“Mmm. You’ll want to be back on track before work starts up again. Tuesday is it?”
“Monday.”
“Isn’t that a holiday?”
“Not in retail. Our sale starts then.”
“Oh!” Isobel took a swig of coffee. “Will the pianos be marked down?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why don’t you treat yourself, pet? Surely with the staff discount you could get a wee grand, couldn’t you? Or at least a proper bench.”
“I don’t know. The timing may not be right.” Clare reached for a mug and studied its familiar, faded pattern of blue and white stripes, the worn chip on the rim. “I’ve been thinking about moving, maybe.” She glanced up. “To Vancouver.”
Her mother looked surprised, of course, but not terribly so.
“Vancouver! Were you making plans while you were out there, then?”
“No, not really. It’s just an idea. I may not do it.”
“No?” Isobel flipped a few pages then placed the book on the counter. “I would understand, pet,” she said solemnly. “It’s not that I wouldn’t miss you ... but I know what it’s like.”
Clare didn’t answer. If her mother had resisted, she could have argued the case for leaving, given it some impetus in her own head. Instead, she shut the dishwasher and went to the fridge, while Isobel talked on.
“Aye, I know what it’s like, wanting a change,” she said. “It’s easier these days, don’t you think? Being able to do what really suits you?”
“I don’t know. I guess,” Clare said, not turning around. She imagined her mother’s look of exasperation, a look suggesting that mothers and daughters are supposed to share their feelings, and that she, Clare, was failing to pull her weight in this mutually disagreeable obligation.
“There weren’t so many choices when your father and I were—” Isobel paused. “Could you hand me out the eggs please, pet?”
Clare gripped the fridge handle tighter. As she shifted items around, searching, she dared herself to phone up her boss and give her notice.
“I don’t see any eggs.”
“Oh, dammit, that’s right,” Isobel said. “I used the last of them. I wanted to try this quiche recipe, but I’ll have to save it for another time.”
Clare shut the fridge door and turned. “I’ll go get some.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, pet. I’d rather we—”
“It’s okay. I need to go out.”
“Are the stores even open? It’s Good Friday.”
“They’ll be open.”
She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and headed for the vestibule.
“The car may need gas,” her mother called after her.
“It’s okay. I’ll walk.”
Outside, the sun’s glare was blinding. Keeping her eyes down, Clare got to the end of her driveway before she noticed the motorcycle in the driveway across the street. Adam Vantwest, in a black leather jacket and black jeans, was crouched next to it, polishing the front fender with a cloth. Clare veered away from him. It was bad timing on her part, but at least he couldn’t see her. He was facing the stretch of Morgan Hill Road that led away from the Boulevard and seemed so absorbed in his work that for a moment she leaned into the Skinners’ front hedge and watched him. Emma’s voice urged her to say hello, but that, of course, was out of the question. From the safety of the hedge she observed his careful work, the gleam of the sun off the chrome, then she took a bite of her apple and headed in the direction of the Boulevard.
A new conversation with Emma had just begun when Adam’s voice rang out behind her.
“Clare! Hi!”
She stopped short and dropped her apple in the slush. He would know she’d tried to slip past him. She kicked the apple aside and turned, clenching her hands.
“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.” Implausible, but she guessed he’d let it go.
Adam straightened up and slid his sunglasses on top of his head. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I thought maybe you moved.”
“Oh. No. I’ve just been on holiday.” She forced a smile.
“Lucky you. Did you go away?”
“Uh, yeah. I was visiting a friend in Vancouver.”
“Vancouver!” He shook out the rag in his hand. “I’m so jealous! I was there a few years ago. It’s such a great city. I’d love to go back.”
Clare smiled stupidly then glanced back at her house with a vague, uncomfortable sensation that her father was watching her.
“So, what did you do while you were out there?” Adam said, wiping his hands on the rag, advancing toward her. His wavy black hair was gelled, and a diamond stud sparkled in his earlobe. He was ridiculously confident.
Clare stuffed her hands in her pockets and rubbed her index fingers with her thumbs.
“Oh, not much. I mean, not many tourist things. I was just hanging out, with a friend.”
Hanging out. She sounded fifteen.
“That’s cool. What does your friend do?”
“She teaches music at a college.”
She knew how this would go. In moments, Adam would get bored. He’d say, Well, I should let you go, as if she were the one being kept against her will. He’d go back to his motorcycle, she’d resume her walk to the store, and only then would she think of a dozen interesting things to say about Emma’s work.
But Adam nodded patiently, twirling the cloth rag like a lasso. “Music teacher, eh? How does she like that?”
Clare met his eyes, just long enough to notice their extraordinary colour—very light, greenish brown.
“Um, she loves it,” she said. On an impulse, she added, “Emma’s really passionate about her music,” and the word passionate echoed strangely in her head.
“Is that the same Emma who used to live here? Emma Skinner?”
“Uh-huh. That’s her.”
Adam gave a knowing nod. “Well, that’s great, about her music. It’s not often someone gets to make a living doing what they really love. Know what I mean?”
She searched for a response—something interesting or intelligent or merely adequate—but nothing came.
“Yeah,” she said. “You’re right.”
In the pause that followed, she expected him to go back to his motorcycle. He’d been more than neighbourly. But instead he stayed, twisting the rag into a tight cord. Clare looked down Morgan Hill Road in the direction of the Boulevard. She’d yet to ask Adam anything about himself.
“Are you going for a ride?” she said.
He glanced over at the motorcycle. “Yeah, I thought I might. It’s such a great day. How about you? You going somewhere?”
“Just to the Provigo.”
Adam turned back, studying her it seemed. “Would you like a ride?” he said.
The shocking words hung between them in the cold, clear air. Impossible words. She needed to tell him that he was mistaken. That she wasn’t the kind of person who did such things. Her hands clenched tighter.
“You mean on the motorcycle?”