Gail Bowen - The Glass Coffin

The members of Evan’s family weren’t the only ones who gained entry to the private world of Caroline MacLeish that winter. The morning I was to drive Jill and her stepdaughter to the airport, she called me into her bedroom and pointed at the TV. The network ad campaign for The Glass Coffin had started. Someone at NBC had unearthed a treasure from Evan’s archives of discarded footage: a poignant scene of Caroline alone in her bedroom. She was wearing a silk robe in the forget-me-not blue of her eyes and she approached the camera with a lover’s intensity. “My world is smaller than most,” she said. “But what my life shows it that even the smallest world can be made to yield everything. I have known loyalty and betrayal, joy and despair, and I have known love.” Her fingers caressed the frame of a photograph on the elaborately carved table beside her. The camera moved in for a closeup of the picture in the frame. It was of Felix Schiff. “I have known unimaginable love,” Caroline said triumphantly.

The television announcer’s voice was breathless. “And Felix Schiff killed for that love – not once, but twice. In time for Valentine’s, NBC is proud to present the passion that made headlines: a very special portrait of a very special love.”

Beside me, Jill shuddered. “Poor Felix,” she said. “Speaking of – I had a call from the funeral home yesterday. They have two boxes for me: Evan’s ashes and Felix’s. How’s that for a going-away present?”

“Unique,” I said. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I’ve already been in touch with Linn Brokenshire’s brother about having Evan’s ashes buried with her.”

“That’s a surprise,” I said.

“It shouldn’t be,” Jill replied. “You were the one who told me that Evan really loved Linn, and I didn’t have any other ideas. There’s only one catch. The brother’s a born-again, so there will have to be what he calls ‘a truly Jesus-centred service.’ ” Jill shook her head. “After all these years, Linn is going to get to save Evan’s soul.”

“We get our rewards on this side of the grave or the next,” I said.

“If only…,” Jill’s eyes filled with tears. She took out a tissue and blew her nose noisily. “Anyway. That leaves Felix. What should I do about his ashes?”

“FedEx them to Caroline,” I said. “To the victor go the spoils.”

“What a monster she is,” Jill said. “Poor Felix. Poor all of us. Do you think we’ll ever be happy again?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s New Year’s Eve – the most hopeful night of the year – 365 days of possibilities ahead.”

“And what are you doing New Year’s?” Jill asked.

“We’re going to Mieka’s tomorrow, so I’m taking down our Christmas trees tonight,” I said. “Kevin is coming over to give me a hand.”

“Speaking of possibilities,” Jill said. Suddenly she looked impish. “Hey, here’s a plan. Let’s crack open a couple of cool ones and listen to Taylor’s tree one last time.”

“I don’t think I can take it,” I said.

“Sure you can,” Jill said. “It’s for auld lang syne.”

So my old friend and I went downstairs, opened two bottles of Great Western, and turned on Taylor’s tree. We drank a toast to absent loved ones, then we sat on the floor and listened to the world’s most painfully tuneless version of “The Way We Were.” Above us, Jerry Garcia, once the bard of Songs of Innocence and Experience, now an icon in a Day-Glo sunburst, beamed down warmth and hope on our cold and needy world.