Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  “Ella, now isn’t the time for a project like this.”

  “Now is exactly the time,” I say. “Blake was in my room, this version of it, while I was sleeping. He put fake blood on my walls. It makes perfect sense to repaint them.”

  “It’s a big job. You need the paint, the drop cloths—”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “I don’t think picking out paint is on our list for today.”

  “It’s on my list.” I want to choose it myself. As much as I hate arguing with Mom, I won’t back down this time. “I have a friend at the hardware store. He’ll help me. You won’t have to do anything.”

  She puts up her hands in surrender. “All right. Can you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  After I pick a new phone, we walk to the library, where I check out two nonfiction books that I slip into my bag before Mom can notice. While I wait for her, I text Gavin to thank him for taking care of the locks and tell him about Oscar’s safe recovery and Mom returning home. I mention stopping by to pick out paint, and he says he’d like to see me. As much as I’m worried about Blake, I convince Mom to let me go to the hardware store alone.

  “You need to be careful, Ella, until we figure out where Blake is. We don’t know what he is capable of. Text me frequently so I know you’re fine. You can’t over-communicate in a situation like this.”

  I reluctantly agree.

  When I enter the store, Gavin’s making keys. I can’t help clenching my fists for a moment at the memory of him copying all of mine for Blake.

  “I’ll be done in a few minutes,” he says when he notices me. “The paint swatches are in the first aisle if you want to start looking.”

  There are more shades of yellow than I ever imagined. I’ve narrowed it down to Daffodil, Candlelight, or Haystack when Gavin joins me. I hug him hello but back away before he can kiss me.

  “Thanks again for arranging the locks,” I say.

  “It’s the least I could do. Have you heard anything from Blake?”

  “No. We can’t figure out where he is. Did Zoey meet him for lunch?”

  Gavin shakes his head. “He blew her off at the last minute, said he was meeting a friend, some guy named Martin. Zoey’s convinced it’s really another girl.”

  I remember Blake’s list of phone contacts. There was no Martin. There were no friends at all, actually.

  “I’ll feel better when we know where he is.”

  “Me, too.”

  I show him the three paint colors. “Which do you like best?”

  He points. “Haystack.”

  The name reminds me of the odds of finding Blake, but it’s my favorite, too.

  Gavin figures out how many gallons I’ll need. He offers to use his employee discount and bring the paint and supplies over tomorrow. Another customer comes over to ask about wing nuts, which saves us from an awkward good-bye.

  After texting Mom as proof of life, I stop at the bakery for a box of cat-shaped cookies, then head to the shelter to thank Skyler for her help. I detour to the cattery to visit Petals first.

  She’s nowhere to be found. Not in the cages, or the beds, or the carpeted cubbies that I frantically check.

  My stomach drops as I remember Stanley mentioning Petals at dinner that first night Blake was home. No. Blake wouldn’t have taken her, would he?

  “Skyler!” I run through the shelter, bouncing the stupid cookies. “Skyler!” I finally find her in the kennels among the barking dogs.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks. “Has something else happened to Oscar?”

  “He’s fine.” My voice cracks. “Petals?”

  “It’s great news—an old man adopted her.”

  “Really?” Relief floods through me. “Thank goodness.”

  “He said he’s changing her name to Petunia, though, after the flower.”

  “Except she’s pure black.”

  “That’s what I thought!” Skyler says. “Weird, right?”

  I’m happy she finally found a home, but I wish I’d gotten a chance to see her one last time. “Any other adoptions?”

  “Two of the kittens from Jersey City, Goedal and Mink, found homes fast. Oh, and a little boy came in with his mom and fell in love with Milo. He was about six years old and never had a pet before. It was the cutest thing ever.”

  I smile, imagining their joy. We catch up a bit on other shelter business until I can’t stand the barking anymore and say good-bye. I text Mom to let her know I’m fine. The scare of thinking Blake took Petals keeps me hyper-focused as I hurry. A woman passes me, walking four well-behaved dogs. A man Stanley’s size jogs by with his headphones so loud I can hear the dance music. There are lots of people, but no sign of Blake.

  Back at home, I prepare my room for painting. I carefully place a line of masking tape along the ceiling and move everything away from the walls. Mom pokes her head in.

  “You’re really going through with this?”

  “I know Dad painted it originally, but it’s time for a change. Gavin said he’d help me.” I’ve told her enough about Gavin that she’s letting him visit tomorrow.

  “All right,” she says.

  I can tell she’s not entirely convinced, but it’s my room. My decision.

  Once she’s gone, I take the library books out of my messenger bag and spend most of the evening reading about sociopaths. According to the experts, sociopaths often leave a trail of destruction behind them. I’m basically fine, though I’m not so sure about Stanley and Mom. No abyss has formed, not yet, but there are definite fissures in their relationship. Overall, I’m lucky I made it through my time with Blake relatively unscathed.

  The next day, I decide to go to the cemetery before Mom can give me another safety lecture. After washing up, I reach into my drawer of cat shirts for a clean one. My fingers brush against plastic.

  It’s another bag of cash that Blake must have planted.

  I’m not telling Stanley—it’ll make him doubt me even more. Maybe I’ll tell Mom. Maybe not. I tuck the bag under the Freedom Rocks shirt, then close the drawer.

  After dressing in a pretty blouse instead, I leave Mom a note so she won’t worry and head to the cemetery. It’s a relief to visit Dad knowing that Blake’s lies about him have unraveled. I search the ground for the right pebble and place it on his tombstone. The muddy handprint has faded, of course. Still, the thought of Blake following me makes me uneasy, like someone is watching right now.

  I glance around frantically to check for Blake. Instead of my stepbrother, Henry approaches. He’s holding a fistful of familiar black flowers.

  “Good morning, Ella.”

  “Hi. I’ve noticed those flowers here before. They’re unusual.”

  Henry smiles. “Black cat petunias. I thought Thomas would like the name. I grow them myself.”

  I nod. “Why are you visiting Dad? I mean, I know you’re related, but …”

  “It’s the guilt, I guess, that brings me here.”

  “The guilt?”

  “I arranged that meeting the night he died,” he says. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”

  I shake my head.

  “I was on a mission to recruit him that day. It was a good position, working with me at the American Veterinary Medical Association. He could’ve really made a difference in deciding the training of future vets.” He sighs. “Thomas told me no immediately. Working with families and their pets, that’s what he said he was meant to do, what he imagined his life to be.”

  “Mom always said that he loved his job.”

  “True, but I didn’t take his rejection very well. I told him he was capable of more, that he was … well, I accused him of being stubborn. We didn’t leave on good terms. I had convinced him to at least meet the association president that evening, to learn more about the opportunity.”

  He leans one hand on the tombstone, as if summoning his strength. “He agreed to the meeting, but still turned the job do
wn. That’s where he was leaving from, the night of the accident. It was my fault.”

  I pat Henry’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “It’s not like you were driving the car that killed my father.”

  “True. But I might as well have been. The regret …” He sighs. “I’ve always wished I could take back our last conversation. Being around you—I can barely look at you without thinking of him. I’m sorry if I’ve been unkind, Ella. Memories can be painful. I realized after the break-in that if something bad happened to you, too, I’d have more to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. And it is. It’s good to finally discover why Henry has been grumpy toward me. “I’m sure Dad understood, you know.”

  “Maybe.” He gently places the black flowers on the grave. “I can’t stay long. I have a new cat to get home to.”

  I stare at the petunias. And it hits me. “You’re the one who adopted Petals.”

  “Black Cat Petunia,” he says. “She’s a sweet girl.”

  “I love that cat. She was my favorite.”

  “You can visit her sometime, if you want.”

  “Really? That would be amazing!” I smile at the thought of seeing Petals again.

  When Henry turns to go, I decide not to linger in the cemetery alone. I press my hand against Dad’s grave before Henry and I leave together.

  When Gavin arrives to help me with my room, Mom stares at his blue hair but doesn’t say anything about it. He comes prepared with the paint supplies and lunch from Veggie Paradise.

  “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” Mom says. “I’ll take Oscar so we don’t end up with golden paw prints everywhere.”

  Gavin and I work out a system where he paints the edges of the walls with a brush, and I roll the main parts. The color looks amazing—cheerful and bright, exactly what I wanted.

  “I hope you like the falafel sandwiches I brought,” Gavin says. “I’m trying a vegetarian diet for a month. It’s the least I can do after lying to you.” He paints around the outside of my closet. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. And Oscar made a full recovery. He’ll be happier once we’re finished, and he can return to his favorite spot on top of the bookshelf.”

  When I put the roller down to refill the tray, Gavin takes my hands in his, both of us speckled with Haystack. “El, I know I said this before. I’m sorry I was part of his lies. I should’ve found a way to be honest with you.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I brought you a present,” he says.

  “Really?”

  He pulls something from his pocket—a flash of black. “It’s just a little something. I found it in the store below my cousin’s apartment.” He opens his palm to show me the obsidian ring, the one with the carved flower I had been admiring when Grace and I went to have our Tarot card readings. Helps contact with the spirit world, the label still reads.

  I shiver. What are the odds he would pick the black flower ring?

  “You forgive me?” His eyes are soft, pleading.

  The ring is a good sign. And I like him, I really do. But forgiveness will take time.

  I make eye contact, keep my face neutral and my voice even, just like I learned from Blake. “Of course I forgive you.”

  The lie comes easily. Maybe Blake has damaged me after all.

  After I put my room back together, I flip through one of the library books again. There’s a section I want to reread about a sociopath’s desire to win. I leaf through the pages slowly, scanning the text. At page eighty-eight I find it.

  Not the section. A photo stuck between the pages.

  The photo of Dad has reappeared.

  Blake couldn’t have put it there. There’s no way he had access to the hiding spot in my closet in the last twenty-four hours or to my library book. He might be devious, but this was beyond his capabilities. Gavin was in my room, but never alone, and he didn’t know anything about the photo.

  No, this is from Dad. Just like it was his voice that called out to me and saved me from being hit by that car years ago. The certainty settles over me. I sit quietly, holding the picture, letting its reappearance sink in.

  I think back to the other page eighty-eight in the cat memoir. It had been about violence toward cats. I shudder, remembering fake blood–covered Oscar, wondering what Blake would have done with him after I left. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the photo was on that page.

  I put it on my nightstand for now, then turn back to the library book. Page eighty-eight is about sociopaths and their dangerous charm. Blake is certainly charming. I think about the dress he bought for me, how he wanted Mom’s wedding present to be just right. But he didn’t care about us—it was all a pretense. Everything he did was phony, even details like the NYU catalog on his nightstand.

  There had been a travel guide with the course catalog, too, something about Spanish-speaking travel destinations. It had to be another attempt to mislead me. Blake spoke French, and I doubt he would flee to someplace where he couldn’t lie fluently.

  What else do I know about him that might be true? I remember the night we sat on the bench: He loves the ocean and chess. Deux vérités. Would he go to the south of France? Maybe. Or an exotic island somewhere? On a whim, I do a search on my new phone: Caribbean Islands. French speaking. There are a few matches, including St. Martin and Martinique.

  Martin. Blake had told Zoey he would visit a friend named Martin. He thought he was so clever. He couldn’t have known that the throwaway line would get back to me. I expand my search to include one more Blake-related item: chess.

  Martinique is the only result that highlights all three. I read an article about the island, how it has its own chess federation and even hosted a major tournament a few years back. Martinique looks like a beautiful place to escape to.

  He couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. If Mom and Stanley decide not to involve the police, maybe I’ll hire a private investigator on my own to find Blake. The irony of using the money he planted to track him down appeals to me.

  I plug the phone into the charger next to my bed. Dad’s photo hasn’t moved from where I left it. I pick it up, ready to stash the picture again. I pause, considering.

  Instead of hiding it away, I dig through the hall closet near Mom’s room, the one where she stores a random assortment of candles, the bread machine she never uses, and a collection of old frames. I find one the right size, silver with a raised paw print in the corner. I place the picture inside and gaze at the result.

  Dad is smiling away from the camera as if he knows a wonderful secret. When Mom captured that moment, I believe he was daydreaming about me, the daughter he would always love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like the fictional Oscar, this novel had about nine lives. I transformed version after version, making major changes along the way, but one of the few details that stayed the same was that Ella’s mom owns a bookstore. A very special thanks to Jonah and [words] Bookstore in Maplewood, New Jersey, for allowing me to visit behind the scenes during a busy holiday season, and to Carrie for the crash course in their bookstore operations. (Any errors in portraying an indie bookstore are obviously my own.)

  Thanks to Dr. Philip Ernest Schoenberg from Ghosts of NY, and Professor of History at Vaughn College. I had the pleasure of going on the Ghosts of NY Indoor Ghost Walk of Grand Central Station. Dr. Schoenberg kindly gave me permission to adapt a ghost story from that tour for my fictional train station haunting in Chapter 18.

  Thank you to Julie Matysik for acquiring Black Flowers, White Lies and for sharing her thoughtful editorial vision, and to Sky Pony Press’s Rachel Stark for continuing the process. Thanks to Sarah Brody, Joshua Barnaby, Cheryl Lew, and the rest of the Sky Pony team for transforming my manuscript into a beautiful book. Having my second novel published by the Sky Pony/Skyhorse team and distributed by the Perseus sales force felt like coming home.

  I am fortunate to be represented by Liza Fleissig of the Liza Royce
Agency. Liza is a positive, energetic, responsive force in a business filled with ups and downs. It was meant to be, Liza!

  Publicizing a book is a very different process from writing one. Rebecca Grose (and Sammie) of SoCal Public Relations—we get to do it again! I’m thankful for my fellow writers in Kidlit Authors Club, UncommonYA, NJAN, and to the private online groups who have provided a sense of comradery. Thanks to Jennifer Halligan of JHPR for helping to get the word out about my novels.

  The Whiteley family (Michael, Claudia, Danny) runs the amazing Isshinryu Karate dojo in Madison and Bernardsville, New Jersey. Special thanks to my sensei, Claudia Whiteley, for reminding me to keep my head up (literally and figuratively) and for continuing to be an inspiration to me. To Ann, Anne, Ariadne, Aviva, and Emi: thanks for the dog walks and the friendship. I’m grateful to all my dojo friends and training partners for their support.

  I’m thankful for the creative understanding and encouragement of my writer friends, particularly Maria Andreu, Charlotte Bennardo, Susan Brody, Lisa Colozza Cocca, and Natalie Zaman, who also provided advice on several of my otherworldly scenes. Thank you to Steve Meltzer for the brainstorming and to the many NJ SCBWI members I reunite with each year at the annual conference. Thanks to Katherine Clark and Anthony Oakes for research help during early drafts. Too many people to list read prior versions of this story and provided insightful feedback—know that I am grateful to you all.

  Thanks to my cat-loving friends for sharing their photos, especially author Jennifer Murgia and her real-life Oscar. Thank you to the Rolling Hill Book Club for their interest in the writing life and for their love of good books. Thanks to the Pfizer Madison Toastmasters Club for critiquing my many book-related speeches.

  Much gratitude to my incredible critique partners: Melissa Higgins, C. Lee McKenzie, and Heather Strum. LK Madigan read earlier versions of this story. I like to think she’d be pleased I stuck with it.

  Much love to my family, always: Shirley, Peter, Amanda, William, Liza, Ken, Rachele, Julio, Julianna, Ryan, JC, Doreen, John, and Skyler Schwartz, our honorary family member. To Chris, Lauren, and David: you bring the joy that makes everything else possible.