Wind Over Marshdale (34 page)

****

The travelers arrived at Pearson International Airport in Toronto several hours after their departure from Regina. Sherri and Dan were soon whisked away by a barrage of bubbly relatives.

Rachel sighed and scanned the waiting area for one of her own family members. They all knew she was coming and had informed her that someone would be there to pick her up.

“Rachel!” Rachel turned toward the sound of her name. Her sister Tiffany was approaching, followed by an unknown man.

“Rachel!” Tiffany exclaimed, kissing her sister on both cheeks, European style. “How good to see you. You look just the same. Or maybe it's just the coat. I think you wore it last year. Oh well! This is my friend Pierre,” Tiffany pointed to the man and he bowed slightly. “Pierre is from Paris. He's here looking at some of my work. Aren't you Pierre?” She touched his arm and leaned into him with a flirtatious giggle.

Tiffany prattled on as she and Pierre led the way out of the terminal. Rachel followed along behind, pulling her own luggage.

If the fact that Tiffany changed her clothing and hair styles as often as she changed her socks meant that she hadn't changed, then she looked just the same as well. Her hair looked to be a new shade of maroon since the last time Rachel had seen her and was pulled on top of her head in a mass of perfectly arranged tangles. She wore a brightly printed dress with a dangerously low neckline under a black leather jacket and her boots had ridiculously high heels. It was no wonder she had to cling to her “friend” so tightly!

Tiffany's companion, though of slight build, had an air of self-assurance and boredom. His dark complexion spoke of much time spent in the tanning salon, while his black hair remained completely in place, even once they'd been hit by an icy gust of wind. Pierre took the keys to Tiffany's sports car and got into the driver's seat.

“I thought I'd let Pierre drive, since we'll have so much to catch up on,” Tiffany explained.

“Your sister tells me you are a school teacher,” Pierre said in his distinctly Parisian accent. “How very… how do you say? Quaint.”

“You have to see the latest piece I've been working on,” Tiffany turned the attention back to herself. “It's fabulous, if I do say so myself. Isn't it fabulous, Pierre? And there is this wonderful exhibition down by the waterfront. An installation. It's just fabulous.”

Rachel tuned Tiffany out, and simply nodded occasionally. As long as she had an audience, Tiffany seldom required a response. Things really hadn't changed much.

“Rachel?” Tiffany asked, apparently waiting for an answer this time.

“Oh. I'm sorry. Yes?” Rachel responded, trying to appear interested.

“You don't mind if we just, you know… drop you off at Mother's? Pierre and I had some other things to attend to.” Tiffany smiled suggestively at Pierre.

“No. No, of course not. That would be fine,” Rachel answered.

“Oh good. I won't come in, then. You know how Mother is. She'll have a lot of questions.”

“Right. Don't worry about it.”

They pulled up in front of an elegant two-story home and Rachel retrieved her suitcase from the back of the car. She barely had time to shut the door properly before Pierre was pulling away. Rachel stood back, surveying the house for a few moments. It was a large detached home in an upper middle class suburb of the city. Well established trees lined the street. It was a neighborhood where success was measured in material possessions. With a sigh she hauled her suitcase up to the front door.

She still owned a set of keys for the house and proceeded to let herself in. She closed the massive oak door behind her with a click. The dimness of the interior enveloped her like a cloud. Too many memories.

Rachel was twelve when her parents divorced. Her mother got the house and the kids, her father the car and the child support payments. As time wore on, her father's involvement with his daughters steadily decreased. His new wife had children and they seemed to replace his own offspring in his affections. Rachel's mother had also remarried, but Rachel had never gotten on well with George. He always seemed too distant to really care about what was going on.

Rachel headed for the spare bedroom to deposit her suitcase. Her own room had long since been turned into an office for George.

“Is that you, George? Oh! Rachel! It's you,” Rachel's mother, Diane Townsend, exclaimed as they met in the hallway. As usual, she wore a stylish pantsuit and her hair was well groomed. At fifty-eight, she was still a very attractive woman.

“Hello, Mother,” Rachel greeted her formally with a peck on the cheek.

“Hello, dear. How did you get in?” her mother asked, her brow furrowed.

“I still have my key. Tiffany just dropped me off,” Rachel explained.

“It's a good thing we haven't changed the locks yet,” her mother mused. “There have been a few break-ins in the neighborhood and George has a locksmith scheduled to install a whole new security system after the holidays.” She paused. “Tiffany just dropped you off? Without coming in?”

“I guess she had other plans,” Rachel offered.

“How selfish! She knows I haven't seen her in over a week. Oh well.” She sighed.

And I haven't seen you in over four months, Rachel thought, but she didn't say it. Instead she said, “I'll just put my bags in here.”

“Actually,” her mother stopped her by placing a hand on her forearm, “You'll be sleeping on the couch in the den. I knew you wouldn't mind and I thought it would be better for Michelle to have this room since it has the double bed. Everyone will be sleeping over on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. I see,” Rachel replied. She felt like she had been slapped in the face. “I'll just go on to the den, then.”

“Just tuck your bags in that little closet across the hall. I hate to have a lot of clutter lying about the house,” she called as Rachel retreated toward the den.

“Hi, George,” Rachel said upon entering the room.

“Hm? Oh, hello Rachel,” her stepfather grunted. He nodded briefly over his reading glasses before focusing back on his copy of the
Financial Post.
George Townsend was in his mid-fifties. His steel gray hair was never out of place and he seemed to always wear a tie, even on weekends.

Rachel sighed and sat down on the couch, which was soon to become her bed. Her mother entered with a pile of blankets and a pillow. “This should be enough,” she said setting her burden down on a chair. She joined Rachel on the couch, sitting forward with her ankles crossed primly. “So tell us, Rachel. When are you going to stop this nonsense and move back home?”

“I don't think what I'm doing is nonsense, Mother. I have a perfectly good job in my chosen profession.”

“Oh, but you know what I mean. You're halfway across the country. Out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Toronto's not the only place on earth, you know.”

“Of course not. But way out there in… what's the name again? Mossville?”

“Marshdale,” Rachel corrected.

“Oh yes. And what does one do in Marshdale?” She offered a plastic smile and cocked her head to one side, as if she was actually interested.

“Pretty much what one does anywhere,” Rachel responded. “Go to work. Spend time with friends. You know. Life.” She knew she sounded sharp. Snarky, even, but she'd just flown halfway across the country and didn't feel like fielding her mother's intrusive questions right now. Not to mention the fact that she had been relegated to the den.

“You're being awfully defensive. There's no need to use that tone with me. I'm just concerned for your welfare. I want you to be happy. That's always been your trouble. You've never been grateful to George and me for all we've tried to do.”

Rachel realized this conversation was going nowhere. “I'm sorry, Mother. I guess I'm just tired after the flight.” She looked meaningfully toward George. “I'll probably be more sociable after I get some rest.”

“All right. George, dear, you're going to have to read elsewhere. Rachel wants to go to bed now.”

George rose and then stretched. “Good night, Rachel.”

“See you in the morning,” Rachel called as both he and her mother retreated down the hall. It was quite the welcome, but then what had she expected?

****

The twinkling lights on the designer Christmas tree seemed to mock the actual atmosphere in the tension-filled parlor. Christmas was supposed to be a time of peace and goodwill; a time to give unselfishly without the expectation of payment in return. However, at the Townsend residence, selfishness, greed, and back stabbing seemed to be the order of the day.

“Is that what you're wearing for the evening, dear?” her mother asked. “Oh, I thought something comfortable would be all right for just sitting around at home,” Rachel replied, looking down at her dark pants and blouse.

“The Mitchells are coming over for drinks later. You remember the Mitchells?”

“Yes. Since when did we start dressing for the Mitchells?”

“Rachel, dear. It
is
Christmas Eve,” her mother explained with a weary sigh. “Please do put something more appropriate on. Oh, George. George!” She clicked down the hall in her high heels, in search of her husband.

Rachel's mouth tightened and she looked out the window. The pants and blouse were good enough for the Mitchells. She wasn't changing.

“Yoo hoo! Ah, there you are!” Tiffany whirled into the room. “Would you zip me up, please?”

Rachel complied by zipping up the form fitting black lace bodice. The skirt was comprised of layers of red and black lace, giving the dress a distinctly flamenco flair.

“How do I look?” Tiffany asked, posing.

“Like you walked out of a magazine, as always,” Rachel replied. “Where's Pierre this evening?”

“Oh, he's gone to Montreal for a few days,” Tiffany said, waving a hand. “Besides, I wouldn't really want him around for the ‘family thing' anyway. It can be so tedious.” She stopped and focused more fully on Rachel. “Is that what you're planning to wear for the evening?”

“Yes, it is,” Rachel stated. “It's only the Mitchells.”

“The Mitchells?” Tiffany considered the name for a moment. “Are they those friends from the country club with the son? The one who snowboards or races cars or something? He's so hot!”

“What about Pierre?” Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What about him?” Tiffany asked, examining her nails.

“I got the impression the other night that you two were, you know, an item.”

“Oh, my dear sister, Rachel!” Tiffany laughed. “You are so naïve sometimes it hurts! That was strictly business. Pierre is here from Paris to look at my artwork. If he likes what he sees, he might take some back with him to Europe. Imagine the break that could be for me? International recognition.”

“So sleeping with him might help you make a sale?”

“You make it sound rather nasty,” Tiffany said. “Besides, Pierre isn't exactly Quasimoto. I do find him rather attractive. He's so European.”

“Girls?” their mother called as she entered the parlor in a flurry. “Have you seen George? I can't seem to locate him anywhere.” She looked directly at Rachel. “I thought I asked you to change.”

“Have you checked the wine cellar?” Tiffany suggested, pasting on a facetious grin.

“Wine cellar? We don't have a wine cellar. Just what do you mean by that, young lady?” She didn't wait for an answer, but turned on her heel to continue her search.

“What did you mean by that, Tiff?” Rachel asked.

Tiffany giggled behind her hand, then confided to Rachel, “I think our Georgie has been dipping into the sauce a bit too often lately. And it's no wonder, with Mother nagging at the poor fellow twenty-four-seven.”

This revelation was no surprise. Rachel had wondered herself in the past few years if George indulged a little more often than was socially acceptable.

The doorbell rang. “Ooo! Maybe that's the Mitchells,” Tiffany exclaimed, smoothing her dress. “How do I look?”

It was not the Mitchells, however, but their older sister Michelle. Self-confidence emanated from her every movement as she entered the room. She was the epitome of sophistication from her swinging black hair to her sleekly tailored black dress. Things hadn't changed. She was as intimidating as ever.

“Hello, Michelle,” Rachel greeted, avoiding her sister's gaze.

“Hello, Rachel,” Michelle replied just as coolly. “Mother said you were coming for Christmas.” Neither woman moved to embrace the other. Michelle turned back to the still open door as another figure stepped across the threshold.

“Ronald,” Rachel nodded woodenly.

“Rachel,” Ronald replied. Rachel remained stiff as he gave her a peck on the cheek. Some nerve he had to even touch her.

Her mother's errand was apparently successful as she reentered the room, this time with George not far behind. “The Mitchells,” she was saying. “George, would you like to fix us all a drink?”

The doorbell rang again, and the Mitchell family was ushered in. Much to Tiffany's delight, the middle-aged couple had brought their only son along. Kale Mitchell was as ruddy and muscular a specimen as Tiffany could have asked for. She immediately began flirting by asking all about his penchant for extreme sports.

Meanwhile, Michelle fell into a deep conversation with Henry Mitchell, also a lawyer, over some pending changes to the criminal code. Her mother and Isabel Mitchell compared notes on the new fitness instructor at the spa, expressing their outrage at the change in schedule. George seemed content to keep the drinks flowing, adding a comment or two when appropriate. Ronald was busy entertaining Mugsy, her mother's miniature poodle.

Rachel excused herself, to no one in particular, and headed for the kitchen. The air of pretense in the room was stifling and she needed to get away for a few minutes. It was so much different back home, she thought. At her real home, back on the prairies.

The realization that she felt more akin to the unpretentious folk of Marshdale than she did to her own family brought a smile to her lips.

“It's good to see you smiling,” Ronald said, startling Rachel with his presence.

“Ronald. I didn't see you come in.”

“I see you're no worse for wear after your time on the western frontier,” he smiled.

“Really, Ronald. You should travel more,” Rachel replied lightly. “It's hardly the frontier.”

“Hmm. Still got a sharpness to your tongue, too, I see,” he mused.

“Did you want something?” Rachel asked, placing a hand on her hip.

“Just to talk. I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”

“No hard feelings?” Rachel laughed. “Good one, Ronald.”

“Well, are there?”

“Hmm. Let's see. The fact that you were two-timing on me with my own sister… I don't know, Ronald. Do you think I should have any hard feelings?” Rachel asked, her tone dripping sarcasm.

“What's done is done,” Ronald said with a shrug. “I'm practically part of the family now, so you better get used to it.”

“Oh, really? Have you asked Michelle to move in with you yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I've moved in with her,” Ronald informed. “Her apartment is in a much better location.”

“How convenient for you,” Rachel clipped.

“Actually, we're talking about marriage.”

“Congratulations. You deserve one another.”

Ronald cocked his head to one side and smiled. “You always were kind of cute when you got angry,” he mused. He took a step forward and reached for a strand of Rachel's hair, rubbing it between his fingers.

“Stop that!” Rachel cried, batting his hand away.

“And you never needed a lot of make-up to add that certain primitive flush to your complexion,” he continued.

Just then Michelle walked into the kitchen. “What are you two doing in here?” She looked suspiciously from one to the other. “Everyone's wondering where you've gone.”

“Just discussing old times, love,” Ronald replied, a practiced smile on his lips. “I'll go back and put their minds at ease.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he passed.

“Just what do you think you're doing?” Michelle asked, her eyes blazing accusation.

“Nothing.” Rachel turned away. “He followed me in here.”

“Don't think I don't know your tricks. You always pretend to be the innocent, but we both know how manipulative you can be when it suits you.”

“Manipulative? Ha!” Rachel snorted. “You're one to talk.”

“Keep your voice down,” Michelle commanded. “There's no need to make a spectacle.”

“Who's making the spectacle? You're the one who brought Ronald here this evening. You must have known that bringing him along was in rather poor taste,” Rachel pointed out.

“That's ridiculous! Ronald and I have been together for months now. Our relationship isn't exactly a secret.”

“But you knew I was coming home for Christmas. You must have known how awkward it would be,” Rachel continued.

“Oh, grow up, Rachel!” Michelle spat. “I could be just as angry with you for flirting with him in the kitchen while I was right in the next room.”

“Flirting! I was doing no such thing,” Rachel defended herself hotly.

“Your blushes seem to be telling a different story,” Michelle noted.

“You have some nerve. You dare to accuse me, when it was you, my own sister, who was sleeping with
my
boyfriend behind my back!”

“Maybe if you hadn't been such an ice queen he wouldn't have had to go looking elsewhere,” Michelle threw at her. The words felt like a slap and Rachel was suddenly speechless. Tears were dangerously close and she dared not open her mouth to defend herself for fear she would burst out crying. She'd cried too many tears over Michelle and Ronald and no way would she would shed any more.

“But don't worry,” Michelle continued. “There's bound to be some mediocre male out there somewhere who won't tire of you so quickly.”

She wouldn't stand there any longer and take Michelle's biting remarks. She'd never won an argument with Michelle yet, and she wasn't about to try now. Rachel turned without another word and retreated to the den, locking the door behind her.