Once is better than never.
We drove to the beach after that last call from prison. I keep an old cotton blanket in the trunk, and we spread that out on the sand and sat for a long time, just staring out at the water. And thinking about this strange place in which Gemma and I find ourselves. I know I was.
I wondered if Ellen and Richard had spent a good deal of time at Gemma’s Phony Birthday (it’s what she calls the birthday Alan gave her) celebration, selling her on their plans for her. She was pretty quiet on the subject of that dinner at Aquamarine, except to say that she likes the Gascoyne family’s restaurant better. And when Gemma came home from her spa outing with Ellen the other day, all she talked about was how the pedicure was great. And how the tiramisu was fantastic. She said nothing at all about what she and Ellen had talked about. She did ask if I knew how to make tiramisu. I told her I would find out.
Anyway, Gemma and I haven’t outright discussed Ellen and Richard’s offer in days. Some moments my heart is in my mouth, thinking she’ll accept (lured by the call of a more certain future, pedicures, and tiramisu) and how I’ll have to let her go even if I don’t want to and I don’t. I want her to stay with me. At other moments I feel certain Gemma will turn them down, not so much because she loves me (I don’t think she does, not yet), but because she sees Ellen and Richard for what they really are. Not criminals like her father, not evil, but . . . opportunistic. Attention seeking.
I don’t think Gemma takes Ellen and Richard’s offer very seriously, at least not as seriously as I do, because for her it certainly doesn’t represent a threat to anything, like it does to me. Or maybe it does represent a threat to her in some way I can’t understand. I wish she would talk to me about it, how she feels, what it might mean, her moving away. The few times I’ve suggested we hash it through, she’s said she doesn’t want to, plain and simple. I can’t force her to talk. But when she does talk, I listen.
“What do you think is going to happen to my father?” she asked, after we’d sat quietly on the sand for almost an hour, surrounded by the laughter of children, the screaming of gulls, the strains of competing pop music.
I looked over at her, my daughter. In profile, I can see Alan in her. I looked back out to the ocean.
“I think,” I said, “that he’s probably going to be in jail for a long time.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think so too.”
Chapter 94
Ellen told me she and Richard were giving a party. Another one. I wonder if when they’re back home, they give parties all the time, or if it’s only a thing they do on vacation.
It doesn’t matter.
Verity was invited to this party, and this time she told me straight out she didn’t think it was a good idea for her to be there. I can see her point. I mean, I don’t think Ellen really wants her to be at the party, and Verity must know that. Still, I bet she’ll spend every moment I’m at Ellen and Richard’s wondering what they’re saying to me about their fabulous life in Lexington, Massachusetts, and the trip to Paris they’re planning on taking next spring. A trip I’m invited on. I hope Verity won’t sit around, wondering and worrying, but she probably will.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why I went to the party. I thought about asking Ellen if I could bring a friend—Cathy; yeah, okay, I guess she’s a friend—but then I didn’t ask. Cathy’s made it clear, even if she hasn’t said it in so many words, that she thinks I’d be making a big mistake if I went to live with Ellen and Richard. She’d be polite and all with them, but I don’t think she’d be very good at keeping her opinion to herself. I decided it would be best if I went to the party alone.
Verity dropped me off at the McMansion.
“Have fun,” she said.
I kind of smiled and got out of the car.
Richard offered me a beer the minute I got up to the veranda, as if it were no big deal to offer alcohol to someone underage, and honestly, back in my old life, it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe it’s not considered a big deal in Ellen and Richard’s life back in Massachusetts. Anyway, I took it. It was some craft beer I’d never heard of, something made in Maine, Richard said. It was pretty good, and when I was done with the first bottle, I had a second.
Like the first time I’d been at the house, the guests were all adults, a lot of them way older than I am. Richard was sitting at one of the tables with three other men. It looked as if they were talking about something serious; not one of them was smiling. One guy was smoking a cigar. I hate cigars. Ellen was standing by the bar, talking with three women who all looked a lot alike. I mean, they were all blond and slim and wearing white blouses tucked into skirts that came to their knees. The skirts were different colors, at least. Bright pink, bright green, and bright yellow. I wondered if they were members of a club, like a ladies’ golf group or something. Ellen was wearing the kind of pants she always wears. All four women were drinking some pink cocktail with a piece of fruit, lime, I think, stuck on the edge of the glass. All four women had sparkly rings on their left hands.
I looked at the almost empty bottle of beer in my hand and wondered if I should get a third one and if anyone would notice or care if I did, when someone put a hand on my shoulder from behind. I was totally surprised and spun around to find this seriously good-looking guy standing there. He was built like Ryan Gosling, slim but with a lot of muscle. I thought he was probably in his twenties somewhere, maybe twenty-six or seven. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and a pair of black Converse high-tops. I love those, but they’re pretty expensive.
“Hey,” he said. “Sorry if I startled you.”
I shrugged. “No worries. I’m Gemma.”
He told me his name was Brett and that his parents were friends with Ellen and Richard and that they suggested he look them up while he was staying in Ogunquit with some friends.
“Ellen and Richard are my friends too,” he said. “I mean, I’m an only child, and I pretty much grew up around adults, so I’ve got lots of older friends.” He smiled. “It helped when I wanted to get into places I shouldn’t have been when I was underage.”
“Cool,” I said.
“So, how do you know Ellen and Richard?”
There was no way I was going to tell this guy about my crazy life, so all I said was, “Ellen’s a distant cousin.”
Brett nodded. I guess that was enough information for him. “Look,” he said, “you want to get out of here for a bit? I’ve got a room at the house me and my friends are renting for the week. Nobody here will miss us. They’ve all had at least two or three cocktails by now.”
For about thirty seconds I thought, Yeah, why not? Maybe it was the beer—I hadn’t had a drink since coming to Yorktide and the beer had made me feel a bit high and I know all about how drinking beer can lead to bad decisions—and maybe it was also the fact that I thought if I had sex with this guy for a few minutes at least I wouldn’t have to think about this huge decision hanging over my head. Sex as oblivion. It used to work, at least sometimes, like when Dad was going through one of his weird phases and driving me crazy with questioning every single thing I did or person I talked to, or like when we had to move on again because Dad had lost his job and I really didn’t want to move on because I liked where we were living. At least during sex, even if it was only for a little while, even if it was in the guy’s crappy little apartment or his parents’ damp basement, you didn’t have to think.
And honestly? I was flattered. This guy, Brett, was really, really sexy.
And then it didn’t seem like a good idea at all, going off with this guy I’d known for, like, five minutes. Not that I was scared. It wasn’t that. It was that for some reason I felt like I’d be letting Verity down if I did something so—so stupid. So without meaning.
It was weird. I never felt my conscience poke at me like that, so strongly, and never ever about sex. I mean, maybe it’s my generation or something; we grew up in such a sexualized culture that it’s, like, no big deal.
But I realized I w
anted Verity to respect me. I realized I had never cared if Dad respected me. Not really. And I didn’t care if Ellen and Richard respected me either.
Just Verity.
“Nah,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”
Brett didn’t look particularly disappointed. He just shrugged, said, “Whatever,” and walked away toward the bar. He’ll probably proposition one of the married women next, I thought. Whatever.
And I wondered what Ellen and Richard would think if they knew one of their friends had come on to me. A minor. I mean, like I said, I wasn’t scared and I can take care of myself, but . . .
Would they care?
Soon after that, I asked Ellen to drive me home.
“But the party’s still in full swing,” she said. “We haven’t even broken out the smoked salmon.”
“I know, but I’m tired. I think I’m getting a cold or something. Anyway, don’t worry. If you can’t leave, I can call Verity to come get me.”
“No, no, no,” Ellen said, already reaching for her bag. “I’ll take you.”
On the trip back to Birch Lane, Ellen went on about some committee she’s on, something about trying to prevent some organization from opening a halfway house a few miles from where they live. I think. I wasn’t really listening. I did hear this: “We don’t want those people anywhere near us. Do you know what it would do to property values?”
Mostly I was thinking. And what I was thinking was: I don’t think I’m going to take them up on it, Ellen and Richard. I don’t think I could stand living under the same roof with this woman—Richard’s not too bad—and having to eat dinner with her every night and listening to her talking about her country club or her hairdresser or her grilling me on what happened at school and if I’d finished my homework and if I felt like a success yet.
Wanting to know if I hated my father. Was hating him going to be one of the rules of the Burns-Cassidy house?
“I’m so glad you were able to come to the party,” Ellen said when she’d pulled up outside our bungalow. She seemed to have forgotten what I said about coming down with a cold. It was a lie, an excuse, but she probably should have said something like, Make sure you take some aspirin, or Eat some chicken soup.
I got out of the car. Before I could close the door, Ellen leaned over. “You probably shouldn’t tell Verity about the beer,” she said with a wink. “It’ll be our little secret.”
And, I thought, I won’t tell Verity that you had a cocktail before getting behind the wheel. Really, what had I been thinking? Oh. Right. I’d been drinking too.
When I got inside—Verity had left a note saying she was at David’s and would be home by eleven—I fired off an e-mail to Tom in response to an e-mail he had just sent me. It included a picture of him and Valerie at some wildlife park, posing in front of a fence behind which there was a male lion lounging on the ground. I told him about Ellen and Richard’s offer. I’m not sure why I did. It’s not like I thought he was going to influence my decision.
He responded almost immediately. This is the important part of what he said:
Your grandmother chose to name our daughter Verity because she always said that the truth is the most important thing of all. I don’t know how these things work, but I do know that Verity has always lived up to her name. She’s always been a truthful person, never calculating or deceitful. You could do worse than being Verity’s daughter, Gemma. Think hard before you decide about this offer from your cousin.
My first instinct was to show Verity the e-mail. I mean, who doesn’t like to hear nice things about themselves? And it’s pretty clear her father isn’t holding a grudge. Then I considered how she had been estranged from him for so long, and realized she might not be ready to believe her father meant the nice things he’d said. At least not without a lot more evidence. In a way she’s being like Alan, not trusting, suspicious.
Adults are weird. Something happens to them along the way. They get a bit—inconsistent. I hope it doesn’t happen to me, but it probably will. Why should I be special?
Anyway, I figure I can show her Tom’s e-mail some other time. After all, I’m not going anywhere in the fall.
Chapter 95
“You know those sketches you found in your studio earlier in the summer?”
“The anonymous ones,” I said. “Yes. What about them?”
Gemma shifted a bit in her seat. “Well, don’t be mad, but they’re mine. I mean, I did them.”
“What!” I put down my fork. I felt . . . I don’t know what I felt. “Of course I’m not mad, but . . . I don’t understand. You told me you hated art. Back when I first showed you my studio. You said you had no use for it.”
Gemma colored slightly. I’d never seen that before. “It was just something stupid to say. What I really meant was that I didn’t know anything about it. I still don’t.”
“But something made you pick up that pencil.”
“Yeah. It was actually kind of weird. The drawing just started—happening.”
“But why didn’t you tell me you were the artist when I talked about the sketches?” I asked.
Now I thought Gemma looked a bit sheepish. I’ll take blushing and sheepish over shrugs, whatevers, and a bland expression any day. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you to get too excited, I guess. I mean, what if I’m not any good? What if it was just luck that I was able to make those drawings?”
She hadn’t wanted to disappoint me? Was that it? “Talent doesn’t work that way, Gemma,” I told her. “Now you know that. Tell me, were you afraid I’d try to force you to study drawing?”
“No. I mean, actually, I think I’d like to learn more. I’ve been doodling—sketching—since I did those first ones at your studio.”
“Can I see what you’ve done?”
“Sure,” she said without hesitation. “Wait here and I’ll go and get them.”
While Gemma went off to her room, I wondered. Was that why Ellen’s offer of a trip to Paris had interested her? I’d seen her going through some of the art books at my studio. Clearly, she’d secretly been developing an interest in Art with a capital A. Well, then I’d take her to Paris, I decided. Someday.
You know, I’ve been worried about the fallout from Alan’s latest act of craziness. I know Gemma’s more upset than she’s letting on, she has to be, but I don’t want to force a conversation, not that I would succeed. Gemma doesn’t do what she doesn’t want to do. But telling me about the sketches seems a gesture of faith in our relationship. And then I wondered if she’d also told Ellen about the sketches. I don’t think it’s something I can ask without sounding childishly jealous, which of course I am.
Gemma came back to the kitchen with a sketchbook in her hand. I recognized it as the sort I use and wondered if she’d taken it from either of my studios. It doesn’t matter. What’s mine is hers. Page by page, she showed me her work.
“That’s really awful,” she said about a sketch of a beachfront house. “The perspective—is that right?—is off. I’ve been working on perspective.”
I turned to the next page. “That’s our pine tree,” I said. She had covered two facing pages with sketches of its branches and needles. “I see how you were trying to capture the shadows here. Tricky stuff.”
Gemma laughed. “I was so frustrated! But I think I got it sort of right eventually.”
I pointed to an image at the bottom of the right-hand page. “Here, yes, I see.”
A tree trunk battered and washed ashore on the beach. A seagull. Lots of seashells, closely studied. A few roughs of people at some distance. There was one page torn out—a few shreds of paper remained at the margin—and I wondered what had been on it.
The sketches are good. They show talent and energy.
I couldn’t help myself. My daughter is an artist, like me. I leaned toward her and put my arm around her shoulders.
She didn’t pull away.
Chapter 96
Alan missed his scheduled call this morning. I t
hink both Gemma and I had been nervously anticipating this call, the first after his bombshell announcement not to take the plea bargain and Gemma’s subsequent decision to cut him off. A decision I’m not sure either of us felt sure she would keep.
“Maybe he beat me to the punch,” Gemma said when a half hour had gone by after Alan’s appointed time. We were sitting next to each other on the living room couch. She sounded bitter. “Maybe he’s written me off. I wanted to be the one to refuse the call. I wanted to be the one to . . .”
“To what?” I asked gently.
Gemma shook her head. “Nothing. It was stupid.”
To punish her father. That must be what she meant to say. And it wasn’t stupid. Immature, maybe, but totally understandable.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what else there was to say. Certainly, I had no interest in positing reasons for Alan’s silence, good or bad.
Abruptly, Gemma got up from the couch and went into her room. She closed the door but didn’t let it slam. I’d almost rather she had shown her usual spunk and temper.
My cell phone rang then. It was Martin McGinty, the head of the art department.
“Martin,” I said. “How was Prague?”
“Prague-like. Look, Verity, I have some bad news. We had a break-in here last night.”
“Was anyone hurt?” I asked hurriedly. Teachers sometimes work into the night, and security is minimal. Actually, it’s nonexistent apart from locks on the outer doors of the building.
“No, thank God.”
“My studio?”
“Luckily, minimal damage, one easel broken and a bookcase overturned, but I can’t be sure what might be missing. You’ll be a better judge of that.”
“I’ll get there as soon as possible,” I told him. “Was anything big taken from the other studios or offices?”
Seashell Season Page 30