Spring in Toronto—the canopy of Maples a green blur, and the air smelling of lemons.
The season, however, reminds me of loss, so I’m out each night walking lonely streets and blinking away raindrops—not tears—at least, that’s a lie I tell myself.
The truth is, even after three long years, I still miss her. And it’s hard to be haunted by a memory and mourn a lost love.
Tonight, there was a note on my desk at The Toronto Telegraph from Ben Church, my assignment editor, asking to meet with him first thing in the morning.
Ironically, last time we talked he sent me on the assignment where I met the girl who broke my heart.
I may be cynical but can’t help thinking how life repeats and time reprises pain, and have this sinking feeling I’ll be weathering a storm again.
“Bill Hay must like you Newson.”
Ben Church swivelled in his chair and scowled at me to show he didn’t share the view of the editor-in chief.
“Now, I may be just the assignment editor,” he continued, “but I think he’s getting you in way over your head…”
I must have looked like a deer in headlights because I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
Church read my wide-eyed stare and gave a raspy laugh.
Ow, I suppose he didn’t infawm you, he said in a snooty, upper class accent that I imagine approximates the way Bill Hay speaks—mind you, all he ever said to me was Hello and Goodbye at a staff Christmas party three years ago.
Church shifted hos weight in his chair to gaze out over the lake. He was watching a squall blow in and for a moment forgot I was there—lost in some private reverie, I imagined.
Maybe he saw me as his younger self—the self he regretted he no longer was.
He swivelled back to face me and growled:
“You’re a dreamer, Newson. If I were giving this assignment I’d pick a hard boiled skeptic like Pete Bowles, not a cub reporter who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
I tried to get in a word, “Pardon me, Boss, but what assignment are you talking about?”
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair eyeing me narrowly.
“Bill Hay wants you to write a series of articles on Clare Rosmond, the clairvoyant. He thinks you’d be right for the job simply because you wrote a couple of pieces on haunted houses. I tried to dissuade him, but he’s made up his mind.”
My head was swimming. What a great opportunity! Clare Rosmond’s face graced the cover of every major magazine. She was more popular than a movie star, and about as alluring.
“Oh, you’ll be pleased to know he’s given you a full expense account—but don’t go simple on me—I’ll be checking every expense item, so you’ve been warned.”
“Yes Sir—I’ll be careful and keep all receipts.”
He handed me a thick file on the divine Ms. Rosmond.
“Make sure you do keep good accounts—and don’t go mooning over this Beauty—I want an impartial assessment of what makes her tick.”
He could tell by the grin on my face that was unlikely.
He lowered his voice a notch.
“Look, Zach—I think this girl’s a fraud—Oh, she’s a vision all right, but she doesn’t see visions. She’s using her Hollywood looks and glamor to full effect, but I want a sober assessment. Can you do that?”
“I sure can, Boss.”
I don’t think he believed me and I could see a faint wry smile on his lips.
“Dismissed!” he growled.
I watched as he turned back to his private reveries, contemplating the lake waters that were now disappearing into a mist.
I wished I could peer into the mists of time, like the divine Clare Rosmond, and see if I even stood a chance of being included in her second regard...
Yeah, that would be a consummation devoutly to be wished but unlikely given my present track record.
Well, I'll await the event...who knows how things may turn out...
I can't be sure, but the clairvoyant knows.
