In Winter's Grip (2 page)

“Yeah. Good talking to you Jonas.”

I stood gripping the receiver, staring at Sam's smiling face in the pewter frame on my desk. I picked it up. The picture had been taken on Sam's fiftieth birthday in our back garden next to the juniper tree. He'd posed under the rose arbor, a profusion of pink blooms hanging above his right shoulder. He'd just finished telling me that he had to go on a trip to China for two weeks, and I'd been upset. We'd planned a long weekend at the seaside in Maine, and I'd been looking forward to getting away. Sam had picked a wise time to break the news; our friends would be arriving soon for his birthday dinner and it wouldn't do for me to stay angry. In the photograph, Sam's smiling at me like a guilty boy who's trying to win me over with shamefaced charm. He was like Dad in that way. Both could turn on the likability factor at whim, no matter the emotions whirling about them.

I sighed and set the photo back in its place. There'd been no recourse for me then, and there was no recourse for me now. I continued to come second place to Sam's import business. Like Jonas, I could not envision Sam retiring, even though he'd mentioned it twice in the last month. He might as well have said he'd be cutting off an arm.

I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes, the room had lightened and there were violet shadows in the garden. I looked up and saw streaks of pinkish light lacing the grey sky. My neck felt tender, and I moved it slowly back and forth to work out the crick that had set in while I'd slept. With the mohair blanket held tightly over my shoulders, I went about making coffee. The morning ritual—drawing water from the tap, inserting a clean filter, grinding the beans and measuring out heaping teaspoons of coffee granules. Soon, the smell of strong Colombian brew filled the kitchen. I reached into the cupboard above the coffeepot and took my chipped, lemon-coloured mug and the oversized green mug that Sam favoured from the shelf. With two full cups, I ascended the stairs to our bedroom. Sam was just propping himself up against the headboard when I set the coffee cup next to him on the bedside table. He'd turned on the lamp, and the yellow light pooled around him.

“Did you have trouble sleeping?” he asked as he reached for the mug. He'd put on his glasses and peered at me from over the rims. His sharp blue eyes appeared to be sizing me up.

“I've had better nights.” I climbed in next to him, careful not to spill coffee onto the duvet. We sipped our coffee in silence. I looked out the window.

“Snow's started. It should be a mucky morning getting to work.”

Sam looked toward the window, where flakes were swirling against the pane as if they were inside a snow globe. “Isn't this your early morning?”

I nodded. “I'll have to finish my coffee and get moving. I have a couple of new assessments and then a facelift at two. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was determined.”

“How old?”

“Thirty-five. She's a CBC reporter and thinks she has to look young to get the good stories. If I told you who I was talking about, you'd be shocked. She looks fine just as she is.”

“Well, their vanity pays your salary. And pays it handsomely.” Sam reached over and patted my knee through the blanket. He was only too aware of my internal struggle but always made light of it. He wasn't aware how my dissatisfaction with my work had intensified over the last year. Plastic surgeon to the rich was something I'd never wanted to become. I still wasn't sure how I'd allowed it to happen.

“What do you have on your plate today?” I asked.

“A full day of meetings. I may have to fly to New York tonight. I meant to tell you earlier, but it's a last-minute deal. I actually thought I was going to get out of it, but Lana tells me George is insisting.”

“Why doesn't George go? You're partners, after all, but you seem to be collecting all the air miles.” I tried to keep my voice even, but my words were accusation enough.

“George prefers to work behind the scenes. You know that.” Sam said, annoyance making his mouth form a hard, tight line. “Why do we have to keep having this discussion?”

I didn't answer. It wasn't as if I had a chance of winning any argument with Sam. He never ended one unless he felt he'd won. Instead, I took a long drink of coffee and got back out of bed. “Time for a shower,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. I crossed the floor to our ensuite, conscious that I'd put on a few pounds, which Sam would be sure to notice if I undressed in front of him. I'd have to go to the gym to work it off. Unfortunately, it was true what they said about the forties signalling a slowdown in one's metabolism. I could be the poster child.

I adjusted the taps until the water was hot in my palm, straightened and stepped out of my nightgown. The first blast of water on my scalp and against my back sent a shiver up my spine. I began humming as I reached for the soap. I let myself luxuriate in the heat on my body and the soft lather on my skin. I tried to relax my mind as well but it wasn't long before I thought of my father.

I hadn't told Sam about the phone call from Jonas the evening before, probably because sometime between leaving for home and my first glass of wine, I'd decided not to make the trip to Minnesota. If I was completely honest with myself, I'd admit that I'd never stepped onto the side of going. I would call Jonas after lunch and leave a message with Claire. Dad was going to recover anyway, and I had so much work lined up that a trip now was out of the question. I'd seriously think about going to Duved Cove in the summer for a few days.

I let the idea roll around in my mind, pretending I was giving it proper consideration. It had been six years, the week of Gunnar's sixth birthday, since I'd last visited, so a few more months wouldn't make any difference. My father had come for dinner at Jonas's during those visits, but I'd not been interested in seeing him alone. I sighed. It was a good trait, being able to convince myself of something even when I knew deep down that I might never return to Duved Cove again. My hometown held too many memories that had never lost their power to cut like shards of glass into my skin.

Shower finished, I turned off the water and stepped onto the carpet. I grabbed a towel from the hook behind the door and bent over to rub the water from my hair. I straightened and wiped steam from the mirror. My face was blurry in the glass.

“You are a coward, Maja Cleary,” I said to my reflection. “And there's just no way of getting around it.”

TWO

I
'll have the poached salmon and a glass of wine.” Fiona snapped her menu closed and handed it to the college-aged girl taking our order. “The house white will do. Make sure it's good and chilled. No vegetables, please but could I have extra rice? Thanks. Also, bring two waters on your next visit.” After she'd made her order, Fiona smiled widely and her stern face transformed into nothing short of beatific.

The girl smiled back then turned to stare at me. Her features settled back into polite disinterest. I glanced up at her over my menu.

“Never can decide,” I mumbled and looked back down, my eyes skimming the choices once again. Von's menu offered several dishes that I liked. Fiona cleared her throat. I looked across at her. Her head was tilted to one side, and she was studying me with mock exasperation. She'd given up commenting on the tortured process I had for making meal decisions. I tucked my head back behind the menu and took a deep breath.

“All right. I'll have the grilled shrimp and a house salad,” I said, all the time wondering if I should have ordered the steak sandwich. I'd certainly planned to when I'd opened my mouth.

“Anything to drink?” The girl shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“The water will be fine,” I said. I handed over the menu and tried to appear as officious as Fiona.

Fiona leaned forward as the girl retreated with our order. “You aren't joining me in a glass of vino? It'll take the edge off and make the afternoon go way smoother.”

“I'm heading to the Riverside to do a facelift at two. The patients get a little nervous when the surgeon comes in smelling like they've belted back a few.”

“I suppose. You really should find another line of work.”

“You should talk,” I said. “Child psychologist with the most troubled youth in Ottawa. Your job is much tougher than mine.”

Fiona relaxed back into her chair, and it was my turn to study her face. Soft brown eyes, high cheekbones and oversized lips that gave her the pouty expression so in vogue with models. Her hair was gleaming auburn, cut in spiky chunks that would have looked boyish on most other women. Fiona had an Irish spirit that radiated from her eyes and creamy skin. The most attractive thing about her, though, was her indifference to her own beauty.

“I like my work,” she said. “That makes what I do much easier than what you do.”

“I don't hate my work.” I met her eyes. “I'm just not convinced that what I'm doing now is one hundred percent worthwhile.”

“Then quit and find somewhere else to use your talent. God knows there are people who really need a good plastic surgeon.”

I looked past Fiona to our waitress, who was laughing at something the other waiter had whispered into her ear. Her cap of red hair crackled like fire in the overhead light. They looked so young and carefree that I felt a momentary sadness for a time long past in my own life. Had I ever been that happy?

“It's not that easy,” I said at last, pulling myself back. “I signed a five-year lease on my office. Besides, if Sam is serious about retiring, we'll need my salary.”

“Nonsense. Sam must have a pension, and you've got to have enough socked away to keep you in fine style.”

I didn't want to tell Fiona that I had no idea the state of our finances. It all went into a joint account that Sam looked after. If Fiona knew, she'd give me a royal raking over. She'd told me more than once that for a brilliant doctor, I was lax about the details of my life.

“I couldn't imagine not working,” I muttered as the waitress placed water glasses in front of us.

After that, I steered the conversation away from me. I'd learned long ago that people like to talk about themselves and their own lives, and I could ask questions to nudge them there. Even Fiona, my best friend and a good psychologist, was susceptible. She went on at length about her latest patients—a child of ten who wet her bed every night and a seven-year-old boy who liked to light fires. We were sipping on steaming cups of coffee thick with cream when she finally stopped talking about her work and zoomed her attention back on me.

“Does Sam know how unhappy you are?”

“What?” She'd caught me by surprise. I should have remembered how astute Fiona was when it came to reading people. She was a psychologist, after all. “Whatever do you mean?” I tried a smile. “I'm not so sure happiness comes into it after you've been married ten years.”

Fiona's eyes bored into mine and I inwardly squirmed. I usually avoided any talk of my feelings. She continued, “I've known you five years now, Maja, and I've learned to read you, probably more than you'd like. It looks to me like you're having more and more trouble fitting into the world you've carved out for yourself.”

“You've never said anything,” I said, at a loss.

“I figured you'd tell me what you wanted me to know when you were ready, and if you're never ready. . .” Fiona shrugged and smiled. “You're a very private person, Maja, and I respect that. You remind me a lot of my kid sister, Katrina.”

“My life is fine. I am fine.” The mantra I kept repeating, it seemed. “I'm not thrilled about my work, but neither are a lot of people.” I suddenly realized that Fiona was my closest friend, and I barely shared anything that meant anything with her. Instead, I'd kept to safe topics like work and books and social functions. “I'm sorry, Fiona,” I said. “I'm not great at this spilling my guts thing.” I uttered a shaky laugh. “The irony is that I've picked you as a friend.”

“I think one day, just like Sleeping Beauty, you're going to wake up and face life square on. At least, that's what I'm hoping for you.” She hunched forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. “You've so much going on, my friend, and you have no idea.”

“Will that be all?”

I looked up. Our waitress was standing between us, scribbling on the bill. She was staring over our heads through the plate glass window that captured the bustle of Bank Street.

“Yes, that's all for now,” Fiona said as she reached out for the check and smiled at me. “It's time we put on our winter coats and got back into the fray.”

When everything else in my life seemed out of my control, I could rely on my skill as a plastic surgeon to give me a feeling of competence and even peace. It was no surprise then, when the rhytidectomy went without complication. I'd opted for a local anesthetic, and our thirty-five year old reporter would be going home to spend the night sleeping it off at home with a tube for drainage behind her ear. I left her resting in the post-op room after leaving instructions with the nurses and went to the 13 ward to check on another patient who'd had a tummy tuck the day before. She'd spend one more night in the hospital before release. I was pleased to see they'd removed her intravenous drip and that she was sitting up, sipping on some broth.

Seven o'clock found me backing my silver Ford Taurus out of the reserved doctors' parking to head to our New Edinborough home. I was tired but relatively happy with the day. A recent dusting of snow gave the city a softened, new-world patina caught in the glare of my headlights and the myriad lights of the city. The snow's whiteness lifted my spirits, and I was suddenly looking forward to a night in with Sam. I knew I'd been out of sorts and withdrawn lately, and we needed to connect. Hopefully, he'd have defrosted one of the many packets of frozen meals and started supper by the time I got home. We'd eat in front of the fireplace in the back room and listen to a classical recording from his extensive collection. He'd mentioned buying a rare Mozart recording that he wanted me to hear.