Excerpt
Kitty St. Clair's Last Dance
Chapter 1Kitty St. Clair’s casket is from Costco.
She bought it online six months ago when Dr. Shahid sat her down to tell her her lung cancer had progressed to stage IV, and Kitty decided she was done fighting it.
“Why waste good money on a box,” she had said to Zoe and me as we wheeled her from her spacious one-bedroom suite down to the retirement home’s dining hall later that night. “I’ll be long gone by the time you bury me in the thing.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll be up there, drinking Veuve and dancing on the tables. Looking down at the two of you, every so often, to send you signs to live a little.”
I have always been undecided about the existence of an afterlife. But at that moment, I had no doubts that if there were one, Kitty St. Clair would be there kicking off the after-party.
And that is the image I have in my head as we stand in the Sunnyvale Retirement Home’s parking lot, watching Father Herold make the sign of the cross as Kitty’s casket is loaded into the back of the elegant black hearse that will take her body south to Toronto.
The funeral plans Kitty laid out during the weeks following her prognosis were, for the most part, pragmatic and sensible—a small service with her three children back in Toronto, followed by a burial next to her late husband, Beau, in the Mount Pleasant Cemetery. A fitting end to the sophisticated and refined version of Kitty, who had her curls set at the beauty parlor every Tuesday and was never caught without her Chanel lipstick or pearls. But she left some unconventional instructions for West Lake, the town where she spent both her formative years and her final days.
Instructions that paid homage to the other side of Kitty: the side with a wild streak. We were not to mourn her, but instead were to gather at the Legion for a celebration to honor all ninety-four years of her extraordinary life.
“I’ve had my fill, girls,” she had said. “Shed a tear or two if you must, but then send this old doll out with one they’ll talk about for years, okay? I always loved a good party.”
What Kitty St. Clair wants, Kitty St. Clair gets.
When I arrive, the party is already in full swing. I push open the doors to the Royal Canadian Legion Branch 587 and am hit with the familiar smells of sour beer and fish fry.
The Legion hall looks the same as I imagine it did seventy-five years ago when it made 34 St. Mary Street its official branch headquarters. The interior boasts white wainscoting, green paisley wallpaper, and an industrial carpet whose hideous shade of maroon is excellent at hiding spilled beer and the occasional hot wing stain. There’s a dartboard on the far wall next to the broken pinball machine. The wallpaper around it is covered in tiny pinpricks from too many shots gone wild—most of them by the Senior Ladies League that coincides with the Tuesday night sixteen-dollar pitcher special.
The bar itself is simple oak and stretches the length of the entire back wall. Above it, smack in the center, is a taxidermied buck with glossy black eyes that give the illusion that they follow you as you move about the room. Legend has it that Bill Withers bought it at a garage sale down in Grand Bend sometime in the eighties, then lost it in a poker game to Donny, the bartender, along with his prized Ski-Doo.
The Legion is the hub of West Lake.
Half of the crowd tonight would be gathered here whether it was Kitty’s unofficial funeral or just a regular old Wednesday.
Zoe and I have been coming here to drink since we were sixteen. Donny is her uncle, and although he was well aware that we were underage, he had a far stronger belief that the government should have zero say in who should or shouldn’t be able to enjoy a cold beer.
I’m almost done with my PBR when Zoe slides into the empty barstool beside me and signals to Donny with a sharp whistle, holding up two fingers when he looks over.
“I have spotted your future husband.” She clinks her glass with mine just as Donny sets two new beers in front of us.
“If you are trying to set me up with your cousin Clive again, I—”
“Clive is a catch in some circles,” she interrupts. “But this guy isn’t local. He came in about twenty minutes ago. The Anderson twins cornered him immediately, and I swear I keep catching him giving you come hither glances, and I really think you should.”
“Should what?” I twist around in my seat to see the guy in question, but the crowd is too thick.
“Hither on over there,” Zoe continues, walking her fingers along the bar. “Fall in love or at least get laid.”
I snort. “We’re at a funeral, Zo.”
She leans back in her seat, holding up her hands. “Technically, it’s not a funeral, and you and I both know the odds of a hot piece of ass stumbling in here between now and May are virtually zero. I have snagged the only decent man in a fifty-kilometer radius, which means unless you change your tune about Clive, this is probably your only opportunity for hot sex until summer. I am just looking out for you.”
She does make a point. It’s almost October, which means the tourists and summer residents are long gone, except for the handful trying to stretch the season to Thanksgiving. Everyone who’s left is either not worth doing or has been done back in high school.
“Listen,” Zoe says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, then smoothing my right eyebrow with her thumb. “He’s dodged the twins, and now he’s coming this way.” She glances at something over my shoulder. “Look like you’re interested in tennis. I feel like that’s probably his type.”
“Jules?”
I don’t expect the deep voice behind me.
The way it reverberates inside me like a plucked guitar string.
Or the way my body reacts. The blood whooshing from my head and dropping straight to my feet, leaving me woozy and unsure if I’m about to swoon or throw up as I turn, eerily slow—as if I know exactly what will happen.
“Hey,” he says. “I thought that was you.”
He looks the same. The grin. The eyes. His mathematically symmetrical features that instantly remind you that life is unfair.
Oh shit.
“Reeve?”
“Reeve, huh?” Zoe drags a finger down the seam of his perfectly pressed white dress shirt. “Yes, you are a Reeve.” She winks at him before turning to me. “Who is this guy? And why do you know him and I don’t?”
Her question is valid. In the Venn diagram of our lives, my social circle and Zoe’s overlap completely. We do the same things. We go to the same places. There are no secrets between us simply because there’s nothing to keep.
Except for Reeve. I never told her about our night together.
At the time, I told myself it was because it meant nothing to me. But deep down, I know the opposite is true.
I made a mistake that night.
I cracked open the box of unspoken dreams I kept hidden in a corner of my heart. I let him see. And when he responded with unabashed optimism, I let myself think they were possible.
Then I made the bigger mistake of letting myself hope—and hope left in the wrong hands can get you hurt.
“He was at a party a few summers ago,” I explain to Zoe. “You were birthday-drunk and making out with that guy who always kitesurfs. The one with the man bun.”
Zoe shakes her head as if she doesn’t recall any of it. “I mean, that sounds like me.” She hitches her thumb at Reeve. “So this one. Good egg or rotten?”
I give a single, sharp turn of my head. Zoe—who once cheated on an entire multiple choice calculus exam by reading my facial expressions—interprets it perfectly.
“Too bad. I guess you’re not having hot sex tonight, huh?”
I roll my eyes as Reeve’s go wide. “Wait. Do I get to vote on this?”
“No,” Zoe and I say in unison.
My mind quickly rewinds, realizing we’ve skipped over the most obvious question. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.
Reeve looks around the room. “In West Lake? Or here tonight?”
“Both,” I answer, unsure which one I meant in the first place.
“I’m here on business,” he answers. “And I guess I’m also here on business. What are you doing here?”
He’s being vague. And I’m dwelling on that fact. So much so that I completely ignore his question.
“Uh . . . we live here.” Zoe jumps in on my behalf. “Which means we practically live here.” She picks up what I am pretty sure is Reeve’s beer and starts to drink.
“Right . . .” Reeve nods, also watching Zoe. “Sorry. I knew that. I just figured you’d be in first year by now, so I assumed you’d be down in—”
I follow his train of thought a moment too late. I lied earlier.
I’ve kept two secrets from Zoe.
My night with Reeve and the application for medical school that’s still sitting unsent in a somewhat forgotten file folder deep within my laptop’s hard drive.
I think I mean to stop him. Clasp my hand around his mouth and halt the clarification about to make its exit.
But I forget that I’m holding a beer.
