Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

We were eating at Zack’s because his kitchen was the best equipped and his sunroom had a spectacular view of the lake. A mahogany partners’ table with fourteen matching chairs dominated the room. Outsized, ornate, and out of fashion, the set had gone cheap at a country auction. In its daytime life, the dark expanse of shining mahogany conjured up images of anxious heirs gathered for the reading of a wealthy relative’s last will and testament, but at night, set for dinner and warmed by candlelight, the table was welcoming.

I’d made beef bourguignon, a dish that was one of my son-in-law’s favourites. As the lid was removed from the yellow enamelled cast-iron casserole Greg and Mieka had given me for my last birthday, the aroma of beef and wine and mushrooms drifted towards us, drawing us together to dip baguette into rich winy sauce, drink a good but not great burgundy, and exchange news of our lives.

Our talk that night was light-hearted and punctuated by laughter. Just as we sat down to eat, Angus called to say he and Leah had arrived safely in New York and that Slava had scored tickets for the Yankee game the next day. The seats Slava got were right over the dugout, and, as she often did, Mieka led the discussion about how Angus had been born with horseshoes up his ass. Pete, who was seldom the centre of attention, had some funny stories about his adventures opening a vet clinic in the inner city, and Isobel Wainberg was rapt.

“I’d like to be a vet too,” she said. “Only I’d like to work in East Africa with elephants and water buffalo and lions and leopards and rhinos.”

Mieka smiled at Isobel. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a caterer. Boring, huh?”

Charlie swooped. “There’s nothing boring about you. I remember when you wanted to be Laurie in the Partridge family, rockin’ and rollin’ across the country in a Day-Glo bus, thumping a keyboard and singing backup for your brother and me.”

“That’s what I wanted when I was six,” Mieka said.

“Being six is a state of mind,” Charlie said. “I’m still rockin’ and rollin’. I have groupies. I get fan mail. I just don’t have a Laurie Partridge, with braces on her teeth, thumping the keyboard and singing backup.” Charlie turned to my daughter with an intensity that suggested the comments were no longer a joke. “The job’s open, Mieka. Interested?”

The charge that passed between Charlie to Mieka was too powerful to ignore. It had to be short-circuited or redirected. “I have some news,” I said. “I had a call from Canada Tonight . They want me to do a nightly report on the Sam Parker trial.”

“Cool,” Taylor said.

“Better than cool,” Charlie said. “We can be co-conspirators, Joanne, subtly convincing the Canadian public that Sam Parker deserves to be a free man.”

“I thought journalists were supposed to be objective,” Greg said.

Charlie looked at him coldly. “Nobody’s objective. Emily Dickinson says, ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant.’ In this case, slant is justified. Sam Parker’s a hero.”

“A hero who shot a woman while she was sitting in her backyard.” Greg’s tone was caustic.

Charlie’s eyes flashed. “The woman in question deserved to be shot.”

Her radar vibrating to unfamiliar tensions, Maddy’s gaze moved from the noodles and slivers of beef on her plate to her father and Charlie.

Greg gave Charlie a warning look. “Time to change the subject.”

Charlie gave him a mock salute. “Right-o,” he said. He turned to the rest of us. “You heard the man. Party’s over.” He began picking up plates.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Pete said.

“And I’ll get dessert,” Mieka said.

Greg watched them disappear into the kitchen and sighed. “Sorry, Jo, I didn’t mean to ruin the dinner.”

“Dinner’s not ruined, just temporarily derailed. And I was the one who brought up the Sam Parker trial. No matter what we say or don’t say, it’s going to be the elephant in the living room this weekend – especially with Charlie here.”

Greg ran a hand through his crewcut. “Every time I see Charlie, I’m glad we live in different cities.”

“I’ll try to run interference for you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m a big boy. So is Charlie. Someone should tell him that his act is getting a little stale. ‘Look at me. See what I’ve done. Guess what I’m going to do next?’ ” Greg shook his head in disgust. “We don’t let our girls behave like that.”

“Does Mieka share your opinion of Charlie?”

“Are you kidding? She and Pete and Charlie have this primal loyalty thing going. It goes back to when they were kids. There are months when they don’t connect at all, then one of them gets a problem and they’re joined at the navel.”

“Who’s the one with the problem now?” I asked.

Greg’s face tightened, then he looked past me and the tension disappeared. “Not Lena,” he said softly. “She appears to have packed it in for the day.” He reached over and removed his sleeping daughter from the high chair.

Mieka came in from the kitchen carrying a tray with apple pie, ice cream, and dessert plates. Charlie was behind her with the coffee. I reached for my granddaughter. “I’ll take the baby, Greg,” I said. “You stay here with the others and have your dessert.”

Mieka glanced at her husband. “You stay,” she said. “You love apple pie. I’ll go with Mum. Madeleine looks like she’s flagging too.” She leaned over and picked up her daughter. “Time for bed, short stuff.”

I patted Willie’s flank. “Better get a move on,” I said. “This is a tough crowd. Nobody here is going to let you lick the bowl.”

The night was cool, still, and star-lit – and there was a bonus. “Madeleine, look at the sky,” I said. “That’s a harvest moon.”

“Goodnight, moon,” she said. Then, unbidden, she began to pipe the words with which three generations of children, including my own, had been lulled to sleep. As Maddy told the story of the small rabbit who prolonged his bedtime by saying goodnight to everything in his great green room, Mieka and I slowed our pace. Even Willie waited without complaint. Maddy didn’t miss a word. When she was through, I caught my daughter’s gaze.

“This is as good as it gets,” I said.

“I know,” Mieka said, and there was a catch in her voice. “You don’t need to beat me over the head with your motherly subtlety. I know I’m lucky: two healthy kids, a kind husband; a family who loves me. I’m just tired and PMSing and I’m thirty-one years old and I have to figure a few things out.”

“And Charlie’s helping.”

“He’s a good listener,” Mieka said. “He doesn’t jump in to tell me I should be grateful that my cup’s full, when I know it’s overflowing.”

“The way I just did,” I said.

“You meant well,” Mieka said.

“Don’t put that on my gravestone,” I said.

I juggled Lena so I could open the door to the cottage. Unlike the rest of the summer homes at Lawyers’ Bay, the cottage where Mieka and Greg were staying was a real cottage: shabby, comfortable, and filled with photographs and memorabilia from decades of happy summers. It smelled the way a cottage should – of wood smoke and the fishy-weedy odour that works its way into bathing suits and beach towels and never comes out no matter how much time they spend airing on the line.

Greg had turned down the girls’ beds and left their pyjamas on their pillows: Madeleine’s were pink fleece with cupcakes and lollipops, and Lena’s were mauve with a pattern of hearts. I shoehorned Lena into her pyjamas and Mieka took Madeleine to the bathroom. In a few minutes they were back. “Smell my breath,” Madeleine said. “We got princess toothpaste.”