Summer of Lies

By Barbara Baker

Fourteen-year-old Jillian has no idea who her dad is but uses her banishment from summer parties in Toronto to isolation in Banff National Park to track him down. But it’s not easy. A reclusive log cabin, a grumpy aunt, few trips to civilization and seriously—no cell phone reception?

When she’s not searching for her dad, Jillian pursues an elusive girl, Mika, who lives on her own in the wilderness. Together they track down a poacher and Jillian reunites Mika with her family. All should be well - but it isn’t. Big secrets in Jillian’s family surface, Jillian’s boyfriend ditches her, and her dad wants proof he’s her dad. Like she’d make this up?

Jillian swaps her English saddle for a western one as she unravels the truth about who she really is. What she learns changes everything she knows about herself and demands an inner strength she never knew she had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228615736

Barbara Baker

I was raised in the Catholic faith. I grew up with three brothers and a sister in a home directly across the street from St. Patrick's church and school in Fort Wayne, IN. We went to mass every morning before school, on Sundays and every day of obligation. We prayed before every meal, we went to confession, and we were educated in religion. Although this may appear to be strict, we were all about a year apart so we had the sibling rivalry, arguments, and battles between us. We were not perfect by any means but having this structure and knowing that God was watching, every one of us was willing to help those in need if asked. It gave us a good feeling. As the circle of life continued, our great grandparents and grandparents passed. We attended their funerals and continued on with our lives "knowing" that they went to heaven. Our children were being raised in the same faith. Looking back, I believe that we were doing it as more of a "ritual" than a full dedication to God. Our father passed in 2008. Although it was very sad it was not unexpected as he was ill. All of the family had moved to Florida in 1982, with the exception of my two older brothers, Bob and Bill. Even though we were 1000 miles apart, we spoke often and usually were together during the holidays. Bill would like to surprise us and knock on our door unannounced as that was him. The fun guy. The outgoing, life of the party, anything for a laugh kind of guy. This got him into trouble while he was younger, but you had to laugh because you didn't know what he was going to do next. In January of 2012, Bill was diagnosed with throat cancer. The doctors said it was a 98% cure rate with chemotherapy. Five months later, the cancer was gone. The following year in June of 2013 it had returned. This time with a vengeance. It had spread throughout his body. We were shocked! This wasn't supposed to happen! He just turned 53. The next several months were draining. He stayed down here in Florida with all of us. As his body slowly started to deteriorate we continued to pray. I prayed harder than I ever had. This was no ritual, I desperately wanted to keep my brother here. I read scripture to him on many occasions as it brought him peace. Somehow, he knew it was his time to go. He sat down with mom and told her he was not afraid, he knew where he was going and he was more concerned about her. He always cared about others. It would sadden him so much watching the fundraisers on the starving children in Ethiopia that he sent them money. He fed many homeless people off the street. He could spot them a mile away. He was in a restaurant one day and he saw one quite a ways away sitting under a bridge. He ordered two meals, one to go. When the waitress brought them, he immediately delivered the one to go to the homeless person before coming back and finishing his. He stated before he died "my biggest regret is that I never really accomplished anything". As his palliative care continued, I continued to read scripture to him which I could see had such a calming effect in his eyes which at times looked full of fear. Heaven received another angel on February 16, 2014 as our Lord took Bill home. The months we all spent together in his last days were over. Shock, anger, sadness, all took over at once, or so it seems. Really, God? Mom had to see this? I spent days on end staring at the ceiling after the funeral. Now what? He can't be gone. Anxiety set in, I was full of fear. Afraid of the future. I focused on Jesus asking for peace, after what seemed like eternity, I was calm. After many episodes, the results of peace came almost immediately.

Book preview

Summer of Lies

By Barbara Baker

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228615736

Kindle 9780228615743

WEB 9780228615750

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228615737

Amazon Print 97802286215774

Copyright 2021 by Barbara Baker

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

In Memory of Jack Livesley

Chapter 1

A ponytailed guy wearing too much spandex jaywalks and smiles at me like I’m his new best friend. Creepy. When he’s right in front of me, he stops, sticks his head inches away from my face and squints. I step back and raise my hands, fingers tense. Tourists pass by. No one stops. I wish the sunglasses I snagged from Nick weren’t in my backpack. Creepy guy’s breath smells like gum. He says nothing. And then turns and rushes away like he forgot he was late for an appointment.

What the hell was that about?

I lower my arms, take a deep breath and turn off Banff Avenue. What a relief. Don’t get me wrong. Banff is pretty. A tiny town surrounded by mountains. Popsicle blue sky. A bazillion tourists will attest to its wow factor but not me. Not this time. It’s the last place in the world I want to be right now.

My grandparents’ purple picket fence comes into view. I drop my stuff at their back door, tip over the antique milk can and grab the sandwich bag with the spare key in it. Inside the house, the faint smell of baked bread makes me smile. The kitchen is tidy. Quiet. Well, almost quiet. There’s a beeping noise. Oma must have left her alarm clock on. I slip off my sandals and head to her bedroom.

Just as I step into the hallway, sirens scream. What the hell? I slam my hands over my ears. A house-alarm? When did they get that? I run to the front door. A tiny, red light flashes. ENTER CODE scrolls by in fancy font. Well, wouldn’t that be easy … if I knew it.

Your code, asks a voice from the panel.

I’m sorry, I don’t know it, I yell. I’m Jillian, Jillian Meier. This is my grandparent’s house. They’re not here. I can’t turn the alarm off.

I need the code to turn off the alarm.

I don’t know it!

I rush outside and call Mom on my cellphone. Oma’s neighbour stands on her back deck with a phone in her hand. Great. She’ll call the cops. Or Oma. Hopefully, Oma.

Sorry. I give her a lame smile, but she doesn’t smile back. It’s all good. I just forgot the code.

Mom come on. Answer your phone. It goes to voice mail.

Call me ASAP, I shout and hang up.

The alarm continues to scream. The neighbour presses her phone against her chest like she’s debating if I’m legit. I try Mom’s office number.

Tires screech in the back alley. Dust drifts over the fence. A car door slams and a man in uniform hustles through the back gate. He looks pissed. I so do not need this. Not now. Not ever.

Mom answer your damn phone. Please.

Security guy points at me.

Stay there, he barks. Right there. He talks into a radio clipped to his collar and glances up at me.

What does he think I’ll do? Run away? I don’t think so. I’m not stupid.

And then the alarm stops. Thank God. I take a huge breath. What a way to start a holiday. The holiday I have no say in.

Practising your break and enter skills? security guy says.

No. I shake my head. I used a key.

He scowls. Crosses his arms and says nothing. If he’s using intimidation tactics, they work.

I’m Jillian, Jillian Meier. This is my grandparent’s place. I didn’t know they had an alarm. Aunt Steph forgot to pick me up at the bus station. I came here. They’re on holidays. I ramble on like I’m guilty. And scared. Which I am. Scared. Not guilty. But he still says nothing. I’m sorry. For this. Inconvenience. I can explain.

My cell phone rings.

Mom, I snap. Why didn’t you tell me they put in an alarm?

What the heck’s going on? Mom screeches. Who has an alarm? Where are you?

I talk loud enough so the security guy can hear me repeat what I told him about Aunt Steph and the alarm and everything else going on.

Can you please tell this nice man I’m not breaking in, I finish.

Mom sighs. You’re in town for an hour and already the police are involved.

I roll my eyes at the ground. She’ll never let it go. I make one mistake and she assumes I’m the biggest screw up ever. Bet she signed me up for juvie school in the fall.

"It’s not the police, Mom." I pass the phone to the security guy.

He puts it to his ear, turns away and heads towards the back gate. And they talk. And talk. Neighbour lady goes inside. If Mom wasn’t such a control-freak, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be at the skateboard park watching Nick perfect his heel flip trick.

The very thought of Nick gives me goosebumps. His kiss. That kiss. I hold my breath for a second. Maybe longer. And then I breathe again. Nick’s the best. I store the sweet image of us as security guy comes towards me. He passes me my phone.

Your mother confirmed your story, he says. She’ll call back. Soon.

Oh, I’m sure she will.

Thank you, I say. I’m really sorry … about all this. It’s been a day.

Well, I hope your day gets better. Have a nice holiday. He shakes a finger at me. And stay out of trouble.

Seriously? Mom told him? I almost snarl out loud but swallow it. And cough instead. I wait until I hear his car leave then head back inside.

When the house phone rings, I glare at it. It rings two more times before I answer.

Hello, Meier residence.

Jillian? Mom asks. Is that you?

I make my voice deep. No, ma’am. This is the resident axe murderer hired to answer the phone.

Not funny.

"Mom, after what I’ve just been through, it is funny."

Your Aunt Steph is out on an emergency call. She’ll pick you up around five. Then you’ll head out to the cabin.

An emergency? I bet. Aunt Steph’s probably saving a fish from drowning.

And stay put, Mom says. Don’t you get into any more trouble.

Yes, Mother. I cross my fingers behind my back.

And please help Aunt Steph while you’re there. Okay? Behave.

It’s all I can do to not blurt out ‘let it go’. But I know how that conversation ends so I say nothing. Mom’s breath puffs.

Are you there? Mom barks. You be good. Promise?

Promise.

You’ll have fun. I know it. You’ll be horseback riding every day. You’ll love it. And I love you.

You too. Bye.

I hang up, uncross my fingers, and check the clock on the stove. Four hours before Aunt Steph is back. Four unsupervised hours. First time in weeks.

This is good. Very good. I can work on Project - Find Dad. Yup, the man I’ve never met and know nothing about. Other than he’s fertile. The idea of Mom doing it creeps me out but when my dad is this huge mystery man that no one ever talks about, I accept the fact she must have had sex. Once.

Now I just need to find him. Or someone that knows him. How hard can that be?

Banff is the size of what? My high school?

According to Oma’s address book, Mrs. Bronigan, her best friend, lives at the Senior’s Lodge now. That’s weird. She used to live a few blocks away. I guess old people get sent away too. Oh well, with any luck, she still knows everything about everyone in town.

I roll down the hem of my shorts, press them flat with my hand and pull a light hoodie over my tank top. Armed with a handful of chocolate chip cookies and a bottle of water, I lock the door and head out.

After a short walk, I arrive at the seniors’ home and push through the door into the lobby.

A grey-haired man, sitting at a super tidy desk, taps away at his computer but doesn’t look up. I rest my arms on the counter.

Excuse me, I say. Can I see Mrs. Bronigan?

He lifts his glasses and peers at me. Are you family?

No. No, I’m not.

So, you’re who?

I’m Jillian Meier. Mrs. Bronigan is my grandmother’s friend. I give him my sweetest suck-up smile. I’m here on holidays. I thought I’d see how she’s doing.

He drums his fingers next to the keyboard like he’s trying to decide if I’m acceptable visitor material. Right before I’m about to blab off about Mrs. Bronigan being a family friend since forever, he punches numbers on the phone.

There’s no answer. She’s probably gone to the garden to sneak a cigarette. He points to a set of doors. Out there. You can’t miss her. She’s wearing a pink outfit. With lots of sparkle.

Thank you.

Old people body cream and stale laundry smells fill the hallway. I breathe through my mouth till I get outside. A few seniors sit in the shade of the patio. Their heads turn towards me in unison. I smile. Two women wave. Neither of them wears pink.

A concrete pathway leads to flower beds and a treed area. The pink outfit will have to be my clue because I don’t think I’d recognize Mrs. Bronigan. Other than I do remember her bright red lipstick.

A hunched over man in flannel pyjamas stares at me. Longer than he should. He winks. I shake my head before moving along the path and around an iron fence.

Thump, thump, thump.

The noise comes from behind a garden shed. I step to the side and peer around the little building. A tiny, white-haired lady in, holy crap, the wildest, fluorescent-pink, outfit with so much bling across the front it makes me blink, pounds her walker on the pavement.

Dang blasted son of a bitch. She slams it again. Useless piece of shit!

Uh, can I help?

She looks up and scrunches her eyes. Stephanie?

No. I laugh. I’m Jillian. Stephanie is my aunt.

Land sakes alive, girl. You look alike. She gives me a huge lipstick smile. All that long, curly, movie star hair and those freckles. Nice boobs. And you’re both skinny as sticks.

What the hell? That’s bold. What’s her filter set on?

Everyone says Mom and Steph look like twins, I say. But mom’s way older. I make no mention of what she thinks about my boobs. Cause really, that’s just too weird.

Right. She had a sister. Mrs. Bronigan’s head bobs. It was … what was her name? No, don’t tell me. Alice. No. Not Alice. An... Anita. Right?

I nod.

Mrs. Bronigan glances at her walker, picks it up and slams it into the ground again.

Bloody stone is stuck in the wheel.

Hold on. I crouch down and look up at her. Don’t bang it. Okay? I lift each wheel and spin it till I find the jammed one and flick the stone out with my finger. There you go. It’ll work now.

Well, thank you. Nice to see helpful young folk. Not many of you left in this shithole town. She chortles a chesty laugh.

I clasp my hands behind my back because I’m not sure what to say.

Mrs. Bronigan turns her walker around, sits on the built-in seat and, before she lights up a crinkled cigarette, peers around and behind me like she’s making sure no one’s watching.

I’m Dorothy. Dorothy Bronigan.

I know. I was looking for you.

What? Why would you be looking for me? she says, her voice way too loud. I didn’t do it.

Didn’t do what?

Anything! Nothing! The cigarette jiggles in her lips.

O…kay.

She takes another drag and glances around. Her eyes bug out when they come back to me.

Who are you? she barks.

Uh, I told you. I’m Jillian. Jutta Meier’s granddaughter.

She sucks on her cigarette and hacks as she exhales. Her hand comes up to her mouth but does little to stop the spit-spray of her cough. I take a small step back, turn my head a bit so I don’t breathe in the smoke stink.

I met you when I was little, I say.

Mrs. Bronigan stares at me like she’s trying to figure out what I said.

That’s why I came to visit. To say hi.

Harrumph, she mutters. Nobody comes to visit me. What do you want?

Nothing. I cross my fingers behind my back. I’m on holidays. Thought I’d drop by and say hi.

You’re lying. Her eyes scrunch up.

What the hell? Did Mom tattoo ‘liar’ on my forehead?

No, I’m not. I don’t lie. I rub my hands together. I wanted to see how you were doing.

Mrs. Bronigan breaks into a huge smile. Is Steph still at the Cascade Cabin?

Uh, yes. Yes, she is. Wow. Mrs. Bronigan’s all over the place. I’m staying with Steph for a while. Help her with the horses and stuff.

Mrs. Bronigan leans forward. She eyes me up and down and up again.

I cross my arms over my chest.

Dang it, girl. You look like the ole man ... that Riley boy.

I hold my breath.

What was his name? Jack? No not Jack. It was John. John the piper’s son. She coughs. John Riley. That’s it. Mrs. Bronigan slaps her thigh.

Oh my God. This is way too easy.

You think I look like John Riley? I ask.

That boy, Mrs. Bronigan snorts. He knew how to turn on the charm. You good at that too?

I shake my head as my heart thumps in my eardrums. Have you seen him? Around?

She shakes a finger at me. Don’t you play games with me, girlie.

What? I’m … I want to know if you’ve seen him. Have you seen John Riley lately?

I may be old, but you can’t trick me again. I’ve got all my nuts right here. She taps her temple, jerks her chin up and stares at something above my head.

I turn and look but nothing’s there.

Mrs. Bronigan, I whisper. Can you tell me if you’ve seen …

Dorothy! There you are. A lady in a nurse’s uniform rushes towards us and rests her hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. You’re not supposed to smoke, dear.

I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.

The nurse shakes her head. What am I going to do with you?

Let me live my bloody life.

My eyes dart between the two women.

We need to get going, the nurse says. You have an appointment.

What for? Dorothy stabs the butt into a potted plant.

The nurse frowns at the plant. She gives me an I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this grimace.

Your doctor’s appointment. Remember? For your check-up.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’ll die when I die. I don’t need no dang blasted check-up to find out when. Dorothy heaves herself off the seat, turns her walker around and grabs the handles. Who’s she? She points her finger at me. News reporter?

I doubt she’s a reporter. The nurse smiles. Now let’s get you ready to go.

Mrs. Bronigan, it’s me. Jillian. Remember?

The nurse pats me on the shoulder as they walk away.

But, but I wanted to ask … I say to the back of their heads. Neither one turns around. I rush past them, turn and face Mrs. Bronigan. Mrs. Bronigan, is John Riley in town? Does he live here?

How the hell would I know? she barks. I’m not his bloody mother.

I take a step back.

The nurse whispers, Sorry. Don’t take offence. Doctor appointments anger the beast in her. She winks.

I step back to let them pass.

Dammit. It would have been so cool if she’d said he lives in town. Guess I’ll find out for myself.

Wow. First shot at it. And I’ve already got a name. If John Riley is my dad, how amazing would that be? Finally, I’ll get to meet him. After all these years of wondering who he is, imagining what he’s like. I’ll be able to see if any of the dad-images I’ve created are real.

He’s been this huge mystery and I’m about to put an end to that. What a cool feeling. I can’t believe it was so easy. Silently, and with a huge smile on my face, I congratulate myself on my awesome detective work.

Now I need to find John Riley.

Chapter 2

After I leave the Senior’s Lodge, it takes a few minutes for me to breathe normally. I watch each man who passes on the sidewalk and wonder, is it him? Does he look like me? His hair? Eyes? Is he John Riley? My heart thumps so loud I’m sure everyone can hear it, but no one stares at me.

Where can I get info on him? If he still lives in town, I could check him out, detective-like, before I introduce myself. You know, see if he’s okay, not some creep. And in case Mrs. Bronigan made a mistake. She seemed a bit ‘not all there’. I do not want to screw this up.

After a few blocks, there’s a sign pointing to the public library. Bet they have yearbooks, a computer or helpful people who know people.

Hi. I smile at the red-haired librarian whose glasses hang from a string of beads around her neck. I’m trying to find someone who went to school here. Could you tell me where the yearbooks are?

You’d find those at the high school, hon.

You don’t have any? My shoulders slump. Schools are closed for the summer.

She points to a tall shelf. You can check the archives, newspapers, census reports. Or you could try over there, another point to a different section of the room, "and fire up the old computer, see if it feels like co-operating. It’s finicky. Or, you could tell me who you’re looking for. And maybe I can help."

John Riley. My face gets hot.

Judge Reilley?

Um, I guess he could be a judge. If he’s thirty-fiveish?

Good God no. The Judge has to be pushing seventy-five give or take a decade.

I shake my head.

Hey Betty, she calls to a lady behind a windowed office. Got a minute?

A lady in leggings and a bright blue, butt-covering sweater pushes a cart full of books towards us.

You know any John Reilley, around thirty-five years old? Did the Judge have kids?

No. Betty sets books on the counter. But there were Riley kids in high school when I worked there. Spelled different. Not related to the judge.

Was there a John Riley? I ask.

That was so many years ago. I only remember the name because some of them spent time in the principal’s office. She laughs. Let’s see. That would have been before Principal McKenzie and after … She presses her index finger against an eyebrow. The late nineties maybe. But I’m only guessing.

I sigh.

Are they relatives? she asks.

No. Sort of. Maybe. I blurt out, I might be John Riley’s daughter.

Both lady’s mouths form slow-moving fish lips and then turn into stiff polite smiles.

I want to see if he’s still in town. He would have gone to school with my mom, I ramble on with no filter. "We’ve never met. I just found out his name. I don’t know