“Don't forget the margaritas and the sea lapping at my toes. No guys call me to whisper sweet nothings. Nor are any guys whispering anything else, now that you mention it. Especially at five thirty a.m.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think this is probably just a dream.”
“It's real. And?”
“And what?” I tried to keep my voice pleasant, because Ray Deveau is the best damn thing to have happened to me in many, many years. He is worth working hard to be nice to.
“And you are stretched out on a warm beach, blah blah blah.”
“Actually, I am stretched out under a tumbled mass of duvet, which I seem to be sharing with a large, stinky dog. There's a calico cat licking my toes, and that actually seems a bit creepy. No one is filling my margarita, although now that I'm wide awake at five thirty in the morning, I wish someone would bring me a cup of coffee before I head out into the cold, damp, miserable November morning to walk the smelly dog that has been awakened by the sound of the phone ringing.”
“So you're saying the beach does sound like an improvement.”
“Yes. Too bad it's not happening.”
“It should happen. We could take a holiday together. Wouldn't that be good after everything we've been through in the past couple of months? You never did have a proper recovery time following those concussions.”
“Me? What about you? You almost died.”
“That too. So, a holiday, well-deserved by both.”
“Are you the same Ray Deveau with the two teenage daughters you can't leave in the house alone?”
“Yup.”
“Not to be picky, but are they part of the beach dream too?”
“Nope. That would be insufficiently romantic. Anyway, the girls will be in school.”
“How can you just…?”
“All taken care of. My sister, Sharon, the one who lives in Dartmouth, has a few weeks after she moves out of her old house and before she moves into her new one. She's going to spend it here. As the resident guard.”
“Don't you want to spend time with her?” I said.
“Let's put it this way. Are there circumstances where you would opt to spend two weeks in a confined space with one of your sisters and a couple of teenage hormone factories?”
“Point taken.”
“I've got some holiday time coming, and it's use it or lose it. So I've been looking through travel brochures. I keep seeing your face in all the photos. How about Mexico?”
“I don't know, Ray.”
“Okay, Dominican Republic?”
“I'm not sure I can do it. I got so far behind in my work when I was recovering. I couldn't concentrate on anything. You know I haven't even reopened Justice for Victims since we got evicted. There are so many people who desperately need a service like ours when they're dealing with horrible situations and jackasses in the justice system. If I'm not there, who's going to ensure they're not revictimized by vindictive criminals and their bulldog lawyers?” I didn't mention cops, since Ray's a Sergeant in the Cape Breton Regional Police, and he might not want to be on a list with jackasses.
“Thanks for the lecture, but I already know what you do,” he said.
“And you also know people are counting on me.”
“Yeah. I think I might be one of them.”
“You know what I mean. How can I go away after I did nothing useful all fall?”
“When was the last time you had a break that didn't end in an emergency room? Leave everything with Alvin.”
“Alvin? You must be joking. How's he supposed to cope?”
“He'd be thrilled if you were out of the office. I mean, that's just a guess.”
“We don't have an office. We're going to set up in my new house, remember? Which is also not set up. There is junk piled up to the ceiling.”
“Camilla?”
“Yes?”
“I am up to speed on what's been happening to you. We do talk every day, although I'll save you the trouble of saying ‘not usually at five thirty in the morning’.”
“Then you know I'm not unpacked. And you should know I don't feel right about inheriting this house, or about anything else that happened. It's just a really bad time for me.”
“Do something pleasant for yourself for once. Think about swimming in the crystal blue water.”
“Small problem. Other people packed my stuff when I was in the hospital. I don't know where anything is, like, for instance, my bathing suit.”
“I'd be willing to spring for a bathing suit. At least, a small one.”
“And the idea of leaving Alvin in charge, that's just plain scary.” That would account for the way my heart was racing.
“Tell you what, I've got to hit the road. Think about where you'd like to go and call me,” Ray said.
“Okay.”
“New plan, I'll call you.”
“Wait! Today's Remembrance Day. I'll be at the ceremonies.”
“No problem. I'll give you a ring tonight.”
“That'll be good,” I said.
I listened to the dial tone for a long time and reminded myself that Ray was the best. Why was I such a jerk sometimes?
* * *
As we reached the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, “O Canada” was followed by “The Last Post”. The goosebumps lasted after the notes faded. The cannon boomed, marking the beginning of the moment of silence. My personal silence was accompanied by a stream of icy water wending its slow way past my collar and down my back.
Entirely appropriate.
I was squeezed on the mezzanine terrace of the National Arts Centre, too many feet above the sidewalk, along with hundreds of strangers jostling to observe the Remembrance Day ceremonies. Below, thousands clustered in the rain to mark the moment. Somewhere on the far side of the throng, the Prime Minister, the Governor General, the military brass, the Silver Cross mother, representatives of every diplomatic mission and a busload of big shots were assembled.
I jockeyed for position with college kids, moms and toddlers plus one beagle busy nosing crotches. I was too close to a spiny shrub for comfort, and the crowd was so dense I couldn't raise my umbrella without knocking someone's eye out. At least I was close enough to the edge to have a decent view of the street below. I looked down at a sea of faces, young and old, white, aboriginal, black, Asian and combinations. Overcoats, jean jackets and rain slickers brushed shoulders with a wide variety of military uniforms: Canadian, British, American and lots I didn't recognize.
Somewhere on the parade route, my father, Donald Angus MacPhee, would be lined up to march with his fellow vets. I would watch him with pride as I have every Remembrance Day since I was old enough to toddle. I'm pushing forty, but I have trouble feeling like an adult when I see how stooped and frail he's become.
The last few years, I've been at the ceremonies to honour my friend, former neighbour and personal hero, Mrs. Violet Parnell. Mrs. P. would never miss a chance to squeeze into her Canadian Women's Army Corps uniform and march with her head high.
The crowd stretched as far as I could see, jamming the sidewalks on Elgin Street, around and past the War Memorial, spilling onto Wellington Street and up the grassy hill by the East Block of the Parliament Buildings. Every inch