The Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 3

Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz was a tall and powerfully built woman, with a smile that was as disarming as it was rare. Like most defence lawyers, Zack wasn’t a big fan of the boys and girls in blue, but he and Debbie got along. When her eighteen-year-old son, Leo, was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident, Zack had, initially at Debbie’s request, shown up at the rehabilitation hospital every day for a month, ducking Leo’s punches, insults, and the business end of his catheter until Leo was ready to talk and to listen. Inspector Haczkewicz hadn’t forgotten the favour.

When the Inspector arrived, we moved to the family room. I offered coffee, but Debbie waved me off. “Thanks, but I gather from what Zack says we should move quickly on this.”

Delia handed the inspector the copy of Abby’s e-mail and repeated the story she told us. When Delia said she was unable to remember the names of the men who might have fathered her child, Inspector Haczkewicz’s eyes were questioning, but she didn’t press the point. Twenty-seven years is a long time and, as Delia emphasized repeatedly, the sexual encounters had been casual. Having satisfied herself that Delia’s memory on that point was a dry well, Inspector Haczkewicz moved along.

Zack had no difficulty convincing her to authorize a search for a missing person. Although there was no evidence of foul play, Abby Michaels’s actions revealed a woman whose state of mind was fragile, and Debbie Haczkewicz had seen enough frozen bodies to know what a prairie winter can do to the vulnerable.

Zack had been concerned that Debbie might stick at the possibility of granting temporary custody of Jacob to the Wainbergs, but it was she who introduced the possibility. “Why not?” she said. “Abby Michaels made her intentions clear in the note she left in her son’s car seat, and it’s not as if Child Services is overrun by desirable foster homes.”

Zack handed the Inspector his camera. The photos from the concert were on display. “Take a look at these,” he said. “I’ve put them on a flash card for you in case you have to justify your decision later.”

Debbie Haczkewicz’s gaze moved from the images on Zack’s camera to Delia. “The physical similarity between you and Abby Michaels is persuasive,” she said. “But let’s cover all the bases. If you and Zack agree, I’d like to take a DNA swab.”

“Fine with me,” Delia said.

Debbie nodded. “Good. Given the fact that you’ve been cooperative and relatively forthcoming, there shouldn’t be a problem getting a court order granting you temporary custody.” Zack handed her the flash card and she dropped it in her briefcase. “The fact that it’s Sunday and the weather is godawful may slow us down, but I’ll do my best.”

Zack and I saw the inspector out. She reached for the doorknob, and then turned back to Zack. “Leo sends his regards. He loves Japan, he loves teaching English, and he loves his new girlfriend.”

Zack grinned. “A happily-ever-after ending,” he said.

“For Leo, yes, but not for me,” Debbie said. “Sapporo is a long way from Regina. I want my son to be happy, but I want him to be happy closer to home.”

When Zack and I came back into the kitchen, Delia was snaking her scarf around her neck. She stopped when she saw Zack. “So what are our chances?”

“Pretty good,” Zack said. “Deb seems convinced that granting you and Noah temporary custody is the right course of action, and when she makes up her mind, she’s a bulldog.”

Delia gave the scarf a final toss. “Okay, I’ll go back to the house and wait for the call.”

“Are you still planning to take the girls to the concert this afternoon?” I asked.

Delia raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think the school will cancel because of the weather?”

“Not a chance,” I said. “Lutherans are a hardy bunch.”

As she calculated her options, Delia was thoughtful. “Noah and I will drive the girls,” she said finally. “We need to be there – especially now.” With that, she headed for home, leaving behind the lingering scent of her signature Chanel No. 5 and many, many questions.

I asked Zack the big one first. “Is all of this really a surprise to you?”

“Believe it or not, it is,” he said. “And ever since Delia dropped the bomb, I’ve been trying to figure why she didn’t tell me at the time. As you’ve pointed out more than once, Delia and I are joined at the hip.”

Zack began clearing the table, handing me the dishes to rinse and stack in the dishwasher.

“And you never suspected anything?” I said.

“No, and Delia was back that Christmas. She stayed with Noah. I remember thinking Ottawa must agree with her. When we were in school, she was always kind of grubby, but that Christmas she looked great – new haircut, nice clothes, and her skin had cleared up.”

“Delia has beautiful skin.”

“She didn’t when we were in school. She ate crap – well, we all ate crap – anyway, she was always kind of spotty, but that Christmas she was a knockout.”

“Hmm.”

“Why the ‘hmm’?”

“That kind of physical change often means a woman’s in a serious relationship.”

“You don’t believe Delia was sleeping around, do you?” Zack said.

“No,” I said. “Neither do you and neither does Debbie Haczkewicz, but Delia made a decision about how she handles this part of her past, and she must have reasons.”

Zack handed me a bowl. “Delia always has reasons. I just wonder why she didn’t tell any of us. She must have felt isolated. Supreme Court clerkships begin in early September and end in September of the next year. Abby was born on September 29. Being pregnant, giving birth, and establishing a stellar legal reputation – that’s a lot to handle on your own.”

“Delia pulled it off,” I said. “She deserves credit.”

“She does. And to be honest, I don’t know how much help any of the guys in the Winners’ Circle would have been if Delia had told us she was pregnant. All we knew about pregnancies was to avoid them at all costs. Blake was the only one who was geographically close to Delia. He was in Toronto, but Kevin was in Calgary, Chris was in Vancouver, and I was here, slaving away for Fred L. Harney.”

I wiped the countertop. “I always meant to ask you about that. How come you didn’t article with one of the five-star firms? You graduated at the top of your class. You must have had offers.”

“You bet I did.” Zack poured the soap into the dishwasher and turned the dial. “Paraplegics are highly desirable. A lot of big firms like to have a cripple they can wheel out to show how enlightened they are. But I didn’t have a year to waste being poster boy for the so-called differently abled. I knew how to research points of law, and I knew how to prepare memoranda of law, what I didn’t know was how to actually practise law. When Fred Harney called, I knew I’d just discovered my yellow brick road.

“Fred was heavily into the sauce when I articled for him. But even drunk he was one hell of a lawyer. I learned more sitting with him in court than I learned in three years in law school. That year he was blacking out a lot, and my job was to go to court with him and remember what happened.”

“People didn’t notice he was drunk?”

Zack shook his head. “Nah. Fred was a pro. Never slurred; never stumbled; never lost his train of thought. Flawless performance. Couldn’t ask for better representation, except for those huge gaps in his memory. That’s where I came in. When court adjourned, we’d go back to the office, and when he sobered up, I’d tell him what the Crown said and what he’d said. And here’s the wild part. Fred would critique the performances – both the Crown prosecutor’s and his own. It might not have been a five-star law firm, but I was getting a master class in the law. Sometimes, when I’m facing a jury, I can still hear him. ‘Don’t stint on the smouldering rage,’ he’d say. ‘Convince the jury that only the utmost effort of will is keeping you from erupting at the vast injustice that has brought your client to this sorry pass.’ ”

Zack raised his hand, palm out. “Enough tripping down memory lane,” he said. “Time for us to get to work. You have papers to grade, and I am not prepared for court tomorrow morning.”

Willie and Pantera led the way to the office Zack and I share and took their places beside us as we settled in. I picked up an essay; Zack opened his laptop, found what he was looking for, and sighed. “This is worse than I thought. Ms. Shreve, if you’ve ever had a hankering to see your husband step on his joint, be in Courtroom B tomorrow morning.”

I circled a misspelling of Afghanistan on the student’s title page and kept on marking. “Smoulder with rage,” I said. “If the jury’s waiting for you to erupt, maybe they won’t notice that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was the kind of morning I like best. We turned on the gas fireplace and moved methodically through the piles of work in front of us. When Debbie Haczkewicz called, Zack gave me the high sign. A judge had agreed to hear Delia and Noah’s petition at noon. The news was good, but as Zack headed off to change, the glance we exchanged was tinged with regret. Once again, external events were intruding on our small and pleasant world.

After Zack left to meet with the Wainbergs, I put a pan of bacon in the oven, and the dogs and I hiked across the yard to let Taylor know that toasted BLTs were on the way.

Taylor’s studio was a space for a serious artist and she spent hours there. On gloomy days, when I saw its lights and knew that Taylor was making the art that she loved and that she was safe, I realized that while nominally the studio had been a gift for Taylor, it had also been a gift for me.

I never entered her studio without knocking. Often she would invite me in and we’d talk about what she was doing, but if she was working on a piece she wasn’t ready to show, she’d grab her jacket, jam her feet into her boots, and slip out the door. On those days, when her mind was still focused on the images she’d left in her studio, our walk back to the house would be silent. That blustery morning, the dogs swam through the snow, barking and chasing one another, exuberant with the sheer joy of being off leash, but Taylor was preoccupied.

While she was cleaning up before lunch, I made our sandwiches and placed a plastic zip-lock bag beside her plate. Every Christmas, when my oldest children were young, I bought them each an ornament to hold a photograph of themselves as they were that year. The tradition I’d started with Mieka, Angus, and Peter I continued with Taylor and the granddaughters, and every December Taylor took great pleasure in arranging these miniatures of her changing self. That day, she shook out the contents of the bag listlessly and picked up the ornament that held the most current picture – her first from high school. “I’ve been monitoring a couple of forums about Sally Love on the Internet,” she said.

My nerves tightened. “There’s that retrospective of her work coming up,” I said. “I imagine the interest is pretty intense.”

Taylor’s gaze was steady. “Do you know what Sally was doing when she was my age?”

It was as if by telling Zack that morning about Izaak Levin and Sally’s relationship I’d opened Pandora’s box. “I know some of it,” I said carefully.

Taylor dangled the ornament by the thin red ribbon that would loop it to the tree branch. “She was in New York City,” my daughter said. “Experiencing life.”

“You’re experiencing life,” I said.

Taylor’s laugh was short and derisive. “Not the way she was. One of the people on the forum said Sally was… sexually active. She was my age, and she was sexually active.” Taylor’s dark eyes were accusing. “Did you know that?”

“I knew.”

“But you never told me.”

“No.”

“Were you afraid that if I knew what my mother… what Sally did… I’d do it too?”

I pulled a chair close to her and picked up last year’s ornament. Fittingly, it was an antique frame. In her photo, Taylor’s glossy hair was still long and her smile was without shadow and a mile wide – a reminder that in a girl’s rich and turbulent life, a year can be an eternity.

“Taylor, we’ve talked about this. Sex has consequences.”

“To the way I feel about myself,” she said.

“And to the way the boy feels about himself.”

The mixture of resignation and defiance in her voice was pure Sally. “Being with me isn’t going to make any boy feel worse about himself,” Taylor said. She slammed the ornament on the table. “And for your information, this isn’t about boys. This is about my work. There’s nothing there.” Taylor drew a breath. “On the forum, the man who’s devoted his life to Sally Love says that artists have to live large to paint. He says that even when she was fourteen, Sally knew that she had to experience life to be a great artist.”

“And this man equates experiencing life with having sex?”

“Sally did,” Taylor said coldly. “If you’d seen that self-portrait she did when she was my age, you’d understand.”

“I have seen it, Taylor. I saw it in the living room of the man who owned it.”

Taylor’s eyes were brimming. “Then you know how amazing it is.”

“I do,” I said. “I also know that by the time your mother was fourteen, she’d suffered more than any child should ever suffer.”

“Because her father died and her mother didn’t have a good relationship with her,” Taylor said. “But she had Izaak Levin. You told me that when there was no one else, he took care of Sally. He gave her the chance to travel and the freedom to paint what she saw.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But there was more. Taylor, Izaak used your mother. He used her beauty, and he used her talent.”

“Whatever he did, it worked.” Taylor’s voice quivered, but her message was unequivocal. “When she was my age, Sally was making great art, and that’s worth everything.”

I picked up the ornament Taylor had slammed on the table. It was impossible to take a bad picture of Taylor, and this one wasn’t unflattering, but it was revealing. In it, for the first time since she’d come to me, there was uncertainty in her eyes and her smile was guarded. I stared at the photograph for a second too long, and Taylor noticed. “Do you think I look geeky?”

“You don’t look geeky,” I said. “You look as if you have a lot on your mind, which, clearly, you do. Taylor, I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to make the kind of art that you and Sally make, but I do know that the life experience you bring to your work doesn’t have to be harsh. Angela Cheng says that when she plays certain pieces, she thinks about the way the light shines on her child’s hair.”

“Angela Cheng is a pianist, not a painter.”

“But she’s found a way to live that feeds her art. If you’re lucky and if you make the right choices, that can happen to you.”

Taylor leapt out of her chair and bounded onto my knee. The leap was as unexpected as it was sweet. “Everything’s changing,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “But you’re going to be fine. Taylor, you are fine.”

Taylor was as tall as I was. Sitting on my knee was no longer easy for her, but we held on, united by our awareness that while there were battles ahead, we had been granted a reprieve. As we watched the snow fall, it seemed we breathed in unison.

Zack’s inability to do any but the most rudimentary jigsaw puzzle was a running joke between him and our granddaughters. That afternoon when Mieka and the girls arrived to help get our family dinner ready, both girls had puzzles jammed in their backpacks. Taylor was at the choral concert; Mieka and I had cooking to do; so, by process of elimination, Zack was on puzzle duty.

After the girls threw off their coats and boots, they descended on him. “The one I brought is so easy,” Lena cooed. “It’s a caterpillar, and even the littlest kids in junior kindergarten are bored with it.” “Mine’s a piano,” Madeleine said. “The box says it’s for ages five to eight, but you play the piano, Granddad, and there’s a picture, so you should be able to do it. If you get stuck, I’ll help you.”

Zack wheeled his chair close to the table. “Thanks for the offer, Maddy,” he said. “But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. I’m going to tackle these puzzles all by myself.”

Maddy looked at her mother and me and rolled her eyes. Lena opened the caterpillar box and shook out the puzzle pieces. Zack groaned when he saw them. “There must be a hundred pieces there,” he said.

“There are ten,” Lena corrected, “and they’re big.”

Mieka and I went into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on what she called our duelling chilies: mine, con carne; hers, vegetarian. We stirred, grated, chopped, and listened to Zack trumpet his success with the puzzle as the girls chortled. When the caterpillar was complete, my husband called me in. “Ms. Shreve, I’d like a picture of this.” The girls posed with him, and I snapped. “You’re a madman,” I said.

“Victors always look a little crazed,” Zack said, then he slid the completed caterpillar into its box and turned to the girls. “We are now cooking with gas. Bring on the piano.”

There had been plenty of groans and giggles from the dining room by the time Peter, our older son, and his girlfriend, Dacia, arrived. They said hello to Zack and the girls, then carried the plastic storage bins of lights and tree ornaments from the garage through to the family room. They popped off the containers’ lids and began unwinding the lights from their newspaper cones, unwrapping the ornaments, and setting everything out on a trestle table by the tree. Mieka and I had just put Zack out of his agony by announcing that we were setting the dining room table so he had to either move his puzzle or scrap it, when Taylor and Isobel came bounding in, back from the concert. They were beaming, and the source of their pleasure was apparent. Delia and Noah were behind them, and Noah was holding the baby.

“The girls thought you’d like to see Jacob again,” Noah said.

“You bet we would,” I said. “May I take your coats?”

Noah and Delia exchanged glances. “I think we’ll make this a quick visit,” Delia said. “We should get Jacob home. The sooner he knows where he belongs, the better.”

Noah unzipped Jacob’s snowsuit, took off his toque, and carried him around so Jacob could inspect us as we inspected him. Isobel took Jacob’s small hand in hers and followed her father. “He’s a handsome baby, isn’t he?” she said.

Indeed, Jacob was handsome, and in the natural light of the living room, his kinship with Delia and Isobel was even more obvious than it had been the night before in the gym. Jacob’s eyes were brown, so dark they were almost black, but he shared the Wainberg women’s milky white skin and their thick springy hair. Like Isobel and Delia, he was preternaturally alert, tense with the need to take in every detail and assign it a place.

Jacob gave Zack and me a solemn gaze then, apparently finding us satisfactory, he smiled. The dimple Jacob displayed was winning and my husband was easy prey. When Zack held out his arms and Noah handed him the baby, Jacob settled right in.

Noah held out a warning finger. “Hey, don’t get too comfortable there, Jacob,” he said. “There’s serious bonding to be done and it’s supposed to be with Delia and me.”

“Better get used to sharing him,” I said. “He’s a charmer.” I turned to Taylor. “Your sister’s in the kitchen. You know how she is about babies. If she doesn’t get to hold Jacob, we won’t hear the end of it. And Peter and Dacia will want to get acquainted too.”

The girls came back, and Mieka was right behind them, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Peter and Dacia are walking the dogs,” she said. “But I’m ready for this baby. Hand him over, Zack.”

When she bent to take Jacob, Mieka’s face clouded. She held him out, examining his face, then, still unsmiling, turned to Taylor and Isobel. “Would you two take Maddy and Lena into the kitchen and help them put some cookies on a plate for dessert?”

“We can do that ourselves,” Lena said.

Isobel placed her hand on Lena’s shoulder. “I think your mum has something to say that will be easier to say if we’re not around.”

The four girls disappeared into the kitchen and I caught my daughter’s eye. “What’s up?”

Mieka took Jacob and sat down in the wing chair by the fireplace. “Where’s this child’s mother?” she asked.

“You know her?” I said.

Mieka shook her head. “I don’t know her, but I know who she is. She and this little guy have been at UpSlideDown every day this week.”

Delia’s face was strained. “Did you talk to her?”

“I tried,” Mieka said. “But we’ve been crazy busy. A lot of parents promise their kids that if they behave while they’re shopping, everybody gets to come to UpSlideDown for hot chocolate and a playtime afterward. Anyway, it’s been hectic. The kids are wired, and the parents are wired, but everybody’s in a good space. I guess that’s why the woman who brought in this little guy was so noticeable.”

“Her name is Abby Michaels,” Delia said bleakly.

Mieka slid the baby out of his snowsuit. “So you’re taking care of Jacob for her?”

“It’s complicated,” Noah said. “Yesterday afternoon, Abby Michaels went to the Luther Christmas concert. When the concert was over, she handed Jacob to Isobel and disappeared. It was just before the blackout, so there was a certain amount of confusion.”

“Why did Abby give her baby to Isobel?” Mieka’s eyes travelled across our faces, searching for an answer.

Noah glanced at Zack, and my husband picked up the thread. “We’ll fill you in on the background later, Mieka. Right now, our concern – everybody’s concern – is Abby Michaels. The police are looking for her, but they don’t have much to go on. Do you know anything that could help?”

“Not really,” Mieka said. “The woman – Abby – would come in around three and stay till we closed at five-thirty. She was so alone. She never connected with the other parents – and she never connected with her baby.”

Delia tensed. “Abby Michaels neglected her child?”

Mieka smiled at the little boy. “He was never neglected – at least not physically. His mother – Abby – cared for him. When he whimpered, she gave him a bottle, and when he turned it down, she took him to the space where other mothers breast-feed.”

“He was breast-fed?” I said. “It’s pretty difficult for a woman not to connect with a child she’s breast-feeding.”

“His mother was trying to wean him, and Jacob obviously wasn’t ready. He knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t a bottle. A lot of women have had that experience, and I’m sure some of the other UpSlideDown regulars would have been only too willing to trade horror stories, but Abby didn’t encourage conversation.”

“So you left her alone,” I said.

Mieka lowered her eyes. “Yes, and it was hard because she was clearly desperate – not just about the weaning, but about everything. I tried, Mum. I’d linger with the coffee pot when I refilled her cup, but Abby didn’t let me in, and I didn’t push.”

Jacob grabbed at the necklace Mieka was wearing; she smiled at him and loosened his grip. “Once she asked me about the big holiday blast we were having before Christmas.”

“Did she want to bring Jacob?” Noah said.

“No, she’d just noticed that people were stopping by with presents and leaving them under the tree, and she wondered what was going on. I told her parents were supposed to bring a gift for a child who might not be getting many presents.”

“Did Abby bring a gift?” Noah asked.

“I don’t know,” Mieka said. “There’s a mountain of presents, but we ask people to put the toys in gift bags, so that we can make sure the presents are new, safe, and age-appropriate.”

The room was silent. Jacob had found Mieka’s necklace again, and she began uncurling his fingers from the chain and play-biting his fingertips. The game made him chuckle.

Delia watched with a half-smile. “And that’s all?” she said, finally.

Mieka coloured. “Not quite. There is something else, but it’s embarrassing to talk about because it makes me sound like a stalker.” She inhaled deeply. “On Friday evening when Jacob and his mother left, I tried to follow them.”

Zack had often remarked on Mieka’s solid common sense. He was genuinely gob-smacked. “Whatever made you do that?” he asked.

“Impulse? I don’t know. I was just… uneasy,” Mieka said. “It was closing time and Jacob and his mother were still there. Maddy and Lena had their jackets and boots on and were chomping at the bit to go home, so I went to Abby and said I was sorry but I had to close up. She got herself and the baby ready to leave and came over to pay her bill. She seemed very tired, but after she paid me, she didn’t leave. She gave me this… penetrating look and asked me if I believed in God. When I said I did, she asked how I could reconcile my belief with the cruelties of the world.”

“The unanswerable question,” I said.

Mieka nodded. “Except Abby was so intense. It was as if she had really hoped I might provide an answer. When I didn’t come up with anything, she thanked me and said that I shouldn’t feel badly because there was nothing anyone could do to help her. Then she left.”

Noah put his arm around his wife’s slender shoulders.

“It was so sad, and so final,” Mieka said. “I locked up. When the girls and I started towards our car, I saw that Abby was parked close to us. She was getting Jacob in his car seat and strapping him in. That always takes a while, so I hurried the girls and, when Abby left, I followed her.”

“Where did she go?” Zack said.

“I don’t know,” Mieka said. “She drove down 13th, but when she got to Albert, she ran the light and turned left. There was a car coming across, so I had to stop. By the time the light changed, there must have been twenty cars between us, so I went home. All I know is that she was driving a Volvo – same vintage as yours, Mum, but black. I did manage to get her licence. It was an Ontario vanity plate that spelled out the word LECTOR – easy to remember because of Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.” Mieka’s eyes were both sad and puzzled. “She didn’t seem like the kind of person who would pay money to have the name of a cannibalistic serial killer on her licence.”

“How was it spelled?” Noah asked.

“L-e-c-t-o-r,” my daughter said.

“Lector is Latin for ‘reader’ or ‘lecturer,’ ” Noah said. “That might be significant.”

Zack nodded. “If somebody’s willing to pay money to have a word put on their plate, that word has significance for them.” He took out his BlackBerry and called police headquarters. “Debbie… we may have a break.”

As Mieka gave her information to the Inspector, the Wainbergs zipped Jacob into his snowsuit and snapped him into his car seat. They both looked worried. No one offered words of comfort.

After we closed the door on the Wainbergs, Zack went to change for supper, and I made a last pass through the dining room to see if we’d forgotten anything. Taylor was there, adding a place setting. The slacks and shirt she’d been wearing under her choir robes had been replaced by a deep red jersey dress with a wide black patent-leather belt and a gently flowing skirt.

“Did I miscount?” I said.

Taylor folded a napkin and placed it on the bread and butter plate. “No. I invited somebody. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Anyone I know?”

“You met him last night at the concert. Zack knows him.” She straightened a fork without looking up. “It’s Declan Hunter.”

“Hmm,” I said.

Taylor’s gaze was level. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Your friends are always welcome. You know that.”

“Has Zack said anything about Declan?”

“Zack never talks about his clients.”

“But Declan’s not Zack’s client. His dad is. Declan’s just… ” Taylor shrugged and smiled her old open smile. “He’s just Declan.”

“Well, I’m glad ‘just Declan’ is coming for supper,” I said. “Is he into tree decorating?”

The tension drained from Taylor’s face. “He’s really stoked about this whole evening,” she said.

“You look pretty stoked yourself.”

Her expression was impish. “You’re the one who said I have to feed my art.”

I went to our room to clean up for dinner and found Zack struggling with the price tag on a turtleneck the shade of a eucalyptus leaf. I handed him my manicure scissors so he could snip off the tag, and fingered the material. “Cashmere,” I said. “Very nice.”

“I ordered one for you, too,” he said, pulling on his sweater. “It’s in that box on your dresser.”

I picked up my gift and touched it to my cheek. The material was sinfully soft. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s gorgeous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not going to put it on.”

“Mieka says that the day you and I start wearing matching outfits is the day she puts us into Golden Memories.”

“I’ve got pull at Golden Memories. I kept the owner out of the hoosegow. I could get us adjoining rooms.”

I unbuttoned my blouse. “So what did the owner do?”

“He was alleged to have encouraged some of his female guests to give him power of attorney.”

“Did he?”

“All my clients are innocent, Ms. Shreve. Now come on, let’s see the sweater.”

I pulled it over my head and held out my arms.

“Looks better on you than it does on me,” Zack said.

“Thanks,” I said. “For the sweater and for the compliment. Hey, guess who’s coming to dinner?”

“The Green Knight.”

“Close. Declan Hunter.”

Zack’s smile vanished. “How come?”

“Taylor invited him.” I sat down on the bed, so Zack and I could face one another. “She isn’t aware that Declan’s your client,” I said.

“He’s under no legal obligation to tell her.”

“But there are legal issues in his life,” I said.

Zack wheeled closer. “Jo, you know I can’t give you any specifics, but if I thought for a moment that Taylor was in danger, Declan wouldn’t get past the front door.”

“His transgressions are minor?” I asked.

“So far, but they’re the kinds of dumb-ass things that can put a kid on the glide path to disaster, so I worry.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“I do. We had a great time that night we went to the Broken Rack, so in the spirit of camaraderie I asked Declan why he’s so determined to make trouble for himself. He said that it’s easy to get lost when you live in your father’s shadow.”

Our family had endured tree-decorating nights when our tempers were as snarled as the strings of lights. The mood the year before had been close to perfect until we hung the last ornament, flicked on the lights, and Pantera, responding to some dark atavistic impulse buried deep in his mastiff psyche, took a run at the tree, knocked it to the ground, attacked it, then streaked to the basement and refused to come upstairs for three days. This Christmas the tree-trimming was without incident, and there were some Hallmark moments: Declan, his dreads tied back with hemp twine, carefully examining each of the ornaments that held a picture of Taylor before he handed it to her so she could place it on the tree; Lena and Maddy suspending all the sparkliest ornaments from branches at their level, so that the lower third of the tree glittered as bright as a showgirl’s fan and the upper two-thirds were bare; Zack, his chair at a safe distance from the tree, his fingers looped through Pantera’s collar, murmuring reassurances to his dog.

The one moment of real tension was short-lived. When Madeleine and Lena reached a noisy standoff about whose toilet-paper-roll angel would have pride of place as the tree-topper, Peter jammed the angels together on the top branch, where they perched, listing slightly, their silver doily wings mashed and their twin maniacal smiles reminding us all that Christmas is a time of sisterhood and lunacy.

Zack led Pantera to our bedroom and shut him in, safe from human folly, before we lit the tree. After we turned on the lights, Zack took photos of the tree on his BlackBerry and sent them to Angus who was studying for exams in Saskatoon. Angus texted back a one-word sentence: “Coooooooooool.” After handing around Angus’s text of praise for our handiwork, Zack pushed his chair to the piano and played “Round Midnight” – not because the Thelonius Monk standard was seasonal, but because I loved it. After that, it was request time. Lena asked for “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” and when Puff had slipped into his cave for the last time, Mieka and her daughters sang along as Zack played “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Peter’s girlfriend, Dacia, the self-described daughter of old hippies, did what the daughter of old hippies do. She pulled out her guitar and sang “Scarborough Fair” in a voice that was as powerful as it was sweet.

“Hard act to follow, but I’m convinced there’s yet more talent in the audience,” Zack said. “If there are no volunteers, I’m doing my Barry Manilow medley.”

Taylor touched Declan’s arm. The touch was enough. Declan went to Dacia, whispered a word in her ear, and she handed him her guitar. Without prelude, he began to play Green Day’s “Time of Your Life,” first with poignant resignation, then with a fierce snarling anger. It was a riveting performance, but it also revealed Declan’s pain, and as he handed the guitar back to Dacia, there was an awkward silence in the room.

Pete’s girlfriend smoothed the raw edges. “You do realize how good you are?” she said.

Declan’s smile was heartbreaking. “I realize exactly how good I am,” he said. “And I know I’m not good enough.” He held out his hand to Taylor. “Time for me to take off,” he said.

Taylor’s hand was in Declan’s as he thanked us and said good night. Except for Peter, we were a family of talkers, but after Taylor walked Declan to the front door, it seemed that none of us had anything to say.

Lena saved the moment. Out of nowhere she snagged some lines from her favourite story and began reciting in her fluty little-girl voice. “ ‘Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.’ ” She turned to her sister. “There’s more, but I can’t remember.”

Maddy sighed. “ ’every day, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.’ ”

Soothed by Dr. Seuss, we began packing the empty ornament boxes in the storage bins and carrying them out to the garage. Ready or not, another Christmas was underway.