“Love wasn’t the only reason.”
“No, but it’s the strongest. When you’re a child, you can’t give it a name. When you’re an adolescent, you rebel against it. When you finally leave home, you think you’ve outgrown it. But you haven’t. You can pretend it doesn’t exist, but when you see your mother after an absence, you notice that her neck is creased and that there are liver spots on her hands, and you’re unsettled. Then when she writes and says she’s turning seventy, you can’t pretend anymore. You feel something, this little something inside that’s kind of like fear.”
Quietly, Annette finished the thought. “So you take the tickets she sent and you use them, even though it’s the last thing in the world you want to do.”
Caroline shot her a smile, gratified that they were on the same wavelength on this, at least. Then she turned her attention to the tiny town center coming into view.
The main street boasted stores for the everyday necessities—hardware, medicine, postage stamps, books, food. She left Annette at the general store to shop for trinkets for the kids, and continued around the corner to the waterfront. There, tucked between fishing shacks and supply and repair shops, were the cavernous lofts that were simultaneously workspaces and galleries. She counted four from the street, though the old salt who directed her insisted there were more “behind and on down.”
She picked one at random, pushed at the warped wood door until it opened, and nearly stumbled when the floor was two inches below the door.
“Watch your step,” called a voice after the fact.
Had Caroline been in Chicago, she would have asked that voice why there wasn’t a warning sign on the door and told it that the lack thereof, if cited by an injured party, begged a lawsuit. Because she was in Downlee, where the surroundings were gentler and more innocent, she didn’t say a word. She just looked around.
The gallery consisted of paintings hung on crude wood walls, beneath which canvases were stacked one before the other. She saw landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes. The colors were stunning.
The voice came again. “Looking for anything special?”
“Could be,” Caroline said. “I’ll know it when I see it.”
She might have already. Her eye had quickly spotted, and kept being drawn back to, one of the canvases on the wall. It was a loose depiction of a meadow filled with flowers the color of the sea. She could see it in Ginny’s front hall.
“Are you just passing through?” the voice asked, nearer now.
“Actually, I’m here for two weeks,” she said, still looking at the painting. Then she turned and extended her hand to a blue-jeaned, lightly bearded, paint-speckled man who looked to be well into his fifties. “Caroline St. Clair. My mother is the new owner of Star’s End.”
The man’s hand was slow in meeting hers, as though he wasn’t used to shaking hands, particularly with women. But his eyes were curious. “Jack Ivy. You’re the new owner’s daughter?”
She nodded. “I arrived late yesterday.”
“Your mother, too?”
“No. She’ll be up today or tomorrow.”
“Word has it she’s living here year ’round.”
Caroline was about to nod, then caught herself. She had been shocked enough that her mother was moving here, period, not to give the other much thought. “Actually, I’m not sure. She may. Then again, she may want warm weather in winter.” She pointed to the piece that kept drawing her back. “This is a beautiful painting. Did you do it?”
“Yup.”
“Is everything here yours?”
“Not all. There’s lots of artists who come here to paint, and then leave. I take the best of their work on consignment.”
“Do you sell mostly to tourists?”
He chuckled. “I’d starve if I relied on them. No, there are folks who cart my things over and around. They get me good money.”
Caroline could imagine. Not that the man looked to be greedy. He struck her as a happiest-in-my-oldest-clothes kind of guy who surrounded himself with similiarly broken-in things. She saw a worn easel that held his work in progress, a desk made of a large door on saw horses, and a single small machine that could presumably turn out a sales slip. The studio was unadorned, even to a startling lack of lights. She assumed his workday coincided with the sun’s. And his rent couldn’t possibly be high.
“What’s she like, your mother?” he asked.
Caroline swung around a little too fast.
“No offense meant,” he said quickly. “Just curious. It isn’t often someone moves up here out of the blue. Either you’re born here, leave, and move back, or you move here to be with family.”
Put that way, she could see his point. Still, she wasn’t about to pour out her heart to a stranger. Nor was she about to disparage her mother, despite her differences with the woman. So she simply said, “She’s a nice person.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Is that relevant?” the feminist in her asked.
“Whoa, you’re prickly,” he said. “No, it’s not relevant. I was just curious.”
Jack Ivy was curious, and Caroline was a product of the city. Worse, she was the product of a career where ulterior motives were common and paranoia was a way of life. It was sad to be so distrustful in such a blunt and unadorned kind of place.
Caroline sighed. “Yes, she’s pretty.” She returned to the painting. “Is this a local scene?”
“It’s bits and snatches of lots of local scenes. Most of what I do is. I can’t just sit and copy what’s in front of me. I have to give it my own twist.”
“You take it in your mouth, chew it up, spit it back out on the canvas,” she said, “to quote a friend of mine. He’s an artist, too.”
“He got it right. Where does he live?”
“North of Chicago.”
“That where you live, too?”
“I live in the city.”
“And your mother? I hear she’s from Philadelphia.”
“That’s right.”
“And that she’s a widow now. When did her husband die?”
Caroline’s caution resurfaced. She wasn’t used to answering personal questions. But this fellow seemed innocent enough in his interest. And it was a matter of public record. “He died three years ago.”
“Was he your father?”
It was a minute before she got his drift. “Yes.”
He gave a low whistle. “They stayed married all that time.”
“I’m not that old,” Caroline drawled and studied him. “The stereotype says you people are insular and laconic. Is this curiosity peculiar to you, or is the stereotype wrong?”
He smiled. “The stereotype ain’t all wrong. We keep to ourselves. But like I said before, your mother buying Star’s End surprised us.”
Caroline recalled the discussion she’d had in the taxi with Cal. “Will she be considered an oddity and held at arm’s length?”
“Not necessarily. But it’s up to her. We’re not mean folk. Just cautious.” He grinned. “And curious.”
His grin was so innocent that she couldn’t be angry—or maybe it was being surrounded by the familiar smell of oils, which made her think of Ben, that put her at ease. But she stayed awhile, looking through every one of the paintings in Jack Ivy’s studio. She bought one, the first one, which had attracted her so. Then she moved on to the next studio.
This one housed the work of three women. Two of them were at easels when she entered; one of those joined her and talked. Her name was Joy, she was originally from Nevada, and she wanted to know anything and everything about the new owner of Star’s End. Amused, Caroline parried her questions, giving away little more than she had told Jack.
The same happened at her next stop. This one was a smaller studio on a side street cutting back from the dock. Inside were portraits and the husband and wife who made them. “We work by mail,” they explained. “You send your picture, we paint a portrait.” But that was all they said about themselves. They, too,
wanted to know about Ginny.
Caroline was beginning to feel like something of a celebrity. Still, she gave little by way of concrete information. She figured it wasn’t her job to tell all. It was Ginny’s.
Annette was by nature a more chatty sort, particularly when she found something to be chatty about. She had branched off from the center of town onto side streets dotted with crafts shops, and she was astounded. She had never seen as many exquisite items in one place at one time—quilts, woven pillows, wall hangings, and rugs, one more striking than the next. The artists who had made them were there, willing to answer questions about their work until Annette introduced herself. Then they became the questioners.
“Why did your mother decide to buy Star’s End?” one asked.
“Who’ll be living with her in the house?” another asked.
“What’s she like?” a third asked, and while Annette had answered the first two in single sentences, she gave this answer more thought. She wasn’t about to speak ill of Ginny. She was too loyal for that.
“She’s a social person. I’m sure she’ll be in and out of these shops all the time. She likes talking with people.”
“Is she lonely, now that your father has passed on?”
“She misses him. But she has lots of friends. They give her comfort.”
“Will her friends be coming here?”
“I’m sure they’ll visit,” Annette said with what she hoped was reassurance. Ginny might start out on better footing with these people if they thought she would be good for business.
Less for the sake of business, though, than for the sake of Ginny’s family room, Annette bought a lap blanket in shades of navy and turquoise, and carried it with her to the next shop. This one was a showplace for workers in clay, and quite a showplace it was. Annette was struck so by the vibrancy of the pieces that she brushed aside questions about herself and commented on it.
“There must be something about the air here, that you people produce art like this. It’s the same at each place I stop. There’s a wildness to these things. A passion. I see the colors of the sea and the flowers at my mother’s place, all magnified.”
“That’s no mystery,” she was told. “Star’s End is something of a legend in these parts.”
Annette was intrigued. “A legend?”
“A romantic inspiration. It’s said to be a place where people fall in love.”
“That’s so nice,” Annette mused, smiling. “Because of the setting?”
“Yup.”
She could see it. There was something enchanting about the place. She wondered if Ginny had known that, or if she cared. Ginny had never been prone to fancy.
She understood now, though, why the townsfolk were so curious about the new owner of Star’s End. Sure enough, when she went to the next shop, the questions began again. She was more generous with her answers this time, offering bits about Ginny’s life in Philadelphia, a trip she had recently taken, a charity she worked for.
“Has she been happy?”
The question struck Annette as odd. “What do you mean?”
“Has she led a happy life?”
The question came from Edie Stillman, a weaver who looked to be several years older than Ginny and shared the shop with her grown daughter. When Annette had first entered, a granddaughter was there, all country simplicity and smiles. It was clearly a close family, which, Annette decided, had prompted the question.
“Yes, she’s led a happy life,” she answered, though it struck her that she couldn’t say that for sure. Ginny had seemed happy. She hadn’t complained.
Was their home in Philadelphia like Star’s End?
“No. It was larger and more formal, beautiful also, but in different ways from Star’s End.”
“Did she ever talk about Star’s End?”
“You mean, about buying something like it? Actually,” Annette shot for the truth without revealing more than necessary of it, “Mother is an independent sort. She kind of popped this on us as a surprise. She loves surprises. You do know that these pillows are spectacular, don’t you?” Their covers were woven in yarns that ran the gamut from pale pink to fuschia. “They’re what Mother’s parlor needs to give it life.”
She bought six in different sizes and diplomatically took her leave.
Leah bought three pairs of blue jeans, a pair of denim cut-offs, three white and three colored T-shirts, an oversized sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers. The blue jeans were Caroline, the T-shirts Annette. She figured a combination of the two looks was perfect for Star’s End.
Lest either of them was there when she arrived, she drove home wearing one of the new outfits, but the Volvo hadn’t returned. So she hurried her bundles upstairs, tore off price tags, and hung the clothes in the closet, mixed well with the familiar and chic.
She had to admit that she looked great in jeans and a white T-shirt. Very in. Very Gap.
Except for her hair. It had been neatly anchored when she had left that morning, but the moist air was sly. Waves had appeared where sleekness had once been. Worse, random strands that had escaped and coiled.
She pulled out the pins and rubbed her aching scalp, then shook her head until the weight of her hair hit the center of her back. Watching herself in the mirror, she scooped the long curls first to one side, then the other. On impulse, she wet her brush and ran it through her hair, once, a second time, and a third. The wetness was all the encouragement her curls needed. They blossomed.
She stood back. It struck her that she didn’t look bad at all. Curly hair suited jeans and a T-shirt far more than knotted-back hair—and it was rather nice not to have pins digging into her scalp.
Thinking that her hairdresser, who adored her curls and was always begging her to wear them loose, would be thrilled, she went downstairs and outside, to the edge of the bluff where the breeze might blow her hair dry. She slipped her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, shook her head, felt startlingly free.
In time she turned away from the sea. Savoring fresh air and freedom, she strolled through the flower beds and down along the edge of the woods until a small cottage came into view. Its clapboards were a weathered gray against a backdrop of robust green oaks, but it had the look of something loved and well kept. Black shutters hung neatly beside a pair of screened windows on the first floor and a single dormer above. The bubble of a greenhouse protruded from its side, facing the sea and the morning sun.
She stood for what seemed an eternity before curiosity got the best of her. Approaching the open front door, she shielded her eyes against the screen.
“Hello?” She ignored a quickening inside, and waited in silence. “Hello?”
She saw a sofa and chairs on one side, and an eating area on the other. Straight ahead and above was a sleeping loft, and over the whole of it, whirring softly, a large paddle fan.
The insides of the cottage could easily fit into the first of the three floors of her townhouse, yet it looked comfortable and complete. Snug. And safe. It also smelled lovely—of spruce that backed on the oaks, of wood that had burned in the fireplace on a cool evening not long before. She imagined, too, that it smelled of something male. This was his home. He was strange to her, off-limits but intriguing.
She set off this time at a faster pace, striding back toward the house and beyond to explore areas of the estate that she hadn’t yet seen. The scent of the beach roses swelled and ebbed as she walked past. On their far side, she stopped. She had been within sight of this stretch of the headland before, both alone and with her sisters, but her eyes were more open now, her head clearer, and what had earlier seemed a random outcropping of shrubs now looked less random.
It was a heather garden, she suddenly realized, and beautiful in an exquisitely subtle way. The plants varied in height from thick clumps to low carpets to bulbous cushions, and in color from gray to dark green to bright green to lime. Rocks lay bare between them, darker at spots, bleached at others, higher and lower as the headland rolled.
/> Her eye followed the garden to the very edge of the bluff, where a dark head spiked with damp hair appeared, followed by a pair of broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs. The hips and legs were covered with denim, but the sweat-darkened work shirt that covered the shoulders flapped open.
She felt the thud of her heart, then the spread of a slow honey inside, all the more so when he saw her and smiled. His smile took her places. It was helpless, and inevitable as it settled into its rightful place on his face.
“Hi,” he said.
Her answering smile was just as helpless and inevitable. “How are you?”
“Warm. Sun’s strong today.” He shot it a squinting glance, mopped his brow with his arm, and returned to her. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling inordinately pleased. She nearly added, So do you. But he was the gardener. He was dirty and sweaty. A comment like that might be taken the wrong way. So she gestured toward the heather. “I’m impressed. Again. Still. Did you do this all yourself?”
His eyes held hers. “Took four years. The whole place was so covered with brush you could barely see the ledge. I had to clear it away little by little before I planted.”
“It’s different from the other gardens.”
“Meant to be. Star’s End is like a gem. It has facets. You’ve seen the flower beds, and the woods, and now this. There’s also a wildflower meadow.”
The sound of it suggested something idyllic and pure. Excited, she asked, “Where?”
He cocked his head off toward the woods. “In there. It’s just starting for the season. So are these heathers. By August the blooms will run from white and pink to rose and raspberry. Come fall the colors will mirror the woods, all golds and reds.”
“Heather. So pretty. I never imagined.”
“Most people don’t. They think it’s a boring little plant. It’s indigenous to Great Britain, so it thrives in the cool, moist climate here. When it’s sited well and cared for, the results are worth the effort.”
She darted a questioning look at the pail he had set down when he’d come up from the rocks.
For My Daughters Page 11
