“Hello?”
“Hello, Mother.”
“What? Who is this? You must have the wrong number.”
“Jillian!” Issy demanded before Jillian could hang up.
Silence at the other end and finally, “Vivienne?”
Issy stopped—a disappointed sigh. “No, this is Isabelle. Your other daughter.” She crossed to the couch. Looked around to make sure she’d shut the door, then switched to speakerphone and put the phone on the glass-top table by the window. No reason to get any closer to her mother than absolutely necessary, and if she wasn’t holding the phone, she wouldn’t be tempted to hurl it across the floor. The conservatory floor was stone and an outburst of temper would mean a trip to the Apple store.
“Oh, Oops. It’s you. How are you, darling?”
Issy grimaced. “I’m fine.”
“And Vivienne?”
“I have no idea, seeing how she’s missing. She dumped her children with Leo and Fae and disappeared. Sound familiar? Leo is in the hospital.”
“Oh, dear, what’s wrong with dear old Leo?”
“Your mother . . .” Issy paused long enough for the mother to sink in. Jillian never called anybody by anything except their given name, not even her daughters, and she didn’t even call Issy by her real name. They in turn were never allowed to call her Mother, Mom, Mommy, or any of those ordinary endearments. Just Jillian.
“She fell. She’ll be all right but not all right enough to take care of three motherless children.”
Issy paused again to make sure no one was listening. Her talks with her mother inevitably ended with Issy’s humiliation, and since she’d already had to bare her family’s troubles to Ben and Chloe and cried in front of Ben, she wanted to make sure she would endure this without witnesses.
“We’re in a bind. I’m supposed to be in Washington, D.C., but I drove up here first to check on things.” She waited, hoping to let her words sink in so that Jillian would actually offer to help without Issy having to ask. But Is there anything I can do? were words not in Jillian’s vocabulary.
“Well, that’s such a relief. I’m sure you’re handling it just fine. I’d feel so guilty being here in Saint-Tropez instead of . . . home.”
Give me a break, Issy thought. Home to Jillian was wherever her next part and next man were.
“Jeez, Mom,” Issy said, knowing it would infuriate Jillian and mentally kicking herself. Stupid to make someone angry when she was going to ask for a favor. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that your daughter, your other daughter, is MIA?”
“Vivienne? Don’t tell me she’s done a bunk. But really, who could blame her? Between that deadbeat husband and those—how many children are there now?” Jillian sniffed for the benefit of her audience—Issy. “She’s never even brought them to visit. Some people can’t forgive and forget.”
Issy looked at the ceiling. Some people would love to forget and Issy was one of them. No such luck. “Nobody blamed you. And no one is blaming Vivienne. We’re concerned. Vivienne has always been devoted to her children, she wouldn’t just disappear.”
“Like me, you mean? That was an unkind thing to say, Oops. I did what I thought was best for the two of you.”
Issy gritted her teeth. She hadn’t said it and she was still being blamed for saying it. You couldn’t win with her mother. She always managed to turn everything around and make it about her. Issy took a breath. Let it out. “Fine. But now it’s time for you to step up to the plate.”
“Me? What can I do? I’m half a world away. Call George.”
“I have. He says if Vivienne doesn’t come back, the kids will have to go into foster care. He wants to put Leo and Fae in an assisted living facility and sell the Muses in order to support them there.”
Issy heard a thud, turned to look, but no one was there. The house was falling down around them. Then she saw a book on the floor by the couch. And on the couch was Steph, sitting bolt upright.
Issy grabbed the phone, killed the speakers.
“. . . Muses?”
“What?” demanded Issy, jamming the phone to her ear.
“Sell the Muses? He can’t do that. It belongs to the family.” Jillian’s voice dropped dramatically on the family. Issy really hated it when she did that.
What had she said that Steph might have overheard? She needed to end this conversation now, but she needed money more.
She carried the phone to the French doors, opened them with one hand, and walked outside. At least there was no wind today, so she could still hear.
“He’ll never talk Leo into selling. Though . . .” Jillian trailed off and Issy could smell the beginnings of conniving all the way from Saint-Tropez. “Besides, he doesn’t have power of attorney, does he?”
“I assume Dan has it. Right?”
“How should I know? No one tells me anything. Though really it should be George or me.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that,” Issy said, continuing to walk away from the house. It would be just like Steph to follow her.
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Nothing. Like you said, you’re half a world away.” Which was a good thing, because Issy had no doubt that Jillian York would sell the Muses in a New York minute even if it meant leaving her mother and aunt homeless.
“I’m in a bind. I’m working in Manhattan at the Cluny Museum.”
“I know, dear, around all those rich art patrons. Have you met anyone yet?”
“No. And I don’t make enough money to support all six of us.”
“You could remedy all of that with a little effort.”
“I’m not like you,” Issy spat. Immediately tempered her voice. “I need you to—”
“Oh, Oops. You know I’m busy.”
Issy flinched. “I don’t need you to do anything but write a check. I can’t support the family on my museum salary.”
“What about the maintenance fund that what’s his name is overseeing. What is Vivienne’s husband’s name?”
“Dan. He’s missing, too. All I know is the bank accounts have been cleaned out. I just need funds to keep things going long enough for me to sort this out.” She’d been thinking low, a few thousand, but what the hell, it was time for Jillian to start paying them back. “Say fifty thousand.”
She heard Jillian choke. Probably on expensive champagne.
“I’ll pay you back.” Chickenshit. You have no backbone when it comes to your mother. “Eventually. But there are repairs needed on the house, kids, doctors, food, and I have to hire a full-time housekeeper, one who can drive. It’s the only way to make this work. I don’t have nearly enough in my savings.”
“But, Oops, I don’t keep that kind of money available, everything is tied up. You know I never spend my own money for the day-to-day business of things.”
Not as long as there were men on earth. “So you won’t miss it.”
“Really, darling.”
“Look, you can’t let me—us—down. I have to get back to work, I have a tour starting, and incoming exhibitions to oversee. Are you going to leave your mother, your aunt, and your grandchildren out on a limb—a homeless limb?”
Issy waited; couldn’t even hear breathing, but she didn’t think Jillian had hung up.
Issy hated the way she always turned into a simpering needy child around the one person who would never love her. But this was more serious than her feelings or Jillian’s. She for once wouldn’t be the one to hang up.
“Well, actually . . .” Jillian said. “It will take a little time for me to figure out what’s what.”
Issy plowed on. “It would be best if you just wired the money from Saint-Tropez,” she said gently, afraid of rupturing the tenuous situation. “To my bank account since I’m not sure Leo’s is secure. But quickly.”
“This is so much to take in. I’ll get back to you, darling. Ciao.” The phone went dead.
It was so abrupt that it took Issy a second to realize Jillian had hung up without even getting Iss
y’s account number. Issy powered off. “Ciao. Thanks for nothing. And don’t call me Oops.”
Jillian York tossed her cell phone on the bed in her luxury suite at the Hotel de Paris. Her arm was still aching from where Henri had grabbed her before throwing her to the bed and storming out of the room.
No one treated her that way. Of course she’d been rather stuck with him until a few minutes ago. And then voilà, a call from little Oops. Begging for money. How quaint.
And how fortuitous for Jillian. She just might see a way out of this mess after all.
She dragged her suitcases out of the closet, opened them on the bed, and began throwing her clothes into them.
Her family needed her.
And though she didn’t have two pennies to rub together, she had something much better.
Herself.
Chapter 9
Steph watched Issy walk back to the conservatory. Now what did she do? She couldn’t exactly pretend like she hadn’t heard. She was stuck.
She’d spent the morning reading in bed, and when she finally had come down to breakfast, they were having a heated discussion in the kitchen. Fae was crying and Steph wanted to run in and tell them to leave her alone, but no one ever listened to a kid, so she just took her book out to the conservatory to wait until they finished.
That’s why she overheard Issy’s conversation with Jillian. She didn’t mean to listen, but at first she thought maybe it was her mother on the other end. And by the time she realized it was really her grandmother Jillian, it was impossible to sneak out without Issy seeing her—besides, the conversation was too interesting.
Now she wished she hadn’t stayed, because Issy said the same things Stephanie was trying not to think. She’d almost convinced herself that she hadn’t heard what she thought she heard. Her mother screaming at her father late one night. “You bastard. You’ll go to jail.” Steph had thought maybe she was just mad at him over something and was exaggerating. Her parents fought a lot, her mother was never happy. Steph had read on Facebook that some people enjoy their own misery. Steph was afraid her mother was one of those people. She really hoped she wouldn’t turn out to be one of those people, too.
Then Issy had said the thing about foster care, and Steph knocked the book off the cushion. She only heard Issy’s side after that, but she got the drift. Leo’s money had disappeared and they thought her mom and dad had taken it.
Maybe they were already in jail. And how was Steph ever going to face her friends again? Well, she wouldn’t have to, would she? They’d all be put in foster care and never see each other or their family again.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to go. She was pretty old. She could stay and help Grammy and Fae. She could read to them when they got too old to read. If they didn’t get put in the old-folks home.
It was just awful. And here was Issy stomping toward her. Steph could tell she was pretty upset. Angry even. She’d yelled, “Don’t call me Oops” before she hung up.
Steph took a breath, planted her bare feet on the cold marble floor, and waited for the storm.
Issy stopped in front of her.
Steph willed herself not to move away.
Then Issy smiled, not a happy smile, but one of those smiles that were actually kind of sad.
And Steph just blurted out what rose to the top of her thoughts. Not I wasn’t listening. Not Are my mom and dad crooks? Not Are we all going to foster care?
But . . .
“Why does she call you Oops?”
Then Issy’s face got all soft, which was even worse because Steph knew it was how people looked when they were trying to hide something, like a broken heart.
“I was a mistake.”
Steph shook her head. “No, you weren’t. A surprise maybe.”
“And just what does a twelve-year-old know about it?”
Steph lifted her chin. “I know what it means. That Jillian didn’t want you and Mom.”
“She wanted your mother. I screwed everything up.”
“That’s what my mom says. I don’t believe it.”
“Thanks. Let’s go get some breakfast.” Issy linked her arm in Steph’s.
“Is my mom coming back?” Steph asked.
“I hope so,” Issy said. “I sure hope so.”
They walked back through the conservatory and had reached the hall when Mandy and Griff barreled down the stairs dressed in the most ridiculous outfits Steph had ever seen. Except that she kind of remembered wearing them herself. A long time ago. When she was a kid. Which she wasn’t anymore.
Not that being an adult looked all that great at the moment.
It made her stomach feel a little queasy. She wanted to ask Aunt Issy more about what was happening, but Mandy and Griff were whooping around like nutcases.
“Steph, look at us,” Griff yelled. He had a beret on his head that was slipping over his eyes. Someone, Chloe probably, had drawn a big black mustache on his upper lip. He had a feather boa around his neck and an old book satchel across his shoulder with a plastic sword sticking out the top.
Mandy twirled in front of them, which lifted the satin scarf she’d stuck in her shorts to make a skirt. She had on a hat with a huge fluffy feather sticking out of it and a long strand of pearls around her neck.
Chloe was laughing as she came down the steps behind them. “They found the dress-up trunk.”
“Grammy lets us play with it,” Mandy told Issy. “All the time.”
“Those pearls aren’t real, are they?” Issy asked.
Chloe shrugged. “They were in the trunk.”
“I’m going to get something to eat,” Steph announced, and marched off to the kitchen.
Fae kept a steady hold on the old red wagon as it rattled and jumped behind her. She usually took the shortcut through the woods to the town square, but today she wanted to make sure the children came to story hour. Those three needed a little imagination, a little outdoors, a little color in their life.
Steph especially. That girl needed someone to teach her to soar. How could Dan the “artiste” and Vivienne “the nothing but the best” fail to notice that their oldest daughter had an imagination waiting to explode. That they were keeping her confined, like a banked fire on a cold night when what you really needed were flames.
It wouldn’t be easy. The girl was twelve, a little old to throw over her old habits or the peer pressure that was defining her. But she never would be totally happy if she didn’t open up, look around, see things that others didn’t bother to see. She was already wearing Leo’s old clothes, looking like she knew something was missing but didn’t know what. At least she had the instinct to try.
Fae figured that responsibility had been dumped right in her lap. Usually she just showed up at the reading spot unannounced and unnoticed. Dressed in overalls or one of her everyday long skirts. Today she went all out, with lots of fabric, and color and jewelry. She had dressed with Steph in mind.
A gauzy skirt that fell to her ankles, a paisley design in purple and aqua and gold whose hem lifted and danced with the breeze. A white peasant blouse hand-embroidered in Guatemala and a sleeveless smock to keep the chalk dust from getting on her clothes. She’d tied a scarf around her head to keep her hair from falling in her face while she drew. Most storytelling days she wore it pulled back into a ponytail, sometimes in a bun, but today she let it “frolic,” as Adam often said. Wild was a more apt description.
She’d worn a plethora of crystal jewelry, opals for inspiration, abalone for emotional balance (not to mention that it was good for arthritis, which Steph didn’t need but Fae did after an hour of kneeling on the pavement). She carried cubes of calcite in her pockets, one of which she would give to Stephanie for inspiration. And necklaces of quartz and citrine for positive energy. Hopefully she had all her bases covered.
The wagon rattled along behind her and she rattled along in front. As she neared the Muses, the two young children ran out and down the steps. They’d found the dress-up trunk.
&
nbsp; The sight of those clothes always brought a pang to her heart. She and Wes and their brothers and sisters now long dead had created stories and plays and went on wonderful adventures from that trunk. Then it had been relegated to the attic until Wes and Leo’s children were born, and then it saw another generation. Max and George playing at pirates. The older Max, tall, lean like his father, and graceful in his eye patch and ruffles. George, younger, slower, determined to hold his own, but never quite succeeding. And all the while Jillian flourishing satin scarves like the dramatic diva she would someday become. And later, Vivienne and Issy came . . . Vivienne never wanted to play anything. At eight, she was already filled with resentment.
And poor innocent Issy. Barely four, not understanding what was happening, desperate for love, some show of kindness. She spent hours alone, dressed up in the clothes from the box, dressing her dolls and stuffed animals, or Leo or Fae when they had the time.
She’d been such an undemanding child, while Vivienne demanded your constant attention, sulked and cried piteously if you didn’t coddle her. And they had. Even though they knew it wouldn’t help her navigate life.
Wes and Leo were committed solely to each other; their own children suffered and their grandchildren suffered. They’d loved them all, but not like they loved each other. Fae did what she could but she just wasn’t very good at it. That’s one of the reasons it was important to unlock little Steph’s potential. She reminded Fae of Issy a lot, undemanding, but deep, and as closed off from the world as any well-treated twelve-year-old could be.
“Aunt Fae, Aunt Fae,” Griff and Mandy yelled in chorus, running toward her. “We’re coming to story time.”
“Chloe said you’d let us walk with you. Can we?” Mandy asked, practically batting her eyelashes. Definitely took after her mother and grandmother. Fae would have to make her a necklace to keep her guided on the light path.
“Ple-e-e-e-ese,” Griff added.
“Of course you may.” Fae looked around, just a tad disappointed. “Where’s your sister? And Issy?”
“Inside,” Mandy said as she sashayed around the wagon. “Can we blow the bubbles, too?”
The Beach at Painter's Cove Page 10