by Alice Archer
Because of me, somehow, Grant had turned a corner. The photographs were proof, in case I forgot. When I finally turned off my phone, I felt done—done with the past and ready to move on.
Chapter 78
Grant
I’d lost control of myself with Oliver, there in the grass by the car. He’d bludgeoned me with sex to protect his wounds and I’d fallen for it. Again.
While I berated myself, I couldn’t stop smiling.
The man did things to me, unprecedented things, things I didn’t regret, even though I probably should. I’d thrown Oliver around like a rag doll, bitten him from stem to stern, immersed myself in the pink pulse of him. His attempts to boss me around while I did whatever I wanted to him had boosted me to all-new levels of arousal.
The captured king fucked like a barbarian.
After Oliver left me at the DeVille, I put on my clothes and returned to the treehouse in a daze. At least my climax fog hadn’t kept me from getting a promise out of him. If only I knew whether I believed him. As I reflected on Oliver’s emotional extremes, I felt less confident about his promise.
I decided to reach out to Freddie for input. An online search turned up Freddie’s impressive website (Fredrik Tolliver, Award-Winning Freelance Journalist), and a cell number.
Freddie responded to my first text with, No, I won’t talk with you about Oliver. He’s fine. Leave me alone. I’m writing. I texted again, got no response, and didn’t try a third time. I didn’t want Freddie to block my number.
The next morning began with a curse when my phone alarm went off at 5:30. I’d worked out the timing for adding a shower at Clementine’s before we caught the 7:20 ferry. Grass-stained elbows and the reek of nasty sex wouldn’t impress my potential employers, or Mitch.
I pedaled through swirls of mist in dawn’s suffused light and mooned over Oliver. Out past the Willow Way corner where I’d seen Oliver zoom into the forest, I stopped to check the yellow flowers I’d puked on, glad to see they’d recovered.
I winked at the dew-laden blossoms. “How would you like to be my lucky charm?” Maybe an early call would irritate Freddie enough to want to berate me in real time.
“What the hell?” Freddie said when he answered. “It’s not even six the fuck o’clock. God, you’re a persistent dickhead.”
“Please don’t hang up. Give me one minute. Please.”
On a heavy sigh Freddie said, “Okay. Whatever. Go.”
“I’m genuinely worried about Oliver. He told me he hasn’t left his property in over a year, but I think it’s been much longer, and his behavior makes me think he’s moving toward a crisis point of some kind. Would you be willing to call Oliver before your trip on Saturday and try to talk with him about it? Maybe he’ll open up to you.”
“Oh, he’ll open up to me all right—once he’s away from you.”
I tried to focus past Freddie’s hostility. “Don’t you get it? I don’t think Oliver can leave his property, even if he wants to go with you. I’d be surprised if he could leave without therapy.”
“Fascinating.” The sarcasm in Freddie’s voice made me lay the bike onto the road so I could stomp around.
“Come on,” I said. “Can’t you see that Oliver is struggling? This isn’t the time for posturing.” I should have stopped there. “Or for being threatened by Oliver’s bit on the side.”
Freddie laughed. “That’s what you think? That I’m threatened by you?”
“I know you are.”
“I tell you what, while Oliver and I are away on our relaxing, sex-filled vacation this weekend, I’ll mention your concerns. If I think your claims have any validity, I’ll decide how to handle it. I’m not going to badger Oliver. That’s your thing.”
I huffed, exasperated. The guy seemed willfully obtuse. “It’s like you don’t hear a single thing I’m saying. If you see Oliver at the ferry, he will have gotten past the hard part without you.”
“Then more power to him. He told me he would meet me at the ferry. Unlike you, I’m not going to second-guess him.”
“When was the last time you saw Oliver in person?” I asked.
“He requires a lot of alone time.”
“Jeez,” I muttered. “No wonder he’s got problems.”
“I heard that. You’ve made your case. I said I’d mention it to him. Now I’m going to block your number.” The line went dead.
I kicked at the bike tire in frustration. I did second-guess Oliver, but someone needed to. I stomped a bit more and decided Oliver’s promise and Freddie’s reluctant agreement would have to suffice. I had my own problems to worry about.
I arrived at Clementine’s breathless and made a beeline for the shower, mindful of the timeline. When I got out she said, “You look nice.”
“Why thank you, ma’am.” I’d “ironed” my only button-up shirt by arranging it on the bed at the treehouse, then sitting on it while I read a book.
Our comfortable silence in the car lasted until Clementine turned onto Vashon Highway at the north end and I asked, “Do you know how Oliver’s getting to the ferry on Saturday?”
“Last I heard, he was going to drive the van to the upper lot. Talia said she’d drive it back to his place after her shift.”
That meant no one would be with Oliver when he tried to leave his property. I wasn’t sure what to do about it, if anything. Probably I should butt out.
The line for the ferry snaked up the hill. Clementine eased up to the end of the line and turned off the engine. Ahead of us, commuters stood beside cars, leaned on open doors, fiddled with phones, sipped from thermos cups, chatted, and waved to one another. To pass the time while we waited, I bombarded Clementine with questions.
“What were Oliver’s parents like? He never talks about his mom. Did she die?”
“Not that I know of,” Clementine said. “I knew Lucca, Oliver’s dad, a long time before he met Madeleine. I got to know her a bit when Oliver was a baby. She’s where Oliver gets his striking coloring from. Lord, Madeleine was a beauty. Lucca was devoted to her. At first, anyway.”
“What happened?”
“Madeleine was very ambitious. She was in her early twenties when she took an art class Lucca taught on Mercer Island, where she grew up. After they married, she moved to Vashon and commuted to Seattle to continue at the university.”
Although we couldn’t see the dock from our spot in the line-up, I heard the ferry arrive with a swoosh of waves and a clatter of metal. A few minutes later, a clump of traffic surged up the hill from the dock.
“Why did Lucca stop being devoted to her?” I asked.
“She got pregnant about a year after they married—right around the time she started graduate school. I think that was when they faltered.”
Way down the hill in front of us, vehicles in line began to move forward.
“By the time Madeleine finished her graduate degrees, she was also holding down a full-time job in the city,” Clementine said. “She had an apartment near downtown where she stayed during the work week.”
“Did she and Lucca split up?”
“Not at first, but Lucca railed against the arrangement. He and Matteo raised Oliver on Vashon while Madeleine spent most of her time in Seattle.”
We followed the car in front of us down the hill, rattled over the ramp to board the ferry. I checked the deckhands directing traffic into lanes on the ferry. None of them were Talia.
After a long silence, Clementine said, “Madeleine had a gift for banking and finance. She worked her way up the ranks at a big bank in Seattle, but refused job offers that would have taken her away from Oliver and Lucca.”
“I already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending,” I said.
“She got an offer she told Lucca she couldn’t refuse. In Europe somewhere.”
My heart gave a sympathetic lurch for Oliver.
I tapped my chest with my fist. “Ow.”
“I know. It was especially sad because Oliver was devoted to her.”
“Do you know where she is now?” I asked.
“No, and I’d be surprised if Oliver knew. I can say with great confidence that since Madeleine left, I’ve never once heard Oliver mention her.”
“That seems extreme, even for Oliver. There must be more to the story.”
“Probably. But by the time Madeleine left, I’d moved to the periphery of Lucca’s community. My own marriage wasn’t going well. I had a new baby and I felt…”
“That was Aza?”
Clementine nodded.
“You felt what?” I raised my voice to be heard over the rumble as the ferry pushed away from the dock.
“I was going to say I felt ambivalent, but that makes me sound like a heartless bitch about my only child. I wish to God I knew how much Aza’s problems had to do with my ineptitude as a mother.”
I tapped my chest again with my fist, to prevent the hollow sensation from growing.
Through the openings in the side of the ferry, we had a view northwest over Puget Sound. The mass of Bainbridge Island floated past.
“I guess Madeleine didn’t visit after she moved to Europe?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. I once heard Lucca refer to their divorce as a ‘documented amputation.’ Madeleine abdicated all claims to Lucca’s properties, income, art assets… everything.” Clementine cleared her throat. “Including Oliver.”
“Man, that’s harsh,” I said.
“It wouldn’t have been a financial hardship for Madeleine. She had her own wealth, from her family and her career.”
“Must have been a hell of a hardship for Oliver, though.”
“Yes. A big one.”
Clementine’s mention of Lucca’s art assets made me remember something else I’d been curious about. “Why doesn’t Oliver share his art? I don’t know much about art, but even the guy’s doodles seem brilliant enough to knock the world on its ass.”
“I really don’t know.” Clementine shook her head. “I used to push him to do more shows. He did several in Seattle, others in San Francisco and Chicago, but all before Lucca died.”
“Died how?”
“Heart attack. Very sudden.”
I wondered if that had been the trigger for Oliver to stick to his property. “How old was Oliver when his dad died?”
“Twenty-two. I was no help to Oliver, I’m sad to say. Aza had died the year before. It took me a long time to notice how much Oliver had withdrawn.” Clementine looked out at the view for a few minutes, then said, “If you ever get the chance, you should ask Oliver for a tour of the archives room.”
“Every inch of that house is an archive,” I said.
“Yes, but there’s more, and very little of the art on display is Oliver’s. The decor in the house is mostly a memorial to his ancestors. He comes from a long line of Italian artists. Matteo, Lucca’s dad, emigrated from Florence in his early twenties with his parents and his wife, Violetta. They were all artists descended from artists.”
I remembered the sign on Oliver’s mailbox: 24281 Violetta Road. “Doesn’t Oliver have cousins or uncles or any other relatives?”
“Not in America. Not that I know of. After Matteo’s parents died in Boston, he and Violetta came west, drawn by rumors of the quality of the light. They brought their art collection with them—heirloom pieces from Italy, from Matteo’s and Violetta’s families, plus the artwork they created, and pieces they acquired on their journey across the country.”
“I hope they had a security team.” I paused to marvel at the travel logistics and expenses.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did,” Clementine said.
“Was Violetta alive when Oliver was born?”
“No. She passed when Lucca was a young man. Matteo lived on for thirty more years. He and Lucca showed their art in galleries and museums all over North America. So many art shows I lost count. They made and collected more art, adding to their legacy. They designed the house to include a museum-quality archive room.”
The day I’d lugged my duffel bag of dirty laundry to Oliver’s house and nosed around, I’d seen a closed door next to Oliver’s little nooky room. That must have been the archive room. I took a mental walk around the house. “Yeah. Wow. Not a small room.”
“Lucca gave me a tour of it once.”
“Really?”
“It was…” Clementine shook her head. “I spent the entire time in tears. The sheer beauty packed into that one room. He showed me a pile of letters from museums, from collectors and curators—requests to borrow or buy pieces from “The Rossi Collection,” or to at least be allowed a tour.”
“Damn. That’s cool,” I said.
“People sometimes came to the house, by invitation only. Business-suited, very deferential people who’d spend hours in the archive room. That all ended when Lucca died.”
“So—what? Oliver makes amazing art and lobs it into the archive room?”
“I think so. He’s always creating—he’s proficient in a wide variety of media, and I’ve seen many pieces in process, but the decor in the house rarely changes, so those pieces must go somewhere. When I asked him about it, he shrugged and changed the subject.”
“I don’t like this,” I said. “It doesn’t seem healthy.”
“At some point, after all the losses, I think Oliver—”
“He stopped trying. Shifted his focus to helping others.”
Clementine gave a curt nod. She clammed up after that, like she needed time alone with the thought of not trying. She closed her eyes and reclined her seat back a few inches.
I gave her space, listened to the wet shushhh shushhh of the ferry’s passage, and digested the new information. Though our circumstances differed, I could relate to Oliver’s losses.
My family’s printing company would have failed if not for the hours my siblings and I worked. That was what our parents told us. For the first time, I saw how our parents valued their business more than their children. We represented labor-hours. They created us, then sacrificed our childhoods for the company’s greater good.
If my parents had liquidated their business and gotten regular, nine-to-five jobs, I could have slept until school started instead of working an early shift. I could have done my homework at home instead of working an afternoon shift. I could have played outside. We could have eaten dinner together. I could have had a birthday party.
I suddenly wished someone had reported my parents to Child Protective Services.
I put my fist to my chest a third time, blinked hard, and tapped my heart with gentle beats, a request to come back to life, an attempt to save my own life. No wonder the overburdened, neglected child in me didn’t want to work. No wonder he needed a summer off. He’d never had one.
I lost my childhood.
Clementine slept—mouth slightly open, hands together in her lap—while I leaked tears. To keep from disturbing her with my sniffles, I got out and walked to the opening in the side of the ferry to look out over the water and feel the moist breeze on my face.
I’d lost my childhood.
Oliver had lost all the people he loved most.
Maybe the broken place in Oliver broke more every time Freddie flew away. I could understand how going with Freddie might seem to Oliver like a good solution, a salve for his pain. But Freddie wasn’t the layer where Oliver hurt.
And finding a job I didn’t hate wasn’t the layer where I hurt.
Our answers, the answers with the power to mend our breaks, lay deeper, way down in the hurt at the original wound, where neither of us wanted to go.
Deep inside, the lonely children we still were sewed the scar tissue closed, sewed again, sewed through trial and terror, groped for tools small enough to fit o
ur small hands, tried and tried to rise above the bleeding.
Shouts for help through layers and fears and years.
Don’t forget about me.
Chapter 79
Oliver
Friday noon found me at the kitchen sink washing fruit for the Whidbey trip when a text came in from Grant. I dried the last apple and picked up my phone.
Got an interview at a copy shop by a park. Couldn’t have done it without you. Back to Vashon this evening with Clem.
Grant’s timeline meant I could finish packing for Whidbey before I returned his stuff to the treehouse. I stashed the apples in a plastic bin in the fridge with the bag of homemade protein bars I’d discovered in the bottom of the chest freezer.
I wondered how much Freddie would need to work while we were on Whidbey, and whether I trusted him to stick to work with the man he’d hooked up with there.
When all I had left to pack were conundrums, I called Freddie.
“Hey, you,” Freddie said. “Listen, when you get to the dock tomorrow, don’t look for Mom’s minivan. Cathy’s loaning me her Jetta.” Cathy, Freddie’s sister, must have driven up from Oregon for a visit.
“I don’t know what a Jetta looks like,” I said. “What color is it?”
“I don’t know. Silver? I’ll stand by the car. Look for me.”
“Should I bring a pillow? And how much food will we need? Will you bring an ice chest?”
“Sure, bring a pillow.” I heard the smile in Freddie’s voice. “It’s not a wilderness trek, babe. It’s two ferry rides with an hour and a half of driving in between. And there’s plenty of food on Whidbey to buy when we get there.”
“Oh.”
“You’re being very cute about this.”
“I feel ignorant,” I confessed.
“Hey, it’s understandable. You’ve been the head honcho at your art ranch for a long time. This trip is taking you out of your comfort zone. Relax. I’ll take care of you.”
With my packing questions answered, I was too distracted by the need to return Grant’s things to the treehouse to dwell on the note of condescension in Freddie’s voice.
