The Trust

Chapter 22: The Family BBQ

The wind comes in frigid blasts from the ocean, stinging my eyes and making my ears ache.

The sprint up the hill exhausts me, and I'm gasping by the time I get to the top. The sea's sapphire calm turned ice grey when the sky clouded over, as if reflecting my inner chaos. What they say about Nova Scotia is true — if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.

I swipe stinging tears away and continue at a slower pace until I reach the picturesque town park. My eyes are drawn to the gazebo.

"What do you think of when you look at this place?" I asked Clive one late summer night when we were young, looping my arm in his as we walked. I was no one from nowhere and he was a sophisticated grad student, about to become a professor. I thought he was worldly and exotic, I loved his English accent, the poetic way he talked about the things he was interested in — geodes, the life-giving water that shapes and carves our natural world, the history of the earth. He used to say there was an entire universe beneath our feet.

He fascinated me once, I'd never met anyone like him — both a scientist and a poet. We were madly in love back then, or at least I was.

"A good place to bury a body," he answered me absently. Stung, I took my arm from his, climbing the gazebo steps. Twilight cloaked the park in a warm pink glow streaked with the amber rays fading summer sun.

"That's not very romantic," I chided. In response, he got down on one knee.

"What do you think?" he said, looking up at me shyly.

The image of the young couple fades and I see what's truly there. Peeling, chipped paint, a broken railing, and missing shingles. Time and neglect destroyed the once-beautiful pergola.

Just then a crew of three people in matching overalls with the town logo appear in front of me and set to work, scraping the ancient paint from the wood, and starting to repair the railing and roof. I realize I'm in the middle of a buzz of activity.

"What's going on," I ask the paint-smeared man standing next to me.

"The park got an influx of cash. We're fixing the place up, finally. Give the kids somewhere to go," he saus, not taking his eyes off his work.

"Where'd the town get the money?" I was curious now; at the last town meeting, municipal counsellors said the park wouldn't be getting funds until the next fiscal year. It was their reason not to fully fund the food bank and shelter as well.

"Anonymous donor," he says turning to me with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He points to a large sign being hoisted up over the park entrance. "You'd know more than me. It's your kin, right?"

Oh no.

"Join us for Douglas Day, October 30th in honour of the Douglas Family and their significant donation to Centennial Park," the sign says. Oh fuck no.

Before I have time to react, another truck rolls up, this time with a garden crew. They jump out as if synchronized and quickly set about weeding and replanting the flower beds. I turn, fishing in my pocket for my phone. It occurs to me that there was some family dinner I was supposed to go to this evening at Jack's. He'd know what's going on.

When I look up, there's a microphone in my face.

"I can't believe my luck! Darcey Douglas, just the person I was looking for. Can you give me your thoughts on the Darcey family's amazing contribution of one million dollars to Grey Harbour? How did this incredible contribution come about?"

It was my friend Sara, once the editor of the town paper, now a reporter with the local TV station, SKYE News. I blinked into the lens of the camera like the proverbial deer in the headlights.