Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(91)
“Less than fifty-fifty. Subject to variables either way.”
“Are you afraid I won’t love you if we lose?”
Arthur wandered off to the window, looked out into the night at the moon gliding from behind a cloud. “I’m afraid I will fail you, Margaret.”
“I will always love you.”
He returned his gaze to her. His eyes had moistened, but he was smiling. “Then let’s go to trial.”
LIONHEART
It was Saturday, four days after the bumper Christmas Eve Lou had planned for his runaway family. But he was finally on the road in his homely Chev, with the two Santa bags, the monster panda, and a kid’s bicycle called the Green Flash, with a superhero painted on it.
His plan hadn’t changed. He would dip into the city, to Upper Mount Royal, make the drop, and run. Avoid downtown. Calgary would be a beehive of press this weekend, with the ongoing Farquist-Blake discoveries. He wasn’t incredibly keen on bumping into one of his old CP cronies. Let alone the combatants and their legal-political teams.
Steam was rising from the wheat fields, the snow melting before his eyes. Still a solid, soggy blanket of it, ditches and sloughs filling with meltwater, streams overflowing. His brave little car had made it like gangbusters across the turbulent water below the Porcupine Creek bridge, and he’d been stalled by snowplows in the Cypress Hills, but otherwise slush was the only hazard.
Though it was sunny, his wipers were on, whacking away the slop thrown at him by overtaking vehicles. Lou had slept poorly, anxiously, and he was taking it slow and easy. He had made it this far in life. A life that still had possibility.
He’d been practically manacled to his computer for the last three days, but was already getting multiple hits on his new website: DR. JOY’S HEALTH TIPS. Arianna Joy, MD, M.Sc., Licensed Nutritionist. PAPAYA, THE HEALTHIEST FRUIT IN THE WORLD. BANANAS ARE GOOD FOR YOU. THESE TEN BESTSELLING FAST FOODS ARE THE TEN WORST FOR YOUR HEALTH.
Lou’s many years on the CP rewrite desk were paying off. The internet was swarming with health sites and blogs, easily cribbed from. All he had to do was to make it look fresh with a jazzy design and easy-to-read prose. And authoritative. Dr. Joy, M.Sc. Holistic Science and Herbal Medicine. Yesterday, his first ad had come in, from a tropical fruit importer.
There was increased bustle on the highway as he neared Calgary, its downtown towers poking above the flatlands. He blinked away the lulling effect of the wiper blades and focussed on the road. He couldn’t risk a traffic ticket. Calgary’s finest might still be on edge over the pedophile.
At last report, they’d zeroed in on a short, bald driver of a grey Saturn Astra. But surely the perv would have ditched that car by now, its photo in all the papers. A lone dude, in a blue Chevy Cavalier with Saskatchewan plates, registered to Maple Creek Car and Truck Repairs Ltd., who produces a Quebec driver’s licence in the name of Robert O’Brien might have some explaining to do.
He’d made an effort to look law-abidingly straight with his professorial beard, trimmed hair neatly combed, preppy sweater-vest, dress jeans, and a green-and-white Roughrider jacket scored at the Porcupine Plain Nu-To-You. Costume designed by Sally Rosewell, who didn’t want him looking like a bum.
He had declined her offer to drive him. Sweet Sally. She’d come back on Boxing Day to apologize. She respected him. He had acted honourably in the end, even though he’d kept his wife a secret. She wanted to be his friend. He said he needed a friend, and they had a sex-free hug.
Sally sealed this excellent friendship by arranging for her regular courier to deliver Celeste’s necklace. It should have arrived today, a special weekend rate.
He remembered, guiltily, how hot he’d been for Sally, betrayed by his unsolicited, defiant stiffy. However, there’d been a creative side effect. MORINGA LEAF POWDER, THE AMAZING BUT LITTLE-KNOWN NATURAL SUBSTITUTE FOR VIAGRA.
§
It was mid-afternoon when he turned onto Hope, a wide street that the city had cleared by pushing the snow onto boulevards, sidewalks, and front lawns, some of the mounds over five feet high.
No family vehicles at the curb, all of them tucked safely into driveways or garages, just a Shaw Cable truck and a guy up a power pole. A catastrophic emergency for weekend football fans, cable was out on this block. A few dads were using their downtime to shovel walks and driveways. A mom was knocking down icicles from the eaves while her kids repaired a drooping snowman.
No one was outside Celeste’s sister’s house, but the curtains weren’t drawn and the lights were on. The kids had built a snow fort by the in-law suite, and a path had been beaten to the driveway, which had been cleared. The Dodge Caravan was there, and a little Fiat behind it — a visitor?
Lou kept the engine running as he dragged out his canvas bags and heaved them over the snowbank onto the front lawn, making wide snow bursts. Then the bicycle, then the mega-panda, on top of the bank, facing the house, its arms outstretched in greeting.
He stumbled as fast as he could back to his car, and put it in gear. A quick glance back caught a movement in the picture window, a small person, had to be Lisa or Logan.
Though he’d turned a corner by now, he was fighting an intolerable need to go back, to share the belated Dream of a White Christmas now unfolding on Hope Street — or at least unfolding in his mind: Lisa and Logan bursting outside, screaming, “Mom, Mom, Daddy’s been here!” Celeste racing behind them with their coats, looking terrific in her diamond pendant silver necklace.