The Seduction of Water

by Carol Goodman

  “No, that’s not it . . .” I start to say, but Aidan’s gaze has lifted from mine and strayed over my shoulder. The sun has reached this sheltered piece of the terrace and it strikes Aidan’s face like the flat side of a blade.

  “Well, maybe that will change for you now, Iris. Someone seems pretty happy to see you.”

  I turn to look and there’s Jack striding through the stripes of sun and shade cast by the columns. I turn back to Aidan, but he’s already gone, which is just as well because Jack practically lifts me off my feet embracing me.

  “You’re late,” I say when he puts me down. “You missed Mr. Kron’s speech.”

  “Frankly I’ve heard enough gibberish about art this summer to last a lifetime. Wait until you hear what I found on the way over here . . . is that coffee I smell?”

  The guests are filing into the dining room now and queuing up at the coffee urns. Harry is waving me over to a group of curators but I pretend not to see him. I’m not ready to introduce Jack around yet.

  “We’ll slip into the kitchen and nab a thermos,” I say, steering Jack inside. “We can take it up to your room.”

  “My room? Aren’t I staying in your room?”

  “Well, when you registered for the conference without telling me, you were assigned a room. Besides, don’t you remember how hot it is up in the attic?” I’m able to say this without looking at him because I’m rooting in the shelves for a thermos. I find one that’s missing its top and fill it from the coffeemaker. I pour some milk into a pitcher and hand it to Jack, running smack into the confused look on his face. “Is that all your luggage,” I say, pointing at the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder.

  “The rest is in the car. What’s up, Iris? Are you really that mad because I was late? I saw a FOR SALE sign just off Route Thirty-two and I had to check it out. It would be perfect for us. A two-hundred-year-old farmhouse with a barn I could paint in . . .”

  Jack must see the wild terror in my eyes because he stops. A two-hundred-year-old farmhouse for us to share. Six months ago it would have sounded like a dream come true, but now it seems like one of those abandoned projects of summer—an idea whose time is past.

  “Let’s go upstairs and get you settled,” I say, handing Jack a basket of rolls. “And we’ll talk.”

  We’re heading to the elevator when I see that Hedda is in it.

  “Do you mind taking the stairs?” I ask.

  Jake shakes his head and he starts toward the main stairs. “No, let’s take the back staircase,” I tell him, “if I run into any of these conference people I’ll get stuck running a million errands for them.”

  “What about that new guy, your special-events coordinator?”

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t he supposed to do all that?”

  “Yes, but you can’t tell a guest that.” The enclosed stairway is hot and airless. The open thermos I’m carrying sloshes hot coffee on my wrist. We stop talking after the second floor and concentrate on conserving our breath.

  “I put you on the fifth floor so you’d be close to my room,” I say when we reach the top.

  “Well, that’s a relief, Iris. From the way you’re acting I suppose I should be glad you didn’t put me in the basement.”

  I wait until we’re in the room to answer him. “What do you expect, Jack? I barely hear from you all summer and then you make plans to come here without even telling me. For the last ten years I haven’t even been allowed to talk about living together and now you’ve got a house all picked out for us. How fast am I supposed to switch gears?”

  Jack shrugs his duffel bag off his shoulder and lifts his hands up, palms out. “I thought the way we were suited you. Are you saying it’s too late?”

  I turn away from him because I don’t have an answer, but also because the room is stifling. I wrench open a window and look out, my hands flat against the window ledge. I couldn’t get Jack a valley view so he’s facing the garden and the woods. The trees seems to stretch out endlessly and I can see, in among the burnt umber of the pines, flashes of red and yellow. Once again, the sight of the changing leaves makes me feel that I’ve run out of time, but more than that, those acres of pines remind me of the time I’ve spent with Aidan under their boughs. That fleeting panic I’d felt before is not only for time slipping away but for Aidan.

  Jack has come up behind me and touches my arm. As I noticed downstairs, his touch leaves me cold. “I’m seeing someone else,” I say, turning around to face him. “Or, well, I was. I don’t know if we still are. I was going to tell you.”

  Jack steps back from me and sinks down onto the edge of the bed. “This is information I would have appreciated having before driving across two states to come here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I look around the room. I notice that there’s a basket of fruit and a bottle of wine cooling in the ice bucket on the bureau. Courtesy of Ramon and Paloma, no doubt. There’s even a vase of freshly cut roses on the night table. I walk over to smell them and then sit down on the bed next to Jack. I touch his hand and I’m relieved when he doesn’t pull it away. “You’ve got to admit, though, they’re two skinny states.”

  When I leave Jack’s room I take the main stairs down. Curiously, I don’t feel as bad as I should. I’ve probably ruined both relationships, but I feel lighter than I did this morning. Maybe it’s the relief of having told Jack about Aidan. Maybe that end-of-summer melancholy just means it’s time to let go of the things you didn’t get around to doing.

  On the second floor I notice that the door to Joseph’s suite is open and that Aidan is standing in the middle of the room holding a painting up to the light coming through the window. I come into the room and stand next to him and admire the painting: a dawn sky without boundaries of horizon, colossal clouds tinged pink and orange expanding into limitless distance. I steal a glance at Aidan and see in his eyes an expression of longing that makes me ache to have him look at me like that—only what he seems to be longing for is to dive into the fathomless blue sky of the painting.

  “Are you taking that to the Gold Parlor for the afternoon lecture?” I ask.

  “No, I thought I’d hop in the old Volvo and take it down to Soho to see what I could get for it,” he says, rolling his eyes at me.

  “Aidan,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper, “do you think it’s really such a good idea to make those kinds of jokes?”

  “You mean considering my disreputable past? No, I suppose not, but don’t think I’m the only one tallying up the value of these overgrown postcards. One of the curators just told me that a painting by this same guy sold for half a million at auction last month. I don’t see why they couldn’t have just made do with slides. At least they’d be lighter.” He shifts the heavy frame in his hands so that the sky skews sideways.

  “I think Mr. Kron wanted to give the Arts Festival greater credibility . . .”

  “I think he’s showing off his connections in the art world . . . anyway, if there’s nothing more, I’d better get this down to the Gold Parlor.”

  I want to tell Aidan that things aren’t going well with Jack—that we might not end up together after this week—but that seems too much like stringing him along. Still, I hold him there, trying to think of something to say that will end this chilliness between us—that had seemed to be thawing earlier on the terrace before Jack showed up.

  “Jack’s staying on the fifth floor,” I say lamely, maybe so he’ll at least know that Jack’s not staying in my room.

  “Yes, I know, Iris. Did he like his roses? Joseph asked me especially to cut them for him.”

  “Oh, God, Aidan, I’m sorry . . .”

  I move toward him to touch his arm, but he turns away from me, toward the hall door, and freezes. I look that way and see that Phoebe Nix is standing in the doorway watching us. She’s wearing one of those straight, shapeless dresses she favors—this one the color and texture of overcooked oatmeal—and backless snakeskin mules that slap on the carpet as
she steps into the room. She pauses for a moment in front of the open door to the closet and turns to Aidan.

  “There you are,” she says, “we’re waiting for that painting in the Gold Parlor. So this is where the paintings are stored . . . I didn’t realize this door led to a closet.”

  She steps toward the closet, but Aidan steps in between her and the open door. “Sorry, Miss Nix, Mr. Kron specifically requested that no one but me and Joseph have access to the paintings.”

  Leaning the sky painting against the wall, he closes and locks the closet door.

  Phoebe shrugs. “That’s fine with me . . . as long as you deliver the paintings promptly. You’d better go on down with that one . . . if Miss Greenfeder is done with you, that is.” Phoebe smiles slyly on that last part and I can’t help but think she chose her words purposefully.

  “Aye,” Aidan says, giving me one last look, “I think Miss Greenfeder’s done with me.” He leaves the room without looking at me.

  “I want to speak with you later, Aidan,” I say to his back, wishing the words sounded less like an employer’s reprimand and more like a lover’s apology. I’d follow him but Phoebe has planted herself in front of me, arms wrapped around her thin waist, tapping the back of her shoe against her bare heel until Aidan is out of earshot.

  “Can I help you with something, Phoebe?”

  “My uncle says you were asking him questions about the Crown jewel theft. I wanted to know if you plan to write about that in your book.”

  I glance at the hall to the bedroom and wonder if Joseph’s still outside in the garden or in there where he could hear our conversation. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he already knows I’ve broken my promise not to ask questions about the robbery.

  “Joseph’s in the garden,” Phoebe, as if reading my thoughts, says. “I didn’t tell him that you’d talked to Harry, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think the less said about that particular piece of history the better. It doesn’t have anything to do with your mother’s story. I don’t see why you’re bothering with it.”

  “I think it might,” I say. “My mother traveled up here with a friend who worked at the Crown—it was her brother who robbed the safe—”

  “Yes, the McGlynns. I know all about them. A couple of two-bit thieves. The brother had the nerve to say at the trial that my mother offered him money to steal her own jewelry. Of course no one believed him, but the press had a field day anyway—they said that at the very least my mother had flaunted the Kron family jewels in a way that invited the crime. They made up stories about my mother using drugs because, of course, that’s what female writers do. My mother was only twenty-one years old at the time, but the press persisted in calling her ‘childless’ as if only a depraved, addict sex fiend would prefer writing to baking cookies and having babies. When my mother finally decided to have a child, she was criticized for having one so late.”

  “Phoebe, I think it’s awful your mother was treated that way, but maybe my mother was affected by that robbery as well—it must have meant something to her for her to name her fictional world after the McGlynns. And then she was registered as John McGlynn’s wife when she died—maybe she just used the name because she didn’t want anyone to recognize her or maybe she was actually meeting him there.”

  “Is that what Joseph told you—that your mother went to the Dreamland Hotel to meet John McGlynn? Somehow I doubt he’s told you anything—he’s not exactly the most talkative guy in the world.” There’s a mocking edge to her voice that irritates me. I should, of course, tell her that it’s none of her business what Joseph did or didn’t tell me, but her assumption—correct in this case—that he wouldn’t confide in me rankles.

  “Joseph may be reluctant to blab about my mother, but she is my mother, and I think if I really wanted to know something he would tell me—eventually.”

  Although she has held herself very still throughout her speech a blue vein pulses at her temple and little half moons of perspiration have darkened the armholes of her shift. She spins the engraved wedding band around and around her thumb.

  “You mean he hasn’t told you anything yet, but you think he will. Maybe you should leave well enough alone. There could be some things you might not like to see printed about your mother.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not interested in presenting my mother as a saint or as some icon of suppressed creativity or a victim of patriarchy or anything other than what she really was.”

  Phoebe smiles. “Aren’t you? Haven’t you lived your whole life based on what you thought you knew about your mother’s story? No marriage. No children. You’ve stayed away from the hotel until now. You’ve avoided everything you thought killed her—just like I’ve avoided everything that I thought killed my mother. Well, what if the story turned out to be different? What would you think about the choices you’ve made then?”

  I suppose she thinks she’s found the perfect threat. Honestly, I can see the truth in what she is saying, but having just come from ruining two romances in one day I can’t imagine that there are too many other bad choices left to regret.

  “I guess we all have to live with the consequences of our choices,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything right away. She looks away from me, out the window toward the distant view of mountains. The light falls on her face, on her fine, colorless hair that shimmers like water, and on her translucent skin. She’s so thin that the light seems to eat away at her body. I remind myself that she never really knew her mother, and so her need to protect her image of her mother might be greater than mine, but just when I’m softening toward her—after all, I’m defending my right to write a book I’ve all but given up on—she turns back to me.

  “I don’t think you’ll feel that way,” she says, “when you see what those consequences are.” Then she walks out of the room, slowly, the slap of leather against flesh audible long after she has gone.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE NET OF TEARS

  And so I took one step, and then another, toward the Palace of Two Moons, every step burning the soles of my feet—the skin there new and raw—so unsteady on my new legs I had to touch the tree trunks on either side of me for balance. At first the trees frightened me, they seemed to close in around me, closer with every step I took into the forest—but then I could hear them whispering to me. Their shade cooled me, their pollen drifted down over me and clothed my nakedness. Looking up at the sunlight slanting down between their boughs was like being at the bottom of the ocean looking up toward the stars. The wind that moved their branches was like the currents we follow at ebb tide.

  I saw why Naoise thought he had come home. This forest was like the sea beneath our Tirra Glynn, where we lived before the serpent’s pearl was broken into a million shards. I remembered then what had happened to Connachar, how the slivers of pearl had worked their way beneath his skin and gathered around his heart. Looking down I saw the green silt breeding on my skin, spinning itself into silk.

  By the time I walked out of the woods I was clothed in an emerald gown, light as the wind that moves through the trees, green as the sea.

  The Arts Festival is not only a resounding success, it is also a godsend to me, keeping me far too busy to deal with Jack or Aidan. Jack too is soon swept up in the lectures, seminars, and cocktail parties. Although he said he was tired of talking about art I spy him in small groups making those large sweeping gestures—as if he were painting the air—that I know he makes when he’s talking about his work. I also spy a smaller gesture—the exchange of business cards with gallery owners and art critics and public television art show hosts—that bodes well for Jack’s career. I’m glad that he’ll get something out of this week.

  Jack’s not the only one moved by the talk of art. One evening in the middle of the week I go over to the staff dormitory in the North Wing to discuss an accounting discrepancy with Sophie. When I get to her apartment door, though, I’m arrested by an unfamiliar smell in the corridor.
I pause at her door, which is partially ajar. A radio is playing softly—I recognize the Albany NPR station by its classical program and the static blurring its edges—but I can hear a faint rasp, which for a second I fear is my aunt gasping for breath. Then I recognize the smell: turpentine. I move back a step to see through the three inches of open door—with as much caution as if I had come across a wild pheasant in the woods—and watch as my aunt spreads color across an overcast sky above dark mountains. She’s painting a rainstorm over the mountains behind the hotel. The rasping noise is the sound her brush makes dragging the rain down from the sky. For each stroke she steps toward the canvas and then steps back to look at what she’s done. She looks like a young girl practicing a dance step with an invisible partner. I back away quietly; the accounting discrepancy can wait.

  On the second to last day of the festival, Joseph judges the Folly contest, awarding Gretchen Lu and Mark Silverstein first prize for their collaborative entry—a gazebo called “Wing.” Joseph has discarded his crutches for the event. He stands in the arch of Brier Rose, ramrod straight, addressing the little group of art students who have formed a half ring around him. The other conference attendees, the curators, gallery owners, and critics, stand in an outer ring, but it’s really the art students he speaks to.

  “When I first came here the world I came from had been destroyed, but for a Jew this was nothing new. The Talmud tells us that in the beginning the light of the world was held in beautiful vessels—” Joseph cups his hands in front of his chest as if holding an invisible volleyball. “—but greed and evil shattered the vessels—” Joseph reaches his arms out to the half circle, his fingers splaying as if releasing a handful of confetti, but his hands are empty. “—into a million pieces. It’s our job to find these pieces and put the vessels back together. Tikkun olam. Healing the world. However you find to do it—planting a flower, teaching a child, painting a picture, or carving out a little house and bench for a tired old man to sit in—” Here Joseph signals for Aidan to draw the white sheet away from the new gazebo. “—you are putting a piece of the world back together again, creating a vessel to hold the light of the world.”