But privacy wasn’t something Clara seemed to understand. The earlier three texts had come while Bella was at work: What r u doing? And: Have to tell u something. The third text had sounded downright desperate: Where r u? Please, call me!
So Bella had called during her lunch break. What if Clara was in trouble with that guy who had sold her the pill? The last thing Bella wanted was to get involved even in the remotest possible way with a drug dealer, but at the same time, if Clara was in trouble, didn’t she owe Clara her help and support? They were supposed to be friends.
“Why didn’t you text me back?” Clara had demanded immediately.
“Because I’m at work,” Bella explained. “Phil doesn’t allow me to be on my phone when I’m supposed to be helping customers. I told you that.”
“That’s totally not fair,” Clara had stated.
“What do you need me for?”
“What? Oh. Nothing.”
Bella had managed to get off the phone before too much of her lunch break had slipped by, but she had been left feeling annoyed. None of her friends from the past had ever been the clingy sort. There probably were some people who didn’t mind or who even liked other people being dependent on them for everything, but Bella wasn’t one of them. Look at me. I’m miserable. You have to pay attention to me. As she sat alone in the back room of Phil’s shop, hurriedly eating the lunch her grandmother had prepared for her, it had occurred to Bella that maybe Clara liked being sad; maybe being needy gave her a sense of control over other people. She had certainly succeeded in gaining Bella’s attention—
“Okay,” Ruby said, interrupting Bella’s wonderings. “This should be done by now. Let me just take the lid off.”
Bella got up and stood next to her mother and grandmother. Together they peered into the metal cylinder inside the wooden tub.
“It’s still liquid,” her grandmother said. “Why didn’t it freeze? I could have sworn we did everything right this time. The ice, the rock salt. Maybe we just didn’t wait long enough, but we followed the recipe.”
Bella dipped a spoon into the metal cylinder. “It tastes okay,” she said. “It’s actually delicious. We could pour it over stuff.”
“Maybe the machine is the problem,” her mother suggested. “It is pretty old. Maybe we should buy a new one.”
“No,” Bella said firmly. “We’ll get this right.”
“Third time is often the charm,” her grandmother pointed out.
“Do we have any pound cake or biscuits or something?” Bella asked.
Dingding!
“Is that your phone again, Bella?”
Bella restrained a sigh. “Yeah,” she said, reaching into her pocket to turn off the phone’s ringer. “But it can wait.”
“Look what I just found in the freezer,” her mother announced. “A Sara Lee pound cake!”
“Awesome, Mom,” Bella said. “I’ll get some plates.”
Chapter 57
Frieda had dressed with some care for this evening. Phil was always so perfectly turned out; it wouldn’t do to embarrass her date by showing up in jeans and sneakers when he would be wearing one of his custom-fitted navy blazers over a bespoke shirt. So she had ironed her at-the-knee blush-pink linen skirt and her crisp white blouse with the wide collar and she had slid into her pearlized silver sling-backs. The shoes might be a bit much for the opening at The Barn Gallery, where two of Phil’s friends, Verity Peterson and Julia Einstein, were showing their work, but there was always the possibility that they would run into Jack Tennant. Why she should want to look attractive for someone she had turned away was a question Frieda preferred not to answer.
“Aaron used to love The Barn Gallery,” Frieda said as they sipped wine from plastic glasses and nodded greetings to people in passing. “He loved all art galleries and museums, really. I guess it was no surprise that he became an architect. He was so interested in the process of making art, so fascinated by the design experience.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “And I know exactly what Aaron would say about the ‘design’ that informs this—this thing before us.”
Frieda leaned closer to the object to which Phil was referring, a conglomeration of rope, chunks of metal, and what looked like an old-fashioned TV antenna. The sign on the base of the piece said DREAMSCAPE BY NICO. “Who’s Nico?” she asked Phil.
“A local mixed-media sculptor who, though a nice enough fellow, is, in my admittedly amateur opinion, entirely without talent.”
Frieda laughed. “Well, I have to agree with you there, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?”
“And I hear he makes a fortune. People from The Big Cities actually collect his work.” Phil shook his head. “Life is just full of mysteries.”
They wandered on through the gallery, noting several works that evinced real beauty and that testified to real skill. “I was thinking recently about my father’s talent with designing furniture,” Frieda told Phil. “Do you have anything of his?”
“I do,” Phil said. “There’s a storage chest in the guest bedroom that your father built for Tony and me not long after we four met. You must have seen it; it used to be in the dining room when Tony and I lived on Patrick’s Lane.” Phil shook his head. “Your father could have made a name for himself as a true craftsman. But he could never stick to anything. It’s a shame really, wasting all that talent.”
As they wandered on through the gallery Frieda couldn’t help but wonder if there was any joy in her father’s life or if he constantly dwelt on the fact that he had made a series of bad decisions, that he had neglected the feelings of others, that he had ignored his talents. Living with relentless disappointment could drive a person mad. It could make him want to end it all. Frieda shivered. No, she thought. Don’t think such dark thoughts. Not about Dad.
“It’s getting a bit too crowded for my taste,” Phil said, interrupting Frieda’s thoughts. “Let’s step outside for a bit and let this sudden influx of people see what they’ve come to see.”
“Good idea,” Frieda agreed. “I just got my toe stepped on.” Frieda followed Phil out into the parking lot, where several other people were gathered in small groups, chatting and sipping wine.
“Ruby told me what happened between you and Jack,” Phil said. “I’m sorry.”
Frieda sighed. “I’m sorry, too. Actually, I’m a bit nervous about running into him for the first time since . . . since our talk. I half expected to see him here tonight.”
“He might well be part of the throng. And if you do run into him don’t worry. Jack is a good man. He’ll be gracious.”
“It’s not Jack’s behavior I’m worried about,” Frieda told him. “It’s mine. I have a horrid feeling I’ll burst out crying.”
“You miss him.”
“Yes,” Frieda said. “I hardly know him, but I do. Maybe it’s because growing up together created a sort of bond. There’s something very grounding about the relationships you form in those early years, even the ones that are more tangential than primary.” Like the relationship with my father, Frieda added silently. And that was certainly primary.
Phil put his hand on Frieda’s shoulder for a moment. “I want to explain something to you, Frieda,” he said. “Maybe it will help you figure out your future in terms of a relationship with Jack. Maybe not. For me, falling in love with someone else after the loss of Tony was simply not something I could allow myself. My aloneness was my gift to Tony. It was the sacrifice I offered to him. It was the only way I could survive the terrible weight of the guilt. Why did Tony get sick and not me? How could life be so random and expect us to accept its randomness without going mad? Why was this plague attacking my community? What had we done to deserve this mass destruction?”
Frieda shook her head. “I’ve always wondered why someone as wonderful as you hadn’t fallen in love again. It’s been so many years.”
“Now you know why. But I want you to know that I wouldn’t recommend my path of a solitary life as the health
iest way to achieve healing. For me it was necessary, but I can be an odd duck, Frieda.”
Frieda smiled. “If you’re odd then what are the rest of us?”
“Seriously, Frieda, you’re not doing Bella any favors by setting an example of stagnation or stasis. And you’re certainly not showing yourself the proper respect by consciously rejecting the possibility of happiness. But that’s just my opinion as someone who’s known and loved you since you were a little girl. Now come on. Let’s go back inside. Maybe the crowd has thinned a bit. Besides, I can’t leave without saying hello to Verity and Julia.”
Phil took Frieda’s elbow and guided her back inside the building, where the crowd had indeed thinned. Two elderly men immediately approached Phil; they wanted to talk to him about purchasing fabric for a settee that needed upholstering. While Phil excused himself for a moment to advise the men, Frieda got herself another glass of wine and gazed around the gallery. There was no sign of Jack in the main room or coming out of either of the two smaller rooms or from the tiny garden out back. A part of her felt relieved; another part of her felt disappointed. She thought about what Jack had said when they had last met. Take care of yourself, Frieda. Was that what she was doing by rejecting a romance, “taking care of herself”? Or was she instead depriving herself of something that might actually be good for her?
Before she could tackle that difficult question, Phil rejoined her.
“Problem solved?” she asked.
Phil nodded. “Rob and Kurt will come to the shop tomorrow to take a look at a few fabrics I think might suit. And if they can’t find something they love, I’ll place a special order. They’ve been great customers for years.”
“Service with a smile?” Frieda said.
“You bet. There’s Verity over by one of her works; she’s the woman wearing that amazing silver arm cuff. Come on,” Phil said, taking her hand. “I’ll introduce you.”
As Frieda accompanied Phil through the gallery space, the question she had been pondering earlier came back to her. Had ending her nascent relationship with Jack Tennant been the right thing to do after all? It was still a good question to which there was still no easy answer.
At least Bella is safe, Frieda thought as they approached Phil’s friend Verity. At least she doesn’t seem angry with me anymore. And that’s all that really matters.
Chapter 58
Bella peered through one of the small and now rather dirty windows in Clara’s room. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the beach or something?” she said. “It’s a beautiful day. We shouldn’t be cooped up in here. Hey, I have an idea. We could go to one of those miniature golf places in Wells. I haven’t played miniature golf since . . .” Since Ariel was alive, she thought. “I’ll help pay for gas.”
“No, I’m good.” Clara was slumped in the room’s one chair, her legs splayed. The jeans she was wearing were dirty around the bottoms, as if she had walked through a muddy puddle and failed to notice the results.
Bella sighed and flopped down on the edge of Clara’s single bed. She noticed that there was a stain on the sheet; it looked like mustard and vaguely she wondered when Clara had last done laundry. She knew there was a small washing machine and dryer off the kitchen. How hard could it be to toss a sheet and a pair of jeans into the machine?
“How are your parents?” Bella asked suddenly.
Clara frowned. “Fine.”
“When was the last time you talked to them?”
“I don’t know,” Clara said with a shrug. “The other day, I guess.”
“Do they know that you’re . . .” Bella wasn’t quite sure what to say. Do they know that you’re depressed? Sad? Lonely?
“Do they know that I’m what?” Clara snapped. “We’re not close. We never were.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why when I met Marc . . . Here, I want to show you something.” Clara got up from the chair, came across the room, and sat next to Bella on the bed. She reached into the small front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a silver-colored coin. Clara handed the object to Bella. The piece bore the image of a wolf’s head.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What is it?”
“It belongs to Marc,” Clara explained. “His last name is Wolf and his favorite animal is the wolf. He’s seriously into the preservation of their habitats.”
“So,” Bella asked, returning the coin to Clara, “if it’s Marc’s, why do you have it? Did he give it to you?”
“No. A few days before he left for California I took it from the glove compartment of his car.”
Bella’s eyes widened. “You mean you broke into his car?”
“Of course not. I had a key made for myself a long time ago.”
“Did Marc know that?”
Clara shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded.”
You stole the coin, Bella thought. That’s not right. That’s a crime. It’s a violation of trust. “It looks pretty old,” she said. “It might be valuable.”
“It is old,” Clara said. “It once belonged to Marc’s great-grandfather. I keep it under my pillow at night. And during the day I keep it in my pocket. If it’s close to me always and I think hard enough about Marc, I just know he’ll come back to me.”
For a moment Bella didn’t know what to say. She recognized this type of magical thinking from her own experience immediately after the accident. Maybe I can reverse time if only I . . . Maybe I can bring them back if only I . . .
“But clearly the coin means something to Marc,” she finally pointed out. “It’s a family heirloom. He must be upset that it’s gone. His parents might even be angry with him for losing it. Except that he didn’t lose it.”
Clara looked down at the coin in her hand and then she twisted on the bed to face Bella. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “and something finally became clear. It was Marc’s parents who made him break up with me. They never liked me, right from the beginning. I could tell by the way they treated me when I’d come by the house. His mother used to give me this nasty look. His sister, too. His sister hates me. She would barely say hello to me even though we were on the lacrosse team together.” Clara’s foot started to tap against the floor. “If I could just talk to Marc without their interfering,” she went on. “But Marc changed his phone number, so I can’t reach him.”
Bella had no idea how to respond. Clara might be at least partially right—maybe Marc’s family really didn’t like her—but Bella thought she heard a strong note of paranoia in Clara’s voice. And the look of almost manic determination in her eyes disturbed Bella.
Suddenly Clara jumped up from the bed and went over to the dresser. “Here,” she said, lifting the lid on the small metal box. “I have something for you.” She came back to Bella and told her to open her hand. Into the hand she dropped a small white pill. “Take it,” she said. “It’s a gift.”
Bella felt her stomach flutter unpleasantly. “That’s okay,” she said, extending her hand toward Clara. “I don’t want it.”
“You can’t refuse a gift,” Clara said. “It’s rude.”
“But—”
Clara’s expression darkened. “Bella, I mean it. I want you to take it.”
For a moment Bella said nothing. She had had enough of Clara and her obsession with Marc. All I want, she thought, is to get out of here. And the easiest way to do that would probably be to go along with Clara. “Fine,” she said. She opened her small leather cross-body bag and dropped the pill into it. “I’ve got to go. I promised my grandmother I’d pick up a book she put on hold at the library.”
“Oh.” Clara’s expression changed from anger to sadness. For a second Bella thought she was going to cry. “Too bad. When will I see you again?”
Bella shrugged. “We’ll talk,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Bye.”
* * *
Bella stood in the middle of her room on Kinders Lane. She was glad no one else was at home. She stared down at the little
white pill Clara had given her and felt afraid, as if the pill had the power to hurt her just by sitting in the palm of her hand. For the entire ride back from the cottage she had felt as if there were a big red arrow over her head, an indication that she, Bella Marie Braithwaite, was in possession of something she shouldn’t be.
Suddenly Bella strode over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. She would hide the pill. She would forget about it. She would . . . And then she came to her senses. What in the world was she doing? Quickly she hurried to the bathroom in the hall, where without another moment’s hesitation she flushed the pill into oblivion.
Once back in her room, the door closed behind her, Bella lay on her bed. Her mind was awhirl. She thought about how Clara had urged her to pick the lock of Ariel’s diary. She thought about how Clara had admitted she had once picked a lock and how she had admitted to stealing Marc’s heirloom coin. She thought about how Clara had almost bragged about sitting in her car outside Marc’s house all night after he had dumped her; about leaving pleading notes in Marc’s mailbox; about following him around town, ducking into doorways if she thought he had detected her; about spending hours in the big-box hardware store where Marc worked after school and on weekends, hoping for a glimpse of him as he wheeled a hand truck loaded with boxes or restocked shelves of lightbulbs.
Theft. Stalking. Bella wondered if Marc had ever confronted Clara, warned her he would get a restraining order if she didn’t back off. She wondered if he had told his parents about what was happening. She wondered if he had ever been afraid of his ex-girlfriend. For all Bella knew, Marc’s decision to go to a college on the West Coast was a desperate effort to escape from what had become a suffocating relationship. Or maybe Clara’s obsession had only started after Marc broke up with her.
Home for the Summer Page 22
