Fall from Grace (15 page)

“Or I could braid a ribbon right into it,” said Rose-Iris, “right down the whole length of it.”

“Next time,” said Annabelle, giving Camellia a hug. She stood up and hugged Rose-Iris, too. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “I'm going to make you French toast, now.”

Camellia grinned at Rose-Iris. The two girls habitually got up early, and Rose-Iris made breakfast for Herman and Arnold and Camellia and herself, before Herman, who almost never took a day off, left to work on his carpentry jobs, taking Arnold along as a helper; Annabelle, in the summer, was a person who slept in.

“We've already had our breakfast, Ma,” said Rose-Iris.

“You can have another, then,” said Annabelle, swooping and swirling in the kitchen, snatching eggs and milk from the refrigerator, seizing a frying pan from the cupboard.

Rose-Iris sighed and sat down at the table with her chin in her hands, revising the day's schedule in her head.

Annabelle made two pieces of French toast for each of her daughters and poured them big glasses of milk. She sat at the table and watched them eat, smiling, sipping coffee; a nurturer. And when they'd finished, she even did the dishes.

She left the house an hour later. Rose-Iris was singing to herself as she washed the kitchen floor, and Camellia, energetically scouring the bathtub, considered letting her hair grow, so that she could wear it in a French braid.

Annabelle took a quart bottle of pear cider up to Erna's. Erna didn't think of cider as being alcoholic. She thought of it as fruit juice, which amused Annabelle.

Annabelle invited herself to lunch and picked away at a bowl of Erna's homemade stew—surely an odd choice on such a hot day. But she ate some of it, politely, even though it made sweat pop out on her forehead. And then they opened the bottle of pear cider.

Erna had been Annabelle's friend since they were in elementary school together. She was small and thin and crouched-over looking, and an avid, beady-eyed observer of Annabelle's life. Which she considered reckless, and possibly debauched.

“I saw Lionel the other day,” Erna said, after her third glass of cider, “up in Garden Bay. Him and his wife have a little store. And they raise Airedales.”

“That's nice,” said Annabelle with a faint smile.

Erna took a sip, lifted her right leg and crossed it delicately over the left. “I guess he's gotten over you all right, Annabelle.”

“I would certainly hope so,” said Annabelle, fingering her braid. “It's been twelve years.”

“I never heard tell of anybody else,” said Erna, “who divorced a man just because he couldn't have kids.”

Annabelle, amazed, said, “I can't think of a better reason.”

“Do you remember,” said Erna dreamily, “the day you met Herman?”

“I do,” said Annabelle. She and Erna had been having lunch at Earl's when he came in. There hadn't been any room at the counter, and all the tables had been occupied, so he'd asked Annabelle if he could sit down with them, since the tables seated four. And Annabelle had permitted this.

“I'm drivin' a truck,” he'd said. “But I'm a carpenter by trade, lookin' for a place to settle down.” One thing had led to another…and soon she had found herself agreeing to accept his generous offer of marriage; an admittedly improbable event which had, predictably, enraged her parents.

Erna bent over, chortling to herself. Annabelle, watching this, felt suddenly peevish. She didn't want to confide in Erna after all. She swept a fretful hand across her forehead. “I have a yen for some fries,” she said.

Erna looked up, astonished.

“Come on,” said Annabelle. “Let's go down to the beach and get some fries.”

Erna stumbled to her feet, not drunk, just taken by surprise, and Annabelle steered her outside. They got into Erna's car and bounced down the narrow dusty road and past Annabelle's house and turned onto the highway.

“You could have had some more of my stew,” said Erna, slightly dazed.

“I want some fries,” said Annabelle. “I'm not hungry. I just want some French fries.”

Erna pulled into the parking lot next to a takeout place across the highway from the Davis Bay beach. They got out and approached the order window. In front of them in the line was a big man wearing a pair of bright green pants. He had an enormous belly, which he was holding onto protectively, looking, thought Annabelle, as if he were a pregnant woman, or a kid with a beach ball.

“I don't want anything,” said Erna.

Annabelle nodded distractedly.

“Only a Coke float,” said Erna.

There was a hand-lettered sign next to the order window. It read: “A fast food outlet we are not. Your food is cooked fresh, not just kept hot. So please be patient, we will do our best, to get you fed along with the rest.”

Annabelle ordered a large fries and two Coke floats. On her receipt was the number thirty-two. As she and Erna made their way across the highway to the beach, the loudspeaker called out, “Number twenty-one.”

“Oh groan,” said Erna. “We'll be here all day. I've got to get back and feed my chickens.” The pear cider, Annabelle observed, was rapidly wearing off.

Annabelle sat down on a log. To her left, a long wharf extended into the bay, and there were a lot of people fishing from it. To the right, the sand and gravel beach was scattered with bright-colored towels, and teenagers were sunbathing, or splashing in the water. Annabelle could see the Trail Islands, offshore, and in the farthermost distance, the blue-purple shadow that was Vancouver Island. Erna plopped down beside her on the log.

For a minute Annabelle felt as if they were teenagers again themselves. There was something dizzying in the summer heat, something intoxicating in the sound of the water swishing languidly onto the shore. Annabelle seemed to hear the squeals and laughter of her teenage summers, and she remembered how it had felt that hot August day when she was kissed—really, seriously kissed—for the first time; how it had taken her breath right out of her lungs.

After a while Annabelle took off her sandals and waded in the water, which was sleek and warm against her skin. She bunched her skirt up around her thighs, while Erna murmured disapprovingly from the log, and walked out until the water was up to her knees. Annabelle looked down into the water and saw that close up, it was green, and she thought about Bobby's eyes; double-lashed, and green like stones shining in the sea.

She glanced at her watch, slipped into her sandals and sashayed across the highway, ignoring Erna's cries of protest.

She walked to one of the bright blue picnic tables in front of the takeout place, and saw Erna peering at her tensely from the beach. Annabelle sat down with her back to Erna and looked over at the parking lot. After a minute she looked away.

A couple of teenage boys wearing wet swimming trunks and dry T-shirts pulled on their shoes and socks.

Annabelle saw that the man in the bright green pants was still waiting for his food.

“Number thirty-one,” said the loudspeaker. “And number thirty-two.”

Annabelle got up and went to the window. The man with the bright green pants was collecting his order. She got the two Coke floats and the cardboard container of French fries. They smelled so good that her mouth started watering. She sprinkled them with malt vinegar, and salt, and got a napkin, and turned to see Erna scurrying across the road toward her.

At the same time a small blue car turned off the highway into the parking lot. Annabelle watched as it darted neatly into the space between a pickup truck and Erna's car. Erna came up beside her and the driver of the blue car got out. He slammed the door and looked around him, and saw Annabelle.

“Oh my goodness,” murmured Erna, watching as he approached them, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans.

Annabelle realized that she was shivering; a sexy shudder rippled through her body as she watched Bobby walk toward her. She turned to hold out one of the floats to Erna.

“Mercy me,” whispered Erna, and began sucking vigorously at the straw in her float.

He came right up to her. “Hello, Annabelle,” he said, not smiling, and leaned down and kissed her.

His lips on her temple weakened her. She would have liked to rest her forehead against his chest, and fit her body close to his.

She felt the heat of the sun, and heard the sizzling of the hot oil behind the takeout counter. It must be hot as Hades in there, thought Annabelle: I wonder if they've got a fan.

She looked up into his face. There were deep lines on either side of his mouth. But his body was still hard and powerful, his fair hair was still thick and shiny, his eyes were still bedroom eyes.

She didn't love him. She'd never loved him. But she loved the things he'd given her.

“Hello, Bobby,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I gotta talk to you, Annabelle.”

“Annabelle!” hissed Erna.

Annabelle felt the tension in him, and misunderstood. She shook her head slowly, smiling. “Not now, Bobby. Not today.”

“Oh my, oh my, Annabelle, we gotta go,” said Erna, clinging to Annabelle's arm and pitching furtive looks every which way.

“You're making an error, here,” said Bobby to Annabelle, ignoring Erna. He put his arms around her, not caring who saw. Erna stepped away from them and scurried toward her car. “Something's happened,” he whispered in Annabelle's ear. “And I don't know what to do.”

Annabelle, disquieted, pursed her lips. “Well, Bobby, I can't talk to you right now. Surely you can see that.”

“Let me drive you home.”

“Annabelle!” cried Erna, from behind the open door of her car.

“No no,” said Annabelle quickly. “Let me go now, Bobby, or I'm going to spill this stuff.”

“Shit, Annabelle,” said Bobby furiously, releasing her.

“Tomorrow,” said Annabelle, backing toward Erna's car. “I could see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, shit, Annabelle.” He crossed his arms and glared at her.

“Phone me, Bobby. Tomorrow.”

I
CAN'T GET warm,” said Velma Grayson. “So I thought maybe I was getting sick.” This was in explanation of Alex Gillingham's presence in her living room.

“I wish I didn't have to bother you,” said Alberg.

“I know. It's all right.” She was huddled into a corner of the sofa, with only her head visible above the quilt that was tucked in around her. A mug of tea sat on the end table next to the sofa. The house was suffocating, and Alberg could hear the gas furnace working hard to push the temperature even higher; soon, he thought, the place would spontaneously combust. He moved to the edge of his chair, in an attempt to free his back from the clutches of his wet shirt.

Across the room Alex Gillingham looked worriedly at Velma Grayson, leaning forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees. Alberg felt a spasm of intense irritation toward the doctor—or maybe it was generalized irritation, produced by the heat.

“I've got all kinds of pictures of him,” said Mrs. Grayson. “Though they're pretty old.” She pushed the quilt aside and began to get up, and he saw that she was wearing slacks and a sweater, and a pair of heavy socks.

“Maybe you could show them to me later,” said Alberg, and he smiled at her. He took his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “Can we talk first?”

Slowly she nodded, and covered herself again with the quilt. She was about fifty, Alberg figured—my age, he thought glumly. She wore her blond hair short and curly. “I simply can't believe this thing, Mr. Alberg,” she said, haggard and desolate. “Falling off a cliff. It's ridiculous. Ridiculous.”

“We're going to try to find out exactly what happened, Mrs. Grayson,” said Alberg. Sweat was trickling down his temples, and under his arms. “Can you tell me why your son was carrying twenty-three thousand dollars?”

“That's—it's—I haven't the faintest idea.” She leaned forward, and the quilt dropped from her shoulders. “Maybe the person he was meeting owed it to him. Do you think that might be it?”

Alberg studied her for a moment. “He was going to meet someone?” he said finally.

She nodded. “That's right.”

“Who was he going to meet, Mrs. Grayson?”

“I don't know. He didn't say.”

“Well what
did
he say, Mrs. Grayson?”

She looked at him intently. “I knew it was him in the hospital. But dead faces don't look familiar. Even when you know who they are, they don't look familiar.” She rubbed wearily at her forehead. “I did know that it was him, though.”

“Drink your tea, Velma,” said Alex Gillingham.

“Mrs. Grayson,” said Alberg, trying to sound relaxed and reasonable. “This is probably pretty important.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know who he was meeting, or where he was meeting them, or why. I'm sorry.” She began to cry again.

“Karl,” murmured Gillingham reproachfully.

“Try to guess, Mrs. Grayson,” said Alberg. “Was it somebody from Sechelt? Somebody coming over from Vancouver? A friend? Or was it business? What do you think?”

“I—we hadn't seen much of each other, Mr. Alberg, for the last ten years. I really didn't know anything about his life, I'm afraid.”

Alberg sat back with a sigh, and closed his notebook. He was trying to ignore the waves of heat that washed over him, the sodden shirt that clung to him. But he couldn't ignore the sweat that dripped from his forehead. “I wonder,” he said, “if I could have a towel.”

Alex Gillingham said, “I'll get it, Velma.” He stood up and disappeared down the hall.

“I think it must have been somebody here,” said Velma Grayson.

“Go on,” said Alberg encouragingly.

“Well—” She shook her head, defeated. “I don't know. It's just a feeling. Maybe I'm wrong.”