Seashell Season (16 page)

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? Well, 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.

Anyway, let me just say now that the Strawberries are so freakin' normal. Well, maybe they're not normal. I mean, they're, like, out of a storybook. Three times I saw them in a group hug. Three times in, like, half an hour! And as far as I could tell, they weren't posing for a picture.

But they had put out a lot of food, and there were these delicious pigs in a blanket. I ate, like, six of them before it occurred to me that maybe I should leave some for other people. But then I took one more. I mean, they probably had more in the kitchen.

Verity told me that most of the guests were people from the college and people Marc knew through his work as an accountant. I guess a lot of people become friends with their accountants, because the entire first floor was packed. Dad never had an accountant. There was never enough money to account for. In fact, it occurred to me then that I don't remember him ever paying taxes, but he must have. Or was he living so under the official radar that he somehow managed to evade the long arm of the government? Another thing I could ask him during our next call but probably won't.

Cathy suddenly appeared at my side, a guy in tow. She was wearing a sleeveless pink-and-white-checked dress that came to her knees. It reminded me of those red-and-white-checked tablecloths people use at picnics. I noticed she was a bit taller than the guy. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. I think that's what you call them, with the short sleeves and the collar and an animal stitched on the pocket.

“This is Jason,” Cathy said brightly. “My boyfriend. And this is Marni.”

Jason mumbled something, and I said, “Hey.”

“Isn't it a great party?” Cathy said. “I'm
so
glad so many people were able to come. Oh, the Simmonses just came in! I have to go say hello.”

She darted off, leaving me alone with her boyfriend.

And suddenly I had a funny idea. Not funny ha-ha. Funny perverse.

“Jason, right?” I said, moving closer to him, like I was going to whisper something in his ear. Then I ran a finger along the bare skin of his arm. He didn't move away. In fact, he shifted a little closer to me so that for a second our hips touched.

“Want to get out of here for a while?” I whispered. His eyes were now slightly hazed over. I know that look. His breath was coming a bit faster.

“What's going on?” a shrill female voice demanded. It was Cathy.

Jason, whose face now turned bright red, went running off without a word of apology or explanation to his girlfriend. I mean, what could he say?

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly to Cathy. “It was just a joke.” Not a joke, really. But I
had
wanted to shake things up.

“A joke?” Cathy laughed and shook her head. “What sort of joke is coming on to your friend's boyfriend?”

Did she really consider us friends? That was weird. And it made me feel kind of bad.

“Look,” I said. “I don't even think he's attractive.”

“That's nice! So you flirted with him, why? To make me jealous?”

Nice going, Marni
. “I don't know, all right,” I whispered fiercely. “God, why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?”

“It's something to me. And you had to do it at my parents' party!”

Cathy stomped off before I could come up with another stupid answer. I saw her walk right past Jason without a glance, even though he reached out for her. Poor guy. He looked pretty miserable.

I thought about finding Verity and telling her what I'd done (so she wouldn't hear it from someone else who might put a really bad spin on it), and I wondered if Cathy would go running to Annie or if anyone else had seen me flirting with Jason. I wondered if word would get around this stupid town that The Little Kidnapped Girl was a whore. A whore with a foul mouth. In the end, I said nothing to anyone.

I don't know why she would be, but I think Verity was as miserable at the party as I was because it was she who suggested we leave right after the cake was brought out, this big sheet cake with chocolate icing and candles in the shape of the numbers two and zero. As we drove away from the house, I could hear a burst of loud laughter and someone turned up the music and it looked like the party would go on for a while.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked when we were on the main road.

“Yeah,” I said. “You?”

“Yeah.”

I think we both knew we were lying.

Chapter 49

S
omething odd happened this afternoon.

I went with Verity to her studio at the college, more out of boredom than any real interest in watching her work. Like I said, I've never had any use for art. Not long after we got there, Verity got a text from a colleague in another studio, asking her if she could come over and help her stretch a canvas (whatever that means). So Verity went off, and I was left alone in her studio. It's a big room with windows that go from a few inches above the floor to a few inches below the ceiling. Artists need a lot of light, I guess. The other times I'd been there, I hadn't really paid much attention to all the stuff in the room, but for some reason, today I did. There are three or four (now I can't remember) easels and two long tables with benches on either side of them, and a jumble of all sorts of stuff on top, like paintbrushes and some kind of knives and chisels and hammers. There are a bunch of stands around the room—I guess that's what you'd call them; it's clear you can adjust their heights—on top of which are unfinished sculptures. I'm guessing they're unfinished, because some just look like lumps of clay or pieces of wood that have been chiseled or chopped away in places. Other pieces look like they might almost be done, like one of a bird, though kind of an abstract bird, in some sort of wood. There's also a gigantic bookcase (actually, I remember now that Verity told me she'd made it) stuffed with books about art, some sitting horizontally on top of the ones standing vertically. I remember the title of one book being
Terracotta—The Technique of Fired Clay Sculpture,
by someone named something Malmstrom. Another was
The Care of Bronze Sculpture,
by a guy named Patrick Kipper. There was one with the words
El Greco
on the spine, but I don't know who that is. Maybe an artist, or maybe the author. There was another book on The Impressionists, and even I know who they are.

I looked again at that poster Verity had pointed out to me the first time I'd been at the studio.
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion
.
I'll have to think about that,
I thought. I remembered my first impression of Annie, how I'd thought she was ugly, but how after a few minutes I'd changed my mind and realized she was beautiful. Was that what this guy Bacon was talking about?

Imagine going through life with your name being bacon?

The last thing that caught my eye was an old-fashioned folding table (Dad and I had one we'd picked up at a garage sale) on top of which there was a blue ceramic vase with some flowers—they looked like wild flowers—and next to it was an arrangement of fruit (I think they were wax, because none of the pieces were at all brown, and it was pretty hot in the studio): a pear and an apple and a small nectarine or something. And there was also a crumpled green cotton napkin.

Obviously, some of Verity's students had been drawing the flowers and the fruit. There were a bunch of sketches pinned to a board behind the folding table. Looking up at them, I suddenly thought,
I could do better than that,
which was a weird thing to think, because I hadn't done anything remotely artistic since I had some coloring books when I was a kid. There was an open sketchbook on one of the long tables, and two chipped mugs crammed with all sorts of pencils and pens. I reached for one of the pencils—don't ask me what kind it was, because I didn't notice—and I looked at the flowers and the fruit and I just started to draw what I saw.

It was like I was in a dream or something. It was just happening, and I felt like I was watching it happen at the same time I was making it happen. It was weird. When I realized I had pretty much finished drawing the stuff on the table, I flipped to a new page and started again. And like the first time, my hand just kept moving.

Suddenly I was aware of voices in the hall, two or maybe three people and one of them was definitely Verity. Quickly, I tore the pages I'd used out of the sketchbook, and without really thinking, I crammed them under a pile of magazines, stuffed the pencil back into the mug, and scurried into the center of the room.

Verity came through the door then. “Sorry it took so long,” she said. “I hope you weren't bored, waiting for me.”

I felt guilty, though I didn't really know why. “No,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“Good. I need to do about an hour's work, and then I thought we'd grab an early dinner at The Friendly Lobsterman, if that's okay with you.”

I felt the familiar irritation come over me. I wish she would stop always asking if things were okay with me.
Just make a decision,
I thought.
Tell me what we're going to do.
But all I said was, “Sure.”