Читать книгу A Lasting Proposal - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 9

Two and a half years later

BREAKFAST FOR HOLLY, SHOWER, dress…don’t forget the papers you took out of your briefcase last night… Maureen Shannon was lost in her mental checklist as she opened the door to snag the morning paper. Clutching the lapels of her old flannel housecoat, she stared at the front-page headline: Oil Tycoon Beckett Commits Suicide.

“Dear God…”

Maureen slipped off the elastic band and unfolded the paper, her fingers suddenly clumsy.

Underneath the headline was a picture of sixteen-year-old Jilly Beckett, the same photo the Calgary Herald had used when covering her murder almost two and a half years ago. Next to it was a smaller snapshot, grainy and out of focus. Still, Maureen recognized Jilly’s oil-executive father, Conrad, smiling beside his wife, Linda.

Maureen scanned the first paragraph. The facts were blunt. Conrad was dead; he’d killed himself. Maureen curled her bare toes against the cold of the concrete landing of her Mount Royal home. The Becketts lived in her neighborhood, about six blocks to the north. Their social circles had intersected; she and Linda had worked on a few volunteer committees together.

It was a cool May morning and a westerly breeze tossed Maureen’s uncombed hair into her eyes. She flipped it out of the way, then remembered she was dressed in only her thin housecoat.

She withdrew inside, skimming through the rest of the article as she made her way back to the kitchen. Conrad had died in the three-car garage of his showcase-perfect home, sitting in the driver’s seat of his idling dark blue Jaguar, while noxious carbon monoxide had pumped into the enclosed space. The suicide was attributed to unrelenting depression over Jilly’s death.

Conrad, even more than Linda, had never been the same after it. He’d retired from the board of Beckett Oil and Gas—a company that he had founded and intended to pass down to his only offspring. Then he’d sold all his shares to one of the big American companies—Exxon or Shell, she couldn’t remember—

Maureen stopped reading to sniff. That smell… Oh, no, Holly’s breakfast! She tossed the paper on the counter and ran to the toaster. Too late. Both slices of bread were edged in black. Knowing her daughter wouldn’t eat toast this way, not even if Maureen scraped off the burned part, she threw the pieces out and slipped two fresh slices into the slots.

She eyed the paper, then the clock on the stove. If she didn’t leave in fifteen minutes, she’d be late for the office. And she wasn’t even dressed. She’d have to finish reading the article later.

Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she jogged up the stairs.

“Holly? Are you finished in there?” At moments like this Maureen would have given up her prestigious address and original oak woodwork in a moment for a second bathroom. Rod had always planned to renovate one day, but he’d never gotten past the looking-at-glossy-brochures stage.

No answer from the bathroom, only the sound of water streaming into the sink. Well, she’d have to skip her shower this morning. Back in her bedroom, she grabbed the first suit and blouse that came to hand, then yanked matching shoes from the shelf above them.

Catching her reflection in the mirror on her dresser, she frowned. The only way to deal with her cowlick was to put up her hair—another five minutes lost there….

Hair fixed, she tore back down the short hall. The bathroom door was still locked, and she could smell—

Damn it to heck!

Maureen raced down the stairs in her low heels and tossed the second batch of ruined toast into the garbage. She checked the clock again. Five minutes.

Back up the stairs.

“Holly, I can’t go to work without brushing my teeth and washing my face. And you need to eat. The toaster isn’t working so you’ll have to have cereal.”

The twelve-year-old didn’t answer.

Maureen rested her head against the paneled door. From inside, she heard some suspicious sniffing. Holly crying once more. A familiar, helpless pain sapped the energy from her limbs.

“Are you okay?”

The water came on again, blocking out the quiet sobbing.

Maureen knocked. “Please let me in. Holly?”

Still no answer. From past experience, Maureen knew there probably wouldn’t be. Holly needed comfort, but she’d never take it from her mother.

Silence descended as the water was turned off. Maureen made quick use of the opportunity to be heard. “Hey, kiddo. You planning to spend the day in there? Want me to rent a video? We could put the TV by the tub. Maybe fill the sink with popcorn.”

“It’s not funny, Mother.”

Maureen flinched. When had her daughter perfected that icy, cutting tone?

“I know it’s not funny. But I’m going to have to book an extra cleaning with my dentist if you don’t let me in soon.”

Something slammed. The toilet seat? The medicine cabinet? A second later the door opened, and Maureen lurched forward. Holly stepped back, unwilling even to touch her.

Indeed she’d been crying. Eyes red, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Maureen longed to hold out her arms, but she knew—oh, how she knew—that her daughter would just back away.

“What is it, sweetie?” A familiar song on the radio, a dream about the old days—either of these, or any of a number of triggers—could have set her off.

“You are so insensitive. I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Maureen stepped to the side so Holly could leave the bathroom. A familiar sense of helplessness had her longing for the simplicity of a two-year-old’s temper tantrum.

“It’s a year today,” Holly burst out. “You didn’t even remember. Did you?”

In her mind, Maureen saw the date on the top of the newspaper she’d looked at earlier: May 3. Why hadn’t it clicked sooner? She was sure she would have remembered eventually. Maybe when she pulled out her Day-Timer at work or booted up her computer.

“I’m sorry, Holly.”

But her daughter had already taken off down the stairs. A second later, the door slammed.

Maureen swallowed an urge to scream, then went to the front window. She caught a glimpse of Holly from the back as she ran across the street toward school. Poor kid—she missed her father so badly.

One year ago today. It was hard to believe.

To Maureen, it felt as though Rod had been dead much longer.

TWO MINUTES AFTER SHE WAS in her BMW, Maureen was on the cell phone, the tiny attached speaker plugged into her right ear. At a red light, she speed-dialed her secretary.

“Looks like I’m going to be a little late for the partners’ meeting. Could you pull the files I was working on last week? And order me up a latte, would you, please?”

Next she dialed her youngest sister, Kelly, who lived with her new husband and his young niece and nephew in Canmore, a mountain haven about an hour to the west.

“Sis? Holly threw another crying fit this morning. Should I try a different grief counselor?”

Holly hadn’t seemed to benefit from sessions with two previous psychologists and Maureen had given up. But maybe she needed to try therapy one more time…

“It’s a year today, isn’t it?” Kelly said.

“Yeah.” Jeez, even her sister had remembered. What was the matter with her that the date hadn’t registered until Holly had pointed it out?

“It’s pretty normal for her to be upset. Honestly, sometimes it’s you I worry about more. You’re so busy being strong for Holly—”

Yeah, right. If Kelly only knew…

“She’s just twelve, Kelly. And she’s confused. She and Rod were close.” From Maureen’s point of view, almost too close. But that was just sour grapes, probably. Maureen couldn’t pinpoint the moment her doting toddler had begun running to Daddy when she had a problem, instead of Mommy. When Rod died, Maureen had desperately wanted to be there for her daughter. But Holly wasn’t interested in a substitute.

“Of course I understand how hard this is for Holly. But you have to consider yourself, as well. You’ve been working so hard, for so long. Rod had insurance, right?”

“Yes.” And lots of it. But only because she’d filled out the application for him, made him sign it, then paid the premiums every year. She’d discovered early in their marriage that she couldn’t count on Rod for anything.

A lesson Holly had never learned. No way could she admit that her darling father had died as a result of his carelessness. No. In her mind, his death had become her mother’s fault. As if Maureen had wanted him to climb that bloody mountain in the first place!

“Well, why don’t you take some time off work. You could use the break, and having you around more might help Holly.”

“I’ll think about it.” Maureen hung up the phone, dissatisfied. The answer wasn’t for her to spend more time with Holly. The last person Holly wanted to be around these days was her mother.

With the entrance to her underground parking lot in sight, Maureen switched lanes. Now her mood finally lifted. Soon she would be in her office, her sanctuary. Any problem that came up there, she would know how to handle.

THE LOUSY START TO THE DAY had been portentous. At the partners’ meeting, Maureen was urged to take on a new child custody case that would have her spending significant time in Edmonton, three hours north of Calgary. She used up her lunch break on the phone with Rod’s mom, who called from Winnipeg to commiserate on the sad anniversary.

Maureen listened, feeling for the woman’s pain, never letting on that their marriage had been less than perfect, that Rod had been other than the ideal father or that the accident had been anything but bad luck.

Maureen knew better, of course. Because, after almost fifteen years of marriage, she had known Rod.

Her husband had been addicted to extreme sports. Eighteen months ago, he’d decided he had to tackle Mount Everest. In preparation, he’d signed on with a team to climb Mount Aconcagua, a less-demanding peak in the Andes.

At more than twenty-two thousand feet, Aconcagua was the highest mountain in the world, except for those in the Himalayas. Though the ascent didn’t require technical expertise, it would give him an opportunity to see how his body reacted to the drop in oxygen at high elevations.

Unfortunately, altitude sickness had stricken him early on in the climb. Instead of moderating his ascent, Rod had tried to speed up. When his companions noted his growing disorientation, they’d urged him to slow down. But he’d refused until it was too late.

Death, Maureen was told later, can come quickly to those who ignore the early warning signs.

If Rod had gambled with only his life, Maureen could have forgiven him. But his loss had devastated their daughter, and that was hard to absolve.

Especially when Holly’s grief seemed to increase its hold with time rather than ease. First she’d lost interest in her friends; a few months later she’d dropped out of the school band. Her latest report card had revealed falling grades, and during parent-teacher interviews Maureen was told that Holly rarely paid attention in class and almost never handed in assignments on time.

With Rod gone, who, what, could help her now?

During dinner that evening, Holly was silent. When Maureen suggested they watch some home videos of her father after dessert, she relented enough to sort through the row of black cases in the bottom drawer of the entertainment unit.

Maureen stretched her feet out on the sofa as her daughter pressed Play. Seeing Rod’s face suddenly appear on the TV screen made her entire body tense. Across the room on the love seat, Holly pressed a tissue under her eyes.

Maureen had taken the footage from the back deck a couple of autumns ago as Rod and Holly were horsing around in the abundant piles of raked leaves that Maureen hadn’t had time to bag for composting. On the screen father and daughter tumbled and wrestled and shrieked with laughter. But in the tidy family room Maureen and Holly watched in silence.

Maureen was aware of Holly’s quiet weeping. She, however, didn’t shed a tear. Not until the camera caught Rod smiling at his daughter, reaching out to touch a strand of her almost white hair. The expression on his face was absolutely doting.

The dull pain in Maureen’s chest tightened. The video confirmed what she’d always known. Her husband had loved Holly. When he’d been around, he’d treated their daughter like a princess. And that was what Holly remembered about her dad.

Maureen pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. No wonder Holly was so devastated by his death. What man would ever adore her the way her father had?

At ten o’clock Holly went to bed, and Maureen had the house to herself. She put away the videos, stacked a few glasses in the dishwasher, then brewed herself a little coffee, which she mixed with half a cup of hot milk and a teaspoon of sugar.

Memories of Rod and worries about her daughter were too painful to face. Instead she picked up the paper, and in a flash it came back to her. Conrad Beckett’s suicide. How could she have forgotten?

Now she read the article again, every word this time. The reporter had been thorough, delving into the event that had led Conrad to the breaking point—his daughter’s murder almost three years ago. Maureen had some personal knowledge of the case, since the tragedy had occurred on the ranch of her brother-in-law, Dylan McLean, several years before he’d married her middle sister, Cathleen.

It seemed impossible that in a crowd the size of the one gathered at the ranch that night no one had seen anything. Yet, that was what all the witnesses claimed. The weapon was never recovered. Kelly had been one of the RCMP officers assigned to the homicide. In her opinion, the case would probably never be solved.

That didn’t stop everyone in Canmore from having views on the matter. Initially, Dylan McLean had been the number-one suspect. Then later, when James Strongman ran off to Mexico rather than submit to police questioning regarding the subsequent murder of Rose Strongman, James was seen as the most likely villain. But his guilt remained unproved. Also unknown was whether Jilly had been an accidental target. Most people assumed that the shooter had been aiming for her father and missed.

Jilly’s death had been such a senseless act of violence. Who could have guessed that the barbecue would get so wildly out of control? What kind of monster brought out a gun at an event where a young girl was present?

Rubbing her eyes, Maureen sighed. Just the prospect of walking up the stairs and preparing for bed exhausted her. Some days it seemed such a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. She could almost understand how Conrad had felt….

Out of habit, she placed her mug inside the dishwasher and then set about getting ready for bed. As she brushed her teeth, she avoided her reflection in the mirror, just as she knew she’d avoided the truth about her daughter for months.

Physically, Maureen still had Holly by her side. But emotionally, they’d lost contact years ago. And Maureen had no idea how to go about regaining it.

Kelly thought Maureen needed to work less, be home more. They’d discussed this before today’s phone call. Given the demands of her law firm, Maureen knew that if she wanted to work less, the only option was to quit.

But then what would she do? Without her six-figure income, they couldn’t afford to stay in this neighborhood. They’d have to move—but where?

Only one place made sense. The mountain town where she’d grown up—and left to go to university—where her two sisters and their husbands now lived: Canmore.

She could start her own legal practice there. It would be much smaller and less stressful than her work here in Calgary. Equating to more time spent at home with Holly.

But Holly didn’t want to spend time with her mother. She’d probably hate the idea of moving. And surely an upheaval, just when she was beginning to adjust to junior high, would be a mistake.

Maureen left the bathroom and collapsed on her bed. God help her, she didn’t know what to do. All night, she tossed and turned. Finally, just before dawn, she dropped off. Her last thought was a prayer.

Send me a sign. Tell me the right thing to do for my daughter.