The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson Page 12

  A great hush had fallen. Even the lapping of the waves against the wharf seemed to have ceased.

  As casual as could be, he adjusted a cufflink and smiled at the crowd. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, there’s another thing you haven’t considered.” The townspeople stopped. Mrs. McSheen looked nervously at her cronies. “As I said, I am a journalist. And right now, I am a journalist without a story, which is not such a great position to be in. But, lucky for me, my readers like a good scandal. All this drama, these mysterious bricks through windows, the threatening letters? You’ve got some real front page material here.

  “Now, I like this town. I like you, the people of this town. This is a place the whole world should see. But as a man of the fifth estate, I have a sworn duty to tell the truth, no matter how much that truth may impact the local tourist economy. So you all act according to your consciences, but just remember that you probably shouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t be proud to read about on the front page of the morning paper.”

  The townspeople had stilled again. All of them were looking at Mrs. McSheen and the new “mayor,” both of whom glanced uncertainly at one another.

  “Anyone want to step up to be quoted in the paper on this matter? Mr. Mayor, perhaps I could get a few words from you on the subject,” Owen said. The mayor and McSheen looked furious but kept their peace. “No? Well, it seems like that’s settled.”

  He clapped his hands in boyish delight. “Now, since this day already seems so festive with the bunting and the sashes, what say we retreat from this terrible humidity to the parlour of the St. Alice for its world-class tea service?”

  To Jo’s great surprise, the people at the edges of the crowd began to break away. A few even started to head in the direction of the hotel. No one jeered or tried to shout Owen down. It felt as if all the meeting’s anger had suddenly dissipated into awkward embarrassment.

  The mayor rushed to the stand, shouldering Owen aside. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve not yet finished! There’s still much to discuss.” But the tide had turned, and the crowd continued to disperse. In truth, she doubted that many of them had wanted either of the establishments gone in the first place. Owen had provided them with a way to save face. Later, they could say that they were only thinking of the town’s reputation.

  Owen had leapt down from the stage and was merrily trotting along beside the townspeople, opening the door to usher them into the St. Alice. Soon, the square was empty save for her girls, women in sashes, and the red-faced mayor, whose moustache quivered like a compass needle. Doc took her arm.

  “Shall we, young lady?” he asked.

  Jo smiled. Together, they stepped off the platform where Nils and the girls clamoured around them. Between the soupy air and the sudden turn of events, she felt as if she were walking through a dream. The SS Minto bobbed idly at the dock—yes, the stakes really had been that high.

  The girls’ words blended together into wordless chatter, like a flock of starlings. Her head swam. She was grateful for Owen’s intervention, but what would happen after he left? Because he would surely leave, wouldn’t he?

  She didn’t want to think about it. The problem had been sorted for now. Maybe the townspeople had indeed come to their senses.

  “Drinks are on me,” Doc said, and they all followed him away. She couldn’t hold back a little smile as they passed Mrs. McSheen, still standing with her cronies on the platform, their sashes hanging limp in the warm, damp air.

  Chapter 19

  Inside the St. Alice, Owen heartily shook hands and dispensed compliments on Fraser Springs’s good sense and commitment to justice. He even praised the dry scones, though the raisins in them reminded him of fossilized creatures trapped in shale. He once again waxed poetic on the virtues of the hot springs and the pure air and the wilderness, and assured the good people of Fraser Springs that his readers would surely flock to this place.

  After half an hour, the mayor, Mrs. McSheen, and her fellow sash-wearers joined the party. Mrs. McSheen approached him with a smile that did not extend to her eyes. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

  “So you’re a journalist!” she said, with a gaiety that had a manic edge. “Well, fancy the thought. I do hope you’ll be telling your readers about the many health benefits of our springs.”

  “Of course, madam,” he assured her. “Even though I would love to keep this hidden gem for myself, it’s my journalistic duty to inform the world about the treasures you have here.” The treacly words felt hollow as he spoke them.

  “Very good, very good,” she said. She lifted her chin a few degrees higher and looked evenly at him. The painted-on smile disappeared. “After all, it’s no good to keep secrets, now is it?”

  With this, she retreated into the crowd, where she stood in a tight knot with several of the ladies and the mayor. Owen wanted desperately to go to Jo. She had been magnificent this afternoon, staring down her accusers from atop that silly platform. Like a modern-day Joan of Arc. He’d never wanted to kiss a woman more. Still, he knew that even being seen with her would ruin all of his hard work. They’d almost been caught once already. No, it was important to have patience. He would see her soon enough.

  And so he listened while the mayor chattered on about the plans for increasing the SS Minto’s runs to allow for more tourist traffic, and he choked down another scone, though he felt that he was eating the stuffing of the plush wing-backed chairs in the lobby, and he praised an old woman on her very fine sash and heard about all the good works she’d done to earn it.

  Soon, however, the townspeople filtered out to attend to their suppers. The usual bustle had been restored to Fraser Springs. It seemed that the good citizens had gotten it all out of their system. Even Mrs. McSheen and her band of malcontents seemed resigned.

  Just as Owen was about to leave, the spotty young man who worked at the general store approached him.

  “You sure knocked some sense into these folks,” he said.

  “I was just trying to provide an outsider’s view,” Owen said. “Sometimes when you live in a place, it can be hard to see the forest for the trees.”

  “Sure are a lot of trees here,” the boy said.

  “Yes, indeed. I know I certainly got swept up with the story when I first came here, but cooler heads have prevailed.”

  The boy gave him a wary look. “I hope so. But I know these folks, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen them let things blow over so quickly.”

  Owen gave him what he hoped was a fatherly look. “I know so,” he said.

  As they walked into the hall, he saw Mrs. McSheen conversing with a few women in sashes, the mayor, and Rusty. Rusty was especially animated. As Owen passed by, however, they quieted. He couldn’t get close enough to understand what they were saying.

  “Nice to meet you,” he made a point of saying loudly to the boy as they parted ways. “Now I’m off to write a nice, long article about this place.”

  And with that, he retreated to his room. He shed his suit jacket, removed his tie and collar, and unbuttoned the first buttons on his shirt. Give it another hour, and then he could head over to Wilson’s under the cover of getting supper. He sat down at the room’s little table and looked out over Fraser Springs. The town was awash in a cloudy, jaundiced glow from the sun trying its best to fight through the humidity and the clouds. He could hear the mosquitos droning even through the glass.

  Constitutions restored in miracle town! he wrote, then crossed it out.

  Forget the big city vacation and explore this great province’s health-restoring bounty!

  No, that sounded too much like an advertisement.

  Feisty young businesswoman has health-restoring charms. Small-town drama worth it for another taste of those lips, journalist reports.

  Let the cares of the city slip away in a wild paradise. Doctors agree that hot springs have very real restorative properties.

  He tried to distract himself with the list of experts he would have to consult to give this pie
ce a little heft when he returned home.

  When he returned home. He’d been so caught up in the drama of the story and the charms of Jo Wilson that the idea of returning home had completely slipped his mind. Staying in Fraser Springs was, of course, out of the question. He had his own life to get back to: his club, his writing, his speaking engagements, his editor, the little circuit of pubs and restaurants where the waiters all knew him.

  And surely after all this unpleasantness, she wouldn’t seriously want to stay in Fraser Springs. After the article came out, she could find a buyer who could pay a handsome price for her establishment. She could move down to Vancouver. He’d give up his bachelor apartment, and they’d settle in together in a little suite somewhere downtown. And when his journalistic career took off, they could move to one of those grand homes in New Westminster with the wraparound porches and the well-kept lawns. His friends would love her.

  There was a lot to discuss and no time like the present. It was time for supper. He bounded down the stairs two at a time into the lobby. It was empty as a tomb and just as marble-clad. The last few malcontents had probably gone back home to lick their wounds and sullenly set supper out for their husbands. Good riddance. Jo didn’t need to worry about them any longer. He would make sure of that.

  • • •

  It had been years since Jo had set foot in Doc Stryker’s bar, but she would have recognized the scent of pipe smoke, sweat, and alcohol anywhere, even without the patrons. The odour seemed to have been cured into the wood. The light turned amber coloured as it passed through the tobacco-stained windows, making Jo feel that she was trapped in a sepia photograph. Still, the place was clean, and Doc had obviously taken immense pride in varnishing the long bar and shining the mirror that reflected the rows of bottles in front of it.

  “Now I know this is no place for fine ladies such as yourselves, but pull up a chair, and I’ll get us a celebratory round,” he said.

  Half of her girls were former barmaids, so they all felt right at home in the environment. They found seats and immediately began unpinning their church hairdos and shaking out their curls.

  “I thought you was done for, Miz Jo,” Ilsa said. “I almost started to cry. When that Rusty got up there, I thought that crowd was going to rip you to pieces.”

  “Should have popped Rusty in the nose when I had the chance,” said another girl, miming the action. “He once tried to put his hand up my skirt, and when I told him off, he called me words I can’t even repeat. Should have slapped his lying mouth right there and then.”

  “Wonder if Mrs. McSheen paid him for his little story,” Nils said. “Although Rusty’s so darned crazy, he likely believes all that nonsense.”

  Doc rummaged around behind the bar and came up with a dusty wine bottle. “Been saving this for a special occasion, and I can’t think of a finer one than today,” he said, running his thumb over the pattern embossed on the glass.

  Everyone cheered. Doc lined up some tiny crystal glasses on the bar and poured the crowd a drink. While Jo had enjoyed the occasional glass of claret with Albert after dinner, since his death, her desire for drink had never been great enough for her to stomach the disapproving glare she would surely get from the clerk at the general store should she try to purchase a bottle.

  She took a glass and raised it aloft.

  “To justice!” Doc said.

  “To justice!” they all chorused.

  The wine tasted like molasses and raisins. A warm flush spread down her throat and across her chest. Jo let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

  “You should have seen Mrs. McSheen’s face when Mr. Wister was speaking.” Ilsa giggled. “She looked like she could lunge across the table and strangle him with her gloves.”

  “And that don’t compare to Rusty’s face. Those crazy eyes almost popped out of his head and rolled across the floor,” Nils said.

  Jo sat back and listened to her employees’ happy chatter. They were street-smart women, and if they weren’t worried, why should she be? Best to relax and enjoy the victory, no matter how short-lived she feared it might be. Doc Stryker found another bottle of wine, and the group once again toasted to their health, to the prosperity of their businesses, and to “Ross Wister.” Where was Owen? The flush from the wine spread across her body.

  Soon, however, it was time for the girls to get back to the serious business of mealtimes at Wilson’s. Nils excused himself on some errand or other, leaving Doc and Jo alone in the bar. Doc motioned for her to come sit on the stools at the counter. He brought out his jug of hooch.

  “Oh, I can’t,” she protested. “I’ve got to be presentable for dinner service.”

  Doc smiled. “Suit yourself.” He poured himself a drink but did not raise it to his lips.

  “Now listen,” he said. “There’s something I been meaning to talk to you about. This journalist fellow.”

  Hopefully, the wine flush hid her blush. “What about him?” she asked.

  Doc smiled. “Ain’t no need to be ashamed. I seen him and I seen you, and I know how people act when they’re sweet on each other.” He grinned and tapped a finger to his temple. “Old Doc Stryker’s got that power of observation. Nah, the two of you: it’s a fine match. You know I think of you like a daughter, and I would be proud to have any daughter of mine marry that man. Lord knows he’s terrible at keeping a low profile, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders and a kind heart. It’s been a lot of hard years for you, Jo. You deserve some happiness.”

  She didn’t know what to say, but the old man was not done. He stared beyond her, then down into the murky liquid in his glass. “I don’t know if I ever told you that I was married once. Years ago. Had two little ones, too. Two girls. And one day cholera came through and ...” He swept his hand in a dismissive motion, unable to say the words.

  “I was young then, and I always said I would remarry when the time was right. When I had money to pay for real doctors to treat my family if they got sick or to buy ’em a nice house with a yard, you know. I met my share of eligible women but always found some fault in them or in the timing or in the circumstances. Maybe after the summer carnival season. Maybe when I get the bar up and running. Maybe when I’m thirty or when I’m forty.

  “But the truth is, it’s hard to open yourself up to someone new after you seen the three people you love best looking like wax dolls all laid out on a table, after you paid the last of your money to build a coffin big enough so all three of ’em could be together ’cause you couldn’t bear to put those little girls in the ground alone. I knew, deep down, that I just couldn’t do it again.” The old man’s eyes were bright, and his voice quavered.

  “And I always regretted it. I don’t want to see you fending off bankruptcy and mean-spirited gossip for the rest of your life. You deserve better than that.”

  “But it’s not about what I deserve,” Jo objected. “I have my girls to think about.”

  Doc shrugged. “Your girls are grown women, not babies you’ve got to lead on your apron strings. And they’re all scrappers, bless ’em. They’ll muddle through.” He reached over the bar and took her hand. “You’re young yet, girl. You should have babies of your own.”

  Jo’s throat clenched. She’d wanted that desperately during her time with Albert, and it had never happened for them. She remembered the day after Albert’s funeral when she’d curled up on his side of the bed just to smell his hair tonic on the pillow. She had been overwhelmed by the weight of how utterly alone she was and had resolved to never feel that vulnerable again. In truth, though, being with Owen was the first time she’d relaxed in five years. That hand on her waist, that hollow by his throat where she’d rested her head ...

  “So say I move to Vancouver and it doesn’t work out. If a man can fall in love in a few days, he can fall out of love just as fast, and what then? I’d be back to where I started, with no friends, no family, and not a penny in the bank.”

  Jo blinked back the sudden heat of tea
rs, hoping that Doc didn’t notice. How had she come apart so quickly? Before Owen showed up, she would have never let anyone see her cry.

  Doc touched her shoulder. “No one’s saying to sell up right this minute. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that it’s no good arranging your life just to avoid pain. Pain will find you anyhow, so you might as well go after what you want.” He picked up a glass and started to polish it. “Ah, what am I doing giving you advice? You’re a thousand times smarter than I am.”

  What had seemed like common sense now felt like cowardice. Was she really planning on shutting herself away in her office forever? She’d tried that, and all it had gotten her was an angry crowd and a brick through her front window.

  As if on cue, she heard the shatter of breaking glass. Something flew across the room and crashed into the mirror behind the bar.

  “Get down!” Doc yelled. As Jo flung herself onto the floor, a hundred bottles of liquor went up in a deafening explosion of blue flame. Acrid smoke and tongues of fire billowed up to the ceiling, engulfed the wood of the bar, raced along the floor and up the wallpaper.

  Coughing and half-blind, they stumbled and crawled towards the door. But no matter how fast they were, the fire was faster. She could no longer see the door for the choking smoke.

  “Stay low,” Doc shouted. “Cover your face!”

  Her lungs burned with each panicked breath.

  “Windows?” she gasped, just as the windows shattered from the heat of the blaze. Jo screamed.

  The tar-black smoke was making it impossible to breathe. She and Doc crawled towards the back of the bar, which was the only place not ablaze. The curtains caught fire. The varnish was peeling off the chairs and tables and turning to ash before their eyes. Jo coughed uncontrollably, trying to remain low to the ground. Was there another exit? She couldn’t remember. They huddled against the wall as the fire pressed down upon them.