Mirror, Mirror

by Robb, J. D.

Sydney turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. She hated the way the grief could sneak up on her and make her weep at the worst possible time. “But Dad promised me they would all belong to me one day.”

  “He said no such thing to me.” Margot’s hand shot out, grabbing the girl by her shoulder, her fingers gripping painfully. The woman’s eyes flashed the way they always did when she was challenged. “As your father’s widow, I don’t need your permission. I’m free to dispose of his estate as I choose. I have to think about the future. It was hard enough when I had only my own two daughters to worry about. Now, thanks to your father’s untimely death, I have one more to feed and clothe and educate.” She gave a dismissive look at the girl’s prim navy jumper and white blouse. “There will be no more private schools for you. Not with Hester and Hilda ready for college and all the expense that will entail. I told your father he was spoiling you, but he was determined to make it up to you because you’d lost your mother at such a tender age. Now that I’m in charge, there’ll be no more of such pampering. You’re old enough to be exposed to the realities of life. The money from your father’s paintings will allow me a comfortable lifestyle, but money can’t be stretched forever. We’ll move to the city where you can walk to school, and Hester and Hilda can pursue their dreams of careers in fashion in New York City.”

  “Dad said . . .”

  “Enough.” Margot lifted her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I know your father fancied himself a true man of the earth while painting all those pastoral scenes. He made it plain that he wanted you to grow up in the country as he had. That life is gone now, Sydney.” Margot narrowed her eyes on the girl. “It’s time to stop mourning our loss and move on. Thank heavens some foolish collector thought those paintings were worth more than the paint and canvas, though I must say, your father was such a dreamer, I was afraid we’d all be left destitute.” Her tone sharpened. “The buyer of this farm wants to take possession by the end of the month. I’ve already contacted your school to let them know you won’t be back for the next term.”

  She turned away with a swish of skirts. “Pack only what you absolutely must have. Since your sisters will be living on campus in the fall, you and I will make do with something much smaller and more manageable.”

  When she was gone, Sydney walked among the remaining unwrapped paintings, allowing her fingers to trace her father’s familiar signature at the lower right-hand corner of each canvas.

  How she’d loved being here, working alongside her father, learning the craft from a master. He’d patiently taught her how to mix the paints to make the sky that perfect shade of blue, the meadows so green and lush, she could imagine herself lying in the grass, watching the clouds overhead turning into castles and carriages and kings. While they’d worked, he’d spoken lovingly about his happy childhood in the tiny town of Innismere, in the west of Ireland, where he’d honed his craft along the lovely river Glass, which meandered across his beloved valley.

  She could hear his voice, as clearly as though he were still here beside her. “I’ll take you there one day, Sydney, and we’ll walk the hills and forest glades, and you’ll see that marvelous light that shines down on Ireland in a way that it shines nowhere else on Earth. I want you to feel the peace and the love that I knew in that sweet, magical place.”

  “Oh, Da, I can’t wait.” She ran a hand along the scarred old table that held his tools and cans and rags, and breathed in the familiar scents of paint and turpentine that were forever imprinted on her mind and heart.

  Feeling the press of that familiar hand on her shoulder, she paused. As though moved by invisible strings, she picked up a small framed photo of her father that she’d taken one day here in his studio. He was wearing a paint-smeared shirt, his hair mussed, his smile bright as he worked on one of his many canvases. He’d loved the photo so much he’d had it framed.

  “Take it, Sydney. Keep it close and think of me often. And remember this, darlin’: Believe.”

  Had the words been spoken aloud, or had she merely heard them in her mind?

  No matter. Whether or not she could see or hear her father, she knew he was here beside her, watching out for her, keeping her safe. She could hear his voice inside her head and feel the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder.

  Wrapping the picture in one of his paint-stained rags, she tucked it in her pocket.

  Margot had said to pack only the important things. This was all Sydney needed. For the rest of her days, this little memento would keep her father close, and hopefully, one day help mend her broken heart.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’ve finished, Sydney. Take a look.” Kamal, one of the students in Sydney’s evening community center art class, paused to dip his brush in turpentine before wiping it on a rag.

  Sydney stepped up beside the solemn, dark-haired man to study his completed canvas.

  As usual, Kamal had ignored the still life she’d set on a table, consisting of an empty wine bottle, a bunch of grapes, and a wedge of cheese on a pretty plate, and had instead chosen to paint a waterfall. Kamal was obsessed with waterfalls. Throughout the entire year he had painted half a dozen of them, explaining that it made him happy to look at them.

  “Well, as waterfalls go, I think this is one of your better ones.”

  His smile was radiant. “Thank you, Sydney. I think so, too. I’m going to give it to my wife.”

  “Sydney, what do you think of this?” Mrs. Martinez motioned for Sydney to come closer.

  “Very nice, Mrs. Martinez.” Sydney paused beside the white-haired woman who was wider than she was tall. “But why did you paint the grapes red?”

  “I didn’t want grapes in my picture, so I made them hot chili peppers. See?” The old woman pointed to the blobs of red paint bleeding into the orange cheese. “My grandchildren love red hot chili peppers.”

  “Very nice. But maybe they love the music group more than the vegetables.”

  “I don’t understand,” the older woman said.

  “A little joke, Mrs. Martinez.” Sydney was grateful when the bell sounded, signaling the end of the evening’s class. “I’ll see all of you next week.”

  She picked up her bulging backpack and headed toward the little flat above Colosanti’s Deli. During her college days, she’d worked two jobs because Margot had said more money was needed for Hester and Hilda as they established themselves in their new careers. Now she continued working two jobs, teaching second grade while also teaching art at the community center five evenings a week, just so that she could afford to live alone. Though it was small and cramped, it was her very own private space. Heaven, she thought. Sheer heaven to be finally free of Margot’s controlling nature and angry, hurtful words.

  “Ah, Sydney.” Mr. Colosanti greeted her outside his deli. He stood less than five feet tall, with sharp, blackbird eyes and a head covered with gray curly hair that reminded Sydney of steel wool. His white apron fell to his ankles. “Look what I have for you.” He picked up a perfect ripe peach and rubbed it on his sleeve before handing it to her. “I’ve been saving this one just for you.”

  “You sweetie.” She accepted the peach and brushed a kiss over his weathered cheek, causing him to blush clear to the tips of his ears.

  As she turned he added, “You have a visitor.” He lowered his voice. “Your stepmama. She insisted that I let her in.”

  Sydney had to fight to keep her smile in place. Everyone in the neighborhood was aware of Margot’s sarcasm, and most had sampled it a time or two. “It’s all right. I know you had no choice. Thanks for the warning, Mr. Colosanti.”

  She climbed the steps to her flat and pushed open the door.

  Margot stopped her pacing to turn and glare. “How can you bear this dreary place?” She wrinkled her nose and pointed to the fat brown guinea pig in a cage by the window. “It smells like a barnyard in here because of that . . .”

  “Gus. The class guinea pig. Nguyn was supposed to have him this week, but his mother is out of
town, so I offered to keep him until she got back.”

  “Of course you did. Just like you used to offer to keep all the stray puppies and kittens that you claimed ‘followed you home from school’ all those years ago. You still can’t resist taking in every stray you meet. I’m surprised you didn’t offer to take Nguyn home with you while his mother was away.”

  “I did. But his aunt is with him.”

  Margot rolled her eyes. “I swear, Sydney, this place is so depressing.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Margot. I like it. It’s close enough to walk to work in the mornings, and look at my bonus.” Sydney held up the peach. “Mr. Colosanti always saves me a piece of fruit. And sometimes, when a customer doesn’t pick up a deli order, he lets me have it for my supper.”

  “And well he ought to, considering the rent he charges for this dump. He should be ashamed of himself. And you. Look at how you spend your days. Teaching second graders who can barely speak English, and then wasting your evenings teaching art to senior citizens.”

  “They’re not all seniors. It’s the community center, Margot. Some of my students are young. And you’d be amazed at their talent.”

  “I don’t care if they’re all Picassos. You’re never going to be anything more than a second-rate, old-maid teacher if you persist in this foolishness.”

  “I’m single by choice. And I happen to love my job, Margot.”

  “Do you hear yourself? It’s a job, Sydney, not a career. How can you hope to ever meet anyone of substance here? Take Hester, for instance. Since going to work for that new fashion designer, she’s been introduced to several famous actors and musicians. She told me that a drummer who plays with the Hot Hunks asked her to meet him for drinks after his band’s concert next week. The Hot Hunks. Their music is topping the charts. And my beautiful Hilda is dating Anthony Bellair, the star of that new police drama on TV.”

  “I believe he’s married, Margot.”

  “He’s divorcing. And he’s hinted that Hilda could become wife number two.”

  “That would be number three. He was married briefly to that pretty blond model that he dumped for . . .”

  “Whatever.” Margot waved off her remark with a quick lift of her hand. “At least Hester and Hilda are putting themselves out there to find men worthy of consideration. How are you ever going to improve your life if you stay in this garbage pit?”

  “I didn’t realize my life needed improving. I like my life. In fact, I love it.”

  “Of course you do. Doesn’t everyone yearn for a cheap upper flat in a rundown, dreary neighborhood? Doesn’t every young woman hope to grow old alone, surrounded by immigrants and losers?”

  Margot shot Sydney that icy stare that always managed to freeze Sydney’s heart. At least it always had when she was young. These days she was working very hard to move beyond her childish fears of her stepmother, though in truth, she found herself reacting much the same way as she had when she was that frightened child who’d first met the woman and her two angry daughters who would share her life with her father. Deep inside, a lump of fear lodged like a stone in the pit of Sydney’s stomach. And though she knew the things Margot said were untrue, she was helpless to fight them. Each insult hurled, each cruel word spoken, grew like an insidious seed in Sydney’s soul.

  Sydney’s best friend, Melanie, called it Margot’s venom. Once unleashed, that snakebite poison rendered the unlucky recipient unable to think or act rationally as they recoiled from the attack.

  Sydney had to blink back tears. “Do you enjoy saying cruel things, Margot?”

  “I say them because someone has to remind you to grow up and be sensible. Just look at you. You may as well wear a sign that says, Take advantage of me. I’m gullible.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Oh, please. Don’t deny the obvious. Mark my words. The first down-on-his-luck guy who gives you the time of day will have you wrapped around his finger before you can blink. You’ll be bringing him home and feeding him like . . .” She turned toward the cage. “Like your guinea pig there. And if he turns out to be a gigolo, you won’t even know what hit you until he’s taken your time, your money, and your virtue. When that happens, don’t come running to me for help.”

  “I wouldn’t think of asking you to help me.” Stung by Margo’s cruel words, Sydney crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sure you had some reason for this visit.”

  “Two reasons, actually. I’m moving again.”

  “To a better neighborhood?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Unlike you, I won’t be satisfied until I’m at the very top. I’ve been packing, and I found a couple of dusty boxes in storage.” She pointed to the boxes she’d dumped unceremoniously just inside the door. “I don’t know how they survived my first move, since they belonged to your father and I’d thought I had already tossed everything of his. I don’t have time to deal with them, so I was hoping you’d set them out with your trash.”

  “Do Da’s things mean so little to you, Margot?”

  “They’re tattered and torn and filthy.” Margot gave one of her famous phony, teeth-baring smiles. “But if you’d like to keep them, for sentimental reasons, be my guest.”

  She walked to the door, eager to escape what she considered little more than a dungeon. “Maybe after I’m settled we can meet at Hester and Hilda’s town house. It has a magnificent view of the river. I’m sure they could introduce you to some of the important people they know. There must be someone who can add a little luster to your drab little life.”

  When the door closed behind Margot, Sydney dropped down onto a chair, feeling drained and useless, her typical reaction to Margot’s litany of petty complaints.

  Deciding to forgo supper, Sydney set the kettle on the stove while she nibbled on the peach. Making a cup of tea, she carried it to the coffee table and opened the dusty boxes. Inside was a pile of her father’s paint-stained shirts and pants, dull and faded from years of storage. They were too damaged to consider giving to a charity. Though it caused a pain around her heart, she knew she would have to dispose of them with the trash, as Margot had so coldly suggested.

  Feeling tears welling in her eyes, she gathered a handful of her father’s shirts to her face, wishing she could still smell him. Hearing the faint rustle of paper, she fumbled in the folds and found an envelope in one of the shirt pockets. Inside the envelope she found a fat roll of hundred-dollar bills and a note, written in her father’s distinct script.

  With eyes brimming, she read the note.

  My darling Sydney,

  My greatest wish is that you will one day visit my birthplace and discover the love I feel for it. The little village of Innismere is a magical place, as is all of Ireland. Each time I sell one of my paintings, I intend to put a percentage into this special hiding place, the pocket of my favorite shirt, which you gave me. My hope is that, by the time you’ve grown into a woman, there will be enough for you to travel to that grand country in style and to stay as long as you choose. While you’re there, darlin’, feel the magic. And believe.

  Sydney studied the shirt. It was the one he’d worn in the photograph she still prized above all else. With a smile she unfolded the bills and counted them out. Five thousand dollars. Compared with her meager salary, it was a fortune.

  She thought of her stepmother’s hurtful words. This was enough to change her life if she chose to. Enough to move to a more modern apartment. To take time away from her job to apply for something more challenging, more glamorous.

  If she chose to.

  The thought came to her with absolute certainty. She knew without a doubt what she would do with this windfall.

  Instead of being sensible, as Margot had suggested, she would throw caution to the wind. She would follow her father’s dream and go to Ireland. To Innismere. To find the love that had shone through her father’s eyes every time he had spoken of that grand old place. She would sit beside the river Glass and sketch, just as her father had i
n his youth. And she would feel her father’s presence there beside her.

  A brief visit to Ireland may not change her life, but it would enable her to store up some glorious memories to warm her heart during the long years to come.

  It may be a foolish waste of money in Margot’s eyes, but Sydney would have the satisfaction of knowing that she was using the money as her father had wished.

  And really, wasn’t that worth any price?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Welcome aboard Allied America’s Flight Two Twenty-seven bound for Ireland.”

  As Sydney settled into her seat, the flight attendant’s voice began the preflight welcome. Sydney fidgeted with her seat belt and then took out the laminated sheet of instructions to follow along in case of an emergency.

  When the voice faded, Sydney sat back and took a deep breath. Minutes later, as the plane began to taxi along the runway, she white-knuckled the armrests.

  The passenger beside her chuckled. “I’ve tried that. It never works, you know.”

  She turned to him with a puzzled frown.

  “Trying to lift the plane with the sheer force of your determination.” He shot her a rogue’s grin. “Half the passengers aboard are doing the same. But it’s all up to the pilot now, you see.”

  She gave a quick laugh, as much at his brogue as that devilish smile, and very deliberately released her death grip on the armrests, folding her hands in her lap. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

  “Oh, it’s natural enough. I’ve done it myself a time or two. But the more I travel, the more I’ve begun to realize that once I strap myself into one of these big birds, I’ve given up the control to someone else.”

  He was wearing torn jeans and a faded tee beneath a rumpled plaid shirt. He was badly in need of a shave and a haircut. Thick, dark hair spilled over the collar of his shirt. The rough stubble of beard added to his shabby appearance. His eyes were a smoky gray, and at the moment they sparkled with unspoken humor.