Denial Read online

  “I fell for her. She was blond, pretty, smart. We went on a few dates. She started talking about how she enjoyed working with me, how she’d like to live in Canada, and I thought, wow, just what Jilly ordered. Then one evening she showed up here, carrying a bag of Vietnamese takeout and a bottle of wine.” He looks down at his plate. “Well, the usual. We were in the hall after dinner, headed upstairs, when it hit me. I can’t do this. I don’t know this person.”

  “So?”

  “So I kissed her on the cheek and said I should get her back. Put her in the car and drove her to her hotel.”

  I search his face. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  There’s a beat of heavy silence between us. A full moon is rising above the treeline, the soft light etching his profile. The lawn below slopes to merge with the black of the cypress hedge. This is the time after shadows, when the world turns velvet and reveals itself in pure form.

  “It was different with you, Jilly, with us,” Mike murmurs. “We came to know each other, really know. We had been together so long, helped each other out of so many dark places. Two orphans battering for survival, who improbably fell in love. Or something I mistook for love.”

  I place my hand on his. “You weren’t wrong, Mike. It was love. Or the closest I’ve ever come to love.”

  He meets my gaze. “I know you, Jilly. I’ve learned everything about you over the years of ins and outs. Your tenacity, your fierce drive. And the tenderness beneath the bluff façade that no one else sees. You spoiled me for anything else, anyone else.”

  “You said you wanted marriage, children, all or nothing,” I remind him.

  “All that was abstraction, empty speculation. I see that now. If two people commit to each other, the future will be what it should be.” His face turns back to the moon. “You and I are family. The only family I know.” A pause. “Knew.”

  Family, I think. A place you can go when everyone else shuts you out, a place that accepts you for what you are, no conditions attached, come what may. We had it, Mike and I, and we threw it away.

  “When did you get so wise, Michael St. John?” I whisper.

  “That moment in the hall, when I told Ashling it was time to take her home.”

  “You don’t regret her, then?”

  “Oh no, without her I would never have realized—” He breaks off. “I was wrong to say it was all or nothing, Jilly, wrong to insist it was my way or no way. I understand that now. If we could just back up, start again—maybe this time we could get it right.”

  I think about the immensity of the gift he is offering. “Mike,” I say, “we can’t erase the past; that much I’ve learned. Wherever we go, we carry it with us like a turtle carries its carapace.”

  “So the answer’s no.” His voice is brittle.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  A lump rises in my throat and chokes the words I want to say. I rise and start stacking plates, clattering cutlery. I pick the pile up and walk to the kitchen. I turn the water on, find a brush, and begin furiously scrubbing.

  I sense Mike behind me. His arms circle me. His lips are on my neck. He turns me. “Jilly, you’re crying.” Gently, he kisses the wet from my cheek.

  I feel my arms around him, tightening, pulling him to me. “Yes,” I say, “the answer is yes.” I find his lips, a long, hungry kiss that ends in a sob of joy. All I know is this moment. Everything else falls away.

  CHAPTER 14

  I ARRIVE AT THE OFFICE early Monday morning. The day is golden, to match my mood.

  Mike and I parted late Sunday. We loved, slept, and consumed the entire Sunday Times abed in the morning. In the afternoon we bestirred ourselves for a shared pizza from a Greek restaurant on Fourth, and as evening fell, we went our separate ways. We’ve agreed: I need to focus all my efforts on the tragic Mrs. Quentin, as Mike styles her.

  Now, I flip through her file as I sip my coffee.

  Jeff’s back in the office after his flu, sucking caustic candies but otherwise in fettle form. He stops by my office on his way to court. “Good weekend?” he asks.

  I weigh what to tell him. He was there when Mike and I were a couple, lived vicariously through our breakup. “Actually, I ran into Mike.”

  An arched brow. “Oh?”

  “We’re going to try and make things work.”

  “Good. I’m glad for both of you,” he says. “I mean it. Mike is good for you.”

  Happily, a knock at the door stymies any further probing. Debbie. By the smile wreathing her face, I know she’s heard our conversation. “Mr. Quentin has arrived. Junior, I mean.”

  “Good luck on your appeal, Jeff.” I gulp the last of my coffee and head for the boardroom.

  Nicholas Quentin rises from his chair and rounds the table to greet me as I cross the threshold. I catch my breath. Good-looking, Maria had said. Understatement of the year.

  Nicholas Quentin is, in the argot of the ancient Greeks, a beautiful boy. A shock of smooth black hair sweeps in an elegant arch from forehead to cheek bone, a clipped dark beard defines the line of jaw. He has his mother’s eyes, dark and soft; his father’s angular chin. A face at once delicate and strong. He’s dressed the part of an upscale artiste: white tee, jacket over jeans, sneakers. No gold chains and no detectable tattoos. Father would not approve of tattoos.

  “Ms. Truitt,” he announces in a voice that makes me think of Ray Charles. His handshake is firm, but his eyes betray vulnerability.

  “Mr. Quentin,” I say. “Pleasure. Please sit.” I click my recorder on—he assures me he doesn’t mind—and begin. “As you know, I’m your mother’s lawyer. I’m here to see her through her trial. Secure an acquittal for her if I can.”

  “I understand that will be difficult—securing an acquittal, I mean.”

  “May I call you Nicholas?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “You’re in law school, Nicholas,” I say. “This case must give you a unique perspective on criminal law.”

  “My profs and classmates don’t discuss it,” he says. “But I think about it, all the time. They probably do, too, just too polite to talk about it.”

  “And what do you think of the case?”

  “It’s complicated. A part of me wants my mother to take the plea deal, for her own sake, but I know she didn’t do this,” he says. “I am absolutely certain of that.”

  The opposite of his father in every way. “Why’s that?”

  “At one point, my grandmother asked my mother to help her end her life. I was there. And my mother, she couldn’t do it.”

  “Did your grandmother ever ask you to help her end it?”

  “No,” he says. “And I don’t know if I could have done it if she had.”

  I study him closely. “Do you have any idea who might have killed your grandmother?”

  He hesitates. “No. Not really.”

  “Was there anyone who might have wanted her dead?”

  “The only person who wanted my grandmother dead was my grandmother. She could have asked someone else, but the way she died”—he stops, and I notice a weariness around his eyes—“it was murder. That’s not what she believed in.”

  “Can you tell me about your grandmother?”

  Genuine affection brightens his face as he recalls Olivia. “She was strong and wonderful. She cared. About people. About me. About what happened in the world. About what’s right and what isn’t right.”

  “You were close to her?” I prod.

  “In many ways. She was the best of grandmothers, like a third parent but better—she insisted on spoiling me. She was always there for me from when I was little, taking me to music lessons, standing in the rain at soccer practices, stopping at the corner store to buy me treats with a wink that meant I wasn’t obliged to tell Mother and Father.”

  “Did you remain close to your grandmother after you left home and started university?”

  “Oh yes. I’d see her at Sunday dinners at my parents’ house, and I
usually popped by once a week to visit her at home. Sometimes I’d take her out for a drive. She was very bright, Grandma, and wanted to know all about my courses. And of course, there was my music.” He spreads his hands, looks up. “I play piano. In my teens I encountered jazz and became obsessed. My father—no criticism intended—worried it would deflect me from what he viewed as more important pursuits. My mother understood my passion but didn’t like to undercut my father. It was only Grandma who actively encouraged me. Wonderful, she’d say, clapping her hands after I played something. Do play that again for me, Nicholas. Grandma didn’t know much about music, but she knew it mattered to me. That was enough for her.”

  “And then she became ill.”

  “Yeah, that was—difficult. The thought that she might die completely knocked me back. I almost failed my second semester, couldn’t work, couldn’t think. All I could do was worry. Gradually I came to understand that illness and death are part of life and got my bearings back. But it was hard—”

  I think about what it would feel like to lose my foster parents. I know what it felt like to lose Mike. “Yes, I can understand that.”

  “When she came home after the operation, she was weak. And the medications and chemo—they dulled the brightness I remembered. But she was still there for me. I would go see her as often as I could.”

  “You say your grandmother cared about the world, about what’s right, what isn’t right. She was involved in the dying with dignity movement, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. My grandmother believed people should be allowed to choose how to live their lives, and how to end them. She would go to the meetings with her friend Elsie Baxter. Once I drove them. Usually, they just took a cab.”

  “Did she give the movement money? Donate from time to time?”

  “You’d have to ask my father—he looked after her taxable donations.” He stops, as if considering how much to tell me. “All I know is that she was suffering. She didn’t want others to be in pain like she was. She did talk about changing her will to leave the movement something the last time I saw her, but nothing came of it.”

  I recall Vera saying she interrupted a conversation between Olivia and Nicholas. “That was the day before her death, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Interesting. Olivia sees her doctor. She talks to her grandson about changing her will. Elsie, a big supporter of the cause, visits her. Olivia calls a lawyer. All the same week. “Did your grandmother mention how much she was thinking of leaving the society?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask her?” I press.

  “No, why should I? It was her money, her business.”

  “What did she say, precisely, as best you can remember?”

  “She was asking me questions about the medical assistance in dying bill that Parliament had passed. We’d had these conversations before—I’d been studying the Supreme Court case in school—and I’d told her what the new law did and didn’t do. That although the Supreme Court decision that provoked the law hadn’t required it, Parliament put in the condition that death must be imminent before you could avail yourself of MAID.”

  “Go on,” I say encouragingly.

  “Well, she became a little upset. She said the law was too narrow. It should have allowed people to make a living will, so they could live as long as possible with dignity before going over the edge into dementia. And it shouldn’t have made imminent death a prerequisite for getting assistance in dying. It’s expensive, getting the law changed, she said. I intend to leave them something to help.”

  “Are you aware that your grandmother called a lawyer from Black and Conway around the time of your conversation? Not your father’s firm.”

  I study him closely, but he doesn’t react. “No,” he says.

  “I see. Nicholas, I’ve read the will. It’s very simple. Your mother gets the house and you get most of the rest, after a small bequest to Maria and something for a few charities. Nothing for the Society for Dying with Dignity. She didn’t see that through.” I pause. “But any money she would have given to them would have cut into your sizeable inheritance.”

  “Ms. Truitt, with respect, you’re wrong on two counts. First, Grandma was tight as—Pardon me, I was about to say something vulgar. Just let’s say she wouldn’t have given much to the society. Second, and more importantly, if you think I would have cared, you’re wrong. I will manage in life. On my own.”

  I sit back. “Like it or not, Nicholas, you have the makings of a great lawyer. Love the precise way you put your case. Your father would be proud.”

  “I never wanted to be a lawyer, still don’t,” he says with a shrug. “I know my father just wants the best for me. But he doesn’t understand. Don’t get me wrong, my father’s an estimable person. But he has certain expectations of those around him. Expectations that don’t necessarily track with their own desires.”

  “And what did your grandmother think? Did you talk to her about your father?”

  He bristles. “I’ve said too much, Ms. Truitt. And frankly, my relationship with my father has nothing to do with my grandmother’s murder.”

  I’ve touched a nerve; I try another avenue. “Nicholas, you said your grandmother was—stingy. Forgive me, I have to explore this, but weren’t you short of money? Maria says your grandmother regularly gave you cash to pay for your music.”

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Yes, that’s true. My father gave me an allowance; so long as I went to law school, that kept coming in. It was—is—part of the deal. I didn’t give up on my music though. I put together a jazz band. We’d practice every night. It cut into my law studies, but I’m a quick student. I’d grown up in the law, heard stories about what lawyer did this and that every night at the dinner table. Of course my father expected more, but as long as I was in the top third of the class, he didn’t complain. The band did well. We played covers, travelled. Lots to fuel our dreams. But there was never enough money to meet the expenses. And I had to bail out my bandmates from time to time.” His voice slides from annoyance to anger. “Grandma’s hundreds helped us eke along. But if you think I would have killed her for a few dollars—” He stands. “I’m out of here. I didn’t come here to be accused of killing my grandmother.”

  “Nicholas, I’m sorry if I upset you. But I’m trying to help your mother.” I remind him gently. “Your mother. Please stay.” I gesture to his seat, but it’s a moment before he sits.

  “Yes, my mother. Let’s stick to that.”

  “She stopped by that day. Things were tense. Why?”

  His face closes. “It was nothing of consequence.”

  I wait.

  “You are relentless, Ms. Truitt.”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  He sighs. “I’m sure you’re fully aware of my mother’s health. She wasn’t always that way, but sometime after I was born, she went into a depression. From then on, she lived a nightmare of depression and anxiety. I love her, but living with her was difficult, and that day was one of the challenging ones.”

  “Must have been hard on you.”

  “My father and I, we dealt with it. He would say to me, Families have troubles. We stand together. We never let one another down. It was like the rainy Vancouver weather—always there. You just go on, take her countless calls, and get through the day. I think Chekhov said, Love is three words: you go on. Something like that.”

  “But now your mother is better.”

  “Yeah. With new medication and cognitive behavioural therapy.” He laughs. “You know what? Some days I miss my old mother, calling, worrying, harassing, constantly messing in my life. I don’t know the new mother; she’s a different person. She’s calm. She’s collected. But I never really know what’s going on underneath.”

  I find myself nodding at his description. That’s exactly how Vera came across in our first meeting.

  Nicholas is still talking. “I go days without hearing from her, and I worry. Where did all that anxiety stuff go? Is it stil
l there, under her skin? I hated all her calls, but now that they don’t come, I miss them, in some perverse kind of way.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that.” And I do; I’ve been there. The silence after Mike and I broke up. Once the calls stopped, I found I wanted them, needed them.

  Nicholas and I look at each other and smile. After skirting the swales of acrimony, we’ve miraculously landed on a plateau of common sympathy. I decide to end the interview.

  “Thanks for coming in, Nicholas,” I say as I lead him to the lobby. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  “I will. I wish I could help more. Do your best for my mother, will you?”

  “Of course—that’s my job.”

  I watch his shoulders disappear down the street. A complex young man, full of dreams and honour, and perhaps more. I’ll spend the evening dissecting his answers and pondering his evasions, putting them together with what I know and, more important, do not know.

  CHAPTER 15

  “WE HAVE OUR REASONABLE DOUBT!” Jeff says. He punches the off switch on the recorder. The proud tones of Nicholas Quentin’s voice still resonate in our ears: I didn’t come here to be accused of killing my grandmother.

  I take a seat at the boardroom table, which is littered with Quentin case files. “Explain,” I say.

  Jeff is usually the skeptic, pointing out the problems in the case while I play Pollyanna. Today, he’s decided to reverse roles, putting me on the defensive. It’s a game we play to keep each other sharp: legal calisthenics. I know where he’s going, but I want to hear him say it.

  “Number one: the motive. The kid doesn’t want to practice law, which in time might bring in some bucks. He wants to play music, which brings in zilch. His father won’t give him money for that. Not to worry, everything will be fine when Grandma dies; she’s left him a quarter mil in the will. Except Grandma’s about to change her will and leave a big chunk of that to the Society for Dying with Dignity. What’s left won’t be enough to pay his debt, much less launch him on his music career.”

  “What do you mean, pay his debt?”