Against the Wind. Jim Tilley

      She sees that the lights are still on. As she enters the house, she calls out to Jules. “You still up?” No answer. She walks down the hallway to the back bedroom she’d had converted into a studio for Jules to work on his science fair project. He’s filled the huge fish tank on the wall-length tabletop and is now piecing together mini-LEGOs from his old mechanical engineering set. He’s already constructed three stacks of blocks that he’s seated on the bottom of the tank. “What are those?”

      “Anchoring pylons. I’m going to simulate the effect of waves on the stability of the turbines I’m building.”

      “Are the others in your group helping you?”

      “No. They’re researching the environmental effects on fish and birds.”

      “I wish you’d work with them instead of building your turbines. It would help support my cause.”

      “That doesn’t really interest me.”

      “You’re not interested in helping me?”

      “I think Canada should build more wind farms. Especially offshore— Like Denmark has done.”

      “Why couldn’t you have chosen some other project?”

      “Loosen up, Mum. We’ve talked about this a zillion times.”

      “Obviously to no good.”

      “There’s no way my project is going to damage your protest.”

      “What if your team wins and gets some press?”

      Jules put down the parts of a pylon he was snapping together. “I hope you’ll be happy for us.”

      “I’d be happier if you won with some other project.”

      “You’re starting to sound like Dad.”

      That is not what she needs to hear at one o’clock in the morning. But she lets it pass because it’s Jules, not Jean-Pierre. “Right— You should go to bed and get some sleep. Goodnight.” She leaves the room, walks down the hall to her bathroom, washes the makeup from her face, and rubs in moisturizing cream. After brushing her teeth, she changes into pajamas and slides under the covers. Unable to fall asleep, she lies thinking how much easier it would be for a single mother to raise a daughter instead of a son. A daughter could lie in bed with her and talk. The way Lynn used to with her mother when her father was away on business. Her mother and father—how painlessly they’ve adjusted to Jules’ changed circumstances. They understand that he’s the same talented child, merely answering to a different name. Why couldn’t Jean-Pierre see that? She’d counted on him to come around rather than lose another child. Okay—lose a daughter, but gain a son. Doesn’t every father want a son? Naturally, but a real son, Jean-Pierre said, not a daughter masquerading as one. He claimed that that was worse than it would have been to discover his daughter was gay. He didn’t laugh when Lynn said that Jules might be both transgender and gay.

      Lynn hears Jules turn out the light in the studio and go into his bedroom. How does the kid survive on so little sleep? He’s like her father, who’d go to bed at eleven and rise at five. Still unable to sleep, she lets her mind run over tomorrow’s lesson plan for English class. Today’s plan—it’s already tomorrow. Stephen Leacock’s story about the sinking of a small town’s steamboat, the Mariposa Belle— Mariposa, a town like Picton, but with a shallow lake, not Lake Ontario with its deeper waters. Deep enough to make erecting wind turbines a challenge, she hopes. She imagines Jules far offshore directing the installation of a farm, she and Ralph sailing close by, their sails whipped about by turbulence from the turbines, the boat changing tacks suddenly, jibing unexpectedly, the boom striking her forehead . . . falling overboard, unable to grasp the whisker pole Ralph extends toward her . . . sinking, sinking . . . her last image a turbine’s blades, like a steamboat’s paddlewheel . . . more like a giant motorboat’s propeller spinning loose from its mount . . . pursuing her to the bottom of the lake.

      She awakes from the nightmare, perspiring from her neck and back, pajamas clinging to her skin. She removes her top. Stands in front of the mirror— No, she hasn’t aged nearly as well as Ralph. The death of Suzanne and the troubles with Jules have left their marks. But at least she’s maintained her slim body. Her breasts haven’t yet surrendered fully to gravity. Ralph might still be able to see her as the same young woman he once loved. An older version of her yearbook photos. Not bad.

      CHAPTER 3

      Ralph used to visit Montreal regularly, but hasn’t been there much in recent years, not since he established the base for his Canadian practice in Toronto and not since he handed off most of the responsibility for Canadian clients to his partners in that office. But for Hervé he always makes an exception. Hervé Boudreau, the founder and CEO of Frontier, Quebec’s largest independent wind energy company. He and Ralph have been friends for twenty years, from when the wind energy business was in its infancy and Hervé’s startup was run from a small warehouse. Unlike most French Canadians, Hervé speaks English with barely a trace of French accent.

      A week ago, Ralph called Hervé to say he had an acquisition prospect for Frontier, one that would expand its business considerably outside Quebec. Hervé was reluctant to meet but finally agreed to let Ralph treat him to lunch at his favorite restaurant, Le Montréalais. Ralph joked that it is out of character for his “favorite French Canadian” to suggest eating at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. Hervé’s rejoinder was that he was only trying to please his “favorite English Canadian.”

      “I’ve been a U.S. citizen for a long time,” said Ralph.

      “You’re still Canadian at heart,” said Hervé.

      Knowing that Hervé has punched a hole in his calendar to accommodate him, Ralph dispenses with the standard pleasantries and gets right to the point. He identifies the company Frontier should acquire and explains why he believes it would be a good fit. But Hervé seems distracted, even distraught. Unlike him to avoid eye contact.

      “I don’t have your full attention— Is everything fine at home? How are your girls?”

      “Oui, oui—ça va bien.”

      The waitress arrives to take their orders, the usual for each of them—salade composée avec poisson frais. Hervé’s eyes follow her as she walks away. “Très jolie.”

      “Your daughters?”

      “For sure, but I meant the waitress.”

      “I guess she’s more interesting than my proposal.”

      “We’ve already been thinking along similar lines.”

      “I wish you’d told me that.”

      “Not similar— Identical— Our bankers showed us the same company