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Chapter Thirty-one
“Come back tothe house,” my father instructed as we were leaving the burial site, the first words he’d spoken to me since “jewelrygate,” as Tracy had taken to calling it. “There are some things we need to discuss.”
I knew from experience that when my father said there were things that needed to be discussed, it meant only that there were things he wanted to say. His idea of a discussion was that he talked and everybody else listened.
And obeyed.
“Sounds ominous,” I whispered to Tracy as we walked down the winding road to where we’d parked our cars.
“Look on the bright side,” she said. “At least he’s talking to you.”
I’d suggested driving to the cemetery together, but Tracy had been adamant about taking her own car in case she needed to make a quick getaway. “Funerals aren’t exactly my thing,” she’d said.
“I don’t think funerals are anybody’s thing,” I countered.
“You’d be surprised,” she told me, in all seriousness. “Some peoplelovefunerals. Serial killers, for example, they show up at them all the time.”
I laughed in spite of myself. Comments like that were one of the reasons why, despite her self-absorption, I dearly loved my sister. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out.”
Mount Pleasant Cemetery, occupying miles of prime real estate in the very heart of the city, is one of the largest cemeteries in Canada. A daunting maze of greenery, where tombstones dot the land like flowers, and mausoleums rise from the earth like mini-skyscrapers, its sprawling grounds are popular with both pedestrians and cyclists, even in winter.
“Busy place,” I told Tracy, dodging a group of joggers running along the side of the road toward us.
“People are just dying to get in,” she said.
Ten minutes later, I followed her car onto Scarth Road, parking behind her at the end of the street and walking beside her toward our parents’ house. “What do you suppose Dad wants to tell us?”
Tracy shrugged, but there was something about the shrug that announced she already knew.
“Tracy?” I prodded. “Do you know something that I don’t?”
“What did Elyse say to you in the chapel?” she asked in return.
I wasn’t sure if the two questions were connected or if she was just trying to change the subject. I told her of Elyse’s apology, her attempt at an explanation.
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to.” The truth was that Idesperatelywanted to believe Elyse. I told myself that her explanation was plausible. And it was somehow easier to believe ill of my father than it was to believe ill of her. Elyse had never been anything but kind to me, whereas my father…well, let’s just say that kindness had never been high on his list of priorities.
Our father had arrived home minutes before we did, and he was waiting for us at the front door as we approached. Elyse was in the kitchen, he told us, preparing coffee and sandwiches for lunch.
“Just coffee for me,” Tracy said.
“I tried to tell her that you only ‘grazed’ during the day,” my father said with something approaching pride. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “I’m sure Jodi will eat whatever you don’t.”
And we’re off,I thought, removing my coat and carrying it into the living room, holding it on my lap to hide whatever unsightly bulges might be lurking as I lowered myself into one of the three olive-green sofas grouped around the large stone fireplace. A mammoth limestone coffee table occupied the space in the middle of the sofas. A large, multicolored Persian rug lay at our feet.
Tracy perched at the edge of the sofa across from me, as if she was prepared to take off at the first hint of trouble. Our father remained standing.
“I wanted to discuss your mother’s will,” he said without preamble.
I looked at Tracy; she looked at the rug.
“Basically, your mother left everything to me,” he began. “But Elyse has brought it to my attention that there are a few items your mother would likely have wanted you girls to have, and after much deliberation, I think Elyse is right.” He took a deep breath, his arm extending toward the mantel over the fireplace, returning with a small velvet box. “I initially gave these earrings to Elyse as a token of my gratitude for taking such good care of your mother, but she has convinced me that this was a mistake and that you should have them,” he said, looking at me.
I felt a flush of gratitude, understanding that this was as close to an apology as I was likely to receive from my father, “sorry” not being a normal part of his vocabulary. I shifted forward in my seat just as his gaze shifted from me to my sister.
“Tracy,” he said, “these are for you.” He held the box out for Tracy to take.
