The numbers in the upper right-hand corner of the screen tell me it’s 13:05—five minutes past one p.m. So I have officially turned sixteen. Well, at least in France I have. In Hudsonville, six hours in the past, I am still fifteen. The bizarreness of this fact makes me laugh.
I sit down and log in to my email. I told Jacques that I’d be at Café des Roses at one-thirty, so I don’t think I need to rush.
There are three new emails waiting for me, all from earlier this morning. One is from Mom, one is from Dad, and one is from Aunt Lydia. I feel my stress spike, and then decide to open my aunt’s—the least stressful one—first.
Happy sweet sixteen, kiddo! it reads. I’m up before dawn like a crazy person to photograph the sunrise. Anyway, you’ve been on my mind a lot this summer. A couple of high school kids are taking my photography class, and I think you would’ve really enjoyed being in it, too. Have you been getting some good use out of the Nikon? I can’t wait to see your pictures when you’re back. I hope you’re surviving in France. You know you can talk to me about anything that happens, right? Love, Aunt L.
I frown, unsettled by her last two lines. What does she mean by “anything that happens”? It’s almost as if she knows that Dad is in Berlin. But how?
Also, what she’s said about a photography course—and high school kids taking it—rings a faint bell in my mind, though I can’t quite make the connection I’m seeking.
Shaking off the weirdness, I close my aunt’s email, and open Dad’s:
My sweet Summer, his reads. Joyeux anniversaire! Perhaps you now know what this French phrase means. And I have some good birthday news for you: I am returning today! My flight from Berlin lands early in the afternoon. I cannot wait to see you!
I stare at the screen, feeling a huge grin take over my face. Dad is coming back! I won’t have to confess to Mom! I do a little dance in my chair, and keep reading:
And before I forget, sweetheart: I hope you can do me one quick favor? I’ve misplaced a sketch of mine that I urgently need to mail to my agent. Would you mind searching for it in my studio? It’s of an elderly lady taking bread out of an oven, and on the back it should say: Bernice, Les Deux Chemins. I’m sure it’s stuffed somewhere in my messy sketch boxes. I am sorry to ask you to do work on your birthday, sweetheart, but it would be a big help. Merci beaucoup, and see you soon. —Dad
I don’t care that Dad has asked me to do work on my birthday. Nothing can bother me at this moment. In fact, I love that Dad drew a sketch of Bernice the bakery lady. Maybe I can even show it to her before I mail it off.
Still grinning, I open Mom’s email, which is a brief message saying happy birthday, and telling me that she’s awake early, so I should call her. I will, once Dad is back, and I can put him on the phone with her. Then there will be no more secrets, no more lies. I feel light and balloon-like. Untethered.
I log out of my email, realizing with a pang that Ruby hasn’t sent me a birthday message yet. I’m sure she’s sleeping now. But I haven’t heard from her in three days, a new record. My fingers stray to my bare wrist. If I were in Hudsonville, Mom would be taking me and Ruby (and Alice and Inez, if they were around) to Orologio’s, the nice Italian restaurant on Greene Street, for my birthday.
Since I’m a “summer baby,” as Mom likes to say, I’m used to having small birthday gatherings rather than big parties (unlike the Sweet Sixteen blow-out Ruby’s dad threw for her this past April). People tend to be away in the summers, at camp or on trips. And I prefer low-key birthdays, anyway: Orologio’s always felt just special enough. The waiters would bring me a cake and sing to me, loudly, and I’d bury my face in my hands while Ruby chortled.
As I get to my feet, I think of the photo I saw when I checked Instagram after getting in late last night. Ruby had posted a picture of herself, Austin, Skye, and Genji Tanaka at Orologio’s—our place—beaming over plates of pasta. Celebrating! Ruby’s caption had read. #dinnerout #doubledate
I’d wondered what they’d been celebrating. I’d wondered if Ruby had been thinking of me, and my birthday, at all. Mostly, though, I’d felt a wave of sadness. There it was, the reality that my other half, my stand-in sister, was drifting farther and farther from me. But the sadness hadn’t pulled me under. Because I was drifting away from her, too. She didn’t know about my adventures with Jacques. I hadn’t even told her that I’d been kissed—an omission that, weeks ago, would have been a crime. Now I no longer feel the need to update Ruby on every detail of my existence; there is something liberating about keeping certain things to myself.
Still, there’s a small lump in my throat as I walk from the living room into the kitchen. I’m not willing to admit that Ruby and I are irreparably broken.
Vivienne is busy chopping vegetables at the counter, and she doesn’t even notice me pass by. The roast chicken is done, sizzling in its pan on the stovetop. I’m tempted to ask her for some, but I resist. I should save my appetite for Jacques’s lunch. As I open the front door, I realize that, as usual, I have no sense of what time it is now—whether I will be late to the café or not. Regardless, I want to take care of Dad’s errand first.
The sky is a low, foreboding gray, and the cool air makes me shiver. I hug myself as I hurry through the garden. The surface of the pool is murky, finally matching its guts, and the roses stand out starkly against the fog, red as blood.
The barn door is half open, creaking and groaning in the wind. I figure Monsieur Pascal is inside, but when I enter, the studio is empty. The smell of turpentine is stronger than I remember—I haven’t been in here since last Thursday—and the skylight only lets in more gloom. Someone’s unfinished canvas—a close-up of a face—stares at me from one of the easels. I shiver again, unsure as to why I feel creeped out.
Moving quickly, I kneel in front of Dad’s sketch boxes and start flipping through the sheaves of paper. A woman’s hand picking tulips, schoolchildren lined up at a bus stop, a man in a beret on a bicycle … no Bernice taking bread from an oven. Frustration flares up in me; why can’t Dad keep better track of his sketches? In a way, he’s messy and careless about everything, isn’t he?
I realize then, sitting there on the cold studio floor, that I’m still angry with my father—angry about Berlin, about him leaving me here on my own. Maybe even angry at him for leaving me in Hudsonville years ago, after he sold Fille. I take a deep breath, coming to the end of one box. I wonder if my anger will dissipate when I finally see Dad. I’ll probably be so relieved that I’ll just hug him and forgive him.
I pull forward another box, one that was hidden behind the others. I cough at the dust that rises from the sketches. I flip and flip and then, I see it—a folded-up piece of paper, crammed down low between two other sketches. It has to be the missing Bernice sketch. I feel a sense of satisfaction, of having solved a mystery, as I unfold the paper.
My brain takes a minute to catch up to my eyes. The drawing on the paper is not of Bernice. No. It is of a curly-haired, big-eyed little girl in a white dress, standing in a field of poppies. The poppies are not red, because the sketch is done in black charcoal. But I know that the poppies are bright red in the final painting, which hangs in the Galerie de Provence. I am looking at the sketch of Fille.
I let out a startled laugh, which echoes through the studio. I didn’t know there was a sketch of my painting. I flip the paper over, to see what Dad has written on the back.
There’s the date—five years ago.
And the words Eloise, Les Deux Chemins.
Wait.
I don’t understand.
I feel my brow furrow as I reread Dad’s scrawl. Then I laugh again, because it’s so absurd, the idea that it would say Eloise on the back of my sketch. But the laugh sounds strange and distorted to my ears, louder than normal.
Eloise?
The Eloise I know, the Eloise sleeping upstairs in Dad’s house? Or another one?
It should say Summer on there. Summer. Summer. Summer.
Eloise doesn’t ma
ke any sense. Right?
Something is taking shape in my head, a dark, slithery, and terrible thought. I am thinking of how Eloise has blond curls and big eyes. And how, five years ago, she could have easily been here, in Les Deux Chemins. She could have stood in that field of poppies for real. But why would Dad have sketched her?
My mind slams shut like a door. I stand up, gripping the sketch. The walls of the studio feel very close. I have to get out of here. The turpentine smells toxic.
I back up a few paces, staring in confusion at the boxes of sketches, realizing dimly that I didn’t find the Bernice sketch, and that I need to leave soon to meet Jacques. Except Jacques, and everything else that seemed so important a few seconds ago, no longer seems to exist.
I turn and run out into the garden, where it’s starting to rain. Hard. Cold drops land on my arms and legs, on my nose and cheeks. It must look like I’m crying. The surface of the pool is all ripples, and rain slides down the leaves of the lemon trees, drowns the lavender. I keep running, holding on to the sketch, aware that it’s getting wet. I don’t care. I almost want to see the charcoal bleed, to see the evidence destroyed.
I’m out of breath when I reach the house. What am I going to do now? Take the sketch upstairs, crawl back into bed? Pretend that this day hasn’t happened yet?
I open the door and step into the foyer, my muddy sandals making sucking noises on the floor. I almost trip over a plush-looking leather suitcase that’s sitting there. A suitcase. Someone has arrived.
A man’s voice is coming from the kitchen. A very familiar voice. Speaking in French. A woman answers him, also in French.
I walk into the kitchen. Vivienne is standing at the table, carving the roast chicken, and my dad is sitting down, a plate in front of him, ready to eat. The chicken was for him.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. My voice is small and strangled.
He looks up, his eyes widening. Vivienne looks up at me, too, and stops carving.
“Summer! Sweetheart!” Dad springs up from the chair, beaming. “Happy birthday! Oh my—you’ve grown into such a beautiful young lady.”
He strides toward me, his arms outstretched. I stare at him. He looks the same as I remember: his blond-gray hair combed back off his forehead in waves, his face tanned, with only a few new wrinkles around his green eyes. He wears dark-blue jeans and a white button-down shirt under a thin brown leather jacket. His thumb is stained with paint. When he wraps his arms around me, he smells just as I remember, too: shaving cream and mint gum mixed with paint and turpentine. I’m going to suffocate.
“Sweetheart?” Dad asks, still hugging me, but less tightly now. “Are you all right? You’re trembling.” He lets go of me and takes a step back, frowning.
I realize then that I’m soaking wet, my hair plastered to my cheeks, my lucky dress hanging soggily, my hands pressing the damp sketch to my chest. And I realize how pale I must be, how lifeless and cold my skin feels.
“What’s the matter?” Dad says, putting a hand to my forehead. “Why were you out in the rain?” I don’t answer, and his frown deepens, his wrinkles standing out more. “Are you upset with me, because of Berlin?” he asks dolefully. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. But I am back now, and there is so much to catch up on—”
“Why is Eloise’s name on my sketch?” I ask.
Dad’s tanned face turns white. “What?” he murmurs.
I hold the sketch out toward him, the paper so brittle and wet between my fingers.
Behind Dad, there’s a loud clatter. I look past him, and I see that Vivienne has dropped the carving knife. It lies on the kitchen floor, a discarded murder weapon.
Behind me, I hear footsteps—light, almost noiseless. Ghost steps. Eloise appears in the kitchen, just like she did my first day here, in her lacy white nightgown, her golden ringlets spilling over her shoulders.
“What’s going on?” she asks. At first, because she is speaking English, I assume she is talking to me. But no. She is looking at my father. She is speaking to him.
And she sounds sort of frightened.
It’s then that I feel my own fear, slicing through my belly like a knife. Happy birthday to me, I think, incongruously. I keep holding the sketch forward. I am shaking.
Dad’s gaze travels from the sketch up to my face, and then over to Eloise. Then he glances back at Vivienne. The four of us stand motionless in the kitchen, the only sound the raindrops hammering the windows.
Finally, Dad faces me again. He clears his throat, and reaches out to take the sketch from my hands.
“Summer,” he says softly. “There is something I have to tell you.”
Friday, July 14, 9:13 a.m.
“All aboard! This is the nine-fifteen express to New York City!”
The overhead announcement makes me smile as I slide into my window seat and settle my bookbag in my lap. I wonder if boarding the flight to France might have felt something like this—the strong blast of air-conditioning, the smell of coffee, the murmured conversations all around, the beat of anticipation in my chest.
Of course, I am not on a plane but a train—the steaming silver Metro-North that’s about to depart the Hudsonville station—and the destination isn’t quite so foreign or thrilling. Still, I haven’t been down to New York since my trip with Ruby in December, and I’m excited and nervous to go back, especially under these different circumstances.
“Okay, class!” Aunt Lydia calls from where she stands in the middle of the aisle. “Everyone ready for our big field trip? I’m going to hand out your tickets soon.”
Her brown eyes dart from seat to seat, and I can tell she’s taking a mental tally of who’s here. I did the same when I boarded the train, flushed and relieved to be on time, and I noticed that neither Hugh nor Wren had arrived yet. Now I glance out the window, bracing myself for the sight of them running together, maybe hand in hand, down the steps onto the gray platform.
The past three days in Aunt Lydia’s class have been full of amazing discoveries: I now know that a daguerreotype is a black-and-white, very early kind of photograph, invented by a French artist in the nineteenth century. I’ve learned how to load slippery film into an old-school camera, and how to use the more advanced settings on my new Nikon. I’ve learned that, way back in ancient times, a box with a hole in it, called a camera obscura (which means “dark chamber” in Latin) was the start of photography. And apparently the word photography itself means “drawing with light” in Greek. When Aunt Lydia told us that, I got a small shiver down my back. Drawing with light.
But I have yet to discover what, if anything, is going on between Hugh and Wren. And I certainly haven’t learned how to speak to Hugh at all.
I’ve even moved to sit in the front row of the class, teacher’s pet–like, to distance myself from the two of them—and, you know, to better focus on Aunt Lydia’s awesome lectures. Still, my ears prick up every time I hear Hugh murmur something to Wren, or vice versa, in the back row.
Yesterday, when Aunt Lydia brought us to the college darkroom, showing us the print tongs and developing trays, I’d kept my eyes trained on Hugh and Wren, trying to discern if they were standing too close to each other in the dim, small space. At one point, Hugh had glanced my way and I’d turned around so fast that I’d knocked over a (thankfully, capped) bottle of toner.
Smooth.
Now I feel a bolt of surprise as I see Wren—alone—fly onto the platform, a scarlet-haired blur in a long dark dress. A second later, I hear her thunder onto the train car, breathing hard. There’s a sharp whistle and then the train begins to move. My stomach plummets in disbelief as I watch the platform recede. Hugh isn’t coming?
“You made it!” Aunt Lydia says cheerily when Wren appears in the aisle.
“Barely,” Wren replies, sounding pleasanter than I would have expected.
And then she plops into the seat beside me.
Oh no.
I feel my whole self tense up. I also can’t help facing Wren, a question hovering on my
lips.
“Where’s Hugh?” I ask her.
Wren is fiddling with the zipper on her fringed bag, and she glances up at me. She might raise an eyebrow, but it’s impossible to tell because of her bangs. They’re like an impenetrable curtain. I notice for the first time that her eyes are a startling violet color.
“Alien abduction,” she answers drily, the corner of her mouth twitching. “A UFO sucked up the mayor’s mansion last night. You haven’t heard?”
I stare back at her, at a loss for words. The train rocks us both from side to side.
“Nah,” Wren says after a moment, a smile crossing her face. “He’s already down in NYC. He went last night to stay with his cousin, so he’ll meet us at the museum.” She unzips her bag and starts riffling through it. “Man. Your expression was priceless.”
“I—” I shake my head, and, in spite of myself, I laugh. “I didn’t believe you.”
“Really?” Wren asks, and this time I’m positive she is arching her eyebrow behind her bangs.
“Here you go, ladies,” Aunt Lydia says, appearing next to Wren’s aisle seat and giving each of us our round-trip tickets. She shoots me the quickest of smiles before turning and walking to her seat near the front of the car. In this fallow time after rush hour, the sunlit train is quiet; our class fills most of the seats.
“Your aunt is a great professor,” Wren says, still digging in her bag.
“What?” I glance at her, startled.
“She’s great,” Wren repeats, nodding toward the front of the car. “I took a photography course at the YMCA last year and I didn’t learn half as much.”
“How—how do you know she’s my aunt?” I stammer. I inch closer to the window, feeling defensive. I thought I’d been doing a thorough, careful job of keeping my secret. In fact, it hasn’t been hard; ever since our strange interaction at Better Latte Than Never, my aunt has seemed a bit distant. There’ve been no more invitations to coffee, no more special call-outs in class. I’m at once grateful and unsettled.
Two Summers Page 14