The Blue Iris, page 7
Will had long anticipated being a lawyer at his father’s firm someday, but he never would have imagined taking over the firm a year out of law school so Peter could run for mayor. Tessa had turbo-charged his ambitions, hardening his fuzzy goals to stone. With her, winning became the most dizzying rush, and he grew insatiably addicted.
Eight years ago, surrounded by fellow trust fund kids at his esteemed private school, Will languished; the world had no more to show him. When a search of his brother Teddy’s locker proved thirty thousand a year in tuition had bought him little else but a four-thousand-a-week cocaine habit, both Westlake boys were extracted from the reputational blast zone. While Teddy was shipped to the nearest rehab his father could pay to keep quiet, his parents sparred at length over where to send Will. Peter said public school would offer a more diverse experience. Eleanor feared he’d fall into the wrong crowd—essentially, anyone without an Amex Black. Peter rebutted that Teddy was the wrong crowd.
In the end, Peter got his way, and Eleanor got to be right.
Will’s first public school party wasn’t so different. Puffed-up jocks copying his clothes, cookie-cutter girls pressing into him and acting tipsier than they were. He was about to leave when the motion lighting sent a gold shaft through the yard. Tessa clattered through that screen door like a breakaway banner at the Super Bowl, dark hair trailing in ribbons, lip gloss catching the glare. Will’s nose crinkled; where he came from, a social fumble of that magnitude was impossible to bounce back from. But Tessa just laughed it off, high-fiving the onlookers. Zero deference to the repercussions which, sure enough, dissipated on the September breeze. Stunned, Will turned to the pimpled herd behind him without taking his eyes off her and said, “Boys, that right there is the girl I’m going to marry.”
Naturally, they scoffed and snickered and somebody said, “Sure, dude, whatever you say.” Because they didn’t yet understand Will was a guy who knew—and got—exactly what he wanted. And more than anything else before or since, he wanted Tessa Lewis.
“Yeah? Watch me.”
She was beautiful, sure, but Will had known many beautiful girls by then. What struck him most was the near-magical glow, obvious to everyone but herself, the way she commanded every room she entered without even trying. Without even wanting to. The other girls had been obsessed with harnessing their sex, wielding phones like weapons of mass destruction, while Tessa had friends at every table in the cafeteria. For the first time in Will’s privileged, admittedly pompous life, he was terrified he might not measure up.
Cradling Tessa’s hand under Nano’s round kitchen table, he was more at home than at the Hogg’s Hollow mausoleum he grew up in. The longer he spent in the humble coach house, wanting for nothing but her skin against his, the leftovers in the fridge, and the deadbolt on the door, the emptier life at Peter and Eleanor’s became. Suddenly, the extravagance of being a Westlake seemed grotesquely overrated. To be clear, he still wanted all of it, if only to share with her. But he was no longer content to have it handed to him by default.
Hearing Will’s loose plans to coast through school and become a mid-level, unfireable lawyer at Dad’s firm, Tessa had crawled out from under his arm, pinned him in a kiss so slow and smouldering it drove a shiver through his whole body, and dared him to think bigger.
“You have opportunity, the means, and if you try, the grades. You could run that firm.”
Tessa’s lust for big was the last quarter turn of the bulb for Will, illuminating the full promise afforded to Peter Westlake’s number one son. But even after he’d held her in his arms and felt her whole world tilting, fears of inadequacy still plagued him. She was brilliant and hilarious and eerily attuned. Next-level special. What if she woke up someday and noticed the lineup of men queueing behind him like new Netflix episodes, and decided to take a scroll? What if he wasn’t capable of all she believed he could achieve? But Tessa assured him he was, and promised to keep helping him until he could see it for himself.
With her sparkle rubbed all over him, Will really did feel unstoppable. Like he could ensure that whoever came knocking, Tessa would find no man more capable of making her every wish come true than the one already in her bed.
Now, he was on the verge of the biggest possible big, and she was off slinging plants. Sleeping a half-hour away. Too busy to prep Hewson, too preoccupied even to ask about it. Will understood why she was sticking close to the coach house, to Pop, but he hated not having her steps away at the penthouse.
The election was still five months out, and already he was losing his footing. It was silly, but he was sure he could handle things at work so much better if she’d at least wear his ring at home, sit down and set a date. But they had yet to even discuss announcing their engagement. Ever since Pop’s fall in the bathroom, their glorious future kept getting postponed for reasons he no longer understood.
Tessa was cautious to an extreme, she took longer to process change. That was all. By the time summer was over, she’ll have come around, ideally before his mother figured out his trust was empty. Meanwhile, Will simply had to be patient. Keep his eye on the bigger picture as his father carried the Westlake name to the next level, and by helping him do it, Will was guaranteed to push all his worries into the past forever.
Waxplant / Hoya Astralis
Broken promise.
DARRYL
Four Months Ago
It was ice fishing week; the cabin was the obvious place to check.
Along the northern shore of Georgian Bay, a licorice vine’s length away from the unspoiled town of Killarney, the cabin was the prettiest place Darryl ever saw.
He’d only been there once during summer. Three spotless August days when he was a kid, long before his mother was laid in a pine box and his father locked in a cement one at Metro West Detention Centre. The water was clear as the sky. He and Sam pretended they were shipwrecked on a tropical TV island. They swam into dusk, ate spider dogs and s’mores for dinner. Barefoot the whole time, all four of them—no other shoe to drop.
Darryl’s father kept a safe up there. Every January, he took the boys ice fishing and loaded it with his share of the dividends from the shop, claiming he didn’t trust banks. Darryl suspected the real reason he kept the family’s life savings a four-and-a-half-hour drive away was because he didn’t trust himself.
“Half’s yours, half’s your brother’s. Neither of you touches it . . . not ever. Got it?”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Then why bother saving it at all, Da?”
“Because someday, you might run out of never.”
“But how will we know if that happens?”
“I hope to God you never do.”
By the time Henry died, there must’ve been a hundred grand in that safe, all bound in neat stacks by the same white bands they used on the dogwood and mag tips. Even after he was gone, both sons feared their father’s wrath too much to pull one dollar. Darryl took it as proof his brother couldn’t be in that bad a shape.
The wind carved snowdrifts in a frenzy, erasing Darryl’s footprints as he trudged. Sam’s Chevy Tracker was there, by the shoreline, aptly half-buried in the white stuff. Fog poured from Darryl’s nostrils; by now, any trace of the snowmobile had spun across the bay in frozen whirlwinds.
With a laborious grunt, Darryl lowered himself into the storm cellar. Yanked the light cord. Spun the dial on the safe. Heart clomping like a blown-out racehorse headed for slaughter.
“Shit.”
Charlie must’ve done a real number on him this time, because the box was emptied straight down the middle.
Sam’s half of the cash was gone.
Kantuta / Cantua buxifolia
“Let’s start again.”
TESSA
4:27 a.m. Her usual parking spot sat pooled in darkness, the houses along Cresthaven stuck in the unclaimed void between porchlight timers and sunrise. Tessa walked briskly towards the shop, unnerved by the stillness, Will’s words last night looping through her head.
He’d called at ten, proudly done at work and on his way over. Tessa, hard asleep when the phone buzzed, ordered him to turn around. As the grogginess cleared, she apologized. After botching Frank’s order, she wanted nothing more than his arms around her, but she was meeting Darryl in six hours to go to the terminal.
Will, voice tinny with disbelief, dove headlong into the worst-case scenarios of four-thirty in the morning. Tessa, bone-tired, insisted she was going, but before she could explain why she had to, after what Darryl pulled, Will apologized for disturbing her with the detached politeness of a telemarketer and hung up, all the while insisting everything was fine.
Tessa was pretty sure it wasn’t fine, and now, thanks to him spooking her, neither was she. She pushed her keys through her knuckles, wishing she’d parked closer as she clipped along in the dark. Steps ahead, Darryl was undoubtedly waiting to catch her late. She came up on the shop just as Darryl started the cube truck, the headlights illuminating a figure standing directly in her path. Male build, something long and thick in his hand. Tessa screamed, sprinting to the cube truck and vaulting herself into the passenger seat beside Darryl. Darryl gave her a strange look as he rolled down the window, nodding a greeting at the stranger whose eyebrows, she saw now, were bushy and white like Pop’s. Beside him was a collapsible buggy, same as the one in Nano’s Buick. Tessa felt the sweeping relief of her own stupidity. The object in his hand was a newspaper. Darryl took it, then drove off.
Morrow Avenue was an abandoned bowling alley, the downtown skyscrapers stacked like pins in the distance. Tessa rubbed her arms; she could see her breath. Darryl eyed her cropped leggings and long-sleeved tee. “No jacket?” There was rust in his voice, like he hadn’t used it since yesterday.
Tessa glanced at him. “They were calling for hot and sunny today.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not today for a few hours yet.” He fumbled with the knobs until heat poured from the vents. “We’re twenty minutes out. Sleep if you want.”
Tessa would sooner prop her eyelids open with toothpicks than fail to keep pace. They rode in silence, neighborhoods whipping past. The only other person they saw was a string-haired woman in torn lace, who flipped her skirt as they passed, a slash of red thong through rippling grey flesh, her middle finger sinking in the rear view.
4:57 a.m. The terminal gate lifted, unveiling a pulsing chaos. Scooters and forklifts zig-zagged. A myriad of languages, horns, and backup alarms. Exotic trees like slices of Amazonian rainforest. PERISHABLE splattered everywhere in red ink.
Tessa stepped from the truck into a mini-shockwave of low whistles and the wet innuendo of tongues pulling at teeth. The male ratio was so high here, none were at all shy as their concentrated gazes began peeling her skin away. For the second time that morning, Tessa tucked in next to Darryl for protection.
Darryl pulled off his windbreaker and tossed it at her. “Stick behind me, and try not to get run over.”
Tessa drafted him through the makeshift aisles, sidestepping extension cords, garden hoses, milk crates. A blue lizard with yellow spots. None of the vendors were of help in supplying Frank’s missing plants; everything was sold ahead of the planting weekend. Darryl had said he’d call in Sam’s favors, but so far, he hadn’t.
She darted in front of him. “Do they know?” she asked. “About Sam?”
Reluctantly, he met her eyes. Tessa could see telling people his brother was gone, likely dead, was still too much. She broke away from him. Immediately, a forklift stacked with raspberries grazed her nose, forcing her back with what Will affectionately referred to as her “man yell.” The driver leaned out, ogling her while lobbing mucous into a passing skid of lettuce.
Tessa ran back to the first vendor they’d seen. Carlo’s Greenhouses, the name on nearly every truck unloaded at the Blue Iris. Carlo’s low-set glasses were a caveat. You may speak, but it better be good. She explained all she knew from Luke. Sam went missing without a trace since New Year’s Day, his snowmobile recovered from the icy shores of Georgian Bay last month.
Carlo’s round face softened. The clipboard in his liver-spotted hand dropped to his side. “I knew him when he was strapped to his mother’s chest.” He jerked his chin at Darryl, now panting a few feet away with his hands on his knees. “I wondered why he passed me off to that miserable shit.” Carlo agreed to make some calls.
Vendors began clearing out, their day drawing to a close as the rest of the city’s was beginning. Someone in checkered flannel urinated against a truck tire, gold mist sifting through the early light and settling on a skid of basil. Tessa would forever scrub her produce with vinegar.
Fifteen minutes later, Carlo had pulled together the missing product. On impulse, Tessa threw her arms around him. “You’re a savior!” He pulled back, staring. Tessa cringed; the hug was too much, too soon.
Carlo gave a slow, wistful smile. “I haven’t met a soul so shiny in all this filth since Iris. Your spunk . . . it reminds me of her.” He handed her his card. “My direct line. Call if you need anything else, okay?”
Walking away, Tessa flashed Darryl a peacock grin. “What else you got, asshole?”
By the time the cube truck was loaded, it was full daylight. Darryl beelined for the barbecue stand Tessa had been smelling since they arrived. “Double sausage on a bun, extra-large Mountain Dew.” He turned to her. “Want anything?”
“It’s barely six!”
Shrugging, he heaped sauerkraut and hot peppers onto the bun, shoving one end in his mouth as the other emptied onto his shoe. It must have been tough for such a clunky brute to grow up in the wake of Sam, whose name seemed to linger in people’s mouths like fresh-baked bread. “You sure? Nothing open between here and Mississauga.”
She looked at him. Mississauga was twenty minutes west, and nowhere near the shop.
Darryl crammed the remaining food into his cheek. “Clock,” he said through wet crumbs.
Tessa waited, sighing when he failed to elaborate. “More words, please, Darryl.”
More chewing. “Notice we haven’t loaded any cuts, Princess? Next stop is the grower’s auction, aka the Clock.”
“Fine. Was that so difficult?”
They rode in silence, the highway filling in around them. Tessa’s eyelids were lead. Unbelievably, she longed for a burger from the terminal. After awhile, she said, “Hey, Darryl?” He eyed her across the cab, arm slung like cured meat over the wheel. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
He looked away, tracking something far beyond the windshield. “Me too, Princess. Me too.”
6:45 a.m. The theatre-style gallery was well-lit and buffed to a shine, and no one paid Tessa any attention. Trolleys loaded with product rolled past on metal tracks. Overhead monitors tracked the bidding. Two auctions ran simultaneously with lot prices fluctuating between cents and dollars and quantity counts varying by stem, bunch, or pail. Still, the wide room was quiet as a confessional.
Tessa, the sort of numbers geek who once took advanced calculus as an elective, studied the screens keenly. Beside her, Darryl looked like he was having a root canal. He pecked at the keypad, robotically bidding on every third lot, but it wasn’t clear he was following the right auction. She winced as he won a full trolley of anthurium, a plant with waxy heart-shaped blooms and a long, yellow rod poking from the center of each.
“What’s Charlie supposed to do with sixty red wiener-flowers?” she whispered.
He shushed her.
“Darryl. You just paid six-fifty a pot. We’ll be lucky to sell them two-for-seven!”
His army tank body twisted in the too-small plastic seat, eyes shrinking to wrinkled prunes.
“Do you even know which auction you’re bidding on?” she asked. A few lots went by. “There, the cornflower. On the A-clock. Buy those.”
He stared at the keypad, considering.
“That weekend I worked inside,” she offered, “anything blue sold immediately.”
“All right, smarty-pants, how much? If we can’t sell for double our cost, this field trip isn’t worth it.”
Tessa did the mental math and poked him when it came time to press the button. The screens lit up; bid successful. Triumph rose to her chest. She punched his arm. “Nice!”
He looked at her like snakes were about to come out of his follicles. She drew her hand back, then led him through four more lots. All flowers Charlie could sell at a premium, all clearing the profit margin.
His spine pulled straighter. “How about those?”
Tessa nodded. Gerbera daisies had been popular on Mother’s Day. “But not that lot.”
“Why not? I’m on a roll.”
“Because it’s mostly red again. The next one is assorted, get that.”
“What’s with you and red?”
Tessa shrugged. “It didn’t seem to sell.”
8:03 a.m. The cube truck was stuffed to the roof. Delphiniums stood like bejeweled soldiers between them, but the vibe in the cab had lightened. Tessa balanced three trays of the dreaded red anthurium across her lap, plastic sleeves brushing her cheeks. Darryl shoved a handful of ibuprofen from the glove box into his mouth.
Tessa’s eyes widened. “It’s one or two pills every six hours!”
Darryl gulped the mouthful down with the last of his Mountain Dew. “My right knee’s slipping out of its socket, my rotator cuff feels like pulled pork, and I’ve still got eleven hours to go. If two pills work on someone your size, you think they’ll make a dent on me?”
