Seashell Season (35 page)

Chapter 102

“I
heard Verity and my mother talking. I came right over. Is it true, Gemma? Are you going to live with those cousins in Massachusetts?”

I looked down at my hands. I forgot I'd been wearing one of Verity's rings—with her permission—since yesterday morning, before Alan's non-call. Before our fight. It was silver, set with a small triangular turquoise. I took it off and put it in my pocket. “Yeah,” I said.

Cathy, perched on the edge of the lounge chair next to me, shook her head. “I can't believe you're going.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am,” she said earnestly. Everything about Cathy is earnest. It used to annoy me. “I thought we were, I don't know. I thought we were all friends.”

I cringed. That word again. I'd called Cathy my friend more than once. “Well,” I said, “Greyson is a really good school, so . . .”

It was a pathetic reply. Cathy didn't bother to argue it.

“Verity must be devastated. Sorry, Gemma, but I heard her before, at my house.”

I thought:
Is she?
Then why did she say sure, go ahead, go live with Ellen and Richard?

Okay. That's not exactly how it happened, but still. She didn't say no.

Had I wanted her to? Had I secretly hoped she would refuse to let me leave, take the choice out of my hands?

“But why?” Cathy persisted. “Why are you leaving when you've only been here a few months? You haven't even given life here a real chance!”

“Don't tell me what I have or haven't done,” I said, but there was no real anger behind those words.

She was sort of right, after all.

Cathy got up from the lounge. “I have to go,” she said. “I've got a babysitting job at two.”

“Okay.”

“Look, are you really sure about this?”

I was glad I was wearing sunglasses. Well, actually, they were Verity's backup pair. She'd told me I could wear them if I couldn't find my own.

I was glad I was wearing sunglasses because I couldn't stop my eyes from going all watery. “Yeah,” I said quickly. “I'm sure.”

When Cathy had gone, I grabbed my bike, the one Verity had bought me, and pedaled as hard and fast as I could down to the beach.

I wonder how close to the beach I'll be living in Lexington. I should look at a map, I suppose. I'll definitely miss being able to hop on my bike and be at the water in fifteen minutes.

The beach was crowded—it was one of those perfect days we seem to get here a lot, and it was almost fully high tide, so there wasn't a lot of sand to go around—but I eventually found a fairly private spot up close to the dunes, what there are of them. (Some bits are restricted because of these little birds that nest there.) I sat right on the sand because I'd neglected to bring a blanket or a towel with me. There was this tangle of seaweed and rope I thought I'd like to draw, but I'd left the house in such a hurry, I forgot to grab a sketchbook, too.
I should keep one in my panniers,
I thought.
And a towel.
And then I realized that when I go to live in Lexington, I'll have to leave the secondhand Tyler and my hand-me-down panniers here with Verity and take the Trek Ellen bought me.

I wonder if Verity will keep the old bike, in case I want it someday. She should try to sell it and get some of her money back.

There's an art department at Greyson. I saw that on the website. But I wonder if every time I pick up a pencil I'll think of Verity and coming here by myself to the beach and how I enjoyed it so much and feel too, I don't know, too nostalgic to work. Too sad. I don't want to stop drawing, but maybe I will. Maybe I won't even have the time to take art classes if it turns out I have to catch up with the other kids in my grade, which is totally possible, given the relatively crappy education I've had so far.

It's all a giant mess.

I pulled up my knees, wrapped my arms around them, and rested my head on my arms. The sound of the surf coming increasingly closer was loud in my ears but not loud enough to drown out the sound of my sobbing.

Chapter 103

W
hen I got home from Annie's, I found the house empty, and for a split second I panicked and was convinced Ellen and Richard had spirited Gemma away.

It was with some difficulty that I got control of myself enough to check for her bike in the garage. The Tyler was gone. The Trek was there.

Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. Right?

Actually, I think that's a myth.

I went back into the house and called David at the college, where I knew he would be. And I told him the whole story, from Alan's missed call and Gemma's sad and bitter mood right afterward, to my upsetting conversation with Marty McGinty (of course, David already knew about the break-in at the college but not about the likely cancelation of my course), to the ridiculous blowup that had resulted in Gemma's deciding to go off and live with Alan's cousin. David listened without intrusive comment.

When I finished the tale, I felt exhausted. I am exhausted.

“Well?” I said.

“This is a train wreck,” David said promptly. “Sorry, but I can't pretend I think Gemma's going off with those two is a good idea.”

“I'm not asking you to pretend,” I said.

“And she hasn't given you a reason?”

“No. I can make a few guesses, but I might very well be wrong. As Annie pointed out, I don't really know my daughter, do I?”

“Sadly, Annie's right. None of us really know her. Look, Verity, don't go down without a fight.”

“This isn't a contest between Gemma and me,” I protested.

“No, it's a contest between you and Ellen. At least that's how she sees it. It's a battle of wills, with Gemma the prize.”

“David,” I asked, not expecting a definitive answer, “why does Ellen want her?”

“All that matters for us is that she does. Look, is she willing to put anything in writing? Has she brought in a lawyer? What if she gets Gemma down there to Lexington and then changes her mind? Are there stipulations to this arrangement?”

My head was swimming. “David, I don't know the answer to any of those questions. I told you, I haven't spoken to her yet.”

“I'd like to know what her husband really thinks of this scheme.”

“I wish you wouldn't use that word.
Scheme
.”

“All right, this plan. Does he really care about Gemma's future or is he just letting his bored wife amuse herself?”

Richard had to have consented to the idea of Greyson and all that went with it, I thought. All the money that was involved. . .

“What's in it for him?” David went on. “Why is he taking in a seventeen-year-old girl he barely knows?”

“Stop!” I cried. “I know what you're saying.” Of course the black thought had occurred to me, that one or both of them could be a sexual predator. It's why I'd gone to Bill Morrison and asked for his help in vetting Ellen and Richard.

“When are you talking to them?” David asked.

“I'm planning on calling as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“Take some deep breaths first. Seriously, Verity, if you don't feel you can be strong, wait to make the call.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll be careful, but wish me luck anyway.” Ellen, the emotional vampire. Is that what she is?

“I'm wishing you more than luck,” he said. “And, Verity? You know I'll do anything you need me to do. Anything.”

“I know,” I said.

I do know.

 

I sat very still for a long time after my conversation with Ellen, hands in my lap. I felt stunned, patronized, and bullied, much as I had felt at the encounter with her at Joe's Diner.

And I felt guilty, guilty for seeming to want to hold my daughter back from a chance for a bright and shining future. Ellen and Richard's version of a bright and shining future.

My manner on the phone was purposefully formal. It seemed a wiser choice than screaming and yelling at the woman with whom my daughter had chosen to entrust herself for at least the next school year. Ellen's manner was upbeat, almost breezy. Well, why wouldn't it be? She had won. She had gotten what she wanted, whatever that was in the end.

I attempted to discuss a few practical matters.

“I'll want to visit her, of course,” I said. I don't want to ask for permission to see my own child, but I know I can't just be dropping in on Ellen and Richard whenever I feel like it. Rather, whenever I have time to make the two-hour trip there and the two-hour trip back.

“Of course,” Ellen said soothingly. “She will be very busy, though. It might be best to wait and see how she's adjusting at Greyson before scheduling too many social calls.”

It was an evasive answer, and only the first of many.

“What about the holidays?” I said. “Thanksgiving and Christmas. I'd like her to come home for the holidays.”

“I know you do, Verity. Though there's an awful lot going on at Greyson around Thanksgiving, a semiformal dance for one, and an overnight to New York City. Gemma might not want to miss the activities and the chance to spend some downtime with her new friends.”

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

“As for Christmas, Richard and I usually escape to a warm climate for a week, and Gemma did express some interest in joining us. She has almost a full two weeks off then, and I know you'd hate to keep her from a chance to travel.” Ellen laughed. “When I told her we love to visit Hawaii, her eyes almost popped out of her head!”

Had they? Gemma has never said anything about Hawaii to me. I couldn't bear to bring up the projected spring visit to Paris.

In the end, I suspect I'll have to let Gemma be the one to decide where she spends her free time. Let her go and see if she comes back. That's the mature thing to do, isn't it?

“There's her clothing,” I went on, my manner still formal, if less assured. Inside, I was flailing, losing ground. “We need to discuss an allowance. And what to do about her immediate medical care if she should get sick. She's hoping to start driving lessons this fall. And you know she talks to her father once a week. You have to let her talk to him if she wants to.”

“All those things will be taken care of, Verity.”

“Her life . . .” I almost couldn't go on in the face of Ellen's continued bland assurances. “Her life needs to be stable.”

“And that's exactly what Richard and I can provide. Stability.”

Implying, of course, that I could not.

“I'd like,” I said, “whatever final agreement we come to, to be in writing.”

Ellen laughed. “You don't have faith in me. Oh, Verity, I'm not like my cousin. You can trust me not to do anything to harm your daughter.”

“Still,” I pressed, “I'd like the arrangement to be formalized in some way, for Gemma's protection and my own peace of mind.”

“All right, of course. I'll talk to Richard, and he'll take care of everything.”

There was so much more to say, but I had to get off the phone. It was all too much.

Maybe I should ask David to be with me when I next talk to Ellen. Richard should be present too, especially if he's going to “take care of everything,” whatever that means exactly. Maybe I should bring along a lawyer of my own. David's good friend in Portland might help us for a rate.

Oh, I just don't know!

One thing I do know for sure: Spending another Thanksgiving and Christmas without Gemma, after the tease of having her with me this summer, will be unbearable.

Simply unbearable.

Chapter 104

“A
nd this,” Ellen said, “is a view of the south side of the house. See the trellis? We get the most gorgeous roses in June.”

I nodded. “So, you do the garden and stuff?”

Ellen looked shocked. “No, no,” she said. “We have a man in to handle the landscaping. And this, this is a view of the solarium out back, and this, this is the interior of the library.”

We were sitting at the island or bar or whatever you call it in the kitchen of the McMansion, after yet another lunch out, this time at a place in Kennebunkport called Hurricane. I was dying to peek in the fridge and see if there was anything in there but bottles of the Prosecco Ellen seemed to love and maybe some milk for coffee. Ellen had told me the only time they really cooked was when Richard grilled—he was the guy responsible for the incredible hamburgers. “All the sides at our parties are catered,” she explained when I'd asked if she could give Verity the recipe for that carrot raisin salad I liked. “I don't have a clue as to what's in what.”

“But what about everyday meals?” I'd asked. “You don't use a catering service for those, do you?”

Ellen laughed. “Of course not! We mostly order in or I throw together a salad.”

“What's this?” I asked, pointing to the next picture on her phone. This picture showed a bow window up high above the rose trellis. I don't think I've ever seen a bow window (how do I even know that term?) anywhere but on the ground floor of a house.

“That's our suite, Richard's and mine,” Ellen said. “We did a major reconstruction of our rooms before we moved into the house. We both wanted to maximize the light, and the existing closet space was ridiculously inadequate. Look, here's a picture of our bathroom. We have a Jacuzzi and a Japanese soaking tub. I find soaking in warm water the most relaxing and beneficial thing ever.”

I thought of Verity's bathroom back home. Our bathroom, with its shower and no tub.

I've never been a big fan of sitting around in water, warm or cold.

I needed—I still need—to know more about what my life is going to be like in that house with the trellis of roses and the solarium and the library. (I wonder what Ellen reads.) I have to say it's got a lot more character than the house they're renting this summer. I say “character,” and now I think what I should say instead is that Ellen's house in Lexington reminds me a bit of a castle, although not a huge one, but definitely a castle, the kind with a dungeon.

I'm not saying I really believe there's a dungeon in Ellen and Richard's house, or that there are actual instruments of torture in its probably ordinary basement. I'm not an idiot. But looking at the pictures of the house made me feel sort of—anxious—about living in it. Like it isn't straightforward or something.

Shit, I don't know what I'm saying!

“Am I going to have chores?” I asked. Dad never assigned me chores. He never had to. I always did a lot of stuff around our house or apartment or wherever it was we were living. Like taking our dirty clothes and sheets and towels to the Laundromat.

Funny. My not helping out with the laundry at Verity's house was what we fought about.

Though of course the fight wasn't really about laundry.

Ellen waved her hand dismissively. “We'll work something out.”

“I suppose I could make dinner sometimes,” I said. “Or lunch.” What I was thinking was:
What can I give in return for all the stuff Ellen and Richard are giving me? What do they really expect from me besides doing well in school and not embarrassing them in front of their rich friends?
Not that they've said I shouldn't embarrass them; I figured that part out on my own.

Ellen took a sip of water. She always drinks bottled water with a slice of lemon. When she's not drinking Prosecco or a pink cocktail. “We'll see how things go.”

“I guess I'll have a curfew.”

Ellen put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Gemma,” she said, “you think too much.”

Really? I wasn't aware thinking too much was possible!

I tried one more time to get a definitive answer from my father's cousin.

“When I get my driver's license,” I said, “do I need to have an eye exam? I haven't had my eyes checked since I was in first or second grade. I had some sort of infection for a while. I had to wear a patch.”

Ellen got up from her tall chair and went over to the sink to dump the slice of lemon from her glass. Every time she pours more water into her glass, she adds a fresh slice of lemon.

“Richard will take care of it,” she said.

Of course he will,
I thought.
Of course he will.

 

And again,
Richard will take care of it.

I want to scream. Why can't Ellen give me a straight answer? Verity always does. Why won't Ellen just respect me enough to explain to me how things are going to play out day to day, week to week?

But as annoyed and as frustrated as I was, sitting in the kitchen of Ellen's rented house, I said nothing. As annoyed and as frustrated as I am, sitting here in Verity's kitchen, I'll say nothing.

Too late. It's too late.