibrium. Jill and Angus hovered over Bryn, reassuring her that nothing that had or ever would go wrong was her fault. Taylor, the queen of diversion, invited Claudia to come up to her room to visit her cats. That left Gabe Leventhal and me.

He waved his cigar. “I wouldn’t mind lighting this.”

“You’re my guest,” I said.

Gabe put a match to his cigar. “Bolivar Corona Gigantes. One of Cuba’s best,” he said. “And I bought it at your airport. This party just keeps getting better and better.” He inhaled happily. “Now tell me, what the hell does Tracy Lowell have on Evan?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as I mine. I just met her tonight.”

“Then my guess is better than yours,” he said. “Tracy and I had a romance.”

“How long did the romance last?”

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “It began in a hotel room before I went to the preview of a film in which she was the fifth lead and ended the next morning when my review appeared.”

“She didn’t care for the review?”

“She stalked me for three weeks, kept leaving noxious notes and other little nasties in my mailbox. I escaped, but if the affair had continued, she would have killed me. I’m paid to tell the truth, and Tracy was never much of an actor.” He gazed thoughtfully at the lengthening ash on his cigar. “Her sister was good – always interesting to watch, but Tracy was just a dewy bloom in the hero’s lapel.”

“Do you think it’s possible she spent some time in Evan MacLeish’s lapel?”

“Could be,” Gabe said, flicking ash into his open palm. “Tracy bloomed for a lot of men.”

I handed him an abandoned plate. “Thanks,” he said, dumping the ashes carefully. “I’d be interested to know what she’s doing now.”

“She’s on a kids’ show here in Canada,” I said. “She plays a character called the Broken Wand Fairy. Some evil wizard snapped her wand, so none of her magic works any more.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Block that metaphor.”

I sipped my drink. “She hasn’t totally lost her touch. Jill mentioned that Evan wanted her here for the wedding.”

“He wanted me here too, and there’s not a lot of magic between us. I’ve known him since he was married to Annie, but it would be a stretch to describe us as ‘close.’ ”

“Still, you must have some idea about what makes him tick.”

Gabe’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re a groupie – trying to get the skinny on the Great Filmmaker.”

“No,” I said. “I just want to know if he’s a good man.”

Gabe’s smile vanished. “I’m not an ethicist, Joanne. I write about movies.”

“Then I’ll ask you a movie question,” I said. “This morning I watched Leap of Faith and Black Spikes and Slow Waves. Do you believe a decent human being could use people who loved him as material?”

“At least they were adults,” Gabe said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I find those movies less problematic than I find Evan’s film about his daughter.”

I felt a chill. “They didn’t mention that one in the New York Times.”

“Not many people know about it.” Gabe stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “He’s been shooting footage of Bryn since she was born. I think the plan is to create the film equivalent of a roman-fleuve.”

“How does Bryn feel about having her life turned into a movie?”

Gabe shrugged. “I don’t imagine that’s an issue for Evan. He sees it as his life’s work. He’s shown me some rough cuts. It’s going to be sensational.”

“And that exonerates him?”

Gabe squinted at me through the screen of smoke. “Do you know who you remind me of, Joanne?”

I shook my head.

“Sam Waterston,” he said.

“Is that line supposed to make me blush and go weak in the knees?”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say you remind me of Sam Waterston in The Great Gatsby.”

“When he played Nick Carraway.”

“Right,” Gabe said approvingly. “The young man who wanted the world to stand at moral attention. You’ve got more than a little of Nick Carraway in you, Joanne, and that line is intended to please you. Moralists raise interesting questions.” He looked at me hard. “Now I have a question for you. Are you romantically entangled?”

I tried to stay cool. “In the process of becoming unentangled,” I said.

“What happened?

“Taylor would say that he just found somebody he liked better.”

“He must be a jerk.”

“Thanks,” I said. There was a catch in my voice that seemed to surprise us both.

Gabe reached out and touched my cheek. “Maybe I can help,” he said.

It was a moment pregnant with possibilities that my son aborted by roaring into the room and slamming on the brakes like a cartoon character. “Sorry,” he said, “but you asked me to remind you to take the meat out at twenty after.”

Gabe shook his head in mock dismay. “First time I’ve made a pass in five years, and it’s intercepted.”

“Come help me rescue dinner,” I said. “Heroes’ journeys are filled with detours.”

When Gabe and I walked into my kitchen, I knew we’d taken a detour that had led us into a danger zone. Tracy had backed Evan into the sideboard. She was pressed against him, her body taut, her hands splayed over his thighs. It was a scene from John Updike: two handsome people, restive with the longings of mid-life, anxious to grab a quickie before old age made carpe diem a joke. But this encounter wasn’t about lust.

As Tracy leaned into Evan, her voice was as hushed as a lover’s but the words dripped venom. “I could fucking kill you,” she said.

Evan placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back gently. “Stand in line,” he said. “No one’s raising the roof beams about this marriage, but it would be easier for you if you accept the fact that it’s inevitable.”

“And it would be easier for everybody if you just backed out.” Tracy rubbed at the places where Evan’s hands had touched her.

“I’m not going to,” Evan said mildly. “Jill and I are both committed to this marriage.”

“Till death do you part,” Tracy said. “You’re one evil son of a bitch, Evan.” As she stomped out of the room, her stiletto heels tapped the hardwood like hammer blows.