Seashell Season (28 page)

Chapter 79

I
walked David out to his car after dinner last night.

“Well?” I said when we'd reached the curb.

“She's very smart. She's also very blunt. That could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your mood.”

I smiled. “Tell me about it. Anyway, I think it went well.”

“So do I. Let's hope Gemma thinks so too.”

“She didn't correct you when you called her Gemma.”

“She told me to call her Gemma. When she met me at the door.”

I remembered then how she'd told Ellen and Richard they could call her by her birth name, and I thought it a positive sign she was finally beginning to adjust to this new life here in Yorktide with me.

David kissed me then, and I wondered if Gemma was watching from the living room window.

At breakfast this morning—English muffins, cereal, juice, and coffee—Gemma asked me why I didn't have another kid after she had been gone for a few years. (That was her word,
kid,
not
baby
or
child
.) She really does have a way of asking the most difficult questions in the most unnerving manner and at the most unlikely of times.

Well, I thought, we had been talking about kids at dinner last night with David. It was a natural transition, I suppose. But how, exactly, to explain?

“It would have felt like a betrayal of you,” I said after a moment's thought.

“But how?” she asked, not belligerently. “I might never have even known. If Dad hadn't gotten caught stealing that car, I probably would never have met you.”

“It's complicated,” I admitted. “But I don't regret my decision.” That's the truth.

“Okay,” she said, “then why didn't you ever get married? I mean, before you met David.”

“I didn't want to get married.” That is also the truth. “I didn't want to get close to anyone for a long time, male or female. I didn't want any attachments at all. I . . . I felt so guilty and sad about what had happened to you, I felt I didn't deserve a normal life, let alone a happy one. I'm not looking for pity,” I added hastily. “That's just the way it was.”

“But you got past that.”

“I pretty much had to, yeah. For my own sake, but also because I always thought that someday we might be reunited and if I were a basket case . . .”

“I get it.”

Gemma went to the bathroom. I was reaching for the coffeepot when the phone rang.

It was Ellen.

“Verity,” she said, “I'd like to take Gemma out for a day. Do some shopping, have lunch, get to know each other a bit.”

I was glad Ellen was asking my permission—sort of—even if I wasn't happy about her getting in touch with us again so soon. “I'll let you talk to her,” I said.

I handed the phone to Gemma, now back at the table. “It's for you.”

I went about pouring a second cup of coffee, pretending not to care about what was being said on the other end of the line. Ha. I cared. After a moment Gemma said, “Sure. Okay,” and then, “Bye.”

“Ellen asked if I wanted to hang out tomorrow,” she said. “I told her okay. I mean, we don't have any plans, do we?”

I was happy she'd asked that, and then I suppressed the jealousy that could, I knew, ruin this relationship my daughter and I were building. “No,” I said. “No plans.”

Gemma reached for another piece of toast. “This bread is really good,” she said. “What kind is it?”

Maybe,
I thought,
she really does care more about the bread than about her father's wealthy cousin.
“Seven grain,” I said.

“Really?” Gemma eyed the piece of toast in her hand. “I always thought this health stuff sucked.” And then she took a very large bite.

Chapter 80

E
llen took me for lunch at a pretty fancy place called M.C. Perkins Cove. When I saw the inside of the restaurant, I suggested maybe we could go to The Friendly Lobsterman or a clam shack, but she said she'd already made a reservation and that I would like this place. She was right about that. The view of the ocean is perfect, and the food was fantastic. And no one even looked at me weird because I wasn't dressed up. Actually, some people were in shorts, though not cutoffs, so I guess I didn't really stand out in my jeans. Ellen was wearing pretty much the same thing she'd worn at her party—I wonder if it was like a uniform for her—and this time she was carrying a bag that had what looked like two letter
C
s kind of linked. “Chanel,” she told me when she caught me looking at it, trying to figure out if it meant something.

I think it's probably a real Chanel. (I've heard about knockoffs. A guy Dad knew once sold knock-off Gucci stuff on a street corner in Albuquerque, until he got caught.) If it is, it probably cost, like, thousands of dollars. Why would anyone spend that on a bag?

When we had been served, Ellen asked a few questions about Dad and my life with him, like what towns we had lived in (“a bunch”) and if I had ever had music lessons (no) and if he had ever gotten me a tutor (“I never needed one”) and if I had ever thought about college (“a bit”). She didn't ask anything really personal, like if I missed Dad or how I felt about what he'd done. I'm not sure I would have answered questions like that. I mean, I'm still not sharing a whole lot with Verity.

At one point Ellen said, “Alan showed some promise when he was very young, you know.”

“Promise of what?”

Ellen sort of smiled sadly. “Promise of being normal.”

I didn't know what to say to that. I mean, I can't argue that my father
is
normal, can I?

Sitting across from Ellen as she sipped a second glass of Prosecco (what is that? It's bubbly like champagne, but if it were champagne, it would be called champagne), for some reason I thought about what Verity had told me about why she didn't have another baby after I was taken away. That it would somehow be a betrayal of me. And she was always so sensitive to what might upset me, from meeting Marion for the first time, to not bothering me about what Dad and I talked about, to knowing the truth about her relationship with David. Was it betraying Verity for me to be sitting here, having lunch with Dad's cousin? The idea made me uncomfortable, and I pushed it away.

“I have a little something for you,” Ellen said suddenly. She reached into her bag, took out a smallish box, and handed it to me. There was a red ribbon tied around the box.

“But you already gave me the money,” I blurted.

“That was different,” she said. “Go ahead—open it.”

I did. It was an iPhone.

“But I have a phone,” I told her.

“This one is the latest model. You don't have that, do you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“You'll need one.”

Why
? I thought.
Why will I need one, really?

“Thanks,” I said. I put the phone back in the box and stowed it in my bag. My twenty-dollar bag I'd bought with the money from Verity's father.

After lunch, we walked down to the water, and Ellen asked if I'd ever walked along Marginal Way, the path up on the cliffs to our left. I told her I hadn't. Not yet. She told me I should, it's beautiful, and then she told me she had a surprise.

I half laughed. “Another one?”

“Richard saw you out on your bike the other day.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Until I get a license, it's the best way to get around.”

“He said it was an old machine.”

“Not too old. Anyway, our friend Marc checked it out before we bought it. It's in perfect shape.”

Ellen still looked doubtful. “Well, Richard and I would feel better if we knew you were riding something high-end, something safer and better made.”

I immediately felt kind of insulted, like did she really think Verity would give me a piece of crap to ride or that I would be so stupid as to get on a bike that was falling apart?

I controlled my temper. It took some effort. Maybe she was sincere. What do I really know about her, after all? I should try not to be so judgmental.

“Really,” I said, “that's okay. I like my bike.”

“Now, Gemma, it's a done deal.”

I didn't know what to say without being a total jerk, so I kept my mouth shut and squinted out at the ocean. Suddenly Ellen said: “Thank you for letting us do these things for you. You know we don't have children of our own. It's been . . .” She looked away then, toward the other side of the cove where the boats were moored, and gave a small sigh. “It's been difficult at times.” Then she turned back to me and, for the first time, touched me. Just her hand on my arm, briefly. “You're really the one helping us. You're really our gift.”

After that, we got back into her black Lexus GX SUV and drove to a bike shop in Kennebunk, where there was a Trek bike waiting for us. A guy from the store asked me to get on it and he made some adjustments and then I got off the bike and he put it on the rack on top of Ellen's car. “I have the same model,” Ellen said, smiling. “Maybe we could ride together one day.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Sure.”

Verity was out when I got home after a few more stops with Ellen—she wanted to browse some shops in Kennebunkport; in one of them she bought a vase that cost two hundred bucks—but she'd left a message on the kitchen table saying she'd be home by about five. To make us dinner, of course. There must be some days when she's not in the mood to cook a full meal, but since I've been living with her, she's done it every night, except for the few times we've gone out.

I went into my room then and lay down on the couch. Though I'd done nothing more strenuous than get in and out of Ellen's car, I felt exhausted. And kind of confused.

Like I said, I don't really need a new phone or a new bike. My old ones are perfectly fine. I don't really
need
anything. But I have to admit, I like getting stuff. I mean, it's a bit of a novelty for someone like me, who only got a gift on her birthday (her false one!) and Christmas, and who periodically went through what Dad liked to call “belt-tightening phases,” which he tried to present to me as a sort of adventure or challenge.
Let's see if we can get through two weeks with no candy or cookies,
or
Pasta is a basic food, Marni. It's just bread in disguise. Let's see if we can eat spaghetti for dinner every night this week. In ancient times people pretty much survived on bread
.

I'm not sure I ever believed
that
, but a kid doesn't argue with the person putting food on the table, even if the food was limited or boring. Well, maybe a spoiled kid argues, but not someone like me. Until I was about twelve and the truth began to dawn on me—that Dad's “fun” belt-tightening periods were really about his not having enough money to feed us properly—I kind of enjoyed doing without. I mean, at least Dad and I were doing it together. It was us against the world.

It's pretty clear that Verity won't be happy about Ellen and Richard showering me with stuff I didn't ask for (even if they say I'm the one doing them the favor, and I'm not really sure I believe that). And I can guess why, though of course she wouldn't say. There's her pride, of course, and she's afraid I'll like them better than I like her—and I do like her—because they've got more money. It's kind of insulting actually, that she or anyone at all who knows me would think I give a shit about money, but I see why she would feel insecure. After all she went through when I was with Dad, not knowing if I was alive or dead . . . shit, even being questioned by the police in the beginning! Of course she doesn't want some rich cousin coming in and trying to buy me away from her. But I'm not going anywhere. Verity's going to have to figure that out and believe it.

I mean, I'm not going anywhere until Dad is released. Someday.

Chapter 81

W
hen Gemma told me about the iPhone and the bike, I thought my blood pressure was going to soar high enough to send me into cardiac arrest.

The gifts are extravagant, and it was presumptuous of Ellen (does Richard know about the phone and the bike?) to provide for my daughter items I'd already provided for her. Okay, Gemma had come with the phone, but I was paying for it now. She's my daughter, and I support her.

To be fair, Gemma didn't seem particularly excited about either gift. And this morning after breakfast, she went out for a ride on the bike I'd bought her. And when I was dusting, I found the new phone, still in its box, on a bookshelf in the living room.

I thought about telling her—asking her, I mean—to return the gifts, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I still can't. I don't want to deprive Gemma of attention or of the sort of things I can't afford, especially when from what I can tell, she's had so little in the way of extras in her life, but I can't shake the feeling Ellen is trying to buy my daughter's affections. David agrees with me, as does Annie, but they're prejudiced in my favor, so maybe we're all being overly suspicious. Can anyone blame us?

But neither David nor Annie is as worried as I am about possible fallout.

“They'll be gone in a few weeks,” David reminded me when we spoke last night on the phone. “There's nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, there is,” I insisted. “What kind of damage are Ellen and Richard going to leave in their wake? They'll have raised her expectations too high for me to meet.”

“Verity,” David said in that terribly patient way he has, “don't insult your daughter. Okay, I hardly know her, but she doesn't strike me as someone obsessed with money.”

No,
I thought,
she doesn't, but money can corrupt
.
It can screw up even the most down-to-earth person if it comes at the right time and in the right quantity.

Huh. Ever since Ellen's comment about breaking the diamonds out of the safe, a memory has been niggling at me.

When Alan proposed to me a few weeks after I'd told him I was pregnant, it was with a fairly substantial, brilliant-cut diamond solitaire on a yellow gold band. Before discovering I was pregnant, I'd been unhappy in the relationship and had vaguely considered leaving Alan, but when I saw how happy he was to be starting a family, I'd convinced myself everything would be okay between us. So I accepted his proposal. My father was thrilled, as was Marion. Thinking back on it, I see that Marion also expressed a sort of relief. “Everything will be okay now,” she said, and at the time I didn't question her. I suppose I thought she meant that now the baby would be legitimate. Marion is old-fashioned that way. Now I know she believed that by marrying Alan, I could further take him in hand and keep him out of too much trouble.

Anyway, I wondered how Alan could have afforded the ring. His mother and his one friend, Rob, had no money to spare, and I wondered if Alan had taken a bank loan. I hoped he hadn't. How long would it take him to pay it back? He didn't make much money, and he was bad at saving what he did make—though he had used the argument of financial security when pressuring me to give up my art.

I figured the ring might be a fake, or at least, that the stone was a CZ or maybe even a white topaz, though I knew little about identifying stones. And if it was fake, or even partly so, there was no way I was going to call him on it and hurt his overly sensitive feelings. After all, it was the thought that counted, and with a baby on the way, it was smart of him not to spend money on something not strictly necessary.

When I eventually broke the engagement, not long before Alan ran off with our daughter, I tried to return the ring, but he insisted I keep it. “I know you'll come back to me,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I know you'll see the truth, that I'm the one man who will ever love you entirely.” I admit to a moment of panic at that point. I thought:
What if he's right? What if Alan is as good as it's going to get for me?
But somehow I summoned the courage to take Gemma and move out. I put the ring back into its box and tucked it into a corner of a dresser drawer in the room I occupied at Barbara's place.

About six months after Alan took off, I badly needed cash. With the rent to pay (Alan had always paid at least a part of it) and having lost time at work due to depression and an ulcer that had come out of nowhere and kept me in bed for almost two weeks—let alone the doctor bills that my measly insurance wouldn't cover—selling the ring seemed the obvious solution. I took the loathed thing to the family-owned jewelry store in downtown Yorktide to see what they might do for me. Imagine my shock when Mr. Nettles recognized the ring as one that had been stolen from a friend's jewelry store in Ogunquit the previous year. He couldn't be 100 percent sure, he said, and suggested I take the ring to the police. I did. And there was a record of the theft and a full description of the ring. Later the rightful owner claimed it. And yes, the stone was indeed a real and a very good diamond.

No one suspected me of dirty dealing. By then, with Alan and Gemma long gone, and Alan's criminal past public knowledge, all anyone felt for me was pity.

One thing's for sure. I'll never tell Gemma the ring saga. My one brush with important jewelry, and it turned out to be someone else's stolen property.