Chapter 9 #2
Standing on the front steps of Kit’s—Ted’s—house with a casserole dish in my hands brought back years of helping my mum in the kitchen while she made a double batch of Sunday dinner, because it was the only way she could be sure Kit and Ted would go to bed with full bellies.
Mr. Lovely didn’t let them visit on Sundays.
Despite his despondent nature, he clung to his faith, dragging the boys to church in the mornings, and keeping them home the rest of the day to study the Bible.
We went to church too, most everyone in our neighbourhood did, but we were free to roam after and we came home to a warm and loving household that smelled of delicious food and baking bread.
If Mr. Lovely had any compunctions around accepting charity, they didn’t extend to free homecooked meals. He’d ruffle my hair as he thanked me before sending me home.
When I knocked on the door, I half-expected he’d answer.
But it wasn’t Sunday—it was Monday—and it wasn’t 1918 anymore either.
Kit stood in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of me, then softening when they dropped to the dish in my hands.
He’d lost the suit jacket and tie from earlier, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing pale forearms. At least I didn’t feel underdressed in the navy sweater I’d changed into for the evening.
“From Tillie?” he asked, stepping back. “Come on in.”
“She wanted to have you over, but she was worried you might not be up to socializing, so she sent me by.”
“That was nice. Of both of you.” Kit led me into the kitchen, and I set the casserole on top of the stove to cool, folding the dishtowel I’d been cradling it with.
“I needed to talk to you anyway,” I said, trying not to fiddle with the towel.
Kit rested his hip against the counter. “About?”
“I saw George Baker this afternoon.” Kit’s arms crossed, and his mouth formed into a flat line, like he was trying not to react.
What was that about? I knew he hadn’t kept in contact with George, but I didn’t understand why there would be animosity on Kit’s side of the equation. “What’s with your face?”
His eyes narrowed, and a flush spread over his cheeks. “Nothing. I just… hadn’t realized you and George were still friends.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t we be?” I asked, anger I didn’t want to feel creeping into my voice, burning the back of my neck. “You’re the one who cut him out of your life, not me.”
Kit’s dirty look shifted to the floor. “So, you talked to George, and this has what relevance to me?”
“For starters, he’s a Mountie,” I said, forcing my voice even. I wasn’t going to lose control and turn this into a fight neither of us needed. “He got me the case file on your father’s death. Along with the medical examiner’s report.”
“Oh. What did it say?”
“For starters, Albert Salter was the medical examiner on record. He signed it off as accidental. But I hafta tell you the injuries don’t exactly look consistent with the story.
I’m not an expert, but there was an awful lot of bruising around his ribs, back, and neck for a guy who supposedly took a header into a railing.
And he was frozen solid when they found him the next morning, a crust of ice covering his whole body like trees after freezing rain. But it didn’t rain that night.”
Kit’s face paled, his gaze gone haunted as he remembered the same thing I did when I saw the report.
Other than the bruising, it was the exact same way Kit’s mother had been found outside of Saint Mary’s Basilica in 1917.
My dad was the first Mountie on the scene, and he’d worked the case long after his buddies let it drop.
It was magic for sure; the sky had been clear, and the temperature hadn’t even dipped below zero.
But there was no trace of whodunnit. Eventually Dad started to bring the file home at night, and curiosity had got the better of me when I was nine.
The image of Mrs. Lovely’s terrified face under the sheen of ice was the first of a lot of horrible things I’d seen in my life. It left an impression.
“So maybe Salter does have pertinent information after all. At least about your dad. No way to know if it has anything to do with Ted.”
It had to be excruciating, finding out his father was killed in the same way as his mother.
I’d thought of softening the reveal, but how the hell could I have managed to?
There wasn’t a way on earth to make knowing any easier.
Besides, Kit would want the truth, not coddling, and I was the last person on earth he’d want consoling him.
Eventually, his eyes lost their glazed look, and he blinked up at me.
“Right, no, you’re right. It might not—probably doesn’t—have anything to do with Ted.
But I found out something that does. I did what you asked and telephoned around.
One of Ted’s friends mentioned an altercation with a co-worker at Nova Scotia Light and Power.
He didn’t recall the details, but it was last Wednesday. ”
He'd skipped right past the information about his father, but I didn’t blame him for focusing on Ted.
To him, that was the important part. “Sounds like a lead we can follow. I’ve met Ted’s manager.
If he doesn’t have the details, he’ll let us talk to his employees and find out what happened.
Why don’t I pick you up tomorrow morning around ten, and we’ll head over? ”
“Sure.”
With everything we’d needed to tell each other out of the way, uncomfortable silence stretched between us.
I wished whatever was broken in me, whatever kept me from being able to offer him compassion out loud instead of only in my head, was functional.
Mum was right. Kit needed a friend, and I was the closest thing he had to one here.
But even that was wrecked between us. The temporary patches we’d slapped over the past to get through finding Ted would fray sooner or later. They were already showing wear.
The grim truth was, one way or another, at the end of all this, Kit and I? We’d be strangers again.
“Okay, uh, I guess I’ll…” I gestured toward the door.
Kit blinked, momentarily surprised before he recovered. “You could stay for supper. If you want. You did bring the food, after all.”
The problem was, I did want. I wanted too much. And neither of us was prepared to fall back into how we were. “Thanks, but I’ve got someone waiting on me. I should go before I’m late.”
That blank look crept over Kit’s features again. The one he got when he was trying to hide hurt. This was why. The way it felt when he got hurt. How it ripped a gash in my own heart, like pain inflicted on him rebounded on me and magnified. And we would hurt each other. Eventually we always would.
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow then, August.”
Guilt snarled in my gut. “Tomorrow, Lovely.”