“You never know what might happen… You just go on and things will work out, mark my words. You need a gingerbread milkshake,” CeeCee said. “Always makes things clearer.”
“Thanks, Cee.” I leaned my elbows on the bench, and cupped my face, watching her work. She ambled around the kitchen, grabbing milk and spices, and whipping some cream in a handheld blender. When she placed the drink in front of me, my mouth watered. Spicy, nutty, and dolloped with so much cream, it’d fill me up if I managed to drink it all.
“Lil’s been baking up a storm, practicing a bunch o’ new recipes. What else you lovebirds got to do for the festival?”
I blushed at the term, and then guilt crept up and tapped me on the shoulder. Clay and I had spent the better part of the last few days lying entwined, on the soft green grass by the lake when we should have been working.
“Oh,” I said. “Fix a few garden beds. Pick up the bain-marie. Confirm with the band. Buy napkins, and the decorations…”
“Never you mind,” CeeCee said. “‘Tween all of us, we’ll get it done. You know Walt said he’d come, and I’m just about giddy with happiness for him. Lil and Damon went to visit, and you know what…he was working on some furniture. Things might just be looking up for our Walt.”
“Oh that’s great news, Cee.”
She put her hands on her plump hips. “I was thinkin’ we could introduce him to Clay, maybe they can bond over furniture or some such, and it might bring him outta the house more.”
“Might get them both out more,” I said.
“Two miracles in one day?” She laughed. “It’s happened before.”
***
Back at the B and B, I dialed Mom’s cell. It rang out, so I washed up, brushed my teeth, and called her again. This time she answered, but a coughing jag got the better of her.
“Sorry, honey. Dang cough. How’s things? It’s late.”
“Were you asleep?”
“I can’t sleep in this awful place…sometimes—” She broke off, suddenly.
My skin broke out in goose bumps. I knew she was keeping something from me. “What place? Where are you, Mom?”
Silence hung between us. I listened hard—voices, TVs in the background. My heart beat so hard, I could feel it in my ears. “Mom…” I tried to keep my voice level, hoping my first instinct was wrong. “Do not tell me you’ve moved into that place, please.” I spoke through clenched teeth, as realization hit me hard.
“Honey…”
I stifled a sob. “Aunt Margot was never there, was she?” That explained all the dodged phone calls, Mom allegedly asleep when Aunt Margot was hundreds of miles away in her own house.
She sighed, rasping. “It’s for the best.”
“The best?” I spat the words. My brain was about to explode. I couldn’t believe she’d do this. The one thing we’d always vowed would never happen. Her moving into the state facility. Aunt Margot must have paid a paltry amount to make it happen, and wiped her hands, probably thinking she was a savior. My chest seized. “Why, Mom? WHY?” The sobs escaped as I thought of her in that place, where there were too many beds crammed into the rooms. Where it was understaffed, and busy, too noisy for her, and she was too easygoing to ask for what she needed.
“It’s not so bad. Now I want you to listen to me. Lucy, this would have happened anyway. You’d work yourself into an early grave the way you were going, and I won’t have it.”
“No!” I let the tears fall. Part of me wanted to scream at her for doing this, and the other part wanted to curl up and sob. Our family of two that had been split up the middle. “No way, Mom. I’m coming straight back. I’m leaving…”
“Oh no you’re not, Lucy! I won’t have you wasting your life anymore! I forbid you to come back! You hear me?” Her voice rose. She’d never yelled at me before. “You made me a promise and you’re going to keep it!”
“So you lied? This whole trip was built on a lie? The promise was for nothing! Just like yours was!” I couldn’t comprehend why she’d do such a thing. Facilities like that meant the end was near, and it goddamn wasn’t.
“What?” she asked quietly.
I took a deep shuddery breath. “I know you broke a promise to Aunt Margot, and that’s what started the fight.”
Silence met me.
“Mom?”
“How’d you know about that? Did she tell you?”
“No, of course not. I’ve overheard you arguing about it. So what was it, Mom? You can break your promises, but I can’t break mine, even when it means you’re there, in that hovel of a place?”
She sighed, a long crackly sound, and guilt rushed me, thinking how this would affect her later. “Aunt Margot wanted me to stop traveling when I had you. She made me promise after your father left, that if I wanted to travel I was to leave you with her, so you could get a proper education, have some roots. Of course, I promised her. Because I didn’t think we’d leave.” A cough caught her unawares, so I waited for her to stop, all the while trying to envisage myself being raised my Aunt Margot.
She continued, her words slurring slightly. “I thought we’d have the dog, the cat, the car, the job, live in the burbs…but I just couldn’t do it. So I packed us up and left, and Margot got as upset as I’ve ever seen her. She said some pretty horrible things to me, and I lashed out too. Every day, I regret what I said to her. Nasty things, that I tried to take back, but couldn’t.”
“What did you say?” I couldn’t imagine my mom saying anything hurtful; I’d never heard her raise her voice until today.
“I told her…” she paused, catching her breath “…that she wasn’t going to steal my child just because she couldn’t have her own. It was cruel, and mean, and I still don’t know why I said it. But she was so intent on you being raised the ‘normal’ way, that I couldn’t stand it. What’s wrong with doing things differently? She backed me into a corner, and told me how unlucky you were to have a mother like me, someone so selfish—that only my wants and needs were met.”
I ran a hand through my hair, my mind spinning. I knew Aunt Margot had frowned upon our travels but I didn’t think it was that serious. My feelings toward her softened a little, because she thought she’d had my best interests at heart.
“I don’t know what to say, Mom.” I’d never thought Mom was selfish for wanting an alternative lifestyle. I’d always admired her for it. I could see, though, how Aunt Margot railed against it. Living simply, sometimes with only a penny or two—it was probably frightening for her to imagine.
“Why didn’t she adopt, or try another way, if she wanted children?”
Mom tutted. “Victor wouldn’t. Downright refused. So Margot then took a shine to redecorating her house every six months or so… I think she wanted to be a mom so bad, it almost killed her. It killed our relationship.”
“So let me get this straight…you called her and asked for help?” Now the secrets were out I had to know how they’d managed it, and what I could do to fix it.
“I’ve been writing her for years, keeping her informed of our progress, and one day, she wrote me back, after all that time. She wanted to help you, Lucy. She always has. So I told her all about the Van Gogh Institute and we came up with this plan. Though, of course, she tried to make all these demands, like you go off to college here and that kind of thing. I said I would only agree if the deal was you get one year for yourself, with no strings attached.”
“And what did she have to do with it? Did she pay for the facility?” It hurt to even say the word.
“Yeah, she did. And I asked her to come visit me, but she’s still mulling that one over. I guess a fight that’s carried on this long can’t be resolved that quick. You know how much I hate asking for help, but we both thought your future was important, and time to be young, while you still are…so here I am.”
I clutched the phone, as tears spilled, for her, for me, for Aunt Margot. We’d all had things to overcome in order to survive. What a team we’d make if we’d been more o
pen with each other. “It’s not fair, Mom. We agreed you’d never, ever go there. They can’t look after you there, not like I can.”
“It wasn’t fair on you.” Her voice softened. “I’ll be OK…I really will. When you’re a mom, Lucy, you’ll understand better. I love you more than I can put into words, and if that means I lose a bit of sleep here, then it’s worth it for you to have the life you should.”
“But how can I, now I know you’re there?” The thought of me traipsing around, laughing and smiling each day, while Mom was cooped up in a gray room, the sound of so many TVs blaring, depressed me.
“Because it’s only one year! I have friends here, now. I’m quite popular you know.” She laughed, and it sounded real.
“Like who?”
“Like Curt, and Stevie, and Craig. There’s Meryl, and Dianne… I mean it, they’re great people, honey. They understand what it’s like to be me; it’s kind of like one big support group.”
“So Aunt Margot never came and stayed at all?” My voice dropped. I was hurt they hid it from me, and while I understood their motivations, it didn’t make it any easier.
“No, honey, but she paid for someone to move our stuff into storage, and clean the place up.”
The paintings we’d found at the farm flashed through my mind. I was suddenly glad I didn’t send them to a vacant apartment.
The fight left my body, and I slumped, unsure of what to say, or do. “Are your friends nice?”
“They are, and they are sick of hearing about my pretty daughter the painter, I’m sure. Did you hear back yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You will,” she said, her voice certain. “Soon.”
“You sure you’re comfortable there, Mom?”
“I am, honey. As good as gold, knowing my baby is out there living life. That’s the best feeling in the world, and I get to have that every day for a whole year. Nothing’s better.”
I wasn’t convinced. She needed to be at home, somewhere quiet, someone safe. When she wasn’t well, she’d have the privacy and the dignity that afforded.
“I’m going to try and get some rest now, most of my roommates have turned in, so it’s lights out. I’ll speak to you soon?”
We said our goodbyes, and I clicked off the phone, wondering how she’d managed to keep that from me for so long.
***
Sleep eluded me; I spent the better part of the might tossing and turning, my mind unable to stop spinning. I flicked on the bedside lamp, and snatched up the last journal.
No one knows I’m here, except my sister, and she’d never tell. I’ve changed my name. I get word from her that they’re looking for me. My work is now worth triple, apparently. They want to know where the last two paintings are. Those paintings, I could name the price. What’s money, though? The only person I’d give those paintings to is God, and that’s only if he brought her back to me for one more day. I’ll never leave here, not until I’m carried out. And no one will ever know.
I gasped. The paintings. I wrenched the covers back, and jumped out of bed. They were standing inside the closet, against the wall out of harm’s way. They must have been worth a ton of money. Or was Jessup a crazy old man, like Clay said?
Hastily, I snatched up my cell phone, and took two quick pictures and texted them to Adele in Paris. She hadn’t responded about the sketches but maybe she’d recognize the paintings. I kneeled down and took a close-up of the signature, which was scrawled in red paint: JDS.
Jessup…what? With shaking hands I sent the pictures to Adele with a text asking her who she thought JDS was and to respond urgently. In the meantime, I crouched in front of them. Were those earlier feelings of recognition with the sketches were because he was someone well known? Someone famous enough that he had to hide out in sleepy old Ashford in order for the world to forget he ever existed?
My phone pinged. Adele!
“Is this some kind of joke?”
My hands shook too much to text, so I dialed her number.
“Lucy, what’s going on?” Her voice was high-pitched with excitement. “Where are those paintings?” Her words tumbled out in haste.
“Here with me. In my room in Ashford.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it shook regardless.
“What? Are you kidding me? Please tell me you’re not playing some kind of prank.”
“No.” She must know! My hands quaked. “Who is he?”
She screeched right down the phone. “JDS is none other than Jeremiah David Sampson. And those two paintings are the ones that went missing when he did. Don’t you remember? It was all over the news for months… His wife, she died in a car crash. And he never painted again. Ever since there’s been conspiracy theories about where exactly those two paintings ended up. They were his last, and in an exhibition at the Steinwick Gallery in New York, but he took them back, and was never seen again. And neither were they.”
My palms were sweaty. I absently ran a hand down my jeans. “I must have been a child when that happened. But I knew his work was familiar. I recognized it.”
Adele cut in, “The eyes, he was famous for the way he made them a story unto themselves. I should have realized when I saw the pictures you sent of the sketches, but I thought maybe it was someone simply copying his style. And I hadn’t had a chance to get back to you because a friend had a crisis so I’ve been in Provence for the last few weeks.”
“The eyes…yes! That’s what I was drawn to as well. So Jessup was Jeremiah? And no one knew he was here except his sister?”
“I don’t know about his sister, but all I know is, people looked but they couldn’t find him. He vanished.”
“His nephew, Clay, inherited his farm, but I don’t think he knows about this either. He gave me the paintings like he was giving me a quart of milk…”
Adele gasped, shell-shocked, like I was. “They were there the whole time? I mean…I just can’t believe it. And Clay gave them to you?”
“He did, not knowing they’re worth a lot of money.” My heart raced and I tried to stay focused. “If you could read the things Jessup wrote about his wife, gosh, it’s heartbreaking. Without her, nothing mattered to him. He said the only person he’d sell those paintings to was God, and that’s only if He gave her back, for one more day.”
“Wait, so you have the journals, too, admitting who he was?”
“He alludes to it.”
She blew out a breath. “But his handwriting, they’d be able to analyze it. There’d be no question those paintings are genuine. And his sister, they’d be able to trace her.”
“You can make out a fingerprint on one of the sketches, where he’s smudged it. What would the paintings be worth today, you think?” I stuttered saying the words.
“I’d have to check, but, Jesus, I imagine a truckload of dosh. They’re the missing paintings.”
Tingles raced down my spine. “Don’t tell anyone, Adele, but can you do some investigating and let me know?” I gulped back guilt. If I sold the paintings I could help Mom. I could hire round-the-clock care; I could damn near buy her a whole ward to herself when she needed treatment. It would solve every single problem. My blood pumped, just thinking of the future and how perfect it could be. “I can sell them.”
“OK, I’ll keep it between us. But are you sure they’re yours to sell?”
Clay.
Mom.
She needed me; she needed a solution. “I’m sure,” I said too quickly. “He gave them to me.”
“There’s no harm in doing some research I guess. I’ll see what I can find out and call you tomorrow. Put them somewhere safe, for God’s sake.”
“I will. Call me as soon as you know anything.”
She let out a long, slow breath. “This is just unbelievable…I can’t even—” She stopped. “Right,” her voice was businesslike. “I’ll call you as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, Adele.”
We rang off, and I sat there bewildered. The paintings were mine. Clay had said s
o. I dreaded to think what he would have done with them had I not been there. Maybe used them on a bonfire, or dumped them with the rest of the trash.
My eyes were drawn to them again. Imagine owning them, having them propped on a living room wall, being able to gaze at that kind of beauty every day. I pinched the bridge of my nose, as a headache loomed.
If I sold the paintings at an art auction, I’d get more money than I’d ever dreamed of. A mystery that plagued the art world for so long would be solved, and someone wealthy would then own two of the most sought-after masterpieces in the world.
I bit my lip. But Jessup hadn’t wanted anyone to know. It was his secret. It wasn’t mine to share. Imagine if Clay found out that I knew the paintings were worth so much money, and on impulse had thought of selling them without even asking him. I would be as bad as his ex-girlfriend, and business partner, doing a midnight flit all for the sake of money.
My body slumped.
I couldn’t do it. Not to Clay, not to his uncle, or Clay’s mom, who kept her brother’s secret all those years. And while it would solve all my problems, it wasn’t right. And I knew Mom would agree. She didn’t raise me to go around and break people’s trust, just for my own sake.
Defeated, I climbed back in bed, and switched out the light.
Jessup had lost so much, and yet, he found a kind of peace at the farm. It was easy to see how, the way the sun drenched the meadows, and the light reflected off the lake, the view as pretty and inspiring as art itself.
The inner art critic in me fought against that. Wasn’t it a waste of fine work, for them never to be seen again? Wouldn’t I be doing the world a favor if I sold them? There was no question my mom would improve if we could afford better health care. She’d never fully recover, and our main battle was time, and how much she had left—wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could enjoy that time in comfort? A house of her own by the beach, where she could watch the waves from her porch. Nurses there twenty-four seven. Healthy food, sunshine, laughter, love.
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 21
