Page 36 of The Second Ending
He drove her home and bid her goodnight, and then took himself back to his house. It was empty without her, of course, but it no longer felt so lonely. She wasn’t with him in body, but she certainly was in spirit, and that knowledge somehow lessened the awful weight of the mess with the land sale.
He fell into bed with a smile on his lips and let his head become filled with images of Ashleigh. Ashleigh then, when they first met, young and full of optimism; Ashleigh now, more mature and serious, with all her wonderful experiences; Ashleigh in the future, as he imagined her, next to him in bed, caring for him, loving him as much as he hoped to love her. He drifted into sleep, his dreams alternately tender and passionate, and woke with his sheets a disaster but a smile on his face.
With love buoying his mood, he pushed through the worst tasks of the day. He read through the pile of reports he’d been ignoring while he was recovering, and he drafted enough memos and responses to fill a library. The spreadsheet he hated was still there, taunting him, and he managed to make some sense ofthe numbers, and he worked out the beginnings of a budget for another project that he was considering.
Gradually, over the course of the weekend, the huge mountain of work became more manageable, until it seemed like he might actually conquer it at some point.
His last job was to write a letter to some of his investors, outlining some new ideas he had and requesting their input. He glanced down the list of names, thinking of how best to approach each one.
Ah! Now that was interesting. Why hadn’t he made the connection before? Marcus looked at the clock. Seven o’clock on a Sunday night. Not the best time to call, but not absolutely dreadful either.
With the determination of someone about to plunge into an icy river, he picked up his phone and dialled.
Ashleigh’s weekend was miserable.What had she been thinking in choosing to attend to her father’s commands over being with Marcus? She should have just gone home with him and told her parents that she was busy. The donors for her music program would keep until another time. They had newsletters and emails to read for their information. They didn’t need her.
But no, she’d tried to stick to her resolutions to keep things slow, and now here she was, running around her parents’ house like a serf, tending to a bunch of tasks that really did not need tending to.
On Saturday, it was Bridge Club, and the large living room was set out with an array of square tables in the centre for cards, and long narrow ones along the walls for food, all beautifully arranged and appointed. Appearances were, afterall, everything. Ashleigh’s useless job was to confirm with the two young women hired to set up and maintain the room that everything was arranged (it was) and to check with the couple who had catered the food that they had brought what they promised (they did). Then, when she informed her mother that all was exactly as planned, she was sent to confirm the details, and return with an accounting of the number of tea cups, cocktail glasses, and tumblers, and make sure that the canapes weren’t too close to the pastry table.
Not for the first time, Ashleigh wondered what her father would do if she just refused to come. Would he talk to his cronies and convince them to withdraw their support from the music program? She sighed. Yes, he could be vindictive enough, at times, that he would do exactly that. Most of the time he was just selfish and snobbish, but when he was angry, he could really be quite cruel. It was time to cast the net a bit wider in search of donations. She couldn’t rely on this group of old-moneyed snobs forever.
The event was as dull as she expected, and once again, she was dragged into the study to go over whatever her father thought needed her attention.
“Really, Dad, this is just correspondence. Most of it you can throw away.” She looked dejectedly at the pile of documents she was expected to read. “It’s getting late, and I do have a lot to do.”
“Nonsense, dear. You can’t have anything to do that’s more important than this,” her mother scolded.
“Let her go home. You’ll come back tomorrow, Ashleigh, and you can look at everything then. I need you to help with the Maple Club’s meeting. You can take minutes.”
What? “I’m busy. I really have too much to do.”
Her pleas were met with disapproving glares, and the names of several wealthy and generous donors were dropped rather conspicuously. It was another summons. This was gettingridiculous. If she didn’t know better, she’d think her parents were deliberately trying to keep her busy all weekend. This had to end soon.
The next week was a blur of meetings and tribunal appearances, relieved only by a too-short dinner with Marcus on Tuesday night and her beloved choir rehearsal on Thursday. She arrived early, as was her habit, and she had a nice chat with Gordon as they helped Martin set up the chairs into the semi-circle for rehearsal. Gordon had become a good friend since their first conversations before the previous concert, and he listened to her complaints about her family with quiet good humour.
The repertoire for the concert was coming along well, and after some intensive work, the trickiest passages of syncopated entries and unusual harmonies in the folk song suite were shaping up. Ashleigh was proud of the work she and her colleagues had put in. It was going to be a terrific concert, and she was convinced they’d knock the socks off Mrs Berg, when she came to hear the choir at their dress rehearsal in two weeks’ time.
To her surprise, Marcus was waiting for her after the rehearsal. He was standing in the hallway outside the room they used for their practises, talking to Elise’s partner, Will Pemberton. The two men seemed to be engaged in a deep conversation, and getting along well. This pleased her. Elise was one of the friendliest people in the choir, and had extended invitations from time to time. If Ashleigh accepted, and if partners were included, it would be good for them to have acquaintances as well.
She chatted about this as Marcus walked with them to the Fife and Fiddle for their post-rehearsal gathering, and then later, as he drove her home.
With Friday coming, and with the weekend blissfully void of any engagements, other than hanging out with Marcus, she wasable to put the misery of work and her increasingly annoying parents out of her mind. It seemed that things were settling nicely into place, at long last.
Then, on Friday morning, the phone call came. It was her mother.
“Ashleigh, dear, we need you tomorrow. No, don’t tell me you have plans. You’ll just have to cancel them all. I insist. I won’t hear no.”
“Mom, not this time. You’ll have to manage without me.”
Her statement was met with silence. Then, in words of icy steel, “You don’t understand. You are needed.”
“No, I’m not. I never am. You always make me run around doing useless tasks. I’m not coming. I’m committed for the weekend.”
“You will have to uncommit yourself. It’s all arranged. It would be a pity if your little project in Chile suddenly ran out of funds right before their next thingie… what is it? A recording? How sweet. Do you understand me, dear?”
“That’s blackmail, Mom.”
“Call it what you like, Ashleigh. Sebastian will come for you at ten tomorrow morning. Be ready.”
