Maire's Story

PART TWO

C H A P T E R  T W E L V E

Between dodging traffic and avoiding puddles, it wasn't easy to cross the rain-soaked Vancouver street and get to the Shark Club. But he was bound and determined, if for no other reason than to leave the cold February evening outside.

But there was something else and it preyed on his mind as he hung up his jacket, surveyed the near-empty pub and settled into a booth with a window view.

"Hey pal, what's the matter with your bar seat? My company not good enough for you tonight?"

He smiled at Gord, the Shark Club's bartender and part-owner, who'd wandered over and sat down opposite him.

"You're company's fine, you know that. But for a change, I won't be alone."

Gord's thick eyebrows arched as he surveyed Rory Fallon's slim form, short, gently curled dark hair, neatly kept beard and mustache, prominent chin and understated glasses. It was a handsome picture that even Gord knew should be attractive to women. Yet there was no ring on Rory's fingers and he'd never entered or left the Shark Club with anyone.

Then, with the suddenness of a popping balloon, Gord realized all that facial hair and glasses served to obscure Rory's face. Or keep others from seeing how emotions played across it like sunshine through a wind-stirred poplar.

"Well, this is a surprise," said Gord, leaning back in the booth. "A date?"

Rory shook his head. "An old buddy from a different life. We've kept in touch over the years and he apparently has something too important to tell me over the phone."

"Sounds intriguing. You won't mind if I casually hang around and listen in, would you?"

Rory grinned. "Not at all. But how are you going to do that when there are drinks to be served?"

"Huh?" Gord looked over to see a couple taking seats at the bar. At the same time, his waitress was approaching, almost certainly with a drink order.

"Oh dang me," he muttered, standing up. "Fill me in on everything, okay?"

Rory nodded, knowing (as did Gord) that he would say only enough to get by and nothing more. That was his style since leaving a tiny Quebec hamlet called Guilfoyle almost 20 years before.
He used to talk a lot then. Part of it came naturally, a youngster stumbling onto discoveries and eager to tell his family about them. Part of it was desperation; the things Rory was learning were subtle — properties of light and colour, uncoverings of human nature — and beyond his younger brother, Patrick. In the right circumstances, they would have made him a success. But like a fine painting tossed amongst cheap illustrations, his circumstances were all wrong. Patrick possessed a charm and a gift with business concepts that captured his parents' attention. He would be their star. He would be given the money to go to university. He would carry the Fallon name into the world.

So Rory talked. Talked as much as he could, until it became plain nobody was listening. Then he stopped, said as little as possible and plowed away at school with dogged determination. His parents were impressed, but by then it didn't matter. Rory had grown a chip on his shoulder the size of a hay bale and, upon graduation, left home with scarcely a word of goodbye.

After working in Toronto a couple of years, he made his way west and found a job in British Columbia's lumber industry. Now, he was a well-regarded middle manager working in one of Canada's most picturesque cities. And yet, the few people who gained Rory's friendship — like Gord — saw the job wasn't his passion. Indeed, nothing seemed to bring him fulfillment; every time he walked into the Shark Club, Gord looked past the glasses and noticed a smoldering in his eyes. Could it be anger? Envy? A long-standing grudge? Nobody knew because Rory still wasn't talking.