But the thought of the empty house and the hours to fill before night made her grab an umbrella from the back seat.
The narrow window at Concepts had a single painting displayed, a surrealistic tulip. Even before she stepped inside the gallery, Polly felt her spirits lift at the artistic explosion of color and raw energy the large canvas conveyed.
“Afternoon.” The cheerful greeting came from an attractive woman seated at a desk at the rear of the narrow gallery. She looked to be in her fifties, and she had coal-black hair with a startling white stripe down the middle.
“I’m Jade Crampton. If you need any information, let me know.”
Polly nodded, overwhelmed by the effect of the floral paintings that surrounded her. The small gallery obviously featured only a single artist at a time. All the paintings were of flowers— huge, outrageous, otherworldly flowers, each of which held in its center something hazy waiting to be born, an embryo, a half-glimpsed vision from another reality that the viewer couldn’t quite identify.
The paintings stirred Polly’s imagination and her emotions. The colors were so vibrant that Polly could feel them on her skin, and the contrast between their intensity and the fragile center was mesmerizing.
She felt as if she’d stumbled into a dream that promised depth and peace and joy if only she could understand the artist’s symbolism.
A small dais held a picture of the artist, an ordinary- looking elderly woman from Saskatchewan. Polly read her bio, and a shudder went down her spine. This woman, too, had known loss.
The bio said she had done only watercolor landscapes until the death of her beloved husband three years ago. After his death these dramatic flowers with their secret, hazy hearts exposed came to her in dreams and obsessed her. She felt they were a gift from him, from his spirit to hers.
One last time, Polly moved slowly from one painting to the next. Could a spirit communicate in a dream? So often she dreamed of Susannah, but the dreams were always troubled. What was her daughter trying to tell her?
She left the gallery and drove home through the heavy traffic and the rain, but neither affected her the way they might have. She felt excited, as if she’d almost discovered a truth she’d been searching for.
Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t last long. When she walked in, the house felt chilly and damp, and Polly’s spirits flagged. She turned on the gas fireplace and lit the lamps against the sudden stormy darkness.
Then she ventured into her studio. In spite of the rain, light still poured from the enormous skylights she’d had installed. The cleaning service people had been the only ones in here during the past months. Her easel was empty, her charcoals, pencils, jars of watercolor and tubes of paint lined up in neat, unnatural order.
On a three-tiered workbench dozens of her drawings lay neatly stacked, and against two walls, the works she’d had framed stood like shy sentinels, their wired backs facing her.
Resolutely, Polly turned some of them around. Although she knew what to expect, the sight of Susannah, smiling, laughing, posturing, dancing, tore at her heart and made her breath catch. For a very long time she stared at them, breathing hard, willing herself to get beyond the subject and assess their worth in an objective, artistic sense.
Of course she couldn’t. They were her children almost as much as Susannah had been, and it was impossible to be impartial about them. They were also the past, she thought sadly. What would the future hold, if ever she dared to begin again?
I sure as hell don’t feel any flowers coming on. But it’s past time to try again.
Determinedly, she pinned a sheet of paper to her easel and chose a pencil. She’d always drawn Susannah, and her daughter’s face and form were clear in her mind’s eye.
Two hours later, she’d just crumpled up the fifth attempt and tossed it into the overflowing wastebasket, when the doorbell sounded.
Relieved beyond measure at the interruption, she hastily turned out the lights in the studio and went to open the front door.
“Hi, Clover. Come on in, Norah.”
“Hi.” Norah collapsed a red umbrella and shook the raindrops free before she stepped inside.
“It was too wet for Stanley Park, so we’re home a bit early. I stopped and got Clover a video.”
“How about dinner? I was just about to make something.” She was hungry, Polly realized.
“No, thanks. We had a burger and ice cream, and I should really get home."
“Oh, c’mon, stay for a cup of tea at least,” Polly pleaded. “Michael’s late, as usual, and I’d enjoy the company.”
Norah hesitated but then slipped off her raincoat. Polly took it from her, adding, “Clover, please take those shoes off before you walk on the rug. They’re all muddy.”
Clover plopped down and did as she was told, then asked, “Can I watch my movie?”
“Sure, go ahead. Do you know how to program the television?”
“Doctor showed me.” She ran to turn on the television, and Polly led the way into the kitchen.
“I drove past Mom’s house again and there’s still nobody there.” Norah stood by a stool at the island, but she didn’t sit. “It’s been twenty-four hours now, and I’m really concerned, Polly. I think we should call the police.”
Polly was exasperated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Norah. We’ll just end up looking really stupid when they find out she’s been on some marathon senior-sex binge at her boyfriend’s place.”
“Why does it bother you so much to think that someone finds Mom attractive?” Norah’s usually moderate voice was shrill and accusatory. “You act as if you’re the only one who deserves a sex life, the only one who should have a man who cares about you.”
Polly set down the teapot with a thump and stared at her sister, astonished. “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you mad at me about all of a sudden? I didn’t murder Mom and hide her body in the cellar, for gosh sakes.”
“Sometimes I think that if you could get away with it you would, you hate her so much.” There wasn’t a trace of humor in Norah’s tone. “You don’t seem to realize that I’m really worried about her. You never consider anybody’s feelings but your own, Polly. You’re so much like Mom I can’t believe it.”
Polly’s mouth dropped open. “Me, like Mom? You’ve got to be kidding.” She was angry now, her voice as loud as Norah’s. “That’s a rotten, unfair thing to say. Why would you accuse me of being like her?”
Norah’s voice was out of control. “Because it’s the truth, Polly. You always talk about how she flirts. Well, take a look at yourself. You do the same. You go on about her having to be the center of attention. Well, you can’t bear it if everyone isn’t dancing attendance on you. Today, at the hospital, for instance—” Norah stopped abruptly. Her face turned magenta. It was obvious she’d said more than she’d intended.
Suddenly, Polly understood. “You’re jealous, Norah. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You...you’re in love with Jerome, and you actually think there’s something between me and him.”
Norah couldn’t meet Polly’s eyes. “I don’t think you’re having an affair, if that’s what you mean. I know Jerome, and I respect him. I don’t believe he’d do something like that.”
“And you think I would?” Polly was incredulous and deeply hurt.
Norah’s shoulders slumped and she plopped onto a stool. “No, I don’t really think that. I know you love Michael. But you don’t always act like it Polly. You flirted with Jerome the whole time you were painting Mom’s house, you know you did. In fact, you’ve flirted with every man I’ve ever been interested in. And you force them to compare us. Naturally, I come off second best. I always have. I’ve always been your homely little sister. Well, the fact is, you’ve never grown up, Polly. You don’t act like a responsible adult. You were Daddy’s little girl, and then Michael took over spoiling you. He’s given you everything he has to give, and sometimes I don’t think you even appreciate it.”
Norah’s voice
was quiet now, and icy cold. “You’re spoiled, Polly, and you’re self-centered. You always have been. You have no idea what it’s like to be really alone, to be responsible for yourself, to have to pay your own bills and be alone in the night. I know you lost Susannah. I know that’s the worst loss anyone could have. But we all lost her, and you even shut us out when we tried to share that grief.”
“Share?” Polly’s voice, too, was out of control. “You didn’t try to share. You disappeared after Susannah’s funeral, just when I needed you most.”
Norah looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Polly.” She stumbled to her feet. “I’m going home. I’ve already said too much.”
Speechless and numb with shock and hurt, Polly couldn’t move. She heard the front door open and close behind her sister.
Long, silent moments crept by until at last, with trembling hands, Polly poured a cup of tea and sank onto a stool. Norah’s accusations rang in her ears, even though she assured herself that none was true. They were affecting her so much simply because Norah had never done this before, never lost her temper, never said things she couldn’t possibly mean. She’d probably phone any minute now and apologize.
But an hour passed and the phone was silent. Michael came home, and like an automaton, Polly made supper while he put Clover to bed. It was a routine they’d fallen into. As usual, Clover had obviously been waiting for him. The moment she heard him open the front door, she came running to greet him, full of stories about her afternoon with Norah and the video she was watching. The sense of aloneness that had plagued Polly all day grew deeper and more painful.
When he came downstairs again, he seemed distracted, and barely responded to her remarks about the weather. Polly, too, fell silent, the memory of the quarrel with Norah haunting her.
They ate a simple meal of soup and sandwiches at the kitchen counter, and she longed to tell Michael what had occurred, but each time she opened her mouth to begin, fear stopped her.
What if Michael thought she was all the things Norah had claimed? He’d never say so. She knew he’d never hurt her like that, but she knew him so well she’d be able to tell by his expression whether or not he agreed. And if he did, she didn’t think she could stand it.
Norah’s words were going ’round and ’round in her head as she stowed the dishes in the dishwasher, and she was barely paying attention when Michael suddenly said, “Polly, we have to sell this house right away. I spoke to a real estate agent this afternoon. He’ll be coming by tomorrow to evaluate and suggest a selling price.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Polly, bent over the dishwasher, straightened and turned to him, certain she’d misunderstood. But the somber expression on Michael’s face filled her with anxiety. A plate slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile floor. She ignored it and so did he.
“I’m sorry, Polly.”
He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded formal, distant, as though he wasn’t talking about their home, their life.
“The bank won’t loan us any more money, and I can’t meet the mortgage payments much longer. I’ve been juggling, paying only what’s absolutely essential, doing my level best to get us out of this mess, but I can’t.” His voice remained even. “I’ve known for the past week this was coming. Berina called me this afternoon. He convinced me the only answer is to sell this house, pay off our debts and find somewhere much less expensive to live. Upkeep and taxes here are way more than we can afford now.”
Polly couldn’t speak. She looked around her kitchen, at the gleaming pots and pans dangling from their hooks above the island, at the framed selections of Susannah’s art that hung near the ceiling in a frieze around the room. Into her mind came images of the pool, where she loved to swim; the birdhouse she and Susannah had built; the swing Michael had hung from the maple tree. And, oh, God, her daughter’s room, filled with the only essence of Susannah she had left.
His words slowly penetrated. “You...you’ve known about this for a week? And you...you didn’t say anything to me?” That showed as nothing else could have how far apart they’d grown.
“I should have, I know.” Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve been trying to think of a way out of this, a way to protect you.”
“Protect me?” The words spilled out. “I don’t want to be protected, I want to know what’s going on. Husbands and wives talk to each other. We used to talk. It was you who stopped, not me. You...you have no right to, to...shield me as if I were unfit, to keep such important things from me.
You’ve never grown up, Polly. You don’t act like a responsible adult. Michael took over spoiling you.
Norah’s words rushed to her mind, burning like acid, and with them the awful suspicion that maybe Norah was right. Maybe Michael felt he had to protect her because she hadn’t matured. That thought scared her, and with fear came unreasonable anger and blame.
“How can you calmly tell me that we have to sell this house? This was Susannah’s home. How can I move away from here, from all that’s left of her?” Even as the words poured out, Polly knew they were unfair, but she was past the point of caring. All she could do now was feel, and what she felt was anguish. Her already precarious world was collapsing all around her.
“She’s gone,” Michael’s voice was suddenly hard and cold. “Susannah’s dead, Polly. Nothing either of us can do will bring her back. When are you going to get that through your head? Keeping her room the same, having her pictures up on the wall, talking about her all the goddamn time— none of it, nothing, will bring our daughter back. Why the hell can’t you just accept that and let go?”
She gasped. His heartless words were like arrows in her chest. "How-how-can you say such things, Michael? How can you talk in that tone of voice about our daughter? I thought you loved me. I thought you loved Susannah.”
With that, at last his control snapped. He brought both fists down on the counter with such a crash that Polly jumped, dropping the plate she was about to put in the dishwasher. It shattered on the floor. His dark eyes blazed.
“Love you? Goddamn it, I’d die for you if I had to. I’d have died for Susannah if it would have saved her. But I couldn’t do it, Polly. I’m a doctor, but I couldn’t save my own daughter.” His voice reverberated through the room; his face was contorted. “I can’t save this house for you, either. The money’s gone, Polly, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about that.”
She should have recognized the anguish beneath his words, but her own hurt was too deep.
“Money? This isn’t about money, Michael.”
“Then what the hell is it about?” His anger was terrible because it was so unfamiliar to her.
“It’s...it’s about us. It’s about our marriage,” she stammered. “Our marriage is falling apart, but you don’t notice. You go off to work every time I try to talk to you. You won’t discuss Susannah, You won’t remember her with me. And I need you to do that. You’re the only one who knew her the way I did.” She sucked in a sobbing breath. “You’ve deserted me, Michael, in every sense.”
He stared at her, his eyes hard. “I’m a doctor, Polly. I have an office, patients to see.” His voice was quieter, but it held a hard, warning note. “My job is to provide care to them, and that doesn’t stop because eight hours have gone by. You know that. You knew when you married me that I didn’t have a regular nine-to-five job.”
“Sure I knew. And I never complained when Susannah was alive, because I knew you wanted to be home with us even when you couldn’t be.” She realized she should stop, but she no longer cared what she said. “Then after she died it dawned on me that you were using your job as an excuse to avoid coming home, to avoid being with me. It wasn’t until Clover came here that it got really clear.” Her tone was nasty. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How you can find time to get home early now that she’s here?” She heard herself and was appalled, but she still went on. “I’m the only one you’re trying to avoid, Michael. Why don’t you just admit it?”
He was glaring at her. “If we’re being honest, Polly, then you should take a hard look at the way you feel about that little girl. The reason I’ve been racing home every afternoon is that it’s patently obvious you don’t like her, and Clover knows it That resentment doesn’t exactly make the best environment for a child.”
“I’m as kind to her as I can be.” His words filled her with guilt. “I told Jerome I’d take care of her, and I’m doing it as best I can. She’s not an easy kid, you said so yourself.”
“She’s a child, Polly.”
“Doctor?”
Clover stood in the kitchen doorway, her rabbit stuffed under her arm. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and Polly felt sick, wondering how much she’d heard, how much she understood.
“My tummy hurts,” she said in a quivery voice.
“Does it?” Michael picked her up and she burrowed her head into his shoulder. “Let’s get you back in bed and see if a story helps.” His voice was infinitely gentle now, and he headed for the stairs, murmuring comfort to Clover.
Polly felt as if she couldn’t breathe. In a daze, she got the broom and swept up the broken crockery, then loaded the rest of the dishes. Michael didn’t come back downstairs.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Distraught, Polly pulled on a jacket and went into the backyard.
The pool was still empty; she’d decided not to fill it until after Clover left. It was hard enough to keep an eye on her without worrying about the danger of the swimming pool.
Polly walked around it and made her way to the iron table and chairs on the cement patio. She and her family had had such fun here. Vancouver had enjoyed unprecedented good weather the summer the pool was installed, and she and Susannah had spent most of every day out here, joined by Michael in the evenings. Her family had seemed so secure back then.
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