Perdita (3 page)

It would make Ava
and
her
son
very
happy
if
I
died…

I looked up from my desk and stared out the window at two loons bobbing past my dock. The file from Edna made it pretty clear that the Stewart family expected Miss Brice to die at the Clarkson Home, and preferably in the not-too-distant future. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was more that Miss Brice's care arrangement included a two hundred thousand dollar “donation” divided into two installments. Half had been given when she was admitted to the home and the rest was to be received “at her
death.”

At
her
death—
balance on delivery? No wonder Edna was uneasy about the whole
thing.

I had found no verification of the birth date of May 1, 1920, for the “Margaret” G. Brice mentioned in the lawyer's letter. There was no social insurance number, no health card or driver's license, not even a credit card number that I could use to confirm her name. There wasn't even a previous address or contact information for a doctor in the event of an illness. There was absolutely nothing that I could use to verify the alleged birth date the Stewarts' solicitor had provided for the woman at the Clarkson
Home.

Yet there had to be a trail, I reasoned—everybody was on record
somewhere.

I picked up the journals Miss Brice had given me that morning, finally admitting that this was going to take more time than I had anticipated. And all because of two sets of eyes, I thought ruefully—one belonging to a spoiled dog and the other to a portly spinster. Actually, there had been three sets of eyes; Marged's orbs had been pretty formidable, too.

I stood up and stretched—there
was
something else. It had been gnawing at me all afternoon. It was the name Marged Brice had mentioned,
Perdita
. I knew that I'd heard it somewhere before and in relation to my father. Had it been something he was working on before he
died?

I began tidying up the papers on my desk when I noticed two Montreal telephone numbers at the bottom of the contract Edna had signed—numbers she was to immediately call in the event of Miss Brice's
death.

The first number listed an extension—probably the
lawyers.

I wondered about the second number. Would I get Edna into trouble if I called
it?

I looked at my watch; it was a few minutes before 8:00 p.m. I could always say Miss Brice had given the number to me. It would be a long
shot—

An elderly woman with a raspy voice answered the
phone.

“Ava?” I inquired, taking a gamble. “Ava
Stewart?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, who is
this?”

“This is Professor Garth Hellyer.” Then I rattled off something about the Clarkson Home and the Longevity
Project.

“Clarkson Home? Could you speak up? I can't hear
you.”

I raised my voice. “Mrs. Stewart, I would like to speak to you about Marged
Brice.”

“Marged!” she cried. “Is she dead? Are you calling to tell me she's
dead?”

“No, Mrs. Stewart. I saw Marged this
morning.”

There was another pause. I could hear her breathing heavily. “Why won't she die? Why won't she?” Ava Stewart wailed
softly.

“She told me she'd like to die, but that—well, she says she can't.”

“You didn't believe her, did
you?”

I
hesitated.

“You haven't seen
it
, have you?” she whispered
fearfully.

“Seen
what?”

“That thing—that thing she has with
her.”

“What do you
mean?”

“It's that—
thing
! Marged's always talking to it. She made it come to me while I was sleeping. Just to scare me—it woke me
up!”

She began to
cough.

“Mrs. Stewart, I'd like to come to Montreal to talk to you about Marged
Brice.”

“No,” she put in quickly. “You can't come here. That's out of the
question!”

“Then could you tell me something about Marged? Did you know she came to the home with someone else's birth certificate? Was her mother's name also
Marged?”

“Her mother—no. She had a French name. My father-in-law knew Marged's mother. He said she was very beautiful.” Her thoughts seemed to be wandering, and then I sensed her growing
nervous.

“Could you tell me anything about Miss Brice that would help me?” I was afraid she might hang up. “Could you tell me how old she
is?”

“How old? Oh, she's very old. Very, very old. She's much older than you think. But—”

“But?”

“I shouldn't be talking like this! My
son…”

I heard an angry voice in the background. “Mother! Who are you talking to? Give me that
phone!”

A second later a man's voice barked, “Who is
this?”

I took a deep breath, but before I could answer there was a click and then dead
air.

I headed down to
the beach, Ava Stewart's words ringing in my
ears.

She's much older than you
think.

“This whole thing is becoming a bit bizarre, isn't it, Farley?” I bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. There were no lights on at the neighboring cottages, and I paused to inhale the cool night air. A deep purple haze was just beginning to form above the horizon, and the Bay stretched out before me, silent and
glasslike.

I needed a swim—an instantly bracing
plunge.

I didn't bother to hunt around for my swimming trunks, but grabbed a towel and stripped down by the boathouse. I strode briskly into the water, diving in after I was waist deep. My skin was immediately seared by the frigid cold, and the scar on my back felt like it was on fire, but when I resurfaced, my head was wonderfully
cleared.

A minute later, my body adjusted to the water's temperature, and I felt the Bay rippling around me. It seemed to be trying to pick me up, the long, low swells first pushing and then pulling at my legs. I stretched out on my back, finding the sensation very soothing and trying to remember when I had last experienced it. It hadn't been for years, I thought as I let the current take me. Not since I was a young man. Certainly before I met
Evienne…

I don't know how long I drifted—probably only a few minutes—but my memory flew back to myself as a boy…pretending that I was a fish and that I'd been drawn to the surface by the changing colors of the night
sky…

Suddenly I heard Farley barking. I flipped over, realizing the wind had shifted and an offshore breeze was carrying me out. I called out reassuringly to him as I swam back and then clambered out, wrapping the towel around my
waist.

I lingered at the water's edge, still admiring the beauty of the night sky and marking the first stars as they began to appear. A soft loneliness stole over me, but it wasn't an unwelcome one. I reminded myself that I had come up to the cottage for some solitude, some time to think a few things over. Of course, there was also my
book…

Farley suddenly ran behind me, whining anxiously. I looked up to see a huge German shepherd bounding toward us. It was coming so fast that I braced myself for its impact, but the dog skidded to a clumsy stop just inches away and then curled back his lips in a menacing
snarl.

I remained perfectly still, but within seconds the shepherd started pawing the ground, and I realized that what he really wanted was to make friends. Farley, however, was absolutely outraged and ran behind him, nipping at his
tail.

Then I heard a woman's voice. “Mars! Mars!” She was picking her way awkwardly across the rocks and hurrying toward us. Farley froze and stared at her with interest before abandoning the German shepherd and rushing off eagerly to meet her. I called out to him, but he snapped at her legs, and I was certain that she was going to take a nasty spill onto the
rocks.

“Farley!” I yelled, rushing over and grabbing the woman to steady her. She gripped my arms and looked up into my face, her expression
startled.

“Garth!”

I stared at her in surprise. Then she took a deep breath. “But you've
always
been away when I've come back. Every single time, you've been away…” She shook her head, as if to make sure of what she was
seeing.

The German shepherd growled low in his throat, but she seemed not to
notice.

“You don't recognize me, do you?” The woman was now smiling shyly at
me.

I stepped back a little, trying to get a better look at her face. Was she was one of my new neighbors? I had met a young couple earlier in the week and lent them my kayak. The woman laughed at my puzzled expression. “Maybe I'm not being entirely fair. It
is
getting dark, but even so, I knew you
immediately!”

There was something I recognized in her voice, in her
tone.

She left me waiting for a half a second. “Shall I give you a
hint?”

I nodded, playing along, rather intrigued by her
friendliness.

She tilted her head to one side and said very sweetly, “Would you let me do a coming about? I'll be very careful. I promise. Would you,
please
?”

“Clare! It can't be!” I had a sudden image of myself at twelve, taking the new boy from the cottage next door out in our sailboat and all our parents watching from the shore. And Doug's six-year-old sister tagging along. A scrawny little girl who had capsized us on our first voyage because in a moment of weakness—or sheer and utter insanity, as Doug later said—I let her take the
helm.

“But I just spoke to Doug last week,” I said, now smiling broadly. “He told me you were still on the job at the British
Museum.”

“Oh—that job's over now. I decided to take a break and come home for a rest. I'm so sorry if Mars annoyed you,” she added, lowering her eyes. “The first thing Douglas did was to dump me with Dad's new dog. He's the one who's supposed to be training this enormous beast, but Dad wants me to have him while I'm up
here.”

I continued to stare at her while she spoke, completely forgetting Farley and the German shepherd. “Clare,” I softly repeated her name. It was such an unexpected and pleasant surprise to see her. Then I stepped back, slowly releasing
her.

“You're looking very well,” she said, her eyes scanning my face and her voice
warm.

“And you're looking very well, too. In fact, you look wonderful!” How long had it been since I'd last seen her? “Doug never mentioned you were going to be up here.” I could just make out the soft blue of her
eyes.

“I always try to get up here as soon as I can: I miss the Bay so terribly when I'm away!” She looked out over the water. “Mum's actually given me the cottage for the whole summer—if I want it. Douglas said he's coming up in a few days. We're to have a big brother–little sister weekend, and he's absolutely promised not to be the Grand Inquisitor.” Then her face brightened. “But you, Garth. Fancy meeting you like
this!”

The wind started to pick up, and I suddenly remembered that I was wearing only a towel. Clare rubbed her bare arms as if she were growing chilly. “Clare, why don't you… Would you like to come up for a
drink?”

She hesitated, looking back toward her cottage, and then shivered slightly. “That's very nice of you. I've really just arrived. Of course I absolutely
had
to come down to the beach first, and I haven't even gone inside the cottage yet—but I'd like a drink. It was a long
drive.”

I led her up my steps and across the deck, relieved to see that the place wasn't too much of a mess. Once inside, she took my father's old chair by the fireplace while Mars settled himself at her
feet.

Farley planted himself in front of her, eyeing Mars
warily.

I quickly ducked into the bedroom and pulled on some clothes, calling out to ask what she'd like. By the time I brought her a glass of wine, Farley had ensconced himself in her lap and she was petting him as if they were old
friends.

She looked at me and then laughed outright. “That couldn't be! It couldn't be the same shirt. Not the one you and Douglas got that summer you became Grateful Dead
fans?”

“No.” I grinned back, enjoying her smile. What was the nickname my father had given her smile? Aurora borealis. He had always referred to Clare as his northern
lights.

“This is a second edition,” I explained. “I wore the original into rags quite a few years
ago.”

Clare shifted Farley in her lap to stroke him under the chin. “I wouldn't be surprised if Douglas had his original embalmed or bronzed, or something like
that!”

“She's changed,” I thought, taking a sip of wine and silently observing her. She was much more poised than I remembered, more at ease. More “in her own skin,” as my father would have
said.

She leaned back in the chair, and Farley reared up on his hind legs, attempting to lick her nose. “He's such a lovely little dog!” she exclaimed. “He's part pug, isn't he? Isn't that the breed your mother
liked?”

“Yes, Farley was really her dog. I've just inherited
him.”

“You mean he's inherited you!” Farley began to emit sounds like an old motor boat running out of fuel, and Clare froze, looking at me
quizzically.

“Believe it or not, that's Farley purring,” I
explained.

She laughed and held Farley's face between her hands. “Well, I think I should trade you. Farley's so much more my type. Mars is supposed to protect me from things that go bump in the night and I do love him, but he's such a
handful!”

“I'm trying to remember,” I said, still watching her, “when we last saw each
other.”

She looked over at me quickly—and then away just as quickly. “It was… It's been several
years.”

“That's right.” I frowned, remembering. It had been four years ago, at Evienne's funeral. I had been in bad shape, still cut up and bruised from the accident, and hadn't really been able to talk to anyone. “I completely
forgot—”

“But I haven't changed that much,” she interrupted, keeping her tone light. “Now, what's your real excuse for not recognizing
me?”

“Let's see.” I folded my arms. “You must be—hmm, let me see, around forty or forty-one
now.”

“What!” She lifted a pillow and tossed it at me. “You know perfectly well I'm six years younger than you are, almost to the
day!”

“Will you believe me if I say it's because you're prettier?” I teased, reaching out to catch the pillow. “Honestly, Clare, I mean it. You really do look wonderful.”

She placed her hand lightly on Mars's collar and smiled over at me. “That's such a nice thing for you to say. But you were always nice to
me.”

“Who wouldn't be nice to you? You were a very sweet little girl, always my father's
favorite.”

She sighed. “Those were the days!” Her voice sounded just a little bitter. “I've managed to make a few enemies since
then.”

“I can hardly believe
that.”

“Oh, it's a long story,” she said quickly. “I shouldn't have said anything. It's just been on my
mind.”

“I thought most long stories had a short
version.”

“Hmm, the short version is senior woman hates upcoming junior woman. Executive summary: she had it in for me. Unfortunately she was on the museum's board of directors, and I was but a lowly curator on contract. I only stayed to finish that exhibit because of
Stuart.”

“Stuart?”

“Stuart Bretford.” She paused. “One of the trustees. He was my guardian angel, my swain of the museum world. You probably won't believe this, but the museum world can be pretty
cutthroat.”

“Just up for a holiday, then?” I
asked.

“In a way, yes. A holiday and a retreat. I've got something I need to think through.” She got up and went to the screen door and stood staring out into the darkness for a few seconds. “I so love it here! I've come back up here almost every summer,” she said softly, her back to me. “Some summers I've come up in July and sometimes in August. But you were never up, Garth. I always saw your dad—and sometimes your mother—but never you. Do you come up very often
now?”

I told her that after my father died, I had started coming to the cottage more
regularly.

She turned around to look at me. “I'm so sorry, because I really wanted to come to his funeral. But I was stuck in Moscow. Literally stuck. There were no outgoing flights for days and days because of the snow. I always thought it must have been a bit rough losing him so soon after your
mother.”

I admitted it had been an adjustment. Clare walked around me as I spoke, pausing to rest her hand briefly on my shoulder. “I'm so glad you've kept the cottage, Garth,” she said, her eyes meeting
mine.

“I don't think I could ever sell it.” The very thought made me shudder. “At least, I hope I never have to. This year I've even decided to spend my sabbatical here. Doctor's orders. Your brother's orders, in
fact.”

“Is Douglas actually your
MD?”

I pretended to be shocked by her expression. “Why? Is there something I should know about his professional
practice?”

“He never told me! He said that after the accident…but I shouldn't ask, should
I?”

“I'm in perfect health,” I said quickly. “I've just been overworking, or so Doug claims. I'm supposed to take it easy. But even so, I plan to get a good chunk of writing
done.”

Now she was moving around the room, pausing to look at some of the pictures on the walls. “You know Mum and Granny were thrilled by your success,” she said. “They were ecstatic over you winning the Governor General's award. Dad loved your World War II trilogy: he said he's seen quite a bit of you
lately.”

“Yes, since I'm up at the cottage more, we've become neighbors in a way.” I smiled. “Your grandmother gave me quite a lecture a few weeks
ago.”

“Really, about
what?”

“About
Doug.”

“Douglas? Now why would
she…?”

“It seems she feels quite strongly that Doug and Ellen should be having kids by
now.”

Clare stared at me in surprise. “And just what are
you
supposed to do about
that
?”

We both
laughed.

“So what's on the horizon for you?” I asked casually. She still hadn't told me what she meant by
something
to
think
through
. “Do you have another job lined
up?”

“No. I've got something far more complicated on my plate: something in the romance department.” She pushed a few strands of hair back from her face. “I need a quiet place to think about it. A beautifully quiet, inspirational place, a place that I can
trust…”