Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  In retrospect, of course, I realized my attitude had been immature. Every human being knows grief; it comes to us all in time, and most human beings have a healthy degree of empathy, too, so that they can feel another’s pain to some degree, even if they haven’t suffered the same wrongs. And in my more rational moments, I can readily admit that you really shouldn’t try to quantify grief. To some, losing a friend is as devastating as losing a child; to some, losing a beloved pet qualifies as the worst pain they’ve ever had to endure. You have to have respect for the grief of others. At least, you should try to. Sometimes, that’s not an easy thing.

  I decided I needed to see David. I needed someone to hug me, to reassure me that things would be all right. To lie to me if necessary, tell me things were going to be all right.

  Fighting down the guilty feeling that I was abandoning my daughter, I told Gemma I was going out on an errand.

  “I’ll be back within the hour,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask where it was I was going.

  And she said: “Whatever.”

  Chapter 45

  Cathy decided to show up at the house again. Dad hated when people would do that, just ring our bell or knock on the door, though not many people ever did. He would jump like a scalded cat (that’s a gross expression—sorry I used it) and shoot me a look of fear or suspicion. It used to make me laugh sometimes. Now I know what he was expecting.

  “You’re here,” I said, meaning to be ironic or dry or something, but Cathy just smiled and said, “Yup.”

  We went out to the deck, and I flopped down on my lounge. I thought that maybe I should ask her if she wanted something to drink—it was pretty hot—but then I thought, if she wants something, she could get it herself. I’m not a servant.

  “So, what’s going on?” she asked, leaning against the deck’s wooden railing.

  “Nothing.”

  Cathy Strawberry was undeterred. “My mom told me you checked out the high school.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll like it there.”

  I frowned. “You can’t possibly know that.”

  Cathy shrugged. “Well, no, but what I mean is that it’s a good school. We’ve got a no tolerance for bullying policy, and we’ve gone two entire years without one incident. I think that’s pretty impressive.”

  I shrugged. I’m not worried about bullying. I’m worried about being stared at or worse, treated specially. The Little Kidnapped Girl.

  “You’re blocking my view,” I said.

  “Oh.” Cathy left the railing and sat in the other lounge. “Sorry.” And then she sighed.

  “What?” I asked, against my better judgment.

  “It’s nothing, really. Except that my father’s being totally unreasonable about this trip to Boston I want to go on. It would be me and one of my friends and her cousin. Anyway, Hildy’s cousin is eighteen and she’d be driving, and the plan is to go to a concert—you know the band Lash Out?—and stay overnight in a motel and come back the next day.”

  “And?” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that my father won’t let me go. He says I’m too young and that Sheila—that’s Hildy’s cousin—is also too young to be ‘in charge’ of two fifteen-year-olds. Can you believe it? I mean, I’m a totally responsible person, and the concert tickets are only eighty dollars. We’d split the cost of the motel bill three ways, so that wouldn’t cost too much. Anyway, he’s being totally stubborn about it and—”

  I kind of lost it then. “God,” I said angrily, “you have no idea how good you have it, do you? I can’t believe you’re complaining about not going on some stupid road trip. At least you have a father at home to give a crap. My father’s in jail right now, remember? Prison. And he’s probably not going to get out anytime soon.”

  “He’s in prison,” Cathy replied blandly, unfazed by my outburst, “because he broke the law.”

  “He’s in prison because he got caught.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew how ridiculous my “argument” was. “Anyway,” I added quickly, “it still stinks.”

  But Cathy was having none of it. I have to say she’s tougher than she looks. “He had to have known the risk he was taking when he stole that car,” she said, “especially after what he did to you and your mom. I can’t feel sorry for him; I just can’t. But I do feel sorry for you.”

  And then it happened, that all too familiar surge of pure anger. “You’re a self-righteous little bitch!” I cried. “I don’t need your pity!”

  Cathy, still unmoved or pretending to be, just sighed. “Then what do you need? What do you want? It’s exhausting being around you sometimes, Marni.”

  “Nobody’s forcing you to stick around,” I snapped.

  “You’re right. I’m going home.”

  I wasn’t sorry to see her go. She had probably only come over because Verity asked her to. It’s no secret Verity is very concerned with making me feel welcome here in Yorktide, and that means begging her friends to pretend to have an interest in me. And what makes Verity think I have any interest in them?

  I know I can be combustible. That’s a more acceptable way of saying I can be an ass. Where my father would sulk and act in a passive-aggressive way (hey, I love the man, but over time my eyes opened), where he would wheedle and whine, I would fling harsh words, slam doors, storm off. People are never left in any doubt as to my feelings. This is partly a good and partly a bad thing. You could say I’m an honest person, if brutally so. And you could also say I should grow up and learn some self-control. Both opinions would be justified. It’s just that since my father’s arrest, I’ve been having a really, really hard time keeping my temper in check and considering anybody’s feelings but my own. Justifiable, I think. At least, understandable. But not always fun for the people around me. Problem is, I don’t much care.

  Still, thinking about it now, I don’t feel I was entirely justified in lashing out at Cathy. No one chooses the people they grow up with. No one chooses to be born, for that matter. It’s just an accident of luck—good luck or rotten luck—that you get the parents or the guardians you get. If you get any at all. Cathy doesn’t deserve to be punished just because she lucked out with two totally normal, average, mildly annoying, kind of boring parents.

  When Verity came home from her studio around five o’clock, she asked if I’d spent time with Cathy today. Of course she had probably arranged our little get-together, so she knew we would have seen each other, and now I wondered if Cathy had gone home and told her mother about our fight and if Annie had called Verity to complain about my behavior. The less said, I figured, the better.

  “Yeah,” I said. “She came over for a while.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “It was okay. We don’t have a lot in common.”

  Verity sighed and I thought, Wow, she looks genuinely sad about that, like it’s somehow her fault Cathy’s from Venus and I’m from Mars. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s stupid to assume that just because two people are the same sex and the same age, they’re going to enjoy each other’s company. I think that’s only a guarantee with toddlers.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Maybe Cathy hadn’t complained about me. Maybe she had and Verity didn’t think my bad attitude was a big deal. “It’s all right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Still, I wish I knew someone—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I repeated. “I can find my own friends.” If I want to, I added silently. And I’m not sure I do.

  Chapter 46

  Gemma and I were in downtown Yorktide this afternoon. With more tourists than locals on the sidewalks now, we can enjoy at least a degree of anonymity. We were only greeted once, and that by Matilda Gascoyne, outside the bakery. Somewhere in her sixties, Matilda was dressed as she always is, in a pair of jeans, T-shirt, plaid shirt worn over it with the sleeves rolled up, her long gray hair in a braid down her back.

  “Verity,” she said, “hell
o.”

  “Matilda, how are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” she said with a brisk shake of her head. “Busy as usual now summer’s here and the tourists are so kindly bringing their money to spend at the restaurant.”

  Then I introduced Matilda to my daughter, though of course Matilda knew who she was.

  “It’s so good to see you here, Gemma,” she said, with not a trace of sickly sweet sympathy in her voice. The Gascoynes don’t do sickly sweet anything. “I do hope you’re adjusting to life in Yorktide. Things might seem a little dull at the moment, but just wait until the Fourth of July. Then the place will be hopping!”

  Gemma managed a smile that seemed genuine enough.

  “Well, must be off. Al’s short staffed at the restaurant today, so I’m lending a hand.”

  When she was out of earshot, Gemma said: “She was okay. Not like that other one.”

  “Matilda Gascoyne is lovely. She’s from one of the old families in town. Five, six generations of the Gascoynes have lived here, and I suspect they will until the end of time.”

  “What was that about a restaurant?” Gemma asked.

  “She and her husband own The Friendly Lobsterman, as well as a fish market. One of their sons also has a lobster boat. And like a lot of families around here with a good deal of land, they grow most of their own vegetables and keep some chickens for the eggs.”

  “So they’re farmers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they rich?”

  “Interesting question,” I said. “I suspect they struggle as we all do. But I’d say they live a very good life.” I wondered if Gemma understood what I meant by that. I didn’t want to insult her by asking.

  We got into the car, and when we’d driven only a few yards, Gemma asked: “How did it happen? I mean, where were you when Dad took me?”

  The question had come out of the blue—well, for me it had. Clearly, something had turned Gemma’s mind to the past that is never gone and haunts us both.

  “I was at work,” I said, eyes on the road. “You were at home with Barbara. She was the colleague you and I were living with at the time, just until I could find an affordable place on my own. She went out back to hang some laundry on the line. She was only gone a few minutes and when she got back, your crib was empty. She called me immediately.”

  “Where’s she now?” Gemma asked.

  “She moved away not long after that. She was devastated by it all, the police questioning her, the publicity. She felt guilty. She felt scared, too, in retrospect. She kept thinking about what Alan might have done to her if she’d caught him in the act. In the end, she just couldn’t take living here any longer.”

  “Does she know I’m back?”

  “Yes. She sent me an e-mail. Needless to say, she’s thrilled. And she apologized for having abandoned me after the kidnapping. That was her word, abandoned, but really, all she was doing was saving her own sanity. See, shortly after you went missing, she asked me to move out. My being in her house was driving her mad. I went back for a while to the apartment I’d shared with Alan on Front Street. But not for long.”

  “Would she come back, do you think, now that it’s all over?”

  “No. She’s not ever coming back to Yorktide. She’s made a life elsewhere.”

  “Why didn’t you ever leave?” Gemma asked.

  I shook my head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I guess I thought it would be easier for you to find me if I stayed put. And over time I made a life for myself here, against all odds. Now I don’t want to leave.”

  “Did Dad have any friends here?”

  That was another unexpected question.

  “Not really,” I said. “There was one guy, Rob. They’d known each other in high school, I think.” What I didn’t say was that Rob was one of those people who couldn’t hold a job for more than a few weeks without getting fired for stealing from petty cash or forgetting to show up at all.

  “Did he know Dad was going to leave town with me?”

  “He swore not. He thought—”

  “What?”

  “He thought that what Alan did was wrong. He was angry with Alan. And he did offer to do what he could for me.” But what with being an alcoholic, that wasn’t ever going to be much.

  “Is he still around? Do you see him?”

  “He died in a drunk-driving accident years ago. Sad to say, his death didn’t come as a big surprise to anyone who knew him. He was always reckless.”

  Gemma grunted. “I wonder why he was friends with Dad then,” she said. “He’s the most cautious person I’ve ever known. He won’t cross a street on the green light without looking both ways, like, three times.”

  Cautious, I thought, or obsessive. But I said nothing.

  “Not that he’ll be crossing any streets for a while.”

  I glanced at Gemma, and she gave me a half smile. “Well,” she said, “he won’t, will he?”

  Chapter 47

  I’d known about Annie and Marc’s twentieth-anniversary party for months, but it seemed that suddenly it was upon us and I realized Gemma had nothing decent to wear to it. So we went shopping. It was a fairly hellish experience. She has no interest in style whatsoever, and while style doesn’t matter all that much to those of us who live in snow boots and mufflers for six months a year, I wanted my daughter to look presentable. I wanted the other people at the party—all locals, from what I had gathered—to look at her and think, She’s doing well. As if clothing ever really tells the truth about a person’s emotional well-being. Clothing is so often a convenient form of disguise.

  But it was all about my vanity. A mother’s vanity.

  “If you feel uncomfortable,” I told Gemma on the ride to the house on Maple Street, “just let me know, and we’ll leave.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. It was one of her usual answers, one that managed to minimize if not avoid the potential magnitude of what was to come.

  The party was in full swing when we got to the house, and as soon as we entered, I thought, I don’t want to be here.

  It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, this feeling of serious discomfort. I’d never felt my difference so strongly as I did in that moment, standing just inside the front door, the absence of a husband (though that was my doing; David had made it plain that he would marry me the moment I said yes), but more than that, the fact that I’d brought a child into this world with a man not worth his weight in gravel. If I had been thinking clearly, if I had had a strong sense of self-esteem, say what you will, I would never have made such a poor choice as Alan Burns. By the time I was smart and brave enough to get out, it was too late. I’d sealed my daughter’s fate.

  Anyway, my reaction to being at the party took me by surprise. Annie and Marc are my closest friends. I should have felt glad and even honored to be part of this celebration, not focusing on my own insecurities.

  “I’m going to find the food,” Gemma said, and she went off on her own through the crowded room. I saw people notice her—nod to their companions, even discreetly point—but Gemma, if she noticed the attention, pretended not to. Then she was lost to sight.

  Annie joined me then and handed me a glass of wine. She was wearing a pair of tan dress slacks, pleated down the front, and a silk blouse. It was the most dressed up outfit I’d ever seen her wear. She has even less interest in style than my daughter seems to. I wondered if Cathy had taken her in hand, as I had taken Gemma.

  “You seem like you’re having a terrible time,” she said, looking at me keenly. “Are you?”

  “No, no, of course not!” I lied. “Just a bit of a headache. Sorry. I promise not to spoil the party.”

  “Good, because it’s costing us a pretty penny. Since when has a sheet cake cost as much as a good cut of beef?”

  “Still, twenty years is something to celebrate.”

  “I know.” Annie’s eyes scanned the crowded living room. “Where’s Gemma?”

  “I don’t know. Mingling? We
ll, that’s doubtful. Maybe she’s with Cathy.”

  “Remember, smile. Or take an aspirin.”

  Annie slid off through the crowd, and almost immediately a woman approached me, hand outstretched.

  “Amanda Kelly,” she said.

  “Verity Peterson.” I took her hand briefly. I felt as if I were being accosted by a politician on election day. She had that fixed smile and the direct eye contact that pins you in place.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know. Is your daughter here tonight?”

  “Yes. Somewhere.” And, I thought, the last thing I want to happen is for this person, whoever she is, to go chasing after her.

  But the woman stayed put. “I hope she’s adjusting all right,” she said. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be.” Then Amanda Kelly cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you a woman of faith?” she asked.

  Faith in what, I wondered. Fate? Luck? God? Really, it’s an impertinent question, isn’t it? Chances are that the person asking the question is a person of faith, and if you answer no, you’re going to hear an admonition or a sermon or possibly even an outright criticism. When I didn’t reply—because I was thinking all this—the woman went on.

  “Because if you are,” she said, with a firm nod of her head, “then your faith will see you through.”

  She went off after that—hopefully not to track down my daughter—and I was left to puzzle out the odd encounter. Who was she? I wondered. She seemed to think I’d recognize her name. An old friend of Annie’s? That didn’t seem likely. Probably the wife of one of Marc’s important clients, the kind of client he felt obliged to invite to a party like this.

  I realized I was frowning. I realized I’d finished my wine.

  I went to the drinks table to get another glass.

  Chapter 48

  I was afraid I would stick out at the Strawberries’ party—it’s bad enough, being who I am—but it turned out Verity knew what she was doing when she picked out clothes for me when we went shopping the other day. I didn’t look so different from the other girls at the party; most of them were also wearing jeans and sandals. Verity had told me the party wasn’t going to be fancy, but I was still worried. She was more dressed up than I was—most of the older women were, and a few men were wearing ties—but at least no one was wearing tuxedos or gowns.