Jane grimaces. The entire time we’ve been talking her phone and laptop have been chirping and buzzing. “Let me take this.” She jabs the screen of her phone and launches into more corporate babble. “Let’s take a deep dive into the numbers to look for synergies.”
I’m getting restless. I have a lot to do, but it seems rude to simply walk out. Of course, I wouldn’t be any ruder than Jane herself. While I’m debating my options, Sophia wanders into the kitchen. She shuffles toward the fridge, then stops in her tracks when she notices me.
Jane pauses in mid-synergy and nods at her daughter. “I was just talking to Annie about your internship.”
“What would I have to do?” Sophia takes a carton of organic milk out of the fridge and sniffs it. Her face contorts with disgust. She closes the carton and puts it back on the shelf.
Clearly, Sophia is no substitute for Donna on the cleanliness front.
“...globally incentivize the value-added potentialities...” Jane natters behind us.
Before I can open my mouth to say there will be no internship, Sophia pivots toward the back door. “Never mind. I’ll do it. Let’s go.”
Jane waves good-bye while continuing to shout “it’s the deliverables” into thin air like an angry drunk on a late-night subway. Sophia is already out the door. I have no choice but to follow.
I catch her by the arm out on the deck. “Listen, Sophia—I don’t have any interesting work for you to do.”
For a split second, the mask of sullen teenage boredom slips, and I get a glimpse of true despair. “It doesn’t matter. I just need to get out of my house. Please.”
Somehow, I’ve acquired an intern.
Chapter 8
Although I’m angry at myself for getting sucked into this internship arrangement, my irritation dissipates as I get to know Sophia. A bowl of Cheerios with fresh milk has perked her up, and she turns out to be a willing worker.
Since she doesn’t go to high school, I know better than to ask the usual dumb adult questions about classes and activities. Instead, I tell her about estate sales and how Brielle’s sale will be different since everything is so new and in such pristine condition. Then I set her to work pricing kitchen tools and other small items while focusing my attention on the more valuable pieces. I worried she might be the timid type who would need constant reassurance. “Is it okay to make this a dollar? Or should it be fifty cents?” But Sophia seems to have confidence in her own judgement, a quality I appreciate.
We work in silence for a while, and I steal glances at her from the corner of my eye. Sophia doesn’t conform to twenty-first century beauty conventions—her face is a little too round, her body a little too curvy—but she’s not unattractive. I suspect the pink hair and the nose ring and the shapeless Badflower T-shirt are her effort to thumb her nose at expectations. If she can’t attract attention by being cheerleader-pretty, she’ll attract it by being outrageous.
Soon Sophia opens a new drawer and gazes at the perfectly arrayed contents in wonder. “This house is so freakin’ clean. Sometimes Austin comes over to our house just so he can eat chips on the sofa. But then he gets grossed out by how dirty our house is, and he has to leave.”
I smile at her brutal honesty, and at the thought that Austin both rebels against and embraces his mother’s standards. “How long have you and Austin been friends?”
Sophia hesitates before answering. “We’ve always known each other. Our mothers were in a play group in Palmyrton together when we were little kids.”
I register the distinction between knowing each other and being friends.
Sophia shuffles over to the next drawer, talking to me without looking at me. “When Brielle and Mr. Gardner bought this beach house, my mom decided we should have a beach house, too. And she got one, right next to her bestie.”
Way to keep up with the Joneses!
I note that Brielle is “Brielle” to Sophia, but her husband is “Mr. Gardner.” Is there a Mr. Peterman? It doesn’t sound like it. If Sophia’s parents are divorced, I don’t want to ask prying questions that could be painful. “But now you live down here full time?”
“Yeah. We sold our house in Palmyrton. My mom is a business consultant, so she can work from anywhere. Besides, she can’t keep one house from falling apart, let alone two.”
Another spot-on observation from this teenager.
“Do you like living down here full time?” I busy myself taking a photo of a ceramic pitcher. Seems to me Sea Chapel in the dead of winter would be mighty quiet for a teenager.
“My friends were here all summer. I just have to get through this winter. After that, I can go away to college. Assuming I come up with a high school diploma.”
“How’s the homeschooling?”
“A joke. Obviously.”
Sophia seems pretty cleared-eyed for a seventeen-year-old. I feel a stab of concern for her. Being upper middle class is not guaranteed protection against parental neglect. What if she can’t get accepted to college because of this haphazard homeschooling plan? “Do you have a tutor to help you with math and science? You have to take the SAT.”
Sophia executes a dismissive wave remarkably similar to her mother’s. “The college I want to go to—Bowdoin—doesn’t require any of those tests. It’s very nontraditional. Perfect for a freak like me.”
Is freak a compliment these days? Or is Sophia simply embracing the label that the kids at Bumford-Stanley hung on her? “What do you want to study?”
“Art and creative writing. I want to write graphic novels. I have a portfolio. Being out of regular school gives me plenty of time to add new drawings to it.”
I don’t want to point out that she won’t be living in a four-bedroom beachfront home on a graphic novelist’s pay. It’s not my job to destroy the kid’s dreams; that’s what parents are for. “I’d love to see your portfolio sometime.”
Her face lights up. “Do you like graphic novels?”
“I do. I’ve read Fun Home and Maus. And I like everything by Phoebe Gloeckner.”
“Diary of a Teenage Girl is amazing! If you like her work, you have to read Gast by Carol Swain”
Finding this common interest has elevated me in Sophia’s estimation. Now she starts chatting like an African Gray parrot. She covers her passion for Manga and The Handmaid’s Tale without even pausing for me to answer.
“What do you like to watch on Netflix?” I’m enjoying her review of popular culture and want to keep it rolling. “I like The OA and Stranger Things.”
Sophia quiets as if I had pulled her plug. “Trevor loved Stranger Things,” she says softly. “We used to watch it together.”
Oh, crap—I’ve been so careful to tip-toe around her friend’s suicide, and now I’ve stepped right into it. “I’m sorry you lost a friend in such an awful way.” I want to reach out and stroke her arm, but I’m not sure if she would welcome that. I keep my distance.
“He had a lot of issues. He always did.” Sophia traces the pattern in a cloth napkin she’d been pricing. “I hope—”
She seems to want to keep talking about Trevor but doesn’t know how to continue. I try to help with a question. “Have you known him as long as Austin?”
Sophia shakes her head. “Trev and I met in middle school, when he first came to Bumford-Stanley. He hated the school even more than I did, but his parents wouldn’t let him leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because BSS is one of the most highly rated prep schools in the country.” Sophia says this in a prissy, mock guidance counselor voice. “It’s a superhighway to the Ivy League.” Sophia’s eyes well with tears. “Trev took the only off-ramp he could find.”
My throat feels dry as I swallow. Is this why the poor kid killed himself—because his parents insisted he go to a high-pressure prep school and shoot for the Ivy League? Suddenly, neglectful Jane looks like a lot better mother to me. “Did he struggle to keep up?”
“No, Trevor was smart. He went to public grade school, an
d he wanted to go back to that—to transfer to Palmyrton High where his real friends were. But Mr. Gardner pulled strings to get Trevor into Bumford-Stanley, and Trev’s parents said he couldn’t turn around and quit after Mr. Gardner had done them that favor.”
So the Gardners are friends with Trevor’s parents, too. What a tight little circle these people travel in. I wonder how Trevor’s parents feel about their decision to put friendship with the Gardners over their child’s happiness? But maybe I’m being too harsh. Kids whine and complain all the time, and maybe Trevor’s parents thought he’d be sacrificing a great education for the sake of hanging out with friends they might not have cared for.
“Do Trevor’s parents have a house down here, too?”
“No, his grandparents do. Trev didn’t really like his grandfather, but he loved the shore, so he put up with the old man so he could come down here. That was another thing Trev and I had in common—mean grandparents.”
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“My mother’s parents got divorced when she was little, and they pushed her back and forth because neither one of them really wanted her. That’s why she’s so messed up.” Sophia says this as matter-of-factly as if she were explaining why petunias won’t bloom in the shade. “Both of them got remarried. My grandfather and his new wife retired to Costa Rica, and no one’s seen or heard from them in years. My grandmother married some rich guy from Boston and she’s, like, totally involved with his kids and grandkids.” Sophia keeps her head down and concentrates on arranging the glassware in a precise, geometric pattern. “We spent Thanksgiving with them once, and they treated us like we were homeless people who wandered in off the street. No lie! So we don’t see my mom’s mother anymore, either.”
Sophia steps back from the table and admires her handiwork. “But that’s okay. We don’t need them.”
I sense it’s time to leave the topic of Sophia’s family. But I’m definitely curious about the elusive Mr. Gardner who pulled strings to get Trevor into prep school. “Does Mr. Gardner spend much time here in Sea Chapel?”
“No. He’s always in the city working. They have an apartment there, too.”
Three homes within a 60-mile radius—talk about excess!
“I’d love to spend the weekend in the city in that apartment,” Sophia plunges into Brielle’s collection of modern stainless-steel serving utensils. “Go to all the galleries in Soho. Not that Soho is where the really kickass art is anymore. We’d have to take the ferry over to Red Hook for that.” Sophia chatters on about her ideal New York weekend.
“Austin shares your enthusiasm for art?”
“Nooo. He shares my enthusiasm for partying.” Sophia cackles. “That’s probably why Mr. Gardner won’t let us come. He’s not clueless like my mother.”
Now that we’ve become buddies, I feel like I can satisfy my curiosity with a question. “What about your dad?”
“I don’t have a dad. No one wanted to marry my mother. She’s got an MBA from Wharton, ya know, but she’s way too crazy for most men. So she let herself get knocked up by some actor guy and had me on her own.”
There can be no polite response to that conversation-stopper, so I switch gears by asking Sophia to help me move a tall ceramic vase. I study Sophia’s face as we half-carry, half drag the thing out of the corner. Like Jane, the girl has a soft, round face and full lips. But her eyes are an extraordinary gold-flecked green with long, dark lashes. Did those come from the unknown man Jane recruited to help her make a baby? Was he someone she’d dated or a stranger she picked up in a bar? Did Sophia’s artistic talent come from him?
I can’t help thinking about the baby Sean and I are trying to make. Will it be a mathematical introvert or an athletic extrovert? Will it have the best of both of us—a sociable, point guard, math genius? Or the worst of both of us—a shy, clumsy kid stymied by quadratic equations? Will we have patience and love for this child no matter how he or she turns out?
The ringing of my phone jolts me out of my daydream.
When I see it’s Ty, my heart skips a beat. He never calls, always texts.
“Hi. What’s wrong?”
“I’m in the emergency room with Donna. She’s bein’ x-rayed. Anthony broke her arm.”
“What!”
Sophia stops working at the tone of my screech and stares at me with open curiosity.
“He went crazy when he found out she was goin’ to be working alone with me today.” Ty’s voice pounds through the phone hard and fast. “When I get outta here, Imma find him and kick his ass. He’ll be sorry he ever laid a hand on her.”
“No! Call the police.”
“Donna won’t let me. She says that’ll only make things worse.”
“Worse? Next time he’ll kill her.” I pace circles in Brielle’s kitchen as Sophia continues to stare. “She needs an order of protection.”
“She made me promise I wouldn’t call the cops.” Ty pauses. “She didn’t say nuthin’ about tellin’ you.”
“Fine. I’ll call Sean. Tell me all you know.”
Ty takes a deep breath and goes into story-telling mode. “They’ve been fighting all week about her working for Another Man’s Treasure. Anthony wants her to quit. Says the job is puttin’ ideas in her head.”
“He’s right. Ideas that she’s smart and competent and doesn’t need him.”
Ty grunts at my commentary and keeps talking. “So this morning when he found out Donna would be workin’ all alone with me because you were down the shore, he told her she wasn’t allowed to go to work. Seems he don’t care for my black ass too much.”
“Not allowed to go to work? What century is this?” I’d throw the phone across the room if I didn’t need to hear all the details of this crazy story.
“So Donna told him she had to go to work and headed for the door, and Anthony grabbed her and twisted her arm and threw her down.”
I wince, feeling the pain in my own right arm.
“He left her at home and went to work himself. Figured she wouldn’t be able to go anywhere hurt like that. But when Donna didn’t show up at our office, I knew something was up. She wouldn’t answer my texts, so I went over there. Found her rolled up in a ball, arm hangin’ all limp like a rag doll’s.”
“Bastard!” This argument sounds like a continuation of the one Donna and Anthony were having when she was driving us back from Sea Chapel last week. She wasn’t ready to leave him then. Will this attack be the motivation she needs?
“Did she say anything about leaving Anthony?”
“She didn’t say a word the whole way to the hospital. I think she was in shock. But once we were in the examination room waiting for the doctor, I told her she hadda leave him, and she said, ‘I know.’ Then the doctor came in.”
“What did she tell him about how it happened?”
Ty heaves a sigh. “Donna told the doctor she fell down the steps. He gave me the side eye, like I was the one who hurt her.”
“Did you get a photo of her arm? Does she have other bruises? We need evidence to get Anthony locked up.”
“I knew you were going to say that. I took pictures of her at the house. But sittin’ here alone at the hospital, I’m feelin’ nervous. That’s why I figured I better call you.”
“You did the right thing. Send me the pictures, and I’ll call Sean. And let me know what the doctor says when Donna gets out of x-ray.”
After I hang up with Ty, my whole body trembles with rage. How can a man break his wife’s arm because she wants to go to work? But I know there’s no logic to domestic abuse. Anthony does these things because he can. It’s all about power. Well, we’ll just see how powerful he is when he’s locked up in Rahway State Prison! Then he’ll get to see what it’s like to be knocked around by people who are tougher than he is.
Before I can call Sean, I need to get rid of my new intern. “Sophia, you’ve been a huge help this morning. But I have an emergency to deal with back in Palmyrton, so you can go home now.”
>
Sophia looks crestfallen. “Can I come back after lunch?”
I pat her on the back. “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”
As soon as she’s gone, I steady myself enough to call Sean. Donna’s terrible story pours out of me at twice the clip it came from Ty.
“Whoa, Audrey—slow down. Do you know where Anthony works?”
Somehow, I manage to pull the name of Anthony’s uncle’s business from the depths of my memory.
“Good. I’ll send two officers over there. With these pictures as evidence, we can arrest him even if Donna doesn’t cooperate. But if he doesn’t have any priors, he’ll probably be released until he’s arraigned.”
“Released? He’ll kill her for turning him in!”
“That’s why she needs a restraining order. I’ll help her file it.”
“They won’t keep Donna at the hospital for long. Where can Ty take her? Her family doesn’t support her. Her own mother tells her marriage has its ups and downs, and she needs to stick it out. They make her feel like his abuse is her fault. I think she should come and live with us for a while.”
“No, Audrey.” Sean’s voice is quiet, but firm. “Our house is the first place he’d look. This is the most dangerous part of the process. Donna needs to be at the Palmyrton Battered Women’s Shelter. The location isn’t published anywhere, and even if Anthony managed to figure out where she is, they have a security protocol in place to protect all the women. She’ll be safest there. And she’ll get the counseling she needs.”
“A shelter! Donna can’t stay in a shelter. You know what a clean freak she is.”
“I’ve heard it’s quite nice. All the women have their own rooms.”
Treasure Built of Sand (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series, #6) Page 5