The Things We Don’t Say

by Ella Carey

  Emma ran a hand across her still flat belly, trying to find some consolation at the tiny secret she was keeping, but the sound of Jerome and Patrick thumping down the stairs obliterated her determined calm thoughts. She picked up her brush, her eyebrows raising by only the merest sliver when she heard the sound of Patrick clowning around with Lydia.

  When Jerome announced in a loud voice that he was going down to Cassis, Emma reached uselessly for her paintbrushes. Just as she sat back down again, Patrick appeared. He grinned at her in that lopsided way she adored and rolled the sleeves of his blue shirt up around his elbows.

  “Good morning, darling. I don’t want to interrupt you, but you couldn’t think I’d mooch off to my studio without saying hello. Even if I’m going to work on what we both know is closest to my heart, my portrait, darling, of you.”

  Emma winced at Patrick’s usage of Jerome talk, but she reached her hand back as Patrick came closer behind her. He stroked her fingers as if smoothing over any worries that might trouble her, but the feel of his fingers entwined in hers only caused her breathing to quicken.

  “How is it coming along?” she asked.

  “Well, I think. But I can’t discuss it with you. You know that. I can’t wait to see your reaction to the end result.”

  Emma bit her lip.

  He crouched down next to her after a moment. “She looks sad,” he said, scanning the painting on her easel.

  “I worry that she lacks . . . vitality.” Emma knew she sounded tired. And boring. Oh, she did not tolerate bores so very well herself. But right now, the last thing she felt was in any way attractive or enticing.

  “I think she has gentle strength, like you. But she doesn’t look happy, Em.”

  Emma swallowed hard. The urge to tell Patrick about the baby overwhelmed her. But it was also the last thing she wanted to do.

  “You’ve been looking pale lately,” he said. “Different.” In a split second, he stood up and walked back into the house.

  Emma picked up her paintbrush and ran her finger down the smooth wood toward the brush.

  Within five minutes, he was back, holding a wooden tray with a plate of sliced baguette and a glass of water. The relief that tempered her at the sight of him returning was like a salve. He placed the tray on the long stone table behind her easel and swung his legs around one of the two long benches that sat at its side.

  Gently, he reached forward and handed her a piece of baguette. Salt scattered across its crust. Emma took it, examining it before taking a small bite, letting the salt rest on her tongue a moment.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  The words were a tempting slide . . .

  She knew his eyes were on her as she struggled to eat the bread. “I’m fine,” she said.

  “I know Jerome can be challenging.”

  Emma opened her mouth.

  “He wants to go to Paris,” Patrick said, staring out at the vines.

  She knew that. They all knew that. Emma drew in a sharp breath. She placed the baguette back on the plate, putting it near the rest of the crusty slice so that it sat almost next to the large piece but a little separate.

  “How wonderful,” she said. And reached out her hand across the table.

  Patrick did the same thing, his hand melding with hers. She would not tell him. Not now. Were she to do so, he might feel obliged to stay here, and he wanted to go to Paris. With Jerome. She would not hold him back, nor would she expect him in any way to feel a responsibility to be here right now. Silence held between them, both the most uncomfortable and easiest thing in the world.

  “It’s been beautiful here,” he whispered.

  Emma nodded. She directed her gaze to the side, focusing on the vines that flickered in the sun. But instead of seeming full of freedom and color and light, as they had when she first arrived here, all they seemed to do was to hem her in to their dense wall of invidious green.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  London, 1980

  Emma hit the table beside her sofa, her old hand shaking with fury. Her memories were like a series of streetlamps in an opaque fog! All she could recall was what she’d wanted to see at the time, perhaps all she could recall was what she felt with the most intensity. Or maybe now. Trying to capture answers out of the nothings that had slipped away was like trying to find a teardrop in the ocean. She was never going to get the answers she sought.

  How could she prove anything concrete when Patrick was dead and when Lydia had never seen him pick up his paintbrush? As for Emma, she’d played into the mystery of his painting her just as she’d fallen into Patrick’s beautiful heart.

  Fear underlined what she did remember of that summer in France. Her own thoughts and feelings ran like a dark thread beneath every memory she had of that time with Jerome. Sometimes, though, she found herself wondering whether it was uncertainty that had kept her relationship with Patrick alive. There had always been some version of unresolvedness between them, a sense of unknown possibilities lingering and dancing around their relationship for their entire adult lives—never quite certain, they had not slipped into predictable routine or the banality of a conventional life.

  Nothing had dulled her feelings for him, nor taken away the sheen of what seemed to her to be the perfect relationship. Unanswered questions always hung over them, and Emma had wanted answers the whole time. But in the end, had not knowing been better than knowing?

  Emma knew only too well that everyone put untold effort into trying to fix unresolved tensions in this life, but perhaps it was the very state of unresolvedness that gave us hope. That kept us striving on, after all.

  She eased herself out of the sofa, leaning heavily on the armrest as she stood up. Unresolved questions might be a normal state in life, but for now, she’d had enough. A few answers would be more than welcome. She reached for her cane. Was her relationship with Patrick too deep to fathom even now? She’d never had the stalwart of religion to back her up during her formative years, had lacked the certainty of so many—to be honest, most—of her contemporaries because of her father’s atheism.

  In the end, she always came back to one ultimate question: What possible motive could Patrick have had for lying to her and telling her he painted that portrait out of love if he did not? Was he capable of such momentous deception? For momentous it would be if the young Mr. Buchanan was correct. No matter how hard she tried to convince Laura that her main concern was her granddaughter’s education—and it was—Emma could not push aside the looming worry that Patrick might have lied to her, that he’d let her believe a complete falsehood. Emma thought she had known the man she loved, but the idea that she had failed in such a crucial matter sat in her like some dark menace.

  But who else could have painted the portrait? The thought that Lawrence had painted her was ridiculous. Jerome was around and Patrick did paint the portrait in their shared studio that was next to their bedroom, but the painting screamed of Patrick’s style rather than Jerome’s flamboyant, almost rough use of stroke and color. In any case, Emma was certain that she was the last person Jerome would have ever wanted to paint in a sympathetic way.

  Yes, Patrick liked jokes, and yes, Jerome would have been capable of taking on some trick to annoy Emma, but still. For Patrick to then declare that he’d painted the portrait for Emma and lie about it? Emma refused to believe that.

  She took a couple of small, difficult steps with the aid of her cane. She was being ridiculous. Rationality was the only way to solve this.

  And yet, she couldn’t help but realize that the times that held magic in her life were the least rational of all, and they all centered around Patrick. He was every one of those lamplights shining out of the fog. And trying to recall what happened without him being here anymore was like trying to touch one of those yellow flares without getting her fingers burned. She could not bear the thought that this investigation could put out for good all that had glowed in her life.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  London
, 1980

  Laura tipped Emma’s old bike upside down and inspected it. The tires were pumped up, the chain worked, and while of course there were no gears, the ride from Lewes Station to Summerfield was made up of only gentle, undulating slopes. Ewan should be fine on Em’s bicycle. Emma had ridden the journey hundreds of times. And the thought of Ewan perched on this very bike gave Laura cause to smile . . .

  She glanced at the mess on her bed. This morning she’d tried on everything she owned, opting, after a frenzy of indecision, for a pair of jeans and a white shirt. She’d tied her hair back in a ponytail to avoid the breeze whipping tendrils into her face as they rode along the country roads toward Summerfield.

  Laura placed her hands on her hips. Emma wouldn’t have cared a twig about what to wear on a trip to the countryside—Laura knew her vacillations were not making sense. While ridiculousness fluttered around in her insides, she started to pick up her discarded clothes, piece by piece.

  It was hard to pinpoint the exact time in her life that she’d started to view Emma as a role model. Laura’s relationship with her own mother had seemed safe and fine and mundane throughout her childhood years, but the moment she had picked up a violin, it had been Emma who had recognized her granddaughter’s passion and Clover who had done whatever she could to put Laura off. A new, fledgling flame had burned between Laura and her grandmother, firing and strengthening their relationship, something that ran deep. Throughout her teenage years, Laura had found that the more she came to know Emma, the more she was drawn toward and fascinated by her grandmother’s extraordinary way of life.

  What was more, as Laura now struggled with her own reactions to things that she could not control, the more she came to admire Emma’s calm acceptance and tolerance of life. Laura respected the fact that Emma had been true to herself, to her art, to her values. Conversely, she was confounded by the fact that her own mother, Emma’s daughter, had not only refused to look through the old sketchbooks she’d made as a child but had thrown out all the equipment she used to own when she was considering, for a brief time, becoming a ceramicist. Clover would not speak about any of it. Why had her mother so dramatically recoiled away from her Bohemian upbringing and lived the most conventional of lives that anyone could endure?

  Was it natural, then, Laura’s own breaking away from Clover, in turn? She had become entirely entranced with Jasper once she’d started at the Royal College of Music. Here was he, who, like Emma, was trying to forge a life despite society’s rules telling him he didn’t fit in. Jasper and Emma were undoubtedly the most important people in Laura’s world. Her mother’s light had dimmed in Laura’s life. Laura hadn’t even thought to turn to Clover as all this drama had played out. But lately, being tangled up in the two strong personalities of Jasper and Emma had left Laura feeling a little unsure, still, about where exactly she fit in herself.

  Laura was floundering about trying to search for answers about her grandmother’s past while having absolutely no idea where the future was taking her. As for the present, that was unfolding like a roller coaster that had flown off its rails. Jasper suggesting that Ewan cared for her seemed like madness. She wanted him to see what the problem was and knew that the only way she was going to appeal to Ewan was to get to his heart. But honestly, somewhere, she was starting to become intrigued by him too. Laura sighed. She busied herself with putting away her clothes. Nothing seemed certain anymore.

  When the last piece of clothing was put away, Laura shut the cupboard door with a gentle push. It was beautiful, decorated by Patrick and Emma, an old piece of furniture they’d found at a market and revived. And yet, this wardrobe was the last thing Clover would ever have in her pristine house, and so Laura had it in hers.

  Laura wanted, so very much, to create an extraordinary life rather than something prosaic.

  She jumped when there was a knock at the door and whizzed a glance around her small studio. Her half-eaten bowl of Weetabix still sat on the table. As swift as a cat, she slipped across the room and tipped the soggy remains in the bin, took in a deep breath, and went to answer the door.

  Jasper propped his bike up against the outside wall. Laura gaped as she took in his outfit.

  He looked down at his burnt-orange jacket and green jeans and shrugged. “Trying to stir up the art guy,” he said. “I’m ready to step up if he plays for the other team,” Jasper went on.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. You’ll blend with the marigolds as it is,” Laura said, brushing an imaginary piece of dust off the front of his jacket.

  He swiped a playful arm her way.

  Laura shut the door. Jasper lounged against the kitchen bench. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought that he would have fitted in oh so very perfectly with the Circle.

  “Jokes aside, are you okay?” he asked, regarding her.

  “I feel like today is—”

  “Don’t pressure yourself too hard,” he said. “Let Summerfield work its magic on him.”

  “You haven’t alleviated my concerns saying that.” Laura ran her fingers along the back of one of Emma’s old wooden chairs.

  “I have every faith in you and Summerfield, and Patrick’s integrity, and Em.”

  “I wish I had your confidence.”

  “Well, this is all super tidy, sweetheart.” Jasper chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up since five in the morning cleaning to impress him.”

  Laura glared. “Of course not.” She darted a glance at the front door.

  “So I hate to lump you with this. I mean today of all days.” Jasper slumped down on one of her kitchen chairs. “But I finally broke up with Mark for good.”

  Laura found the involuntary impulse that was something—joy?—inside her and crossed her arms instead.

  “We both know it was hopeless, darling. Don’t suppose you want to turn into a man?”

  Laura moved over to the window and glared at the dusty windowpane. She gathered her thoughts. Sometimes they seemed like wasps ready to sting. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I think it just filtered out into something with no life anymore.”

  “Talk about it with me.” She watched the legs that walked up and down the sidewalk.

  When a knock sounded at the door, she startled. “I’m so sorry about Mark,” she whispered. “Please talk to me later. This is hardly good timing for you!”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, honey,” Jasper said. “And I’m around all day if you need me. Go get the door, darling. One step at a time, for heaven’s sake.” He rolled his eyes.

  Laura’s palm was slick on the unpainted handle.

  Ewan stood on the doorstep, running a hand through his blond hair. He wore a pair of jeans and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. He smiled tentatively, his dimple showing up.

  “Hi,” he said, his head to one side. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I love Bloomsbury.”

  Laura bit her lip. She had to admit that she’d worried that he might never have ventured beyond the periphery of Hyde Park. He’d told her his mother lived in Edinburgh, and he’d been in London a few years now.

  “I often spend Sundays out here, you know,” he went on, as if this was the most natural conversation in the world. “I like sitting in the squares and reading in the sun. But the Tube let me down this morning, it turns out . . .”

  Jasper appeared right behind her, placing his arm high on the doorframe above her head. “I’m Jasper. Joining you guys for the train ride, I’m afraid. Come in,” he said.

  Laura stood aside in a rush just as Jasper leaned forward to shake Ewan’s outstretched hand. She nearly fell into them both before retreating deeper into the room on her own.

  “So here’s your bike . . .” Jasper brought his hand up to his chin and frowned.

  Laura glanced at them under her eyelashes.

  Jasper grinned.

  Ewan ran a hand over the ancient bike. It was still upside down on the floor. “Fair enough. I know I’m not the flavor of the day, but you don’t have anything a little
less antique, I suppose, Laura?”

  Jasper chuckled, caught Laura’s eye, and raised a brow.

  Oh yes, she understood that look. Jasper approved of Ewan. Perfect. She did not want Jasper fawning all over him like some puppy dog. Laura reached for her green coat, but it slipped from her fingers to the ground when she touched it, landing in a soft pool on the floor.

  Ewan picked it up for her, holding it out. Her arms became tangled in the lining. She glanced at Jasper, whose eyes were lighting up now, two sparks catching on kindling that she didn’t want to light. Finally, at last, she was wearing her coat.

  Jasper kept up a steady banter throughout the short walk to the station. Laura marched along in silence. And reminded herself that she had to make a breakthrough, or she was done. But Ewan and Jasper both chatted away like a pair of friends at a party as the train moved through the outskirts of London, leaving, in some unspoken agreement, Laura to brood alone in her own thoughts. Their conversation was both soothing and unsettling.

  As the scenery widened into the deep fields of Sussex, Laura occupied herself by staring at the landscape outside the train window. Everything was vivid green and blooming and verdant and beautifully unfair—plants cascaded down the sides of the steep embankments that lined the railway tracks.

  Spring and the countryside seemed to mock her. She placed her chin in her hand and took in the familiar picture-perfect church spires hovering over treetops in the distance. Smoke curled out of windows of the houses that lined the track. Everything seemed settled. It was as if all was in the right place. Was Laura trying to realize some impossible, crazy, artistic dream in a world that was too neat and too organized to handle her aspirations? Had her mother been right to lock all her passion away? Or was Emma correct—was an artistic life the only one to pursue if you had the desire?

  When the train pulled into Lewes Station, nerves fluttered like tiny moths in Laura’s stomach.