4. Luke
4
LUKE
I ’m so full of lasagna that I go for a walk after dinner.
Actually, I go for a walk because I’m curious as to what Daph has discovered and/or done.
Can I find her?
I head back down Queen Street and immediately notice that the pewter Honda that was parked outside the law office earlier is gone. I decide immediately to do some detective work to figure out where Daph lives. Empire isn’t that big. I can walk it all inside of an hour, so I get started.
What can I tell you about my hometown?
The road from Havelock comes from the east. It twists around a bit then becomes Queen Street, straightening out at The Maple Leaf Motel. I leave the motel parking lot and walk past the Petro Canada gas station just west of the motel, a brand new place with very bright lighting and no service. I don’t even have to look to know that the chip truck beside it is open. I can smell the fat a hundred meters away. Across the street on the north side is the United Church, solid brick and a century old, the sign reminding us all that services are at 10 each Sunday morning.
On the left, the south side, is Weatherby & Bradshaw, the first building in Empire’s downtown. The lights are out and nobody is home there.
Queen Street runs roughly east-west. There’s one major intersection ahead at Erie Street, which heads north, past several streets of houses, ultimately finding its way to the Cavendish Greenhouses and Rhodes Vineyards a couple of clicks out of town. (That’s kilometers, in case you aren’t sure.) Erie Street also runs south to (surprise) Lake Erie and Empire’s sister town, Port Cavendish. Once Port Cavendish was the big town and Empire the offshoot. It was the other way around for a while, and now both are quiet.
The intersection of Erie and Queen is a roundabout, with a huge sugar maple planted in the island. Big Red is over a hundred years old and an absolute knock-out each fall. It’s bigger than I remember, its leaves now the bright green of springtime and new growth.
After I pass the law offices, I check out the current state of downtown retail. It’s bleak. Across the street is an antique store, which might be better called a junk store from the offerings in the window. There are more empty stores before the closed diner that I want to give a future.
There’s also a bunch of papered windows between the law offices and the old Odeon theatre, which shut down sometime after I left town. They used to play The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight on the last Friday of the month, even though that trend had been well over—just not in Empire. I smile in recollection of all of us doing The Time Warp (again and again) and would bet there are still pieces of toast in the darker corners.
Next to it, on the southeast corner of the circle around Big Red is The Emporium, a department store of sorts from Empire’s early years, also closed and empty. The post office is across the street on the northeast corner.
It’s amazing how quiet it is. I can’t hear any cars or other traffic. There’s a bit of music floating through the air, like someone is listening to oldies in their kitchen with the window open, but otherwise, I could be out in the country. Or maybe in a ghost town. I hear an owl, which is enough to make me stop and try to spot it. (No joy.)
There aren’t many cars parked on Queen Street or any litter blowing down the street. Maybe Empire is a ghost town. Most of the buildings are two storeys, retail on the street level and residential units upstairs. The majority of that retail space is empty, too. I don’t see many lights, although there’s a television or computer on in the apartment over the antique store, casting blue light at a ceiling. No signs of movement, though.
I suppose some towns would have a war memorial in the middle of the roundabout, but Empire has that maple tree in pride of place. The town has always been small. Maybe there weren’t enough local sons who went to war. Maybe they had lucky charms in their pockets and all came home. I don’t know, but Big Red isn’t going anywhere soon.
I look up Erie Street to the library on the west side just a bit north of Queen Street. Like so many towns in the area, Empire has a Carnegie library. The Anglican Church is beside it, on the northwest corner, claiming the prime real estate, followed by a run of closed stores on Queen Street west, including one that I remember as a small grocery. The street looks sadder than I remember. There’s a thrift store at the very end, then the road narrows and turns to gravel. I know it carries on to the town cemetery, out of view, a site for a lot of late night shenanigans then and maybe now.
Are there even kids here? Teenagers? The silence is almost eerie.
I cross the road and head back on the south side of Queen, passing the convenience store, which is open, neon light flashing, and a taco truck, which is not open. The taco truck is new and I check the hours on the sign, planning to drop by Friday if I’m still in town. Empire seems an unlikely place for a good taco, but then again, a lot of the seasonal workers in Patrick’s greenhouses are Mexican.
Next to the convenience store is the Canadian Legion. There are a few cars there now, cheap beer having an eternal appeal. I hear a bit of laughter and some old rock and roll, but am not tempted to go in. The Grand Hotel beside it might once have been spectacular, but now it’s dreary. Technically, it remains open, but I can’t believe anyone would choose to stay there.
There’s another empty storefront of no particular distinction, then The Golden Lotus Chinese & Canadian Cuisine, which occupies the former Bank of Montreal building on the southwest corner of that main intersection. I smile at the sight of it, remembering a lot of late-night eating at Mr. Chang’s. It was the place to go when we had the munchies, and if it was close to closing, Mr. Chang let us eat as much as we wanted of whatever had already been prepared.
To my right, Erie Street heads south, curving past an auto repair place and a bicycle shop before heading to Port Cavendish. I make the circle around Big Red all the way to head north on Erie Street, and turn right on Caledonia Street.
Caledonia runs parallel to Queen, followed by Britannia immediately to the north—somewhat higher in terms of altitude and more expensive in terms of real estate. They’re both filled with houses and I’m guessing Daph lives on one or the other. I can’t imagine her in the trailer park at Port Cavendish, but she might have a surprise for me.
Most of the houses are neat and modestly sized on Caledonia. They are a mix of styles and vintages, and there are a few in dire need of repair. Forest Drive is a short street at the end, running south from Britannia past Caledonia and ending in a circle. You could cut through the trees there to get to the United Church when walking.
I spot the pewter Honda parked in front of a two-storey house with a porch. It’s on the east side of Forest Drive between Caledonia and Britannia. Behind it is a forest that merges into the provincial park just outside of town. Somewhere in that cluster of trees is the cottage owned by Una. I pass the house where Daph must live, deciding what to say and do, and turn down Britannia while I plan. I walk it to the very end, past Erie Street, past the house where Daph’s dad must still live. There’s a big Mercedes sedan parked out front and lights on inside. A couple of doors down is Margaret’s house, the Regency cottage that looks as abandoned as it is.
That’s the house I want Abbie to have, and I study it for a long moment, knowing it would suit her perfectly. On the other side of Britannia are newer houses, including some from the 70s that look like they host extensive macramé collections. There’s a footpath that leads down to Caledonia and on to Queen, but the ground is uneven here. To the west is a creek and though there are a couple of walking trails, it’s dark as Hades out there. This time of year, the mosquitos will be thirsty, so I take a pass and head back toward Daph’s place.
And there you have it. You’ve seen Empire, such as it is.
Small, but not particularly mighty.
And I’ve stalled as long as possible. Time to get the verdict.
The upside is that it’s another chance to see Daph.
I step up to Daph’s porch, wondering suddenly if there are more pewter Hondas in Empire than I realize. The house is neat to the point of austerity. I expected fluffy chick stuff for a woman living alone, but then, Daph does have that Vulcan thing going on.
Does she own the place? Maybe.
The porch runs across the front of the house and is simple. The lack of curlicues and gingerbread, the plain cream paint, makes me suspect I’m in the right place. The door has a new coat of paint, too, a deep blue that looks great with the creamy trim. There’s no cutesy welcome sign or wreath of arranged flowers on the door, just a wooden bench for two under the front window. It’s a light green, closer to lime than mint. The front garden is almost non-existent—I’m thinking that some ancient and overgrown shrubs have been torn free of the earth, and guess that there are plans for this year—but there are tulips growing on either side of the steps. Pink ones. The aesthetic is kind of Scandinavian and would photograph well.
I knock on the door and shove my hands in my pockets when I hear footsteps.
When the door opens, I catch my breath.
Daph has not only gone casual, but she’s mad as hell.
She’s wearing dark leggings that show her fabulous legs to advantage, and an oversized cream cabled sweater that falls off one shoulder. I can see the hollow of her throat and enough skin that I know there’s not a bra strap. I drag my gaze back to her eyes.
They’re all silver fire, an even better view than the one offered by the sweater.
Damn. I have to look away to compose myself.
“He’s an asshole,” she says and I’m not going to dispute that, knowing exactly who she means.
“Patrick said no?” I guess.
“He took out the Foreman place, just like you expected.” She frowns. “Wait. How did you know where I live?”
“I looked for your car.”
Surprise lights her eyes for a moment, then she pivots. She leaves the door open and marches back to her kitchen, which I take as an invitation.
I follow her, closing the door behind myself, sweeping a glance over the interior. It’s beyond neat. I shed my jacket and boots, leaving them at the door.
The house has to be close to a hundred years old, but it’s surprisingly modern inside. Almost austere in its minimalism. There’s a fireplace in the front room, polished hardwood floors throughout, a packed bookcase in that front room that I want to explore. (Yes, I want to know Daph’s secrets as revealed by her choice of reading material.) The furniture is teak, vintage gems with new upholstery in shades of silver and blue. The area rug is creamy white and thick, more than a Berber. The overall look is elegant, just like Daph.
There must have been a dining room once between the kitchen and front living room, but it’s become part of the kitchen. The structural beam reveals that a wall is gone. There’s a table for four, then a counter with bar stools, and a new kitchen where Daph is slicing a lemon with enough enthusiasm to lose a finger. I like the talavera tiles on the kitchen backsplash, all blue and white with hints of yellow, and the open shelving. There’s a door at the back, one with a half-window, but I can’t see anything beyond it. Her place backs onto the forest, so there’d only be shadows out there at this hour.
There was a staircase opposite the front door, leaving up to probably two or maybe three bedrooms and bath. It’s a small house, but it is both inviting and cozy.
She takes the knife to some asparagus spears with a savagery they can’t possibly deserve. “And he red-lined Margaret’s house.”
Ah, that’s what’s fired her up. Truth be told, it annoys me, too, but I expected it.
I tell her so.
She shakes the knife at me, obviously having no clue how amazing she looks. Her eyes are blazing, practically shooting sparks in every direction. Her cheeks are a bit flushed, too. She’s taken down her hair and shoved it into a messy bun instead, which proves that it’s both long and wavy. I can see the back of her neck, all smooth silky skin, and want to taste it. Her feet are bare and her toenails—be still my heart—are painted that same pale pink that her lips were earlier.
I could eat her up with a spoon.
Or without one.
I lean on the counter and remind myself that I’m not that interested in women anymore. I didn’t even have to swear off them when Taylor died. I didn’t care. Not about women. Not about sex. Not about pushing my hands through thick tresses of silky hair and taking a deep breath of any woman’s scent.
Until now.
Until Daph.
Come to think of it, her place smells humid and sweet. I realize that her hair looks damp and that the scent is shower gel. Jasmine and vanilla. I’m a dead man. (Well, not all of me.) My mind immediately conjures an image of Daph in the shower, of hot water and suds, a vision that does nothing for my ability to coherently continue a conversation with her.
Of course, I catch her looking at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Just disappointed,” I lie. “I was really hoping to give that place to Abbie.” That part’s true.
“I know. He went for the diner and Una’s place, though. I’m telling myself to be content with small victories.”
I wince that Rhodes Vineyards won’t be getting that piece of land. “But you’re not.”
“Are you?” She puts the lemon slices on a piece of fish without waiting for an answer. It’s already on foil on a sheet pan. I realize there’s a pot of rice on the stove and the asparagus is ready to be added to the sheet pan. She winces when she follows my glance. “I hope you’re not hungry. I only have this one piece of fish.”
“No worries. I’ve had more lasagna than is reasonable, but when it’s homemade, I can’t resist.”
I get a look for that. “Where did you get homemade lasagna in Empire?”
“I took a room at The Maple Leaf Motel. It’s worth it to be invited for dinner at DeLuca’s.”
She smiles and I bask in the sight, glad I could improve her mood. “I’ll have to ask Marissa if she takes orders.” She puts the fish in the oven, sets a timer and puts a second glass beside the one already on the counter.
“This your place or do you rent?”
“Mine,” she says with an increment of pride. “That’s one good thing about Empire. Cheap real estate. I could never have bought my own house in Toronto.”
It’s not nearly a good enough reason to live beyond the end of the world, but I don’t say it.
She raises a finger. “Speaking of which, the properties you listed have comparatively high prices.” She gets the paperwork from her briefcase and offers it to me, retreating to check on the fish.
I read it, like I’m supposed to, shake my head at the number Patrick has scribbled on it, and smile.
“You’re not surprised.”
“I was guessing he’d go ten per cent more. Maybe fifteen.” I take the pen she offers and sign.
“He made a bet with my dad that he’d have it all back in a year.”
“Then your dad should brace himself for the win.”
She’s watching me. “You really hate him.”
“I’m thinking he’s not one of your favourite people either.”
“No, but that’s not a great thing to have in common.” She gets a bottle of white wine from the fridge, one that’s already been opened, and pours.
I toast her. “To incremental progress,” I say. “Thanks, Daph, for riding to war on this.”
“Sorry I didn’t do better.”
“You got more than I would have done. He refused before he even knew what I wanted when I tried to ask.”
“He knew this offer was from you.”
“Probably one of the golden boys spilled the truth.”
She leans a hip against the counter, watching me. “Have they always closed rank against you?”
I shrug. The truth is self-evident.
She sips the wine, eyes simmering again. “It’s so unfair,” she says under her breath. I have to love the idea that Daph is feeling protective of yours truly, but she probably just hates to lose.
It’s almost worth ticking her off just to see her like this. You know I’m wondering what she looks like when she comes. You know I’m wondering if I’ll ever have a chance to find out. She’s making me feel like my old self, but not quite.
What’s new is that I’m only interested in this one woman. Is it because she’s unavailable to me? I do have a history of hankering after anything I know I can’t have. The very fact that I’m standing in her kitchen with a glass of wine is proof that she doesn’t find me either interesting or threatening. I’m just another job, or maybe a favor because I’m her BFF’s brother.
I take another sip of wine, telling myself to get over it, which means I have a mouthful to choke on when Daph surprises me again.
“So, what exactly happened to Taylor?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder after adding the asparagus to the tray. She pivots and braces a hand on her hip, her gaze boring into me. “Why are you so sure it was your fault?”
My recovery isn’t graceful and she hands me a tea towel, not giving it up for an instant. The options run through my mind at lightning speed.
“Does it have anything to do with your new tattoo?”
I must look like a fish gasping for air. My thoughts spin through the possibilities.
I could deflect the question.
I could lie.
I could avoid confronting the loss that has flattened me, just the way I’ve been ducking it for more than a year.
Or I could seize the opportunity and tell someone about it. Once this deal is done, chances are very good that I’ll never see Daph again. She’s determined to stay in Empire, for whatever reason, and I’m set on leaving, forever this time. (I have to think the chances of hell freezing over are comparatively low, especially in the spring.)
She’s a good candidate for a confidence even without that consideration. She won’t tell anyone, maybe not even Abbie. She’s a clear thinker and will ask good questions.
She’s perceptive and isn’t afraid to call me on anything.
I could do worse, a lot worse.
I drain the glass and put it down, indicating that I don’t want more. Then I sit on one of the bar stools and start to talk. It’s surprisingly easy to find a starting point. Maybe Daph’s a really good listener.
Maybe it’s just time.