Thin Ice
Page 20
We met Beverly in the lobby. She’d just returned from ’Cuda Con and was laden with large plastic bags filled with free automotive samples. I introduced my brother. “He’s the one who restored the ’Cuda,” I explained.
“Gorgeous car,” she replied.
Scott’s jaw dropped and he turned to me. “You drove the ’Cuda to Chicago?”
“She’s been driving it lots,” said Jean. “Never washes it, either.”
“Too bad about that big dent on the hood,” added Kady.
His pain was palpable. I loved it.
I didn’t love making the phone calls, though, which was weird because I had always thought I’d savor the moment I’d be able to say “I told you so.” Al and John were pretty cool about it, after the initial honking and sputtering. I couldn’t hear, of course, what they said to Scott, but John told me afterward that he’d get right down to the office to start sweeping up the mess. I guess we’d all be doing that in some way or another.
The hardest call was the one to Claire. She wasn’t home for hours; then when she finally answered, she sounded beat. “You’d better sit down,” I said. “This is going to blow you away.”
While they talked, I went to the twins’ room and ordered a room-service dinner and a bathrobe to be sent to mine. Then I went back and showered. Scott and Claire were still talking when I finished my steak, so I started on the one I’d ordered for him.
I was halfway through his filet when he handed me the phone. “Your turn.”
“You okay?” I asked Claire immediately.
“Oh, sure, just dandy. Arden, I’m sorry I didn’t—”
“Forget it. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Scott crashed last and hard. I guess life in a car and cheap motels isn’t very restful, especially when you’re always looking over your shoulder. I sat in a chair in front of the door and watched him sleep. No way I was going to risk him sneaking out.
At one AM I moved to the other bed and crawled under the blankets. Too tired, too full of the day, I could take a chance. Hell—let him run if he wanted. I’d found him, I’d proved my point, I’d gotten what I wanted, I’d said thank you. Case closed, right?
Wrong: my name. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed, then bounced onto his and pounded on his back.
“Wake up. Wake up and tell me,” I said as I pummeled him.
He pushed up on his arms and turned a sleep-drugged face toward me. “What?”
“Tell me about my name. You wanted to, that last day, it’s how I knew you weren’t dead. Tell me.”
“Geez, Arden, let me sleep. In the morning.”
“Tell me about my name. I came too close to never knowing. I want to hear it now.”
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “It’s not much, really. Certainly not worth waking me up for.”
“Tell me.”
He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. “Okay, let’s see. I told you we were living in married-student housing back then, right? Mom had taken time off because you were on the way and she wasn’t feeling so good. Well, there were all these women living in the complex—it was like a never-ending coffee party that moved from apartment to apartment. One night they were sitting around our kitchen, and Mom was telling everyone about this terrific hand lotion. She had really dry skin from scrubbing up so much, but she’d found this great lotion and to hear her talk you’d think it had saved her life. It was made by Elizabeth Arden. She decided to give you the name because she really loved the stuff. Everyone thought it was so funny and wonderful, they laughed and laughed, a bunch of cackling hens. Her name was Elizabeth, of course, and she wouldn’t share that, so you got tagged Arden. And that’s the story, little sister. Now may I please go back to sleep? Man, I was having the best dream and now I’ve lost it. You owe me, sis.”
He burrowed into his pillow and crashed again.
I owed him?
A shard of moonlight slid through a crack in the drapes and glistened on his pate.
I didn’t know what I owed him, but I did know what I’d give him: forgiveness; it was cheap enough. And maybe, in the morning, another thank-you. And he could sure have the damn car.
I walked to the window, stood behind the drapes, and looked out. The moon was high and the lake was sheathed in a silver skin.
I’d found my brother and I’d found my name.
Be careful what you wish for.
Arden.
Arden, Arden, Arden. At last I knew the story. Not exactly the one I’d imagined or hoped for. Okay, so I hadn’t been named for someone’s favorite fictional character, or a best friend, or a beloved bohemian aunt.
Arden.
I was named for an emollient.
PART 4
“What a beautiful little girl. What’s her name?”
“Baby Gap,” I answered. Hannah giggled. The gallery guard stiffened, which was a neat trick, considering how stiff they are normally. “It’s a nickname, from her initials,” I said, flashing an apologetic smile. “Her real name is Gwenyth Arden Poole.”
Hannah crossed her arms. “She’s named for my mom’s mom.”
And, of course, moi.
I shifted the gorgeous little redhead to my other arm and she immediately started sucking my shoulder. When had she last been fed? Probably just one of those minor details neglected amid the tempest of that day’s episode in the continuing saga of her parents’ long-distance thing. I fished in the diaper bag and felt for a bottle.
“The boss said you came down from Wisconsin,” said the guard. “Just for this, or is there a special occasion?” Then her walkie-talkie crackled and she lifted it and listened.
“What shall we tell the lady?” I whispered to Baby Gap as she lunged for the bottle. “That it’s the one-month anniversary of Daddy’s getting off probation?”
The guard holstered her radio and smiled, still waiting for an answer.
“My brother moved to the city recently,” I said politely. “We’re visiting.”
“And my mom is applying to work in a museum,” Hannah said to the guard. “The big one with the dinosaurs. She has an interview today. If she gets the job we might move here and she’d be the” —she took a breath and readied the words—“assistant director of education.”
“That’s cool, kid.” The guard’s walkie-talkie commanded her attention again. “Just about set,” she said to us. “This is really unprecedented, you know. I’ve never heard of any museum ever allowing this.”
Because they’d never had to deal with me, that’s why. I smiled again. “We’re very grateful. The curator was so understanding.” Hannah tugged on my arm. “Are you sure I can do it too?”
“Of course, hotshot; you’re family.”
The guard spoke into the walkie-talkie again, then nodded at me. “Go ahead, but the alarm’s off only for a minute. This piece is a crowd favorite and we don’t want to attract others.”
“No problem.”
I lifted my niece’s hand and stroked it with my thumb, then held it out toward the sculpture. A heavy bronze wrist bumped her pink pinkie. “Okay, little one,” I whispered into the small ear. “This one is your grandpa, that one is your grandma. Uncurl your fist—good. Here we go. Hold hands.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marsha Qualey is the author of several young adult novels, including Just Like That, Too Big a Storm, Close to a Killer, One Night, and Thin Ice. Her books have been included on numerous best-of-the-year lists, including ALA Quick Picks and Best Books for Young Adults, IRA Young Adults’ Choices, New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age, and School Library Journal’s Best Books of the Year, She lives in Wisconsin.
Visit her website at www.marshaqualey.com.
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