Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  Gemma came in a few minutes later while I was taking inventory of our supply of pasta. It’s amazing how much pasta Gemma can eat in any one sitting. Luckily, pasta is cheap.

  “Did you have a good time with Ellen?” I asked.

  “It was okay,” she said.

  “Where did you go for lunch?”

  “That place M.C. again.”

  I’d been to M.C. Perkins Cove once with David. He’d treated me to dinner for my thirty-eighth birthday. We had a lovely time, and the restaurant has a special place in my heart because of that. Now I wondered if I would always associate it instead with Ellen Burns-Cassidy.

  Stop being a drama queen, I told myself.

  “What did Mrs. Pascoe have to say for herself?” I asked.

  “She was telling me about her garden.”

  “She’s got quite the green thumb. She’s taught me a few lessons over the years. I never could have managed the one rosebush I have managed without her words of wisdom.”

  “Hmm.”

  I looked carefully at my daughter. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked. She looked tense or troubled. Or maybe something she’d eaten at lunch wasn’t sitting well. I remembered there was a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in the bathroom cabinet.

  “Verity?” she said. “We need to talk.”

  Four of the most fear-inducing words in the English language, at least when strung together in that order. “Okay,” I said, closing the cupboard I’d been investigating. “What about?”

  “About the fact that Ellen and Richard want me to go and live with them.”

  My stomach sank, and I sank with it into a chair.

  Chapter 86

  When I got past the first rush of anger over the fact that Ellen had gone behind my back—yes, that’s exactly what she’d done!—and made such a totally outrageous offer to my daughter, I found my voice.

  “What do you mean, live with them?” I asked. I thought: If they want to formally adopt her, I’ll kill them.

  “Just that.” Gemma sat at the table with me. “They want me to live with them and go to some private school. Ellen says they’ll pay for everything, tuition and all. And that they’ll give me an allowance.”

  I placed my hands squarely on the table. It took every ounce of my willpower to remain at least outwardly calm, like the rational adult I’m supposed to be.

  “How do you feel about the idea?” I asked. “I mean, in general.”

  Gemma shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s so . . . it’s so out of the blue. I mean, they hardly know me, and they want me to move in with them? At first I thought it was some sick joke.”

  “But does the idea appeal to you?” I pressed, maybe unfairly.

  “I guess,” she said. “A little. I mean, she said we’d go to Paris on spring break.”

  Since when, I thought, has Gemma wanted to go to Paris? And if she has been dreaming about it, why hasn’t she told me?

  “But you just got here,” I blurted. It was a stupid thing to say—my control slipped—but better than what I really wanted to say, which was: Don’t leave me! Please, I’ll do anything; just don’t leave me!

  Gemma ignored my brief outburst. “The school has a website,” she said. “Maybe I should just look at it.”

  “All right. I’ll get the laptop. It’s on the coffee table in the living room.”

  I got up from my seat—yes, my legs held, but I hadn’t been entirely sure they would—and retrieved the laptop.

  “It’s called Greyson Academy,” Gemma said when I handed it to her. “Here, this is it.”

  My heart sank along with my stomach as we viewed images of stately redbrick buildings and well-maintained lawns dotted with massive oaks and firs. The website informed us that the majority of graduates went on to Ivy League colleges and from there, on to graduate studies in law, the sciences, medicine, and academics. There was a strong alumni organization; its current president was a prominent attorney (I recognized his name) and had held public office. There was a swimming pool and tennis courts on campus, as well as a state-of-the-art library that claimed to rival that of many a college. There was, if you can believe it, an observatory.

  And then there were the pictures of the students. Some were posed; others were candid. Students in theater productions (the sets, what I could see of them, were astounding); students at city hall, receiving awards for community service; students in formal wear (no tacky prom dresses here); students in graduates’ caps and gowns; students in athletic gear, lacrosse and soccer and—good Lord—riding habits; students competing in debates with kids from other schools.

  Students in uniform.

  “You have to wear a uniform,” Gemma stated flatly.

  “So it seems.”

  “I’ve never worn a uniform. I mean, I’ve never even been in Girl Scouts.”

  “I was in Girl Scouts for a few years,” I said. “I hated wearing the uniform.” Had I really hated wearing it? I don’t think I had cared one way or the other. But I know why I’d said what I’d said.

  Suddenly Gemma closed the laptop.

  “You know,” she said, “I haven’t told Alan about Ellen and Richard.”

  “Why not?” I asked, surprised at this bit of information.

  “Just because. Because I don’t think it matters.”

  “All right,” I said. And I wondered if it didn’t matter because Ellen and Richard mean so little to her. If only I could be sure of that!

  “You . . . Never mind.”

  “No, what?” I asked.

  Gemma looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “When I’m on the phone with Alan, do you ever want to say anything to him?”

  Lately Gemma has taken to calling her father by his first name, not Dad. Not all the time, but often enough. “No,” I said. “There’s nothing for me to say at this point.”

  Gemma looked up again and half laughed. “I think there’s a lot you could say! Like, What the hell were you thinking? Like, I hate you.”

  “But what would be the point? I doubt he could adequately explain his behavior. And I’m pretty sure he hates me and assumes that the feeling is mutual so . . . Though I don’t hate him now. Not anymore.”

  “You feel pity for him.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s a little bit easier to handle than hate.”

  “I guess. Look,” she said, “we don’t have to talk more about Ellen’s offer right away, do we?”

  “No,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about it at all.” I hesitated and then I said, “We can ignore it.”

  Gemma half smiled and got up from the table. “I’ll be in my room,” she said.

  First things first, I thought, when I’d heard her bedroom door close behind her. I have to have a little talk with Ellen Burns-Cassidy.

  Chapter 87

  I asked Ellen to meet me at a place where I knew I would feel comfortable—and Ellen, not so much. The home-turf advantage, I guess. I was pretty certain Ellen had never been to Joe’s Diner in neighboring Wells and, after our meeting, would never go there again. The mugs are heavy and chipped. The coffee is strong enough to rot the lining of your stomach if you dare to have a second cup. The food is nine-tenths grease. Once a year David and I go to Joe’s for a breakfast with the works, from eggs to home fries to sausage to pancakes. We’d go more often if our constitutions could handle it.

  I got to Joe’s a little before the time we’d agreed to meet. Another small psychological advantage I think I can be excused. I sat in the booth David and I like best, again with the intention of reminding myself I was in a position of power, that I was the person with rights to my daughter.

  Ellen arrived exactly at eleven and spotted me immediately. She was wearing much the same outfit as she had been at the party, on the occasion of our first encounter. I don’t know what I expected her attitude to be—belligerent and bullying? Lofty and superior?—but it wasn’t the ultrasincere, almost subdued woman she presented.

  “Verity,” she said as she s
lid into the booth. “I’m so glad you suggested we meet.”

  Really? I thought. Does she think this is going to be a comfy little chat? Hadn’t she heard what I’d said to her on the phone? That I was furious about her presumption regarding Gemma and that we needed to get some things settled? Hardly words of welcome.

  The waitress appeared, and I ordered a coffee. Ellen ordered a glass of iced tea. She offered no reaction to the surroundings, though I’d half expected her to shudder in contempt at the cracked Formica table or frown at the badly executed prints of forests and shoreline.

  When our drinks arrived, I finally spoke. If my silence had made Ellen uncomfortable, she wasn’t showing it.

  “You had no right to talk to Gemma about your . . . about your plans for her before coming to me first. I’m her mother. I’m her legal guardian. Not you.”

  Ellen looked me square in the eye. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’m sorry, Verity. Really, I am. I guess Richard and I are so jazzed about the idea of having Gemma go to Greyson, I just couldn’t hold my tongue. I’m afraid I’m a woman of impulse.”

  I thought: And will this offer turn out to be a bad impulse? Will Ellen and Richard withdraw the offer as unexpectedly as it had been made? What will Gemma feel then? Lady Bountiful changes her mind, and the poor are trodden into the mud. It’s an old story.

  “Yes, well,” I said, “in the future, if you have something important to say to my daughter, come to me first.”

  “Of course. So, what do you think of our offer? I know it must seem overwhelming—”

  “To say the least. Why? Why are you doing this?” I wanted to say: What’s your real motive? What’s in this for you? But that seemed too aggressive.

  Ellen lifted her slim shoulders in a genteel shrug. “Because we’re family. Family looks out for family.”

  I laughed. “Really?”

  “Yes. And Richard and I really want to make up for not having been part of Gemma’s life before now.”

  “You didn’t seem to care about her when she was born,” I pointed out. “Or, for that matter, when Alan abducted her.”

  Ellen replied smoothly, again refusing to be riled. “You’re absolutely right, Verity,” she said. “We didn’t know what we had. You know that old expression, ‘You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone’? That’s how we feel now.”

  It didn’t quite make sense—Ellen and Richard had never had Gemma in the first place—but I wasn’t there to argue the finer points. Before I could reply, Ellen went on.

  “And Gemma really should have two adult figures in her life,” she said. “A male and a female figure in the home. That’s always best, no matter what anyone says otherwise.”

  “I think that’s debatable,” I said coldly. What a self-righteous, unimaginative prig, I thought.

  Ellen sighed and leaned forward slightly, a gesture of pretended intimacy. “Richard and I couldn’t have children of our own, you know. God knows, we tried. And neither of us ever wanted to adopt. It’s such a risk. You can never know what you’ll be getting, and you certainly can’t return them if they’re damaged or if they don’t quite suit.”

  I swallowed the revulsion those final words had caused in me. “And?” I demanded. Did she think Gemma could be her child? Did she want to adopt her, a person who might turn out to be damaged goods? I was about to open my mouth and say something I’d regret, like, Well, you can’t have my daughter, you freak show! when Ellen, still leaning toward me, went on.

  “I know that you of all people, Verity, don’t want to stand in the way of an opportunity for your daughter to get the sort of fine education she deserves. Gemma is smart, you can see that, can’t you? She needs the stimulation of a really good education. She needs the attention of teachers who consistently win awards for excellence in their fields of academic study. She needs quality guidance and direction. Gemma’s never had music lessons. That has to be rectified. We have a very good piano at home. And Richard and I can offer her travel. We can introduce her to different cultures and new experiences.”

  Cultures I can’t afford to show her, I thought. And what’s wrong with new experiences right here in Maine? There was an entire beautiful state to explore. But I said nothing.

  Ellen continued in the more confidential, intimate tone. “I know you think about her future and that you worry about it,” she said. “Any good mother would. I know you’ll do the right thing by your daughter.”

  I’ll say it right now. Ellen was actually succeeding in making me feel guilty. Bullied, even.

  But she had a point under all that snobbery and prejudice and presumption. I thought about those happy, healthy kids Gemma and I had seen on the Greyson Academy website. All the chances for success they’d been given. All the care and concern showed to them. So many people looking out for them, people who held a place of importance in the world, people who could hold out a hand and lead them into the future. What can I give Gemma that can equal all that?

  “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this,” Ellen said, breaking into my thoughts.

  I didn’t promise. But I didn’t refuse, either.

  Ellen looked at her watch. Cartier. “Look at the time,” she said, extracting her wallet from her bag and placing a ten-dollar bill on the table between us. “I’ll be late for my hair appointment. I’m so glad we had this chance to talk, Verity. I’ll be in touch.”

  And then she slid out of the booth and was gone.

  Ten dollars for a cup of coffee and a glass of iced tea? Well, to be fair, maybe she didn’t have a smaller bill. Or maybe she really was completely out of touch with the price of food and drink in a diner. Either way, I hadn’t wanted her to pay for me.

  Was this how Gemma felt when she was out with Ellen, patronized? No, I thought. Gemma would never stand for such a thing. But Ellen was cunning.

  I sat at the table for a while, stewing. I contemplated ordering a muffin with Ellen’s money—well, I wasn’t going to return her change, and I wasn’t going to take it with me!—and then rejected the idea as stupid. I left the diner, feeling I’d accomplished absolutely none of what I’d set out to accomplish. And what is that? I wondered. Had I intended—at least, had I hoped—to send Ellen and Richard packing? How, exactly? By asking for their pity? By begging them to leave my daughter and me alone?

  I know you’ll do the right thing by your daughter.

  What is the right thing? Force her to go away, to grab what might be an excellent opportunity that will help ensure a successful future? Force her to stay with me just because I want her to? Or let her make the monumental decision on her own?

  Chapter 88

  Yet another unsatisfactory call from my father. That’s a nice way of saying I wanted to strangle him, and if I could have managed that long-distance, I would have. I swear.

  This time he went on about how in the past week he’d noticed that “everyone” was giving him “odd” looks. “It’s like they know something about me, about something bad that’s going to happen to me,” he said in a breathless whisper, probably so that the guard couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Like someone’s planning to get me.”

  It was all sufficiently vague not to worry me. I mean, no one had laid a finger on him—I asked. And no one had said anything to him—I asked about that, too. In the end, I don’t know why I’d wasted my time trying to find some sense in his tale of persecution. In his tale of suspected, imagined persecution.

  I wonder if Alan is genuinely paranoid, I mean, certifiably so. Maybe he’s always been paranoid. Maybe that partly explains why he took me in the first place, if he thought that the reason Verity had left was because she was out to persecute him. Whatever. Anyway, I didn’t tell him what Marion had told me about his father and his own bad behavior. What would be the point? He’d deny everything or blame it all on someone else. And I didn’t tell him about Ellen and Richard’s offer of a free education. Since he doesn’t even know that his cousin is currently in my life, why
would I? Again, he’d only take the information and twist it to fit his own weird psychological needs. He’d say Ellen was only showing an interest in me to one-up him, to hurt him.

  And maybe he’d be right, that one time. I just don’t know.

  I’ve been thinking. None of those kids on the Greyson Academy’s website look anything like me. What I mean is, Cathy and Hildy and Becca and Melissa would fit in far more easily than I would, with all their accomplishments and hobbies and, I’m guessing, good grades. I stick out enough here, or I think I do. In a school like that, I’d be notorious in about a second. From the minute I opened my mouth, everyone would know I didn’t belong in that world. And if the truth about Alan and my past ever came out, which it probably would, I might be ostracized or bullied or worse, pitied. Why would I want to put myself through that when it’s been hard enough fitting in here, where at least I’ve got Verity in my corner? And the Strawberries, too, I guess. Maybe even David and Marion.

  I’ve always thought I was smart. What if I get to Greyson and find out I’m stupid? What if I can’t hack getting good grades in a good school?

  But there would be a car and an allowance, and I’d get to travel.

  But maybe not if I flunk out. Maybe then Ellen and Richard would send me home, and I wouldn’t get to see Paris.

  Am I totally shallow after all?

  I don’t know why exactly I felt like visiting Cathy’s house—maybe I should say I felt like seeing Cathy—but I did, so I got on my bike (not the one Ellen had bought for me; that’s in the garage, and I’m thinking maybe I could donate it to Goodwill or something, as long as Ellen doesn’t find out, not that I’m afraid of her) and cycled off to Maple Street. I found Cathy watering the flowerbed along the side of the house with a long green hose.

  “Hey,” I said, after I’d propped my bike against one of the white birch trees in their yard. As I did, I noticed how interesting the bark was and thought I’d like to try to draw that sometime and get right all the subtle colors as well as the lines and textures.