All Good Intentions Read online

  But in the darkness and the unfamiliarity of the room, Jeanne wondered if the emotion she felt tonight would be only fleeting.

  * * * * *

  June 1996, St. John’s, NL

  No man should ever have to eat yogourt. Kevin Gillis turned his tablespoon to push back the white creamy mixture from atop the tall stemmed glass of fresh fruit. Once the strawberries and peaches were no longer touching the yogourt, he scooped them up. The Cabot Club, Hotel Newfoundland’s dining room, was unusually quiet that Friday morning, just the way he preferred it. He poured hot coffee from the silver decanter into the white china cup, sat back, and flipped the newspaper to reveal the stories under the fold. His eyes caught the latest story on oil development off the coast of Newfoundland and its potential impact on the province, particularly the capital city, St. John’s. He noted that one name in particular was mentioned as someone who knew the region’s potential. Kurt Steffensen. It was the second time in as many days that he’d read about the province’s being on the brink of prosperity, a far cry from the days of gloom and doom that he recalled his father talk about many years ago. He scanned the story, reached for another spoonful of fruit, this time a combination of pineapple and melon. He ignored the yogourt that had fallen off the top and was slowly running down the side and staining the black linen napkin on the side plate.

  He reached for his black leather case laid on the cushioned chair next to him. Unzipping the top, he pulled out the envelope containing several land deeds. Who would have ever thought that such vacant pieces of land, good for very little, would finally be valuable? Or, at least, he hoped they would.

  He placed the envelope back in the case and took out three file folders behind it. He laid aside the first one; it contained a business proposal. The second held photographs and a description of an old St. John’s home—the Sinclair house. He opened the folder and stared at the top photo. Attached to the corner was a card that simply read: Owner: Jeanne Sinclair, Exeter Avenue, St. John’s. The third folder was the most important, but he didn’t open it. He knew its contents all too well, so he simply placed it back in the case.

  Kevin sat back, took a last gulp of coffee, and looked out the window at the large red brick building across from the hotel. Steffensen Publishing. From what he could determine, it had at least four floors and covered atriums on each one. He wondered how much a place like that had cost its owner. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table in front of him, and his hands under his chin, his eyes fixed on the building.

  Kurt Steffensen. He was curious about the man. He was wealthy. A Newfoundlander. What was it about the man that commanded loyalty from some and disdain from others? What would it take to gain his favour? He assumed that Kurt would be intimidating, but he hoped to portray an air of confidence that would encourage him to be his ally, his way into the Sinclair family—a way to find out about Charles Sinclair, the real purpose of Kevin’s mission.

  Kevin glanced at his watch. Time to take the first step. Before he could meet with Kurt, however, he had to find out more about the Sinclair house and, hopefully, anything else about the man he had grown to despise. Charles Sinclair. He picked up the photo again. Purchasing that house would be the greatest challenge of his career and his best acquisition. Despite his feelings for the Sinclairs, he knew that he would have to ingratiate himself to the Sinclair daughter in order to have his offer accepted. It would be an acting job worthy of an award. And he was ready. Surely that would not be such a difficult task.

  * * * * *

  In her home on Exeter Avenue in the central part of St. John’s that morning, Jeanne pulled back the green and blue Waverly drapes and welcomed the brilliant sunshine and clear blue sky after several days of drizzle and thick fog. She toasted an English muffin, buttered it lightly, and poured the juice from two squeezed oranges into a glass. She sat at the small table in front of the bay window overlooking her garden. It was her favourite time of year. Time to plan her garden. Unlike the rest of the country, here the lilac trees were just beginning to bud and tulips and daffodils were still in bloom, testifying to their strength in the midst of uncertain weather. She flipped through the pages of her day planner and noted that her birthday was just a week away, an annual reminder of an age she didn’t want to be. She pulled along her notepad and pen while she slowly ate the muffin that she had cut up in tiny pieces on the china plate. She wrote “Call Caroline” at the top and drew a stroke underneath for emphasis. Caroline Kavanagh had phoned earlier and left a message that she was back from her “annual trek to Florida” and wanted to have lunch “to catch up” as soon as possible. She was a long-time friend, but not one that Jeanne could confide in. She had never had that type of friend in her life.

  Normally, Jeanne would have accepted her friend’s invitation without much thought, but now the prospect left her uncertain. Caroline would soon know the truth about Jeanne’s mother, if she didn’t already, and in Jeanne’s social circle, the truth would make everyone uncomfortable. And Jeanne abhorred discomfort. She mindlessly brushed the crumbs on her plate and considered how to handle the subject of her biological mother should the topic come up. After placing the glass and plate by the kitchen sink for her housekeeper to wash, she headed upstairs to change into her gardening clothes. Knowing that it was a little chilly outside, she chose a blue fleece-lined sweater, matching pants, and thick socks.

  She welcomed the fresh morning air in the back garden. A slight westerly breeze stirred the earthy scents beyond the walkway and the new maple leaves on the trees at the back by the fence. Jeanne placed two olive-green ceramic pots on each side of the steps that led to the garden. She cut open a large bag of deep rich soil and scooped the contents into the pots. She slipped off her leather gardening gloves, swept her blonde waves back from her face, and picked up her gardener’s diary and pen. To the list, she added red chrysanthemums, yellow calendula, and libertia. She was determined to plant them this week, even if it meant pulling the pots inside for the chilly evenings.

  Jeanne loved gardening mostly for its ancillary benefit of helping her relax. This morning, however, it did not have the desired effect. Her mind wandered to her son, Joe, who had only recently become engaged. She was no more comfortable with the idea now than when she had first heard the news in April. At the time, Jeanne had simply responded with the word lovely, and Joe had recognized her best sarcastic tone. She had been in Sandi’s company only a few times, but all encounters left her unimpressed. While she credited the young professor with intelligence and accomplishment, she believed that she was not the right wife for Joe, although, if forced, Jeanne could not describe someone suitable for her son. Jeanne had decided when she turned fifty that she didn’t need to justify her opinions to anyone, including herself, and she had made up her mind about the Martel family as soon as she met them. She found Lindsay, Sandi’s mother, especially irritating, because, in Jeanne’s view, she nattered on about things that were none of her business. Kurt, on the other hand, thought Sandi and her family were wonderful; that in itself was sufficient reason for Jeanne to dislike them and wish that Joe would change his mind.

  If everyone experiences one year’s worth of epiphanies in their life, then this past year exceeded Jeanne’s quota. While she had known privately of her father’s indiscretions, no one else had until this past winter. The secret, once revealed, made her realize more about herself than any other revelation. She risked seeing Hannah and Carrie, knowing that the decision represented public acknowledgement of a secret she had kept for most of her life. She replayed the two-day visit in her mind and, with the news of Joe’s upcoming wedding, she worried whether the drama of the past three months would become a part of it.

  The more she recalled her brief visit to Falcon Cove, the more she accepted that it had exceeded her expectations. She originally thought she would do nothing more than have a brief conversation with Hannah and Carrie before returning to the city in
the afternoon. She surprised herself when she accepted their invitation to stay a day or two. The three women spent most of Sunday and Monday chatting about innocuous topics, except for the one evening that she and Hannah were alone. Jeanne spent most of Monday walking around the harbour, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. Local residents welcomed her warmly, and she listened with interest to their comments on the cod moratorium and the failing infrastructure of the local church. For the first time in a long time, she slept through the night without the help of a sleeping pill.

  Still, when she left early on Tuesday morning, she questioned whether she could continue to see Hannah and Carrie regularly. She recalled inviting them to visit whenever they came to St. John’s, more so to return the hospitality than to make an emotional commitment. During the lonely drive back to the city, she considered the risk she’d taken, and doubted her own intentions. By the time she reached the city limits, she had convinced herself that the warmth she had felt at meeting her mother was merely the result of the surroundings, nothing more. Proceed cautiously, she reminded herself, as she glanced at Paddy’s Pond on the left near the city limits. It’s too much work to pursue and too much for my friends to know.

  Since their meeting in April, Jeanne had spoken only a few times by phone to her mother and half-sister. Carrie had initiated their phone conversations, and Jeanne, not in the mood, had wondered why, at the age of fifty, the woman was in the market for a sister. Then, last evening, Carrie had called to say that she and Hannah were coming into the city on Wednesday for two days and would enjoy stopping by to see her. Almost without thinking, Jeanne invited them to stay with her. Upon reflection, she feared her generosity was a sign of aging.

  Although Jeanne would never admit it to anyone but herself, her lack of conviction and the new people in her life disturbed her—a rarity for her. This morning, as she mixed the soil with a generous helping of bone meal, she questioned her decision to invite them to stay with her.

  She stood up and dropped her gloves on the nearest table. Checking her watch, and noting it was shortly after 10:00 a.m., she decided to call Caroline to see if she could meet for lunch that day, determined to control the conversation by focusing only on Caroline. She knew that wouldn’t be difficult for either of them.

  * * * * *

  Sitting at a large, mahogany desk in his office at his publishing company, Kurt Steffensen quickly assessed his schedule for the day.

  “Doris, do you suppose it’s possible for me to get away early today for a golf game before dark? It’s June and there’s lots of daylight.” He predicted Doris’s answer even as he asked the question. It would be the same response he had gotten every other summer when he asked. He stretched his arms above his head, sat back, ran one hand through his neatly trimmed blond waves, and waited.

  Doris McKinlay had been Kurt’s assistant since he had opened his publishing and printing company over thirty years ago. Full of life and energy, Doris never hesitated to voice her opinion and inform other employees of “Kurt’s expectations,” as she called them, although they really were her own. For Kurt, Doris was both indispensable and predictable, attributes that he appreciated every day. She could accomplish three things at once, all with precision. Kurt accepted stress as a normal part of the workday, and Doris kept him laughing when a good laugh was seemingly the only option. She had listened when he and Jeanne were going through a divorce. She never judged his personal life and diligently kept inquisitive socialites at bay.

  This morning, as always, she was intent on keeping him on schedule. She pushed back a stray dark hair with her thumb and index finger, pulled together her green cardigan over her crisp white blouse and grey skirt, and bustled around Kurt’s desk, depositing six new file folders in front of him.

  “It’s Friday, and Friday is a workday, the last time I checked. Or are you planning to close down the business?”

  Kurt smiled and hesitated to tell her she could win an award for consistent sarcasm. He swivelled his black, leather chair and surveyed St. John’s harbour in the distance. From his comfortable office on the top floor, he had the perfect view of the waterfront, its entrance, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. He followed the progress of a small tugboat entering the harbour and momentarily thought of all the vessels that had come and gone throughout 400 years since the days of early fishermen and explorers. If only that rocky shoreline of the Narrows, as the entrance was called, could tell its story. He turned back to his computer and rubbed his neck.

  “Seamus told me this morning that everything is on schedule in the press room. Quentin and I have been through the new contracts. Besides, I own the company, Doris, the last time I checked. That entitles me to the occasional day off, don’t you think?”

  “It sets a poor example, in my opinion,” she said in her best matter-of-fact, motherly tone. “But that’s okay.” She forced a sigh for emphasis. “If you want us all to go to hell in a handbasket like the rest of the world and give up working on Fridays, that’s your choice, I s’pose. What do they call it? Casual Fridays? Dressing slovenly on Fridays,” she muttered. “Whoever heard of such trash? Every workday is equal.” Doris made at least one pronouncement a day.

  Kurt’s head dropped. “The other three hundred days of the year that I work aren’t enough?”

  She did not respond to that. “How are Joe and Sandi doing with their house hunting?”

  “You know Joe,” he said, glancing at Doris. “It’s hard to please an architect when it comes to selecting his own house. He wants the perfect spot, whether it is land or a place to renovate. His mother wants him to take over the Sinclair house.”

  “That old place.” Doris shuddered. “Good heavens, Kurt, I can’t see a young couple living there. Too many ghosts.” She dusted his computer table with two damp paper towels.

  “So, tell me, what appointment do I have this morning that is so vital?”

  “The gentleman’s name is Gillis. Kevin Gillis. When he arrives, I’ll send him in.”

  Kurt watched her as she headed for the door. “And I suppose he has a bestseller in his back pocket?”

  “No, he didn’t mention anything about a manuscript.”

  “Then what the hell?” He looked at her, exasperated.

  “There is no need to use such language,” she declared, as she held the door handle and ignored the fact that she had just used the same word. “He said he’s a writer and a businessman and that he wants to talk to you. He’s here in town for only a few days. That’s all I know. The rest is up to you. As you just pointed out, you own the company.” She smiled, realizing he had no possible comeback to her observation.

  * * * * *

  Kevin arrived at the law offices of Stanley, Hamlyn and Whiffen on Duckworth Street in downtown St. John’s shortly before 9:30 a.m. Assured by a legal assistant that it would only be a few minutes wait, he sat in the nearest seat and surveyed his surroundings. The place needed a makeover. Except for the presence of computers and other technology, it screamed 1960s with its monochrome walls, avocado chairs, and paintings clearly chosen to match the carpet and drapes. He was about to read a recent issue of Atlantic Business Monthly when a door to his right opened. He looked up to see a man whom he guessed to be in his sixties, with grey hair and a matching moustache.

  “Kevin Gillis. I’m Jonathan Hamlyn. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

  They shook hands, and Kevin followed him into an untidy office with a large picture window that overlooked a busy street. Kevin noticed that the window frame held a collection of unusual coffee mugs.

  “Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Jonathan. I’m only in the city for a few days.”

  “How are things in Nova Scotia?”

  “The company I’m with, Winterberry Development, is involved in several projects. We’re kept busy.”

  Jonathan nodded, feigned an interest, and leaned
back in his large swivel chair. “What can I do for you?” He pushed aside some files on his desk.

  “I understand that, as the lawyer for the Sinclair family, you’re taking care of the estate of Charles Sinclair.”

  “I am. Or I should say, I was. It’s pretty much a done deal now.”

  Kevin leaned forward and placed his business card on the desk. “I’m interested in purchasing the Sinclair house. Of course, I would like to see it first, and have it appraised.”

  Jonathan responded nonchalantly. “As far as I know, it’s not for sale at the moment. Frankly, I don’t know when it will be. If ever.”

  “Is it vacant?”

  “Yes. But the current owner, Jeanne Sinclair, hasn’t indicated any intention of selling it.”

  “I see. Perhaps I can change her mind.”

  Jonathan laughed at the prospect, leaving Kevin to question his assumptions about the woman. “You can ask her, of course,” Jonathan explained, “but I doubt you’ll get anywhere. I can provide you with a contact address.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  Jonathan reached for a notepad and scribbled Jeanne’s address and phone number on it. “Ms. Sinclair has a strong sentimental attachment to that house. She was very close to her father, Charles.” He chose not to divulge anything more about Jeanne Sinclair, believing it was best to leave the lesson for Kevin to learn from her.

  Kevin slipped the small piece of notepaper neatly into a side pocket of his leather case. “I appreciate this. I understand the attachment, but let’s face it: an empty house is no good to anyone, even a grieving daughter.” He stood to leave. “One more thing, if I may,” he asked.