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.
You tell me, Sara. That's what the fuck I'd like to know.
It was the only answer I could think of, but I certainly couldn't say it. I make a slashing motion to the cameraman with my hand and pull Sara aside.
"Listen, I'm happy to answer your questions but just give me a couple of hours. I want to make sure I have all the details correct about the donation from..." I pause, hoping she fills in the blanks for me. Thankfully, she does.
"Your Uncle Rob of course," she says and I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. For a moment, I thought it was one of my mother's big promises.
"Sure, but you can give me something now, right? I've got to have something for the six o'clock news. Just a sound bite! Come on, be a pal."
I shift from one foot to the other, trying to think of a way out of it but I didn't have to think long. Salvation screeched to a halt next to me in a scuffed up, white truck.
"Yo, cousin. Where you been? You're late for the family barbecue, everyone's waiting for you!" It was my cousin Jonathan, Uncle Jack's boy. Little Jonny to the rescue.
"Gotta go, sorry." I wince and point to my watch as I jump in the truck. "Go, go go," I mutter as Jon puts the car in drive and takes off.
"Sorry, I forgot the family barbecue was today," I say with a sigh of relief, pulling on my seat belt. Clive's antics pretty much wiped everything else from my mind. "I'm not very hungry, but you can drop me at home. I'll pop by and visit your dad later. Tell him to save me a burger. "
"This isn't about hot dogs and hamburgers, Elder Cousin. Everything's kicking off over at Dad's."
"What's kicking off?"
"The uncles are at each other's throats; the cousins are about to throw hands, your mother and Aunt Dottie are in a screaming match. They're all losing their fucking minds over this stupid money. The arse is out of 'er."
The statement reserved for the highest level of fuckery in a truly fucked up situation. Translation: This was bad.
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. This is all I need. My gentle, loving family reduced to brawling in the street, all for a little bit of money.
The talk with Father Jake would have to wait, I could only handle one crisis at a time and this one was gearing up to be a doozy. "Step on it," I say and hang on while he takes the corner nearly on two wheels.
The barbecue started off great according to Jonathan. Rob had texted Jack to let everyone know he had an update on the funds and he'd facetime us at 6. I barely register this news, I have so many questions about what in hell was happening.
Everyone was excited by this news and in a good mood until Peter Tom and Dottie showed up.
"Peter Tom's the calmest, gentlest person I know. How did he manage to start a huge family fight?" I couldn't imagine my Uncle PT mad at anyone. As a retired doctor, he was among the town's most liked and trusted; the person sought out for advice on everything from how to get a relative off drugs, to how to get rid of a wart.
It made no sense. Something else occurred to me. "He said he didn't even want any of the money."
"He changed his mind — showed up half-cut, demanding his share."
"What? Uncle Peter Tom drunk? I can't imagine that!"
"Imagine it. Said he'd been thinking about it and why should he be left out of the money when everyone's been splashing it all over town, buying new trucks and boats, building new sheds and cottages, quitting their jobs...he wants his piece of the pie. Uncle Jack and Aunt Eva told him it was too late, and he lost it. Then the cousins got into it. Everyone's at each other's throats. I'm hoping you can help me break it up."
"Holy shit," I said. It was hard to imagine such a scene when I'd never heard any of my relatives raise their voices before.
"And how did Mom get dragged into it?" My sweet mother was the least confrontational person I knew.
"Aunt Dottie said she didn't know why any of you guys were included, since you weren't even family."
"What?" In a flash, I was filled with a white-hot rage. "After what she went through with Dad all those years ago? She has no right to say that to my mother."
"Agreed. It was total bullshit. Which is what your mom told her before she..." he glanced at me sideways.
"She...?"
"She shoved a lemon square in her face."
"A lemon— she WHAT?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"A big one. Got it all up her nose and in her hair. She also biffed a banana loaf at her head. She was also into the wine all afternoon."
Mom drinking all afternoon? Committing assault with baked goods? It was too much.
My eyes narrow. "Are you fucking with me Jonathan Taylor Douglas? You're making all of this up."
"I swear to Christ, I'm not."
I wait for the outburst of childish laughter from my little cousin — little as in younger, but still a good foot and a half taller than me — but he's silent. He has the same look on his face as when I'd try to help him study for his math exams in high school. Panic mixed with confusion.
"You'll see when we get there," he says, turning into the driveway. "Don't say I didn't warn you."