Brutal Telling

And this brought Marc up short. He realized she’d faced down some of the wealthiest, most manipulative bullies in Canadian finance. But Dr. Vincent Gilbert was different. There was something bewitching about him. “I’m sorry. So much is happening.”

He’d thought moving to the country would be a breeze compared to the greed and fear and manipulation of the financial district. But so far here he’d found a dead body, moved it, ruined their reputation in the village, and been accused of murder; now he was about to kick a saint out of their home, and had almost certainly messed up the dry-walling.

And the leaves hadn’t even changed yet.

But by then they’d be gone. To find another home somewhere else and hope they did better. He longed for the relative ease of the business world, where cut-throats lurked in every cubicle. Here everything looked so pleasant and peaceful, but wasn’t.

He looked out the window again. In the foreground was his father, sitting cross-legged in the garden, and behind him in the field two broken-down old horses, what might or might not be a moose, and in the distance a muck-encrusted horse that by all rights should have been dog food by now. This wasn’t what he had in mind when he’d moved to the country.

“Marc’s right, you know,” said Carole to her daughter-in-law. “Vincent either bullies, charms, or guilts his way in. But he always gets what he wants.”

“And what does he want?” Dominique asked. It seemed a sensible question. Then why was it so difficult to answer?

The doorbell rang. They looked at each other. They’d come, in the last twenty-four hours, to dread that sound.

“I’ll get it,” said Dominique and walked briskly out of the kitchen, reappearing a minute later followed by a little boy and Old Mundin.

“I think you know my son,” said Old, after greeting everyone with a smile. “Now, Charlie, what did The Mother tell you to say to these nice people?”

They waited while Charlie considered, then he gave them the finger.

“He learned that from Ruth, actually,” Old explained.

“Quite a role model. Would he like a Scotch?” asked Carole. Old Mundin’s handsome tanned face broke into a smile.

“No, Ruth just gave him a martini and we’re trying not to mix drinks.” Now the young man looked uncomfortable and putting his hands down on his son’s shoulders he hugged Charlie to him. “I’ve heard he’s here. Would you mind?”

Marc, Dominique, and Carole looked confused.

“Mind?” Dominique asked.

“Dr. Gilbert. I’d seen him in the forest, you know. I knew who he was but didn’t know he was your father.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Dominique asked.

“It wasn’t my business. He didn’t seem to want to be seen.”

And Marc thought maybe it was simpler here after all, and he was the one who complicated things. The business world had somehow made him think everything was his business, when it wasn’t.

“I don’t want to disturb him,” Mundin continued, “but I just wondered if maybe we could see him. Maybe introduce Charlie to him.” The dignified young father looked as though this effort was hurting him. “I’ve read and reread his book, Being. Your father’s a great man. I envy you.”

And Marc envied him. His touching his son, holding him. Protecting him and loving him. Being willing to humble himself, for his son.

“He’s in the garden,” said Marc.

“Thanks.” At the door Old Mundin stopped. “I have tools. Maybe I can come back tomorrow and help. A man can always use help.”

You’ll be a man, my son. Why hadn’t his own father told him a man could always use help?

Marc nodded, not unaware of the significance of what had just happened. Old Mundin was offering to help the Gilberts build their home, not leave it. Because his father was Vincent Gilbert. His fucking father had saved them.

Mundin turned to Dominique. “The Wife says hello, by the way.”

“Please say hello back,” said Dominique, then hesitated a breath. “To The Wife.”

“I will.” He and Charlie went into the garden leaving the other three to watch.

Dr. Vincent Gilbert, late of the forest, had somehow become the center of attention.

As the young man and his son approached, Vincent Gilbert opened one eye and through the slit in his long lashes he watched. Not the two walking quietly toward him, but the three in the window.

Help others, he’d been told. And he intended to. But first he had to help himself.

It was quiet in the bistro. A few villagers sat at tables outside in the sunshine, relishing their café and Camparis and calm. Inside Olivier stood at the window.

“Good God, man, you’d think you’d never seen the village before,” Gabri said from behind the bar where he was polishing the wood and replenishing the candy jars, most of which he’d helped empty.

For the last few days, every time Gabri looked for Olivier he’d find him standing in the same spot, in the bay window, looking out.

“Pipe?” Gabri walked over to his partner and offered him a licorice pipe, but Olivier seemed under a spell. Gabri bit into the licorice himself, eating the candied end first, as per the rules.