Planet Lara: Tempest

2. Lots to Do

Two

Lots to Do

Thursday ~ Fifteen days laterFor the first week following Jacinta Ramirez’s mysterious arrival, I race home from work at five thirty on the dot, hoping to see her sitting on my porch or again hiding inside my cabin.

By the end of the second week with nary a hint of her, I’ve run the gamut of worrying that she was eaten in the woods to contemplating perhaps I imagined the whole thing, dreamed it in an alcohol-induced haze, and maybe she was nothing but a spectre—a ghost from my mother’s past—come to wreak havoc on my present and future.

But do ghosts need toilet paper?

Why did she show up now, drop a few truths, and then—poof!—without at least a follow-up? I’d gladly take another rock with a charcoal-scratched note on it.

I called Rupert the day after Jacinta’s appearance, but he was out of it. Instead I talked to Sergeant Wes Singh, a longtime friend of Grandfather and Number Two—and the guy who broke the Dea Vitae case wide open here on Thalia—who seems to be at Rupert’s West End townhouse more than he’s not. Wes said the prior day’s round of whatever chemo or antibody treatment they’d given Rupert was tearing apart his guts. When he wasn’t in the bathroom, he was sedated. Anything important on my side of the Georgia Strait had to wait.

Not even Humboldt has been any help. I send him into the field once we pull in every night, hoping he’ll pick up a scent and lead me to her bunker. Alas, Humboldt is a bullmastiff, not a bloodhound, and this is not a Disney movie. The only thing he’s concerned with after a long day of inspired farting in my office is dinner.

He’s even starting to get a little chubby now that he’s not running around the fields with Finan. And he figured out after the first few days that sitting by town hall’s front doors whining to go out brings no remedy. Though it’s a poor second choice, the council chambers offers plush carpet and lots of room to spread his slobber wherever he wants. Like right now as I wait for those who remain on Thalia Island to saunter in, fresh coffees and warm pastries in hand, thanks to Tommy’s Diner.

People are friendly enough—the ones who really didn’t like me no longer live here—but those who are here are uneasy about the empty residences in their small neighborhood and the abridged town council looking after their needs. To make the meetings feel more intimate, therein reminding the settlers that we are still working toward a singular mission, Tommy and Catrina and I forgo the mics and our seats on the dais and instead stand on the first level in the gallery while people find seats. A few cold glances still brush past—the parents in the room haven’t forgiven me for those horrifying slideshow photos while their kids were in attendance—but Catrina promises that, too, shall pass. Eventually.

She said the same thing about Finan’s anger, and yet fifteen days in, he’s still off the island. I can count his attempts to get in touch on two fingers, and the hundred texts I’ve started can’t be read if I delete them before sending. If he stays gone another week, I will have Clarke Innovations HR send him a formal warning that he’s in jeopardy of losing his position here.

Hey, it’s just business. If I’m in charge of keeping the island on track, I don’t have time for Mr. Rowleigh’s shenanigans.

With Rupert temporarily out of commission, and Kelly, her Prince Charming-knockoff Hunter, and Stanley the shepherd and Tipping Point manager permanently gone, it’s up to Catrina, Tommy, and me to run the meetings. No one has any idea where Ainsley Kerr—a.k.a. Iona MacChruim, the purported grad student who is actually the duplicitous head of the local Dea Vitae cult—is, but the regular updates from Wes, plus the new addition of Clarke Innovations security on the island, proves that the law isn’t done looking for her or uncovering the damage she’s caused. If anything, her woes are in their infancy, especially now that Dea Vitae is a headliner on worldwide news.

Come to find out, Interpol, Scotland Yard, the FBI—they’re all very interested in the activities of this tiny Scottish lass and her industrious minions. It’s made Wes Singh a bit of a local hero, depending on which channel you’re tuned in to, but I warned him during a private call the other day—be careful. That tide changes very quickly. The public is fickle. We want Thalia Island famous for her earth-friendly innovation and community, not because a bunch of law-averting perverts tried to poison everyone and take over.

And I’m absolutely dying to know if he is aware of the bunker surveillance system, but I can’t exactly ask, just in case it was a hallucination.

I’m going to guess no one does know about it since Clarke Innovations’ beefy head of security, Len Emmerich, and his team have been busy over the past week installing well-disguised surveillance cameras in strategic locations around the island. No memo or email was issued; no public opinion was gathered. The cameras are going in, and if you don’t like it, ferry’s that way.

Catrina raises her arm next to me, the signal that we’re ready to start. The crowd of forty-odd residents quiets quickly. In seeing how few of us are here, it is still shocking that so many were involved with Dea Vitae—and that they were so adept at hiding any trace. While some vehemently denied membership even as they packed their things under CI security supervision, their presence on Cordelia Beach that night sealed their fates. As Sergeant Singh reassured me the next day, I need to let the RCMP do their work. These people are no longer my problem.

Except they are. Their homes, now empty, need cleaning and resetting in preparation for a new wave of settlers that will soon assimilate. The second group we’d been expecting was paused, awaiting further and deeper investigation by Clarke Innovations and associated police agencies. Disgruntled would-be residents who’ve sold homes and given up apartment leases to move here have been vocal on social media, which is not helping matters. And yes, lawsuits have already been filed.

I pinch the bridge of my nose against the headache that just won’t leave.

Catrina offers an update on what we’ve been cleared to share by the Serious Crimes Team. She invites Joey, the senior-most agritech who’s been standing in for Finan, to come down and update everyone on the rebuild progress at vertical farm B, how anyone who wants to help with early harvesting of our summer crops is more than welcome, “now that Ainsley is gone.” He hazards a quick glance my way—Joey knows that Ainsley is in trouble and won’t be coming back, but until I get to know Joey a little better, less is more. Whatever he wants to know about Ainsley, he can get from the news. I have no idea how much these folks bonded around late-night campfires and shared blunts.

I hate that I have to suspect everyone of everything. I thought being on Thalia would take that away. Oh, naive Lara, you’re so cute, shoulder devil whispers.

Especially now that I’ve learned my mother’s life partner, likely a fugitive of some stripe, has been living in a tech-filled hobbit hole right under my nose.

Before Joey returns to his seat, I inform the residents that we are interviewing a new biotech lead to take Ainsley’s place, a young man named Benny Ackerman (yes, the Cannabis Cowboy I met at the Fairmont lounge in my Before Thalia life, though I don’t offer this detail), and that if he makes it past the next round of interviews and the security clearance, we’ll be bringing him and his young family onto the island to meet everyone. It was all Eugenia’s idea—I begged my darling philosophizing bartender to come live here, too, since she sort of saved my life that night after Connor dumped me and I lost my loft—but she has a full life in Vancouver. It’s enough that we keep in touch via social media, and I always appreciate the bites of Eugenia wisdom that randomly show up via text message.

So I called Benny and offered him a job a few days after the blitzkrieg, and he was so excited about the possibility of overseeing actual farms again, he had to take a minute to compose himself.

Plus, having someone on the island who knows how to make a killer mojito does not sound terrible.

Tommy updates folks on the Tipping Point general store, including the limited hours it’ll be open for restocking our personal supplies “until we can get someone in to run it full time.” I’ve been dealing with inventory, shipments, and special orders, even manning the till, but there’s so much to handle in my actual job, we can’t keep the store open ten hours a day right now. We still have maintenance crews on the island, but almost a dozen of them were escorted away that calamitous night. And as many of the remaining residents have their own jobs, it’s not like I have an abundant labor pool from which to draw. Far from ideal.

Questions arise about future residents, the new doctor’s schedule, if we’re going to recruit a dentist to the island, and about when music lessons will resume at the school (one of the Cordelia Beach weirdos was a musician teaching the island’s kids—I know—*shudder*). I answer what I can, deferring to Catrina and Tommy since people seem more inclined to listen to them.

Before we adjourn, however, I do raise my hand to introduce the last topic on our agenda. “It will be necessary for us to fill the vacated spots on council.” A few people sit straighter on the padded bench seats. “The three of us agree that it would be best for all of TI’s residents to decide who those folks are, as this is still a democracy.” I smile warmly, hoping the ice in the room will thaw a little. “If you’re interested in participating in our civic process, it does, of course, come with a small salary. We would like to move on this as quickly as possible.”

A woman in the third row—Thalia Island’s wealthiest resident, renowned author Alice Corwin, married to Professor Corwin who follows the missus around as if led by an invisible leash—raises her hand. “How many seats need filling? Kelly, Stanley, and Ainsley are gone, so that’s three. And poor Rupert … what about Finan Rowleigh? Is he returning?”

Catrina and I lock eyes for a beat. “Finan will rejoin us soon. His sister’s twins are still in the NICU, so he’s been in Vancouver as a support to his family.”

“When it rains, it pours,” Mrs. Corwin says, a kind smile on her face. Everyone loves Finan—no one wants him gone.

“Will you be maintaining your position, Lara?” Her kind smile dissolves.

“I will. I am still the project administrator, ready to move on from the missteps of the past few weeks so we can get back on track toward fulfilling Grandfather’s mission.” I look away before she can ask another question. “As soon as we adjourn, I will send out an email via Lutris detailing the role and responsibilities of council members. Those of you interested, please state your intent. If we have more than three potential candidates, we will coordinate a mini election, if you will, to allow residents to choose who will fill the seats. Ideally, we’d like to have everything settled within a week—with summer officially here, there is much to be done, not the least of which includes approving the next round of settlers.”

“Shouldn’t we wait to hold council elections until after the new settlers arrive?” Mrs. Corwin asks.

“Ideally, yes, but since it’s just the three of us right now, we could really use your help. We could consider making the appointments interim, say, lasting for six months? That way it wouldn’t be a tremendous burden for those who are already juggling jobs.”

Several heads bob in agreement. “Excellent. OK, can I have a show of hands that this arrangement is agreeable?”

Mrs. Corwin is the first to raise hers, nudging her husband in the side, his glasses teetering on the end of his wide nose, his head bent over his phone. He looks up and raises his hand; most of the other residents do, too, including the kids. If children didn’t give me hives, I’d think it was cute.

“Then it’s settled. Thank you very much for coming today, and watch for Lara’s email to follow shortly,” Catrina says, adjourning the meeting. As residents stand, stretch, chat, and file out, Tommy kisses his wife’s cheek once and dismisses himself to return to the diner for the coming lunch rush. I join her in tidying council chambers, grabbing the vacuum out of the hall storage cupboard since one of the kids decided their Danish would be better off in a million pieces on the floor. By the time I get to the spot to clean it, Humboldt has managed it for me.

“Have you heard from Finan?” Catrina asks, breaking the silence as she stacks dirty coffee mugs in a gray bin to take back to the diner for washing.

“No. But you have, clearly, if you know about his sister’s babies.”

“I called to check on him. His mother and I have become f*******: friends over the last year.”

I nod. I don’t want to care … but I do. “His sister’s babies are sick?”

“Preemies. That’s not uncommon with multiples, but their lungs are a little underdeveloped, so they’re still at BC Children’s.”

“If he wanted to talk to me, he would’ve made the effort. Feels a bit convenient that his sister just happened to go into labor the night everything fell apart.” The words sound as harsh coming out of my mouth as they did in my brain.

I turn on the vacuum to pick up what Humboldt didn’t inhale. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Catrina is done cleaning, now waiting at the end of a row, the dish bin balanced along the bench back.

Sigh.

I turn off the vacuum and give her a tight smile.

“Call him, Lara.”

“Maybe. You at the clinic today?”

“You’d think that four dozen people would be able to live without a doctor for a single day,” she says, hoisting the bin. “I’ll be back this afternoon—hoping we can get those council seats filled without a fuss.”

I restart the vacuum as she heads up the stairs, coffee mugs tinking in the bin. Though chambers doesn’t need it, I keep vacuuming, every level, under the padded benches, the benches themselves, the stairways, the dais, under the council desks, until my baby-blue silk blouse is drenched, rivulets running from under my bra down my stomach, my face dewy with exertion. Humboldt ambles up the three short steps to the elevated council members’ area and sits, a long string of drool hanging from his chin, his mopey eyes staring at me, tail thumping against the floor.

He needs to potty.

I yank the cord from the wall and quickly wrap it up. “Come on, Big Dog,” I say. He bounds down the stairs ahead of me, out of chambers, his long nails (which I don’t know how to trim) clicking on the hallway’s hardwood floor as I slide the vacuum back into the closet. I let him out front, he plods to the side of the building into the drought-resistant tall fescue where he knows he is to do his business, and then, not a fan of the rain, he hurries back under the covered porch area, happy to shake off right near me.

“Humboldt, seriously?” I wipe the muck off my black skinny pants, annoyed that once again, this beast has sullied my otherwise very cute outfit.

“You know he’s a baby about the rain.”

I freeze mid brush of my pant leg, but only for a second before looking up at the person towering over me. “Then I guess that makes him more of a princess than I am,” I say. “Come, Humboldt.” I turn and walk back into the building with my beast without holding the door for the newcomer.

Last I checked, Finan Rowleigh knows how doors work.