said. She told Patrick’s mother what little she did know, and when she was finished she said, “Tomorrow I’ll call the airline and book you a flight, then call you with the details. Is that all right?”
“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”
They said goodbye and hung up.
Victoria placed the telephone in the base station. “God, I need a drink,” she said to Kit. “Or six. Do you want anything?”
Kit said, “No, thanks.”
Victoria took an open bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and with a flick of her wrist twisted out the cork. She could feel Kit’s eyes on her as she reached a wineglass down from a rack over the kitchen island. Filling it, she returned to the table, leaving the bottle on the counter.
“I appreciate your being here with me, you know,” she said, looking into Kit’s blue-green eyes. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to cope earlier without you. But I’m fine now. You don’t have to stay if there’s someplace else you need to be.”
“No,” Kit said with a quick shake of her head. “I can stay as long as you like. Hugh can look after things at the studio tomorrow if necessary.” Kit reached out and touched Victoria’s hand. “I only wish there was more I could do.”
I bet you do, Victoria thought as she lifted her wine-glass as a pretext to breaking contact with Kit. She was immediately ashamed. On the tabletop, Kit’s long fingers intertwined and writhed like snakes. Victoria put her glass down and took Kit’s hand. It was small and warm and strong. She squeezed gently and Kit responded in kind.
“I’m sorry,” Victoria said.
“For what?” Kit asked in a hoarse whisper.
“For being not as good a friend to you as you are to me.”
“Let me decide how good a friend you are, all right?” Her right knee bounced up and down as her foot jiggled nervously.
Victoria released Kit’s hand. “Anyway,” she said, “thanks for staying with me.”
“Any time,” Kit said with a twitchy smile.
“Then, for god’s sake, have a cigarette before you jump out of your skin.”
“I’m all right,” Kit said. “But let me do something, okay? I bet you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not really very hungry,” Victoria said, adding in response to Kit’s frown, “but I don’t suppose you’ll let that stop you, will you?” Kit grinned and shook her head. “Consuela left something in the fridge,” Victoria said. “It just needs to be heated in the microwave.”
“Lucky for you,” Kit said. Victoria smiled. Kit was a terrible cook. “I was going to order a pizza.” Kit opened the refrigerator.
“The blue casserole,” Victoria said. Kit took the covered casserole dish out of the refrigerator and peeked under the lid. “It’s some kind of lobster thing,” Victoria said. “Five or six minutes in the microwave should do it.” She had to show Kit how to set the microwave timer.
While the microwave hummed, Kit got out napkins, plates, and cutlery and set the table. Standing on a step stool, she took another wineglass down from the overhead rack. Victoria opened another bottle of wine. She almost dropped it as a sudden wave of anguish crashed over her, twisting in her chest like a knife. She slumped into a chair at the table and put her face in her hands.
“What’s wrong?” Kit asked. “Are you okay?” She looked stricken. “Oh, Christ,” she said, face crimson. “What a goddamned stupid question. Jesus, I’m sorry.”
Victoria raised her head. Her eyes burned. “It’s all right,” she said. She took a deep, unsteady breath, let it out through her nose. “For a second it felt like Patrick was still here and we were getting ready to have dinner together. Then it hit me that we would never get dinner ready together again.”
Kit moved a chair close to Victoria’s and sat down, putting her arm over Victoria’s shoulders. “That probably won’t be the last time that happens,” she said.
Victoria leaned into Kit’s embrace. “That’s reassuring,” she said grimly. The microwave beeped for attention. Kit started to get up. Victoria held her for a moment, kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, then let her go.
Victoria ate more than she thought she could, but between the two of them they didn’t make much of a dent in Consuela’s casserole. They did polish off the bottle of wine, however, although Victoria drank more of it than Kit did. Kit rarely drank more than a glass or two, and seldom finished the second.
“You’d get along with Joe Shoe,” Victoria told her. “He drinks even less than you.”
“Joe who?”
“Joe Shoe. The big guy who was here earlier.”
“What kind of name is Joe Shoe? He an Indian or something?”
“As a matter of fact,” Victoria said, “he is one-eighth Native Canadian or First Nations or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. On his mother’s side. His great-grandmother was a Blackfoot who married a Scottish railway surveyor and moved east. He’s also one-eighth Jewish, he told me, on his father’s side, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of either. His real name is Schumacher.”
“And who is he when he’s at home?”
“A friend of the family,” Victoria said. “More Patrick’s friend than mine, although I’ve known him a little longer.”
“The old guy—Hammond?—he was Patrick’s boss,” Kit said as Victoria raised her glass and drank. She responded with a nod. Kit said, “This Joe Shoe, he works for Hammond too, right? Worked, anyway.”
“Yes,” Victoria said. “I feel bad that I was the cause of him getting fired.”
“He didn’t seem too worried about it,” Kit said. “What did Hammond mean when he said he took you off the street? By the way,” she added, “feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
Victoria smiled briefly. “He was exaggerating a little, but I guess I was something of a street person when I first met him. He saw me hanging around outside the Vancouver Art Gallery. Evidently I reminded him of someone he used to know. That’s when I met Shoe, too. He was still Bill’s chauffeur then.” She thought about it for a second, then decided that Kit had a right to know, and said, “Bill and I were lovers for a short time. A very short time, a long time ago. Before I met Patrick.”
“Yeah,” Kit said gruffly. “I got that.” She took cigarettes and a disposable lighter out of her purse. “Do you mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
Kit stood by the stove, smoking her cigarette, with the range vent fan on high and the patio door open a crack. “And the guy with the ears?” she asked. “Who was he?”
“His name is Del Tilley.”
“He’s wired a bit tight.”
“He
