1. Jake
Jake
Isobelle was a gamechanger.
It’s not an exaggeration to say that my night with her wasn’t just amazing but that everything – and I mean, everything – went to hell after I woke up to find her gone.
That was a shock. Here I was dreaming of the very best way to start the day – you know the activity I mean. I stretched out a hand, filled with anticipation, to find – nothing.
That’ll wake you up in a hurry.
My dream date barely left a dent in the pillow. Gone. Not in the bathroom or the kitchen, not so much as a sequin from her evening bag left to prove that she’d even been in my apartment at all.
It was as if she never existed.
Not a note in the kitchen. Not a message in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Not even the scent of her perfume lingering in the living room. She might have been a figment of my imagination. A mirage. A dream.
If that wasn’t disappointing enough, things started to go wrong that very morning.
One of the tires on my car was flat, a slow leak and a dented rim proving that I’d hit one of the five million potholes lying in wait on this town’s streets and avenues.
While the car was at the shop that day, someone backed into the rear quarter panel.
My pride and joy had to stay three more nights for its first ever body work.
It isn’t perfect anymore. Three weeks later and I’m still getting over that.
In the meantime, I received notice that my condo fees were increasing by fifty percent for no discernible reason.
The following week, the laundry lost my favourite shirt, the one with my initials monogrammed on the cuff.
(How? HOW?) Subsequently, my housekeeper informed me that she was moving to Edmonton to live near her sister, so would only come to clean one more time.
And work, well, we’ll save the relentless collapse of civilization at my employer of choice for another time.
The weeks after Isobelle’s departure have been like falling off Mount Everest in slow motion, one disaster or injury after another. Each time I thought nothing more could go wrong, something did. It has been exhausting. If there is a God, he’s having a good laugh at my expense.
And why? Because I fell asleep after two marathon sessions of lovemaking? It feels like my mistake that she left without my even being aware of her departure. An epic fail. I was tired. Deservedly so. But still.
What would I have said? What would I have done? We both knew what we were doing and that it was a one-off. Trying to change the rules the next morning over coffee and toast would have been ill-fated, pointless and pathetic.
Plus, I did not want to change the rules. I like my life just as it is.
And now, my phone is ringing at 1:42 in the morning on a random Wednesday.
That cannot be good.
Worse, it’s the landline.
I roll out of bed and stare at the offending device on the kitchen counter, willing it to fall silent. Eight rings until it goes to voice mail. The caller could give it up at any time.
But he or she doesn’t.
I blame my situation, not on the glorious Isobelle and the night that spawned a thousand torments afterward, but my own weakness.
I can’t regret attending the champagne reception where I met the goddess in question, but I can regret my agreement to appear at the event in the first place for the sake of the family business.
I never do anything for the family business, as a matter of principle, but my serene brother, Mike, swore and I caved.
While meeting Isobelle was worth the price of admission, the disintegration of my life is welcome to stop at any time.
I’m pretty sure that if I’d declined Mike’s request, thereby remaining an island and a fortress, everything would be proceeding as usual.
But then I wouldn’t have met Isobelle.
Yes. She was worth it.
The phone stops after seven and a half rings. I have time to take a breath, then it starts again.
Okay. It’s someone who knows about my voice mail. It’s someone persistent enough to keep calling until I answer. It’s someone who knows I’m home on a weeknight.
It’s family. Time to get rid of the landline, that’s for sure.
I answer, fully expecting to hear Mike’s voice.
But no. Come to think of it, he’d call my cell.
“Oh, Jacob! It’s so awful! You have to help!” It’s a woman, almost incoherent in her anguish, and I recognize her voice immediately.
Yes. I cringe. Candace isn’t my favourite person in the world, but on this occasion, my stepmother is more annoying than usual.
I can’t understand her at all. Every question results in tears and wails.
She’s probably gnashing her teeth and tearing out her hair, too. No half-measures on drama with Candace.
I’m about to lose patience when my half-sister Madison claims the phone and proves herself useful for once in her life.
“Dad’s had a heart attack,” she says, sounding calm until her breath hitches and I realize how upset she is. “They’ve taken him to Havelock General and Ethan went, too.”
It’s not a surprise. My father is getting up there, and Patrick Cavendish is the kind of angry, domineering person inclined statistically to have sudden massive heart attacks. My first thought is that it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving candidate, but I’m not going to say that out loud.
Yet.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I’m not sure why this merited such an early morning call. My father would never ask to speak to me on his deathbed. He was, after all, the one who taught me to be completely self-reliant and expect nothing from anybody, even him.
Especially him.
I’m going to sign off, but Madison continues. “We’ve called Mike and he’s on his way over.”
I assume she means to the house where my father lives with his second family. My brother, Mike, also lives in Empire, but not in that house.
“Good.” Mike is great in a crisis. Solid. Reliable. Dependable. He can deal with this.
He might not even strangle Candace with his bare hands. Mike has superhuman levels of tolerance and patience, while I’m already tempted to reach through the phone and just make her stop. I can hear her in the background, like a siren warning of a hurricane making landfall.
“Jake!” Madison sounds stern, which means I’ve given her the wrong answer. “You should know that it doesn’t look good.”
I push a hand through my hair and decide I’ll bite. “Why should I know that?”
“Because Dad might die while you’re driving down here.
” She’s angry, although I don’t know why.
She and her brother, both Candace’s kids, have been gobbling back the goodies from my father’s trough ever since they were born.
Nothing has ever been too good for those two, and even if they were cut off right this minute, they still have to be in clover.
Ethan, who has never had a job in his life, drives a brand-new Mustang.
Madison’s high-end purse collection is of sufficient value to buy a house, even in Toronto, but it wouldn’t all fit in her red Audi.
All the austerity that was said to be good for me and my blood siblings vanished when my mom died, although curiously enough, Mom was the generous and kind one. It was my father who changed his tune.
Am I bitter? Maybe a little. Maybe enough that I’m not in a hurry to make everything peachy for Candace, Madison and Ethan, particularly at my own inconvenience.
My bad.
“Well, keep me posted,” I say, ready to end the call.
Madison’s voice rises to tones close to her mother’s. “Aren’t you coming down here?”
“That is not my plan.”
“Why not?”
Why should I? The question is as obvious to me as the answer but I don’t say it out loud.
Not yet.
Instead, I glance around my darkened apartment, my gaze lingering on the lights spread at my feet.
Beyond that ribbon of lights is the darkness of Lake Ontario.
It’s the wee hours of the morning, but I’ll bet there’s already a line of red taillights glowing along the 401 in either direction.
My place faces south, so I can’t see the highway-that-never-sleeps from here.
My view is of the lake, all dark and mysterious, with a few lights from ships reflected in its inky surface.
I love looking at the lake. I can pick out the Toronto Islands, even at this hour, darker shapes against the dark water.
I think of sailing ships, of boating clubs, of days with the wind in my hair, the sun on my face and water splashing against the prow.
The sails would snap overhead, even groan a bit, and the sailboat would tip on a turn…
“Jake?” Madison demands, her voice rising sharply. “Are you even there?”
“Of course.” Where would I have gone? Time to go mobile and ditch this land line. That way, I can be picky about who gets the number.
“Don’t be an asshole, Jake, not now. When will you be here? Mom needs to know.”
Candace’s wailing rises in another crescendo.
To be honest, the sound effects alone are enough to encourage me to drive in the other direction. Montreal, maybe, even though I don’t know anyone there.
No one except Isobelle. Even her name is like a jolt of red-hot fire. Why the hell did she vanish forever? I’m not looking for love, marriage, and happily-ever-after but another night with Isobelle would suit me just fine.
A couple of hours.
Thirty minutes.
I sigh, remembering the business at hand.
“It doesn’t make sense for me to drive down to Empire,” I say. “There’s nothing I can do for him.”
Madison drops her voice, sounding muffled all of a sudden. “We both know you’re his executor, Jake. There might very well be something for you to do by the time you get here.”
“He can’t die! Not my Patrick. No. No. Nooooooooo!” Candace shrieks and I wince again.
“Call me if and when that happens,” I say.
“Don’t be such a selfish dick,” Madison says sharply. “You need to come down here, Jake. Dad might not need you anymore, but the rest of us do. Ask Mike if you don’t believe me.”
And she ends the call. Points to her for being decisive.