Seashell Season (33 page)

Chapter 95

“Y
ou 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

A
lan missed his scheduled call this morning. I think 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
m
e 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?”

“Computer equipment. And some other random electronics. The police think our thief—or thieves—didn't care at all about art supplies but probably were frustrated when they couldn't find anything they wanted in your studio, so they smashed up a few bits just to say they were there.”

I sighed. “Any idea who might be responsible?”

“Well, the police wouldn't tell me anything specific, but it seems there was a similar event last week at a small college on the New Hampshire border. They said they had some leads.”

Leads that might go nowhere. I know all about those.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm on my way.”

“Wait, Verity,” Martin said. “I'm afraid I've got more bad news.”

“Go on.”

“That class you planned out for the fall semester, on the patination of metals? It looks like we might have to cancel it. I'm sorry, Verity. It's a great idea but preadmissions records are showing we've only got three students signed up for it. We need at least ten to make the class worthwhile.”

“To make paying me worthwhile,” I said. “Sorry. I know it's not your fault.”

“Look, there are still a few weeks before the semester starts. Things could change. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Thanks, Martin. I do appreciate it, really.”

“And if we do have to cancel the class this time around, we can always try again in spring. Got to run. Roberta and I just got back yesterday, and what with the robbery, I still haven't unpacked.”

I said good-bye to the department head. This bit of news meant I'd have to take a closer look at our family budget. I'd been counting on the money from that extra class, not that I'd been foolish enough to spend it before it was earned. And some of the art books I kept at the studio were old and valuable, in a financial as well as a sentimental way. It would be awful if any had been badly damaged. I can't afford to replace them.

I was just about to hunt down my bag and keys and head off for the college when Gemma came back into the living room. “Have you seen my blue hoodie?” she asked. I thought she might have been crying—her eyes were red—but maybe it was her allergies. She'd been sneezing a lot in the past few days.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's in the laundry bin.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. That was something I hadn't seen in weeks. “But I want to wear it.”

“I didn't get to the laundry yesterday.” I was about to add my usual
I'm sorry,
but I didn't. The truth was, I wasn't really sorry about not doing the laundry. It wasn't a crime or a sin or an insult.

“How long does it take to do a load of laundry?” she demanded.

“Why don't you do one sometime and find out?”

The words were out before I was even quite aware I'd spoken them.

Gemma folded her arms across her chest. “Ellen and Richard have a housekeeper,” she said.

I laughed. “Well, bully for them!” And then I got ahold of my better nature. My adulthood. At least, a bit of it. “Look,” I said. “I'm sorry about your father not calling but—”

“This has nothing to do with my father!” Gemma shouted. “I just wanted the freakin' hoodie!”

“Yes, well, you can't have it, not at the moment. I'll do the laundry when I get home. I have to go to my studio for a while.”

Gemma snickered. “You care more about those stupid blocks of wood and lumps of clay than you do about me. You promised you'd do the laundry, and you didn't.”

Sometimes, no matter how famed you are for your self-control, you can only take so much.

“You understand, don't you,” I said, “that I've devoted my entire life to you, even when I didn't know if you were alive or dead, and you can't even show me respect enough to do a load of laundry now and then?”

Gemma looked at me with such hatred and misery then that I shuddered.

“Screw you!” she shouted. “I don't need all your sacrifices. I didn't ask for you to care. I don't owe you a thing!”

“We live here together,” I said, my voice shaking. “We both have to participate.”

“I don't
have
to do anything. You can't force me to be your daughter!”

“Am I really so horrible that to acknowledge that you're my daughter would make you unhappy?” I asked. Really, all I wanted to do at that moment was throw my arms around her, but I knew that would be a disaster.

“I'm already unhappy,” Gemma cried. “I don't need you to make it worse.” Then she grasped her hair at the roots with both hands. “God, everything is so messed up! I can't . . . I thought I could . . . Never mind.”

Before I could react, she turned around and fled back into her room, this time slamming the door shut behind her. The force dislodged a delicate vase on the shelf over the fireplace, and before I could dash across the room to grab it, it fell to the floor and shattered.

The vase had belonged to Marion's mother.

Gemma's great-grandmother.

Chapter 97

I
must have paced from one end of this room to the other and back again about a thousand times in the past few hours. This room that has become mine, however temporarily.

Pacing can sometimes make thinking things through easier.

Here's a fact. I've pretty much lost my father. I mean, he didn't even call today when he was supposed to. Yeah, he could be sick or something, but I know better. Coward that he is, he probably decided he didn't want to listen to me being angry at him. Or, and this is a real possibility, he did something stupid again, like pick a fight and hit someone, and got himself in trouble. Lost his privileges. Proved once again he's an ass.

Whatever the reason he didn't call, one thing is for certain. A life with my father is no longer a possibility. Our future together is gone.

That's his fault.

And now I've lost a future with Verity, too. And that's my fault. After the stupid, hurtful things I said to her, why would she want me to stick around? I mean, of course she doesn't care more about her work than she does about me. What a jerk-off, childish thing to say. And of course I'm not unhappy. Well, right now I am, but I wasn't, not all the time. Not anymore.

It's like I told you earlier. I can be combustible. But there are consequences to that.

Things were going so well. I don't know why I had to ruin it.

Yes, I do. Because I'm stupid like my father. I've got this dumb arrogance. This isolating pride.

And now who's left for me to turn to?

Happy where I am
.

I've backed myself into the proverbial corner.

I remembered earlier in the summer when, for about an hour, I was convinced that in the end I was the one really responsible for my parents' breakup and then for Alan's stealing me away. And if that's the truth, that all this crap has happened because of me, whether or not I meant anything bad to happen, and I didn't, how could I, then maybe it would be best for me to walk away from both parents (that's not entirely accurate, but you know what I mean) and let them get over me, the daughter who turned out to be a major annoyance all around. A major disappointment.

But of course, Verity has to agree to let me go. Legally, I'm under her control.

I can guess how she'll react when I tell her I'm going to live with Ellen and Richard. She'll probably be pissed (she'll think I'm an ungrateful bitch after all she's done for me, and I'll have to let her think that, though I am grateful), but she'll also be seriously relieved to get me out of here. There'll probably be another big fight. I'll try to keep my temper this time and not say anything I really don't mean. It's not Verity's fault all this shit has happened.

My mother.

I took my cell phone out of my pocket and called Ellen's number. She answered right away.

“It's me,” I said. “Gemma.” And then I rushed on, afraid that if I didn't, I'd lose the nerve. “I've decided I'll go to that school and live with you.”

“That's fantastic!” Ellen cried. “Oh my God, Richard will be so excited when I tell him!”

“Maybe you'd better wait a bit,” I said. “See, I haven't told Verity yet. She might not like it.”
Because she's my mother . . .

“Don't worry about her,” Ellen said firmly. “If she makes a fuss, Richard and I will come right over there and take care of everything.”

But I didn't want Ellen and Richard in Verity's home. Not because I'm ashamed of it in any way, but because . . . I don't know. It's been nice here, and there's a good feeling.... I mean, there
was
a good feeling.

“That's okay,” I said. “There's no rush. If she doesn't want me to go, you can talk to her over the phone. Tomorrow.”

“All right,” she said. “But you call me immediately if you feel she's pressuring you to change your mind. Promise?”

“Yeah,” I said. But I knew Verity wouldn't be pressuring me.

“Good. I'm going to call Greyson's admitting office right away and have them send out the application form, though it's only a formality at this point. Richard's taken care of that. Oh, Gemma, I'm so glad you're coming to live with us!”

I almost believed her, but I couldn't tell her I was glad, because I wasn't. I'm not. “I have to go now,” I said. “There's someone at the door.”

I got off the phone. Ellen had said she and Richard would “take care of” Verity if she tried to stand in the way of my leaving. She had said that Richard had “taken care” of my getting into Greyson.

Dad used to say that all the time when things weren't going right. “Don't worry,” he'd say. “I'll take care of it.”

I've never liked the sound of those words.

I sank onto the couch. My couch. I put my hands over my face. And then I started to cry.

What's done is done.