Chapter 43
43
JONATHAN
“ A n auction?” Meredith asks.
We’re all gathered in the foundation offices for what Adam told everyone was an urgent morning meeting. The children aren’t awake yet and we haven’t slept.
Meredith and Ray are sitting together, Lily-Iris is nibbling on one of the scones Ray baked yesterday and Angus is cradling a warm cup of coffee. Rain drums against the windows and roof and I hug myself, trying not to let my nerves show.
“An auction,” Adam confirms. “This house is packed with furniture, fittings and art worth a fortune.”
“But it was his ,” Lily-Iris says at the same time that Meredith says, “You want to strip the house?”
Adam glances at me and I feel a stab of guilt. It was my idea, but it’s not my place to make this decision. I don’t have the emotional attachment.
“This house was more than just a country sanctuary, it was a dream,” Adam says. “Lloyd sought out the very best for a life he imagined but never got to live. This would be an opportunity for it all to go towards something he cared about far more.”
“Just how would it work?” Meredith’s arms are still folded. “We can’t have guests.”
“We stream it,” Adam says.
“ Stream it?”
“It’s all the rage during the pandemic,” I jump in. “My friend Zane was telling me. People are streaming everything from ballet to conferences.”
Meredith shifts her focus to me. “Just how do you mean to stream from here ?”
We spent a long time talking about this last night. The geosynchronous satellite that supports the terminal in the control room is the only one that can handle video. It’s expensive and it’s slow. We can’t have delays during an auction, that would never work.
“Well, we have to be clever about it,” I answer. “Certain elements would be pre-recorded. We host the gala—the gala you were planning all along—in the ball room. The children will love it. It will be like a party, just for us. We could arrange some entertainment?—”
Ray holds up their hands. “Hold your horses, Maria. You can’t pre-record an auction.”
I appreciate the Sound of Music reference, despite how unconvinced Ray sounds. “No, quite right. We would need assistance with that. We can line up a host, someone charismatic, a celebrity perhaps, with a strong internet connection, who could do all the real-time parts and play the recorded parts at opportune times. Adam is going to make some calls.”
“This could be the solution we’ve been looking for,” Adam says, forging ahead before anyone gets too caught up in the difficult logistics. “It’s a way to keep the foundation afloat until we can host in-person events again. But I need your buy-in. All of you.” He looks around at our small group. “If you have doubts, we can go back to the drawing board. Come up with another plan.”
Fortunately no one objects to the auction. While they don’t seem as excited about the idea as I was, I guess they figure the foundation has little to lose.
The next few weeks go by in a blur of auction preparation and excitement. The children take on the project whole-heartedly, despite their misgivings about the original gala. I suppose it’s because it feels more like a party and less of a test.
On any given evening or weekend, they’re helping Lily-Iris polish and decorate the ballroom, they’re assisting me with cleaning and packing the auction items, they’re teaching each other dances or quizzing Ray about the food. The best part is that Mal shows a renewed interest in learning the piano. This triggers a frantic afternoon of following WikiHow tutorials to tune the thing, which is a comedy of errors until Adam calls an expert and has him walk us through the process.
After the children are tucked up in bed, I work late into the night boxing up paintings and rare editions in the library. Lloyd talks to me through his sassy notes in ledgers about his collections, and through the collections themselves. There are illustrated Hans Christian Andersons, which reflect his fondness for Art Nouveau, and leather-bound Histoire du Canada volumes that speak to his French-Canadian heritage. He has landscapes by Tom Thomson, Emily Carr and Lawren Harris—some of Canada’s best—and genuine Victorian daguerreotypes. Among all this, I find an original edition of The House on Pooh Corner and an Alice in Wonderland with full-color book plates. These I set aside.
Alisha volunteers to film some “BTS content”, which I at first believe to be a band, but she informs me is “behind the scenes”.
I’ve heard it said that all Gen-Zs are natural photo- and videographers. Born on the cusp of the generations, I missed out on that particular gift. Alisha, however, was granted it in spades.
We sit together at Geoff’s old workstation one Saturday, going through her recordings. She managed to capture Enrique and Ben making paper chain decorations and devolving into a giggling sword fight with empty wrapping paper rolls. She’s somehow also got footage of Mal very intently practicing a piano piece he wants to perform on the night. He’s been extremely cagey about having any audience. He’s even been shy to practice around me, and I’m his tutor.
“How on earth did you get him to agree to this?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” She looks incredibly smug.
“I’m not sure we can include footage you obtained without permission.” I frown, remembering something. “Actually, maybe you can clear something up for me. I was under the impression that we weren’t meant to show your faces, given that you’re fosters. Geoff seemed to think your case was different?”
Alisha shrugs. “I guess Adam must have got permission from the state. You know, for that gala thing. It was always the plan to show us off.”
Perhaps, but Geoff was so cagey about it last time we spoke. The punch to the face put the subject out of my mind before I had a chance to ask Adam about it.
Alisha points to one of the thumbnails on the screen. “Who’s that?”
I gave her my phone to record with and the picture she’s landed on is from the camera reel before her footage starts. She’s pointing to a photo from Zane and Sebastian’s wedding. I open it so she can see it at full size. My chest hollows out. It’s a snap of me and dad. He’s grinning, holding a flute of champagne up to the camera, his other arm wrapped tightly around me. I look flustered, but happy.
“He’s my father.”
She frowns. “You seem sad.”
I didn’t think my reaction was that obvious. Then again, she’s always been observant. “We… had an argument. Before I came here.” I’m not sure what he’d make of all this. Of me, of Adam, of all the rules of emotional distance I’m breaking.
“What about?” Alisha asks.
How do I even begin to explain? I consider my answer carefully. “About… his illness and what was best for him.”
“He’s sick?”
I nod.
She looks back at the screen, a deep line between her eyebrows, her sorrow plain. “You should make up, while you can.”
I swallow hard and close the picture. I hate that I might have stirred up some well of her own past grief. “You did an excellent job with these videos. Let’s see if we can get Mal to agree to us including his playing. He’s quite good, isn’t he?”
Adam has his own work to keep him up late—interviews and press releases and all of the other tasks that come with the build up to such an event. One of the few evenings he manages to join me in the library, he sits quietly watching me as I pack away collectables into lots. There’s a heaviness to him, a tiredness that runs deeper than a few long nights working.
I pause, setting aside a daguerreotype of some Victorian ladies enjoying a picnic. “We don’t have to do this, you know? We can call it all off. It’s not too late.”
That small smile appears behind his beard, but he shakes his head.
I climb up and join him on the Chelsey sofa and take both of his hands in mine. “I mean it, Adam. No one would think any less of you. We can think of another plan to make money for the foundation.”
He shakes his head again and cups my cheek. “It’s time, Jonathan. I do miss him. I always will. But it’s time to stop living like I’m the ghost, haunting his life.”