Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

“Nice précis,” Zack said. “Beverly was more discursive. She went on for about an hour and a half.”

“And you charged her?”

“You bet I did, and now that I’ve seen the way she treats Glenda, I wish I’d billed double.”

“I still remember the Bev Parker of Sam and Bev,” I said. “Her hair was the colour of toffee, and her voice sounded the way good toffee tastes – melting and sweet with a little burn to give it edge.”

“Well, now her hair is – what’s that really blonde blonde?”

“Platinum,” I said.

“Right,” Zack said. “And her voice is hard and very angry.” Zack fell silent, seemingly engrossed in the efforts of a squirrel trying to break into the squirrel-proof bird feeder the girls had put up during the summer. When the squirrel gave up and moved along, Zack turned to me. “You think he’ll find something to eat?” he said.

“Sure. The girls left nine dollars’ worth of sunflower seeds on the ground by that tree where he has his nest.”

“A lot of stuff goes on around here that I don’t know about,” Zack said.

“I’ll start sending a daily update to your BlackBerry.” I picked up the coffee carafe and refilled our cups. “I wonder what happened to turn the Bev I remember into the Beverly you met.”

Zack shrugged. “I’m no expert. The only time Sam and I discussed his wife was over a bottle of Scotch late one night. He is absolutely loyal to her. And he either can’t or won’t talk about what caused her to change. All he told me was that when Judgment Day rolls around, Beverly believes she’ll have a front-row seat to watch her enemies suffer.”

“And it doesn’t trouble her that her only child will be among the sufferers.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a matter of concern.”

He stared at his empty bowl as if seeing it for the first time. “Is there more porridge? This was really good.”

I stood up. “I’ll get it.”

“I can get it,” Zack said. He balanced his bowl on his knees and wheeled towards the kitchen. When he took the pot from the stove, he peered at it with interest. “What’s in this anyway?”

“Oatmeal, of course, but also poppy seeds and dried cranberries. There are supposed to be sunflower seeds in there too, but the girls gave them to your pal, the squirrel.”

He wheeled back into the sunroom and started eating. “Do you think Charlie will be up yet?”

“You want to talk to him?”

“I need to know who he told about that sentence he edited from the tape.”

“My guess is no one, but if you’re anxious, give him a few more hours of sack time before you pay him a visit. Charlie isn’t a morning person.”

“Fair enough,” Zack said. “So what are you up to this morning?”

“I promised Madeleine I’d teach her how to make pancakes. After that, Mieka and I are taking all the girls into Fort Qu’Appelle to the farmers’ market. It’s the last one till next summer.”

Zack looked wistful. “Sounds like fun.”

“You’re welcome to come,” I said.

“I’ve got way too much work.” He covered my hand with his. “It’s not always going to be like this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” I said.

The kitchen in the Hynd cottage caught the early light, and Lena had found a patch of sunshine on the floor in which to test out the bouncing properties of Tupperware. Madeleine was at the table with a whisk and a bowl and when she saw me she waved her whisk in the air. “I broke four eggs,” she said.

“Without getting a single piece of shell in the bowl,” Mieka said approvingly.

“Her mother’s daughter,” I said. “Let me wash my hands, and we’ll get started.”

When I rolled up my sleeves, Mieka glanced at my fingers. “You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” she said quietly.

“It was time to put it away,” I said.

“You and Alex were together three years, and you always wore your ring. You’re with Zack three months and it’s gone.”

“Does it bother you?”

As she carried the canister of flour to the table, Mieka’s lips were a line.

“You still don’t like Zack,” I said.

“What’s not to like? He’s smart and he’s rich.” She shrugged. “Perfect.”

“Maybe we should wait and talk about this later,” I said.

We both glanced at the girls. Madeleine was raising and lowering her whisk from the bowl so she could watch the egg drip; Lena was still absorbed in the miracles of plastic. They seemed oblivious. Mieka lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to wait till later. You’re not wearing your wedding ring, and that means it’s serious. Mum, the people Zack defends are scum: murderers and bikers and bigots and rapists.”

“Everyone’s entitled to a defence, Mieka.”

“Especially if they’ve got a whack of cash. From what I hear, Zack charges top dollar.” She pointed at my wrist. “That bracelet he gave you for your birthday didn’t come from Wal-Mart.”

“Wal-Mart didn’t have the bracelet I wanted. Nobody around here did. Charm bracelets with real charms are out of style. Zack went to a lot of trouble to find this.” I held out my wrist so Mieka could see the chunky link bracelet more closely. “Those little ladybug charms open up,” I said.

Her interest piqued, Madeleine turned to us. “Can I see?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. I undid the tiny clasp on the red and black enamel ladybug. Inside was a picture of Madeleine.

“That’s me,” she said.

“Right,” I said. “And inside the green ladybug there’s a picture of your sister.” I knelt beside Lena and showed her “There you are,” I said. Lena reached out, snapped the bug shut, and went back to her Tupperware.

I stood and slid an arm around my daughter’s shoulders. “There’s a lucky guy in Lena’s future. Tupperware’s cheaper than Tiffany’s.”

Unexpectedly, Mieka’s eyes filled with tears. She fingered the remaining charm, a small gold disc. “What’s this?”

“A Frisbee,” I said. “The first time Zack and I went out together, we went to one of Angus’s Ultimate Flying Disc games.”

Mieka’s flipped the disc over and read the inscription: “Amor Fati,” she said.

“It’s Latin,” I said. “It means ‘Love your Fate.’ ”

“Am I supposed to love your fate too?”

“No,” I said, “but you are supposed to live with it.” I handed the measuring cup to Madeleine. “See that line at the top. Start spooning flour in. When it gets to that line, you’ll have enough to begin the pancakes.”

Madeleine got a chance to do a lot of measuring. Just as we’d settled in to eat, Greg and Peter showed up – fishless and hungry. Then Taylor and Isobel drifted in. And so Madeleine cracked eggs and measured; Lena crumpled paper napkins, and Mieka and I stirred, flipped, and dished out.

There were many golden moments that weekend. The Thanksgiving farmers’ market was an extravagant display of beauty and bounty: tables overflowing with root vegetables, so recently ripped from the earth that the dirt still clung to them; jars of jams, pickles, and preserves glowing with the brilliance of jewels; boxes of apples, pears, peaches, and plums fragrant from the gentle summer of British Columbia; heavy breads flecked with seeds and dried fruits; pies with pastry so light that even the wrap covering had flaked it; turkey-shaped cookies iced in garish, child-riveting colours; gourds whose curved phallic shapes conjured thoughts of a God with carnal pleasure on Her mind.

And pumpkins – hundreds of them – in every permutation and combination of size, shape, and colour. Halloween was three weeks away, and Taylor, Isobel, and Gracie Falconer were having a party. They had been scouring the Internet for ideas for a week, and their plans were elaborate. The party was going to be at our house, and the girls were going to turn our backyard into a haunted village of glowing jack-o’-lanterns. We needed a lot of pumpkins and so we cruised the stalls for possibilities: perusing, judging, and, finally, choosing. When we’d filled the trunks of both my car and Mieka’s, we headed back to the cottage.