The Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 5

Zack was a realist. If the truth was painful, he faced it, dealt with it, and moved along. That evening after he talked to Delia, he didn’t waste time on any preamble when he spoke to Taylor and me. “Bad news,” he said. His voice was low and his eyes were filled with concern as his gaze moved between us. “Abby Michaels is dead. An hour ago, two men digging out the parking lot behind the A-l Jewellery and Pawn Shop on Toronto Street found a black Volvo with the licence plate LECTOR. Abby Michaels’s body was in the front seat. It’s early times yet but the police believe she was raped and strangled.”

Taylor’s body tensed at the news. I put my arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. “How could something like that happen?” she said.

The parentheses that bracketed Zack’s lips deepened. “I ask myself that every time I see a case like this. It’s hard to believe that human beings can treat one another so brutally. But it happens. All I can tell you is that the person who did this will be caught and punished.”

Taylor’s face was strained. “But will anyone ever know why he did it?”

Zack didn’t lie. “The Crown will present theories. The man’s lawyer will present other theories. But the only person who will ever really know what went through his mind before he attacked Abby Michaels is the man himself. Generally rapists are men who feel powerless and who feel a need to prove their power. Sometimes, the situation spins out of control, and they kill their victim. I know that’s not a satisfactory answer, but those are the facts.”

I could feel Taylor’s muscles tighten again. When she spoke she couldn’t hide her fear and frustration. “I understand that part of it, but with Abby, there are other facts. Before the rape happened, she gave away her baby. It’s almost as if she knew something terrible was coming, and she wanted to make sure Jacob was safe.”

Zack and I exchanged glances. “We’re all in the dark here,” I said. “But we’ll know more soon. Your dad’s friend, Inspector Haczkewicz, always says that a police investigation is like turning on the lights in a room where everything’s in place. You just need to see what’s already there.”

“So you think the police will find out why she gave away her baby before that terrible thing happened to her?”

“I know they will,” Zack said. “As your mother says, it’s a matter of time.”

Taylor’s voice was tight. “I guess Izzy’s parents have already told her.”

“I’m sure they have,” Zack said. He looked closely at Taylor’s face. It was pale and pinched. “Are you all right?”

Without answering, she picked up her bowl and plate, walked to the sink and rinsed them. “Isobel was so excited about having a sister,” she said.

“She could probably use someone to talk to,” I said. “Why don’t you give her a call?”

Taylor glanced at the dishes on the table. “Do you need me to help?”

“Your dad and I can handle it,” I said.

After we’d finished cleaning up, Zack took two tulip-shaped Scotch glasses from the cupboard.

I looked at him questioningly. “You’re not going over to the Wainbergs’?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do except hold Delia’s hand, and she has Noah for that. Besides, I’m tired. Tonight I need a hand to hold, and Delia’s is not my hand of choice.”

It was the first time I could remember Zack acknowledging that he was tired. “You’re in luck,” I said. “Mine is available.”

“One of my clients gave me what he claims is a bottle of excellent single malt,” Zack said. “It’s called Old Pulteney. Interested in giving it a test run?”

“You bet,” I said. “I’ll bring the glasses; you get Old Pulteney, and I’ll meet you in the family room. We can light the fire, turn on the tree lights, and try to remember that it’s Christmas.”

When we were together on the couch, I handed Zack his drink. He held the glass under his nose and inhaled deeply. “My client told me that to be fair to the single malt, I should allow myself a half-hour free of stress and distractions before I sip.” He stared at the Scotch thoughtfully. “Screw that.” He took a large swallow. “You know, this really is pretty good.”

I sipped. “More than pretty good,” I said. “Here’s to a half-hour free of stress and distractions.”

For a few minutes we sat in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the Scotch spread through our veins while we savoured the fire, the tree, and the closeness to one another. “I could get used to this,” I said.

“So could I,” Zack agreed, “but we’re going to have to talk about Abby Michaels.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be,” he said. “Taylor posed the right question. What happened? In a murder investigation, the police start with the body, then focus on the scene where the body was found and the victim’s history. The old cops call it the golden triangle, and a lot of the time they can make an educated guess about why someone was murdered just by checking out where the body was found. If a body is left in a public place, as Abby’s was, chances are they’re looking at what the cops call ‘a crime of opportunity.’ ”

“The victim is just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said.

“Right, but this time, the formula doesn’t work.”

“Because of Abby’s determination to get Jacob into the Wainbergs’ hands before she was attacked,” I said.

Zack nodded. “As Taylor says, it was almost as if Abby knew something was going to happen to her, and she wanted to make sure Jacob was safe.”

“It does look that way,” I said. “Except Abby couldn’t have had any enemies in Regina. The only people she knew here were the Wainbergs.”

“And she’d never met them,” Zack said. “So Abby Michaels comes to a city where she knows no one, gives away her son, and is raped and murdered in the parking lot behind a pawn shop.”

“Abby had an appointment in Samarra,” I said.

“You think her death was fated?” Zack said.

I shrugged. “You know the old story. A man believes he sees Death threatening him in the market in Baghdad so he runs to Samarra to escape. When he goes to the market in Samarra, Death is waiting for him, because that’s where the man was supposed to die all along.”

Zack was pensive. “I wonder how eager Abby Michaels was to outwit death,” he said finally.

I looked at him hard. “Surely you don’t think Abby brought this on herself?”

“Of course not,” Zack said. “But from what Mieka says, Abby was suffering from something that sounds very much like clinical depression. I was trying to imagine her state of mind the night she gave away her son.”

“Do the police have any ideas about how Abby ended up in that parking lot?”

“Uh-uh. The A-l Jewellery and Pawn Shop is in the industrial area, so the cops can’t count on information from residents, but they’re checking out cab companies to see if any driver picked up a fare on Toronto Street the night of the blizzard. And now that the police have traced the licence plate, the answers about Abby Michaels’s personal history will start coming.”

“Delia said the car’s owner was Hugh Michaels. Was he Abby’s husband?”

“Could be. Could also be a brother, a father, an uncle, or a cousin. All they know for certain is that Hugh Michaels is from Port Hope.”

“That’s where Alwyn Henry lives.”

“Your university friend who sent us our first Christmas card this year – the card with the picture of the cardinal at her bird feeder.”

“Not much gets by you, does it?” I said.

“Nope. I’m ever vigilant. Port Hope is a small town. Maybe you should give Alwyn a call. See what you can find out.”

“Maybe I should.” I curled my feet under me. “But not now. I’m warm; I’m next to you, and I’m drinking some very good Scotch. Let’s finish our drinks and go to bed and catch up with Gawain. We could use an escape from reality, and we’re at a good part: the lord of the castle has just led everyone off on the hunt. Gawain stayed back at the castle, and the lady of the house has just tiptoed into his room.”

The phone on the end table shrilled. “Let it ring,” Zack said.

“Can’t,” I said. “We have kids and grandkids – we’ve given hostages to fortune.”

I reached over, picked up the phone, and heard a voice I’d heard for the first time when I was a nineteen-year-old student at the University of Toronto. Alwyn Henry was a talker, and for thirty-seven years, I had revelled in my role as her listener. As a rule, her words tumbled over one another as if life was too short to say all she had to say about her many passions – teaching, bird watching, poetry, theatre, cooking, fine wines, travel, photography – but that night, the bounce was gone from her voice. “Joanne, I don’t know where to start with this… ”

“Is it about Abby Michaels?” I said.

“So you know that she’s dead,” Alwyn said. “Calling you was just a shot in the dark, but I thought with your media contacts you might have some information.”

“I do,” I said. “Can you hold for a minute?” I put my hand over the receiver. “It’s Alwyn Henry. How much should I tell her?”

“Play it by ear,” Zack said. “See what you can get in return. If Jacob’s father is in the picture, we should know. You can certainly say that Jacob is with Abby’s birth mother.”

I took my hand off the receiver. “Sorry, Alwyn. There was something here I had to take care of. So, do you want to go first or shall I?”

Her laugh was ragged. “You know me. I rush in where angels fear to tread, but I should tell you this isn’t just a matter of small-town curiosity. I’m calling on behalf of Abby’s partner. Her name is Nadine Perrault. Two hours ago, she learned Abby had been murdered. The police apparently traced the licence on Abby’s car, and they called Abby’s house. Nadine answered. The authorities won’t tell her anything. Nadine is, understandably, beside herself. Her biggest concern of course is Jacob. She’s planning to fly to Regina tomorrow to get him. She and I teach English together at Trinity College School. She came to my house tonight because she needs someone to cover her classes. I agreed of course.”

Something inside me twisted and tightened. “Is she there now?”

“She went out to get some air. She’ll be back.”

“Alwyn, you’ll have to talk her out of coming to Regina. I don’t know what Nadine Perrault’s understanding of the situation is, but Abby Michaels made it clear that she wants Jacob to be with her birth mother. She handed Jacob over to the family before she was attacked.”

“Birth mother? This doesn’t make any sense,” Alwyn said. “Abby’s mother was Peggy Michaels. I’ve known her for forty years. There must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake,” I said. “We know the biological mother, and we know the circumstances of Abby’s birth. The mother was at a point in her life where she didn’t feel she could raise a child, so she arranged for her baby to be adopted.”

“That’s not possible,” Alwyn said. “Hugh and I taught together for years at TCS, and I remember him and Peggy bringing Abby out to the school to show her off after she was born. She was a lovely little thing – all that curly black hair. Hugh made a joke about Peggy’s ancestors obviously not spending all their time in the Highlands.”

“Abby’s birth date is September 29, 1983,” I said. “Does that date fit with what you know?”

“It does.” Alwyn’s voice was heavy. “The new school year was just nicely underway when Abby was born. We were all thrilled for them. Peggy and Hugh had been trying for years to have a child.”

“So they faked a pregnancy? How could they carry that off in a town the size of Port Hope?”

Alwyn paused before answering. “They weren’t here,” she said. “We were told that there were difficulties. Peggy was hospitalized for months at a hospital in Toronto that specialized in high-risk pregnancies. Hugh spent the summer there with her.”

“And when they came back in September, they had Abby.”

“They were ecstatic. Do you know what the name Abigail means? ‘Father’s joy.’ From the day they brought that child home, she was a joy to them both.”

“Alwyn, do you have any idea why Hugh and Peggy Michaels would go to such lengths to hide the truth? They must have realized that at some point Abby would find out that they weren’t her biological parents.”

“You don’t think they told her?”

“Abby didn’t contact her biological mother until two weeks ago.”

“Hugh and Peggy were killed in a car accident Thanksgiving weekend,” Alwyn said. “Abby must have discovered the truth about her birth when she went through her parents’ papers.”

“Coming so soon after losing both her parents, the news must have been a terrible blow.”

“Especially for someone who’d been as protected as Abby was,” said Alwyn. “At the funeral, I sat with Hugh’s other colleagues. When Abby walked back down the aisle after the service, I couldn’t bear to look at her face. The woman I was sitting next to said, ‘This is the first time that child has ever seen that life can be cruel.’ ”

“You knew Abby,” I said. “Would the shock of discovering she’d been adopted be enough to make her give up her child?”

Alwyn’s tone was curt. “Of course not. Abby was an extraordinarily confident and capable woman. She would have been wounded, but she wouldn’t have been irrational.”

“Alwyn, she drove halfway across the country over winter roads. She was alone with her baby. Anything could have happened. When she arrived here, she was deeply depressed. She was also determined to give Jacob to her birth mother.”

“Those are not the actions of the woman I knew,” Alwyn said flatly. “Something else must have happened.”

“Do you remember what Dr. Buitenhuis used to say? ‘When speculation has done its worse, two and two still make four.’ ”

“He was quoting Samuel Johnson, but I concede the point. Facts are facts, but in this case, I don’t think we know all the facts.”

“Then I guess all anyone can do is deal with the situation as it stands. Jacob is here in Regina and he’s being well cared for. We know the family he’s with.”

“And they’re planning to keep him?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell Nadine.” Her breath caught. “This is going to break her heart, Jo.”

“It will be worse if she comes here. Believe me. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow morning? We’ll know more then, but for the time being, please just keep Nadine away.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Zack had been watching me intently. When I hung up, he frowned. “To quote one of your favourites, ‘What fresh hell is this?’ ”

“It seems Abby had a partner. Her name is Nadine Perrault, and she was planning to fly here tomorrow to get Jacob.”

“But she’s not coming now?”

“You heard my end of the conversation,” I said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Shit,” Zack said. “More complications.”

“You think Nadine Perrault has a legitimate claim on Jacob?”

“Hard to say – depends on the nature and duration of her relationship with Abby Michaels. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do tonight.”

“In that case,” I said, “let’s say good night to Taylor and hit the sack. I’ll read you Gawain until you fall asleep.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Gawain demands a man’s deep and sonorous voice.”

“You’ll be amazed at how sonorous I can be with a couple of ounces of Old Pulteney under my belt.”

The next morning, long before the first blue light of day began to seep through our bedroom windows, Zack’s cell rang. It was Delia. I rolled over and listened as Zack presented his argument about how Delia could best handle the situation facing her. Zack’s voice was low but urgent, and as he and Delia continued talking I could feel his concern. When the call was finally over, Zack turned to face me.

“So what’s next?” I said.

“I don’t know. Delia’s in terrible shape, Joanne. I didn’t know until she told me this morning that she spent half an hour alone in Abby’s car with her body.”

“My God. How did that happen?”

Zack pushed himself up to a seated position. “The men who found Abby’s body were casual workers from the Wayfarers’ Mission. They reasoned, correctly, that they were being paid to shovel snow, not deal with cops. To their credit, these guys tried to do the right thing. Having opened the car door and discovered a scene that, to say the least, must have been traumatic, they went through Abby’s wallet, found Delia’s address and phone number, and used Abby’s cell to call her.”

“What a nightmare. Poor Delia.”

Zack’s shifted his weight, an automatic gesture to protect his skin against pressure sores. “It gets worse,” he said. “Dee assumed the cops had been called, so she showed up at the parking lot alone.”

“Where was Noah?”

“At home with the kids,” Zack said, “confident that the police had everything under control.”

“But nobody had called them.” I moved closer to Zack. “Just the thought of Delia, down there alone with her daughter’s body.”

“As you probably heard, I told Dee to take some time off. We’re having a partners’ meeting this morning. I suggested that her admin assistant could bring in her priority files, and we could divvy them up.”

“But Delia didn’t agree to that?”

“Nope. She says the only thing that’s going to get her through this is work. And to be honest, I understand that. I’m the same way. But she has agreed to let me act as her liaison with Debbie Haczkewicz, and that was a big concession. It was also a smart move. As next-of-kin, Dee has the right to be kept informed about developments in the case, and she figured she could handle it, but she’s never practised criminal law. She didn’t realize what she was letting herself in for.”

“And you do.”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t wish the kind of reports that are going to be coming out of the medical examiner’s office on my worst enemy. Right now the pathologist and his team will be waiting for Abby’s body to thaw so they can start their examination. A uniformed cop will have put paper bags on Abby’s hands to preserve any traces of DNA from her attacker that may be under her nails. And this is only the beginning. The M.E. always says that the answers don’t leap out of the body; his team has to dig for them. As soon as Abby’s body thaws, they’ll be fingerprinting her, swabbing her genitals, taking blood, getting samples of her pubic hair, cutting her nails – well, you get the drift.”

“I do,” I said. “God, Zack, this is terrible. If it were one of our kids… ” I closed my eyes against the image. “It’s going to be hard enough for Delia. This story will be an early Christmas present for the media. A beautiful young woman comes to a strange city, gives away her baby, and is raped and murdered. That picture you took of Abby at the carol service will be everywhere.”

Zack nodded. “And I have a feeling that picture will be with us for a long time. According to Dee, the police don’t have any leads. People were dealing with the blizzard and the blackout. And of course, the snow obliterated everything around the crime scene.”

“What about the men who found the body?”

“The police will check them out, but Dee says that after the men called her they apparently went straight back to the Wayfarers’ Mission and told the pastor everything that had happened. At that point the pastor called the police. As you know too well, I’m a betting man, but I’m an informed bettor. Abby Michaels had close to $500 in her wallet and the Wayfarer shovellers didn’t touch it. I’m betting they’re clean.”

Zack and I exchanged a glance. “I wish this problem had landed on someone else’s plate,” I said.

“Me too,” Zack said. “But it’s on our plate, Jo. So we’ll have to deal with it.”

I leaned over and kissed him. “Alwyn said she’d phone me this morning and tell me what she knew about Nadine Perrault’s plans. She won’t call this early, so I might as well take the dogs for their run.”

“This is not an ideal way to start the day,” Zack said.

“The day is young,” I said. “Keep that Kiz Harp CD at the ready.”

When I got back from my run, I put our tickets for The Nutcracker by Zack’s plate – a not so subtle reminder that we were taking Madeleine and Lena out for dinner and the ballet and that he should be home from work early.

Surprisingly, Taylor beat him to the breakfast table. She was dressed for school. I looked at my watch. “Six o’clock,” I said. “Did I forget about a practice or something?”

She cut a grapefruit and put half in my bowl and half in hers. “No, I thought I’d work in the studio for a while before I caught the bus.” She picked up one of the tickets and read the information on its face. After several years of waning interest, she’d decided to give The Nutcracker a pass. She and Mieka were going to a restaurant where the rock was loud and the burgers were loaded and then to a chick flick. As Taylor placed the ticket back on the table, her face was wistful.

“Second thoughts?” I said.

Her brow furrowed. “Not really. Going to The Nutcracker together was just one of our ten million traditions.”

I laughed. “Do you remember your first Nutcracker?”

She rolled her eyes. “I was so excited I threw up as soon as they raised the curtain.”

“We had good seats too. Right near the orchestra. The ushers came and cleaned up, but you refused to go home.”

“The people around us must have hated us.”

“The musicians weren’t too wild about us, either, but it was worth it. Watching you that night was one of the great thrills of my life.”

Taylor chewed her lip. “Do you ever wish we could go back to the way it was?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “But then I realize if we went back, we wouldn’t have Zack or Maddy and Lena -”

“Or Bruce and Benny or Willie and Pantera.” Taylor picked up her grapefruit spoon. “Or Declan,” she said innocently.

“Or Declan,” I agreed. “On the whole, I’d say we’ve gained more than we’ve lost. But going back is not an option. To paraphrase Joni Mitchell, we’re all captives on the carousel of time.”

Taylor cocked her head. “Who’s Joni Mitchell?”

Alwyn called just after Taylor left for school. Zack and I were in the office we shared at home. To me, the speaker-phone violated everything conversation was supposed to be, but Zack had questions and it was possible Alwyn could answer them. When I explained that Zack was acting as the lawyer for Delia Wainberg, Abby’s birth mother, and asked if he could take part in our call, Alwyn’s response was characteristically pragmatic. “Whatever helps,” she said.

Zack introduced himself and apologized. “This is a hell of a way to meet,” he said. “But thank you for agreeing to talk to me. I know you’re in a difficult position. It’s never easy to be caught in the middle.”

“Especially when the situation is so murky,” Alwyn said.

“Well, let’s see if we can un-muddy the waters – exchange a little information. Joanne tells me that you knew Abby from the time she was a baby. What was her life like?”

“Gilded,” Alwyn said. “She was the only child of parents who adored her, and as an adult she found a partner who adored her and whom she adored. She had a child she loved. She was bright, attractive, focused, and accomplished.”

“You say that Abby and her partner adored one another. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Nadine Perrault wouldn’t have realized that her partner was planning to bring their child out here and leave him with another family?”

“It’s inconceivable,” Alwyn said flatly. “Nonetheless, Nadine says that’s exactly what happened. According to her, she and Abby had grown even closer after Peggy and Hugh died. But after Abby examined the contents of her parents’ safety-deposit box, everything changed. Abby withdrew from Nadine. She became secretive. Nadine pleaded with Abby to tell her what was wrong, but Abby remained silent. The last morning they were together, Nadine went off to teach as usual, but when she returned, the house was empty. Abby had taken her parents’ old Volvo, so Nadine didn’t think she’d gone far, but as the days went by she grew frantic. Understandably, she was terrified at the thought of Abby driving alone with that baby on winter roads.”

“That’s another thing that puzzles me,” Zack said. “Why did Abby drive out here? It would have been so much simpler just to book a flight – especially when she was travelling with a baby.”

“Plane tickets can be traced,” Alwyn said. “Nadine’s theory is that Abby didn’t want anyone to interfere with her plans.”

“So from the time she left Port Hope, Abby was determined to hand Jacob over to the Wainbergs,” I said.

“Apparently so,” Alwyn said.

I could tell by his voice that Zack was both baffled and exasperated. “Alwyn, I understand that you have to respect Ms. Perrault’s confidence, but what the hell is going on here?”

My old friend’s level of exasperation matched Zack’s. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s not a question of confidentiality, Zack. Nadine and I aren’t close. Until last night we were simply colleagues who taught English at the same school. I like and respect Nadine, but she and Abby were one of those couples who never seemed to need anyone else.”

“And now Nadine has nobody,” I said.

“It’s even worse than that,” Alwyn said. “It seems that before she left Port Hope, Abby took steps to cut Nadine out of her life.”

“What kind of steps?” Zack asked.

“Legal steps. This morning Nadine went to the lawyer she and Abby used to draw up their wills,” Alwyn said. “Nadine was hoping the fact that she and Abby named one another as their respective sole beneficiaries would strengthen her hand when she sought custody of Jacob.”

“So Nadine knew that Abby hadn’t named her as Jacob’s guardian in her will?” Zack said.

“According to Nadine, they hadn’t gotten around to it. They were both in good health, and then there was the tragedy with Abby’s parents. Nadine said it was simply understood that if something happened to one of them, the other would raise Jacob.”

“ ‘Understandings’ aren’t worth the paper they’re written on,” Zack said caustically. “Although to be fair, Nadine would have had a persuasive case if Abby hadn’t left that note with Jacob.”

“Surely the will Abby had drawn up by her lawyer would have more legal force than a note she wrote when she was obviously in a very fragile state of mind,” I said.

“One would think so,” Alwyn said. “Except this morning Nadine learned that on November 22 Abby signed a new will. In it, the bulk of her estate still goes to Nadine, but in the event of Abby’s death, Delia Margolis Wainberg is designated as Jacob’s legal guardian.”

Zack tensed. “Alwyn, tell Nadine Perrault to get a lawyer. Not the guy who drew up the wills. She needs her own lawyer – somebody smart and aggressive. Then she should have her lawyer call me.” He turned his chair towards the door. “I’m leaving the room now,” he said. “You and Joanne can talk freely.”

I waited until the door had closed. “He’s gone,” I said. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Alwyn’s voice was flat. “For probably the only time in my life, I have nothing to say.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “A double first.”

Zack was putting on his jacket when I came down the hall. “The partners’ meeting?” I said.

“Yep. You want to come?”

“No thanks. I’m going for a swim – which incidentally, you should be doing – and then I’m going to find last year’s gift bags and wrap presents.”

Zack held out his arms. “I wish I was spending the morning with you and Kiz Harp,” he said.

I folded myself into him. “I wish you were too. Zack, is this going to be terrible?”

My husband rubbed my back. “Ms. Shreve, if you can show me a way out of this where no one suffers, King Solomon will have to move over.”

Alwyn Henry and I first met in a half-course in early Canadian literature. Our instructor, a young Ph.D. from Cornell, made no attempt to hide his contempt for the subject matter. As we left class with our book lists the first day, Alwyn took me aside. “This course is going to kill us if we let it,” she said. “So let’s not let it,” I said. And we didn’t. We made a list of the writers: Haliburton, Lampman, Carman, Roberts, and Scott. Each of us read half the list and made concise and useful notes on what we’d read for the other. We wrote our major papers on the nineteenth-century settler-sisters, the Stricklands. Alwyn took Susanna Moodie; I took Catharine Parr Traill. Together, we drank coffee at Hart House and beer in Lundy’s Lane, the ladies’ and escorts’ room at the Bay-Bloor Tavern, and checked out the men everywhere. We both received firsts in the course. Alywn went on to do her master’s in English, and after graduation moved back home to Strickland country to teach. I majored in political science and economics, started a doctoral program, married and moved west. Not much stuck with me from that long-ago class, but Catharine Parr Traill’s recipe for dealing with troubles had. “When disaster strikes,” she wrote, “it’s no good to wring one’s hands, better to be up and doing.”

And that’s what I did. After my swim and shower, I dug out last year’s gift bags, tissue, and ribbons, put on Bach’s Brandenburgs, brewed myself some ginger tea, and tried not to think about lives full of promise that end in tragedy. By the end of the morning, my equilibrium was restored, and I had a stack of presents tree-ready in used but still festive gift bags. As I stowed the gifts in the laundry-room closet – well away from Pantera – I was grateful to Catharine Parr Traill for knowing that nothing answers vexing existential questions like mindless work, and to Bach for proving that, in the end, beauty trumps death.

Every Christmas time, I hand out candy canes with the exam papers and booklets. The students, even those in their graduating year, brighten at the reminder that there will be life after the misery of the next three hours, and the candy provides them with a necessary sugar boost when the first adrenalin rush subsides. That day, after the students had settled in and the rattle of candy paper and exam booklets ceased, calm fell over the room. For a few minutes, I watched the snow fall in fat lazy flakes outside the classroom window and let the peace wash over me. Then the Protestant work ethic kicked in, and I took out my laptop and set to work.

I was supervising a master’s thesis by that rarest of rare birds in our graduate school: a genuine right-winger. Christian Luzny’s thesis was that Canada’s best hope for surviving in the post-9/11 world was a stronger alliance with the United States, and his first draft had been sharp, lively, opinionated, and wildly one-sided. His bibliography was extensive and revealing: it did not include the name of a single scholar whose opinion deviated from Christian’s own. When he and I met to discuss his draft, I’d suggested that, at the very least, he should flush out a paper tiger to fight. Accordingly, the first thing I checked that afternoon was the bibliography. It was lengthy, and Christian had chosen some formidable opponents. Most were the usual suspects, but there was a Ph.D. whose surname caught my eye: Michaels, A.M. It seemed a long shot, but I googled Michaels, A.M. and came up with the scholar’s full name, Abigail Margaret Michaels, and the dates of her degrees and the universities from which she had received them. It all fit.

I googled her dissertation and found the abstract. Mercifully free of the bafflegab of academe, the abstract seemed frighteningly prescient: predicting that with a fragile economy, deep divisions about foreign and domestic policy and a spiralling debt load, America was a house of cards vulnerable to the slightest breeze. This dissertation argued that Canada offered a template that might be useful as America rebuilt after what Abby Michaels saw as its inevitable crash. On impulse, I ordered the dissertation through an interlibrary loan, then set to work on Christian’s thesis.

Christian argued with passion and abandon. Attempting to track his thought processes was like trying to follow a talented but erratic dancer – exhausting but exciting. The time passed quickly, and I was surprised when students began handing in their papers. After the last laggard left the room, I closed my laptop with that pleasant buzz of excitement that came when I knew I was going to be working with a gifted student. Judging by her abstract, it was a feeling that Abby Michaels, too, must have inspired many times in the men and women who taught her.

Zack was better at compartmentalizing than anyone I’d ever met. He had spent the day defending an alleged stalker who was accused of pursuing a perky local TV anchorwoman. It was an unpopular case; the media had been critical of Zack’s defence, and he had received some ugly calls at work and at home. More significantly, his case was going south. He’d put in a hard day, but that night we were taking our granddaughters to the ballet, and he greeted me at the door wearing his tux and a smile, martini in hand.

“Thank you for laying out my tux,” he said. “I was feeling like homemade shit; now I feel like homemade shit on the way to the ball.” He held out his martini to give me a sip.

“That is sublime,” I said. “Is there one of those for me?”

“You bet,” he said. “But I thought you might want to take off your boots first.”

I took another sip of his drink. “I owe you, and I’ll repay you by not asking you how your day was, and also by telling you that you look incredibly handsome.”

Zack gave me a nod of appreciation. “It’s a big night. Now fill me in on the time line again.”

“Mieka’s going to drop the girls here at 5:30 – then we’re off to the Hotel Saskatchewan for a fashionably early dinner. It’ll take us twenty minutes to get from the Hotel to the ballet; curtain’s at 7:30; by 7:31 we’ll be listening to Tchaikovsky and waiting for the mysterious Herr Drosselmeyer to appear at the Stahlbaums’ Christmas Eve party.” I hung my scarf and toque on top of my coat and aligned my boots. “I am now ready for my martini.”

“Follow me,” Zack said, and he turned his chair towards the kitchen. “So how was your day?”

“Productive.” I studied his face. Under the direct light in the kitchen, I could see the lines of fatigue. The addition of Delia’s case to his already heavy workload was taking its toll. “I spent the morning wrapping Christmas presents,” I said. “We are now one step closer to being ready for the big day.”

Zack extracted an olive from the jar on the counter. “What do you want for Christmas?” he said. “I’ve got a bunch of little stuff, but nothing with a wow factor.”

“I have the solution,” I said. “I called Stan Gardiner at the Point Store the other day. He says the ice on the lake is ‘punky’ – not good for skating. Since we’re all going to be at the cottage between Christmas and New Year’s, I thought we could get somebody to flood that space between the cottage and the hill. It’s perfect for a rink: it’s big, it’s flat, and you and I can stay inside where it’s warm and watch the kids.”

Zack chewed his olive and offered me the jar. “I’ll bet you’re the only woman in Canada who wants a skating rink for Christmas.” Suddenly his face split in a grin. “Do you remember Lee Sandison? The one with the much younger wife?”

“There seems to be an epidemic of much younger wives,” I said. “But I remember Missy. She has the only Birkin bag I’ve ever seen in Regina.”

“Well, she earned it,” Zack said. “Lee told me he asked her for a blow job and she said she’d give him one if he bought her a Birkin bag.”

“Isn’t that a little high?” I said. “Birkins start at $7,000.”

“According to Lee, Missy prides herself on being ‘fastidious.’ ”

“Fastidious, but flexible,” I said. “Well, good for them. Everyone deserves a special moment. I hope Lee knows that Birkin bags are reputed to last forever.”

Zack grinned. “I’ll be sure to point that out next time I see him.”

I glanced at the clock. “Time to move along,” I said. “Mieka’s going to be here with the girls in twenty minutes, and I still have to get dressed.”

“Can I watch?”

“Isn’t that getting a little old?”

“Never.”

“Okay, you can watch, but it’s going to cost you a skating rink.”