Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Kit
Soft music that matched the décor was mostly by the chatter of the crowd inside.
Closest to us, a group of elegantly dressed men and women were gathered around some unoccupied benches.
Montgomery introduced me to politicians, local business leaders, and other newsmen.
Names I committed to memory though I had no intention of forming any friendships.
Who knew when a contact could come in handy?
As we moved from one group to another, I kept an eye out for the only reason I’d bothered to come tonight.
It might’ve been coincidence that Albert Salter’s wife mentioned Whitman and shortly after Montgomery had, too, but given the revelation linking my father’s death to my mother’s, I wasn’t taking chances.
If Ted had stumbled onto this, if Salter had gotten in touch with him when I didn’t answer… Then maybe it was all connected.
So far I hadn’t seen Whitman. Not that I’d know who to look for, but Montgomery would.
Instead, I was fielding invasive questions from people who thought they knew me because they’d heard my voice on the radio.
Why come back before the end of the war?
Why aren’t you with the troops making their journey to the final goal?
Each query was a dagger, guilt pulling me in two directions.
I couldn’t regret coming home for Ted, but I was aware I’d gotten off easy.
As the evening wore on, I was more and more unbalanced.
Montgomery did his best to redirect conversation as disbelieving silences met my replies.
A family emergency was clearly an unsatisfactorily vague response, like they couldn’t reconcile the person on the radio with the man who’d willingly left the front.
I couldn’t entirely blame them. They didn’t really know me, and from their perspective, it probably seemed like I’d thrown in the towel and selfishly headed for safety.
Or perhaps it was only my own insecurity colouring their curiosity.
A man to my left stared, clearly expecting a more in-depth answer to his question.
What’s so important back in Halifax? He was the sort of entitled wealthy person I couldn’t stand.
Tall, so handsome it nearly hurt to look at, and obviously used to getting his way.
Something about him triggered a strange animal recognition in me, the instinctive fear that alerted prey they were being stalked.
It made my skin crawl. The magic I was so good at pretending didn’t exist within me fizzed and creaked in my bones. My shoulders and arms ached with restraint. So faint I almost couldn’t hear it, a sweet nostalgic tune playing weakened my reluctance to elaborate.
“That’s John Whitman,” Montgomery whispered. “You better answer him, Kit. Big advertiser.”
Whitman’s wife, Eleanor, shifted slightly, catching my eye. Hanging quietly on his arm, her speculative gaze roamed my face, like she was trying to catalogue my expression. Involved with Ted’s disappearance or not, I didn’t like either of them.
“My brother and his wife needed help,” I admitted, easing my hands into my pockets. “So, I’ll be in Halifax until we resolve the situation.” That was as good as they were getting.
It was the strangest feeling, but I couldn’t shake the impression that Whitman already knew more than I wanted him to.
“Well, son, I hope for your sake it doesn’t take too long. You’d be better served back in the thick of things.”
“I’d love nothing more than to resolve this and head back over, Mr. Whitman. I don’t suppose you ever met my brother, Ted Lovely?”
Whitman’s gaze narrowed slightly, his faint smirk never dropping. “Can’t say we were ever introduced. Why do you ask?”
He was telling the truth, but it didn’t escape my notice he hadn’t outright said he’d never met Ted. Not being introduced was a circumvention of my question. “I heard you had mutual acquaintances. I’ve been checking in with everyone he’s spoken to.”
“Ah. Well, as I said, we were never introduced, so…”
“Mr. Daring,” a man called to my right. “Can I take your picture for the paper?”
I pasted a smile on my face, turning to face him fully. “Of course.”
The conversation around me faded as the photographer arranged us, and I only noticed Whitman had slipped away after the group broke up. Montgomery guided us into another conversation, steering me from place to place as he trotted me out to garner funding or encourage advertising revenue.
Eventually, we made our way to seats and watched a film I paid little mind. Minutes ticked away while I struggled to place the melody I could’ve sworn I heard while Whitman was watching me. It brought to mind long caramel hair and laughter and, hauntingly, pain.
It wasn’t her song. My mother’s. But it had contained striking similarities.
Was I imagining things? Mind leaping to make connections where none existed because Gus had linked my father’s death to my mother’s murder?
There had been quiet music playing in the lobby when I arrived, and perhaps, I’d simply heard it wrong amid the din of so many people speaking over one another. I must’ve been confused.
Once the picture finally ended, we made our way out of the theatre and chatted a little longer on the street until everyone bid their farewells and began in different directions. Some of them lived close enough to walk, others sauntered to where their cars waited.
“Shall I drive you home?” Montgomery asked, his voice quiet and low. “Or perhaps you’d like to come for a nightcap at mine?”
It was tempting. He wasn’t bad looking, he was willing. Had been attentive all evening, shielding me from prying questions when he could. He seemed… decent. His being my boss complicated things, but I could do a lot worse.
For instance, I could follow the insistent tug to August North and have my heart broken all over again when it hadn’t ever healed right the first time.
But when I tried to picture Montgomery’s soft mouth pressing against mine, his body hot and hard and demanding, my gut churned unhappily.
What was wrong with me? Permanently busted, that’s what I was.
“I think I’ll walk home. I could use some air.”
“Would you like company? I love a good walk.”
Maybe he was trying to be kind, but it was starting to feel pushy.
“Another time. I enjoyed this evening, but I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I really do just want to walk and think.
” He seemed on the verge of arguing, and now I was getting annoyed.
Keeping it out of my voice, I said, “Truly. Thank you for the offer, I appreciate it.”
“If you’re sure?” Was that disappointment or dissatisfaction? I probably should have cared.
“Thank you.” I stuck out my hand to shake his before turning and starting up the incline of Spring Garden Road.
Streetlights illuminated Saint Mary’s Basilica and I tried not to look as I walked by.
Didn’t matter, I knew exactly what I’d see anyway.
The white-grey granite spire of the Gothic Revival cathedral towered far above the surrounding buildings, reaching for the darkened sky.
The tallest spire in North America adorning one of the most beautiful churches.
I wasn’t Catholic—wasn’t even Christian anymore—but I used to admire the beauty of her architecture.
The windows had all been replaced after the Halifax Explosion.
Each one shattered in the blast, but the building had survived.
Unlike my mother. Shivering with a cool breeze, I continued on.
Reminders of the night she was killed brought back memories of my father’s grief-wracked face.
The torturously slow decline from attentive kind-hearted man to rambling, half-nonsensical drunkard.
The hole in my life that had once been filled by the warm presence of my loving, brilliant mother and her lively spirit.
I was only seven when she was stolen from us, so it was hard to tell if my vague recollections were truly memories or only fabrications I’d comforted myself with.
But in my mind, she’d been beautiful, graceful, and so full of joy, songs always on her lips.
Stories I’d memorized and sung to Teddy, keeping her alive for him, so he’d know at least one of his parents had loved him.
Even if they were made up tales she pulled from a vivid imagination, they’d been all hers.
And at that moment I missed her with a fierceness that should have dulled over the decades.
This was another reason I’d avoided Halifax. All the ghosts of my past resided within its steep hills and sprawling streets. The very framework of the city brought them to the surface.
Lost in memory, humming my mother’s bedtime song, I wandered the sidewalks, trudging in the vague direction of Ted’s, unprepared to face his empty house and the darkness of another yawning night alone.
Wondering where he was, if he was all right.
If he was already dead. What if I was the last of our pitifully small family?
No grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.
It was only me and Ted. What if there were never any little Lovely children to pass my mother’s songs on to and they died with me?
Then she’d be completely forgotten. We all would.
Like we’d never existed in the first place.
I hadn’t realized I was walking up the road Gus lived on until I’d already trudged beyond his house and five of his neighbours’. The sound of tires squealing past rattled me, and I turned to see what their rush was.
The explosive crack of two rifles firing one after another followed by the sharp shattering of glass sent my heart leaping into my throat.
I dropped to the pavement and shielded my head—part instinct, part well-ingrained habit. More shots rent the air. I gasped for breath through horror and concrete dust. Shells exploded to my left, tearing up scrub and lighting trees on fire. Centuries-old buildings collapsed to the ground.