As she turned onto Main Street she noticed that walking toward her was Nora Franklin. She was carrying a string bag in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other. She wore no hat or sunglasses, two items it was dangerous to be without on such a summer day.
It would be good to say hello to her, Leda thought; she hadn’t spoken to Nora in almost a year. Leda raised her hand in greeting, but instead of returning the gesture Nora made a sudden turn at the corner and in a moment was out of sight.
Leda lowered her hand and frowned. She was sure that Nora had seen her and just as sure that she had abruptly turned the corner because she had not wanted to stop and chat. That was no surprise. The poor woman had looked bedraggled, as though the weight of her rotten domestic life, devoid of simple attentions except for what her dutiful daughter could give her, was finally marking her outwardly as no doubt it had marked her inwardly long before now.
Leda continued on toward her car. With Yorktide being a small community, everyone knew about Eddie Franklin’s behavior, and there could be no way for Nora to hide whatever shame, embarrassment, or anger she must be feeling. In such a case it could be argued that there was benefit in the relative anonymity of urban life. If Nora lived in Portland, for example, she might be able to walk down certain streets unnoticed and unknown, something that might feel like much-needed relief from the scrutiny of her neighbors. But Nora didn’t live in Portland.
As Leda passed by the toy shop on Clove Street she caught sight of an old-fashioned scooter in the window, and an image of Brandon Franklin as a small boy came to her. He had had the most adorable little smile in a cherubic, chubby-cheeked face. Until he was three he had carried a favorite stuffed animal everywhere, a floppy beige dog he called Spot. It broke Leda’s heart when she thought of what had become of that little boy, and no doubt it broke his mother’s heart as well. Leda knew that Hayley had little sympathy for her brother, and that was understandable. By the time Hayley had come along when Brandon was six he had already started to display cruel and careless behaviors. While the little girl could have benefited from the protective attention of an older brother, all she had met with was teasing and bullying.
Leda reached her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and headed for home, suddenly very conscious that in spite of that nasty encounter with the Stirlings when she was seventeen, and in spite of losing her husband so shortly after their wedding, her life, unlike Nora Franklin’s, had been so very good. She had been raised by loving parents. She had a wonderful daughter and dear friends who never failed to cheer her on when times were tough and to celebrate with her when times were good. She had been the subject of an interview by a major journal. She had acquired several new clients since the start of the year. She had found the nerve to enter a piece of her work in a national competition.
Yes, Leda thought as she headed for her lovely and secure home on Hawthorne Lane. She was a very lucky woman indeed.
* * *
The first thing Leda did when she arrived home, after putting the milk in the fridge and the bread in the breadbox, was to check her e-mail. There was a message from Margot Lakes, asking if she might drop by the studio the following afternoon. And there was an e-mail from an editor at a popular crafting journal called Needle and Thread, asking if Leda would be interested in writing a piece describing her creative process.
Leda sat back in her chair. This was a challenging topic about which to write, and honestly one she had never given much thought. But why not finally take the time to articulate what it was she did and why she did it? She might just learn something about herself as a result of such a challenge. The fact that there was a two-hundred-dollar stipend on acceptance of the completed article was almost unimportant. Without further hesitation Leda sent a reply in the affirmative to the editor, and immediately after, she opened a new document.
And then she froze. It had been years since she had written anything other than brief descriptions of particular works for her website. She realized that she had no idea where to begin. But maybe, she thought, writing an article was like fashioning a work of fiber art. You just picked up a pencil and sketched whatever came into your head until at one unexpected moment an idea began to take form and then, for better or worse, you pursued that idea. Just write what comes into your head, she told herself. Don’t censor yourself.
Leda took a deep breath, turned the setting on the standing fan from medium to high, and began to write.
My art isn’t something separate from my life. It’s an integral part of who and what I am. It’s a part of how I live each and every day.
My home is my studio; my studio is my home.
My art is a language in which I speak to strangers so that they don’t remain strangers.
Creation brings happiness. It calms us at the same time it inspires us. Art heals us.
Pablo Picasso supposedly said that inspiration exists but that it must find you working. I believe that absolutely.
Suddenly Leda’s fingers stopped typing. That was okay. What was important was that the creative process had begun, and that was always an exhilarating feeling. Leda laughed out loud. In spite of the sticky weather and the sad almost-encounter with Nora Franklin, this was turning out to be a very good day.
Chapter 75
It was ten o’clock on a Thursday morning. Marisa, staving off a nasty summer cold, was at home with the girls and in desperate need of the latest novel by Charles Todd. “The Bookworm is holding a copy for me,” she had told Hayley. “Would it be an imposition for you to pick it up?”
Hayley smiled at the memory. Going to a bookstore an imposition? Still, it had been very nice of Marisa to ask. Hayley had gladly driven to downtown Yorktide, and while at the store she had rapidly browsed the used book section, finding a paperback copy of Kathryn Hughes’s biography of George Eliot for three dollars. Treasures paid for and in tow, Hayley stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed in the direction of the small parking lot behind the old-fashioned pharmacy.
“Hayley!”
Hayley stopped and turned. Striding toward her, his hand raised in a wave, was Ethan Whitby. He was wearing slouchy jeans and a white T-shirt. His auburn hair flopped over his forehead as he walked briskly along. His arms, she noted, were slim but muscular.
“Hi,” Hayley said when he had joined her. She liked the freckles along the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know you were visiting.”
Ethan smiled. “It’s a surprise. I haven’t even been to the house yet. I hope Marisa doesn’t mind my popping in for a few days.”
“I’m sure she won’t,” Hayley told him. “And the girls will be happy to see you. So, what are you doing downtown?”
Ethan indicated the small paper shopping bag he was carrying. “I know Marisa is partial to the scones at Bread and Roses. What about you?”
“Bookstore run for Marisa. And I scored a biography of George Eliot for three dollars.”
“Excellent. Don’t you love when you stumble across just the gem you were hoping for?” Ethan asked.
Hayley laughed. “I do. But I should get back to the house. Marisa’s battling a cold and I don’t want to leave her tending to the girls too long.”
“I’ll walk you to your car, if that’s okay,” Ethan said.
“Of course,” Hayley replied. When, she thought, was the last time someone hadn’t simply assumed that she would be happy to accept his company? This family with whom she was to some extent sharing the summer was unlike any family she had ever known. For a brief moment, Hayley thought she might cry at the strangeness of it all.
“So,” Ethan said as they walked along, “is this the first time you’ve worked as a nanny?”
“Yes,” Hayley told him. “Though I’ve been babysitting since I was ten.”
“Do you know any of the other women—and men, I suppose—working as nannies in Yorktide?”
“I’ve met a few,” Hayley told him. “There’s a sort of informal network. My friend Amy is one of the group. She’s w
orking for the Priors this summer. Cressida Prior of Prior Ascendancy.”
“I know who she is,” Ethan said with a frown. “Well, I don’t know her personally, but let’s just say that her reputation precedes her.”
“What do you mean?” Hayley asked.
Ethan hesitated a moment before going on. “She’s over-the-top self-involved. Some would say she’s a narcissist, and she can be pretty ruthless. I’ll give you an example,” Ethan said. “She poached a few key employees from one of my father’s friends, and she went about it in a particularly devious way. And along with buying the employees she bought their competitively valuable trade secrets. Dad’s friend suffered a fairly substantial business loss as a result.”
“Unethical but not illegal?” Hayley asked.
“As far as I know, yeah.” Ethan shook his head. “But maybe Cressida Prior is different on the domestic front. Maybe she’s all warmth and fair play.”
“I don’t think she is, not if what Amy has told me is true. And there’s more. Cressida calls Amy Aimee. She told Amy it sounded more sophisticated, and Amy didn’t protest.”
Ethan frowned. “A person’s name is so much a part of her identity. To have someone take it away isn’t right.”
“Amy doesn’t see it that way,” Hayley told him. “She was flattered. It was like she was suddenly dissatisfied with the name her mother had given her.”
“People like Cressida Prior have huge powers of persuasion,” Ethan said grimly, “and they use them to bully those around them.”
Hayley and Ethan arrived at the corner of Grove and Main Streets just as the light turned green for pedestrians. They had stepped into the street with the rest of the crowd when a midsized car came flying through the intersection against the light. Several people screamed. Ethan grabbed Hayley’s shoulders and pulled her back to the sidewalk. A child began to sob.
“My God,” Ethan muttered, releasing Hayley. “Are you all right?”
Hayley nodded. With a trembling hand, she reached for her cell phone and called 911. “Someone just ran a red light at the corner of Grove and Main in Yorktide,” she told the dispatcher, her voice shaking. She then spelled out what she had caught of the license plate number and described the car before ending the call.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ethan asked quietly, running his hand gently down Hayley’s arm. “I hope I didn’t hurt you when I grabbed you.”
Hayley took a deep breath. “You didn’t hurt me,” she said. “And thank you.” Ethan might just have saved her life. She could still feel his strong hands on her shoulders and again thought that she might cry. Suddenly she realized that Ethan was looking at her intently. She could swear he wanted to kiss her. And if he did kiss her . . . “My car is right across the street,” she said suddenly, taking a step away from him. “I should be getting back.”
Ethan cleared his throat and nodded briskly. “Of course. I’ve got to get on, too. A friend of mine is staying at the Beachmere. We’re meeting for lunch.”
“Okay,” Hayley said, taking another step away. “And Ethan? Thank you again. For . . . for before.”
Hurriedly, Hayley crossed the street, opened her car door, and slid inside. Her hands trembled as they gripped the steering wheel. Something had just happened. Something serious. But it was not the kind of something that was supposed to happen. There had been a real connection between her and Ethan Whitby, there had been, she had felt it, but there couldn’t be! She couldn’t allow there to be. Emotions were dangerous. Love just messed everything up. Look at what had happened to her mother; her life had been blighted by romance. No, Hayley thought, she had to keep her wits about her and her heart locked firmly away if she was ever to succeed in her plan to—
Hayley’s hands slipped from the steering wheel. If she was ever to succeed in her plan to—to be safe.
Chapter 76
“Oh, I love this song,” Amy said to the interior of her car as she turned up the volume on the ancient radio. She was in a pretty good mood this morning. The sun was shining, the new lip color she had bought had turned out to be a perfect nude, and when she weighed herself the night before she found that she had lost two pounds.
She was almost at the Priors’ house when her phone alerted her to a text. There were no other cars on the road, so Amy risked looking down at the phone on the passenger seat. Don’t need u today Cressida had written.
Suddenly, Amy’s good mood plummeted. She wondered why Cressida had told her not to come to work. Maybe one of the children had complained about her, claimed she had cheated at Timeline, though how you could cheat at the game was beyond Amy’s imagination. Maybe . . . Amy frowned and, at the next turn in the road, headed back toward Hawthorne Lane.
“What are you doing home?” her mother asked when Amy appeared in the kitchen fifteen minutes later.
Amy shrugged and went to the counter to pour her second cup of coffee. “Cressida said I don’t need to come in today.”
“When did she tell you?” her mother asked.
Amy took a seat at the kitchen table. “A few minutes ago. She sent a text.”
Leda frowned. “She could have given you some notice. You could have slept in this morning.”
“Oh, I don’t care!” Amy shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
“Did she say why you weren’t needed?”
“No. Maybe one of the kids is sick.” That shouldn’t be cause for telling the nanny to stay home, but Amy was the nanny in name only, wasn’t she? It was more likely that Cressida didn’t want Amy around. Maybe Will had told Cressida that she was upset about not having agreed on days off and Cressida had gotten angry that Amy hadn’t come straight to her as she had commanded that first day on the job and was punishing her by keeping her at a distance.
Amy’s mother got up from the table and brought her cereal bowl to the sink. “Since you’re home,” she said, “maybe you could help me with the gardening.”
“I thought I’d go to the beach,” Amy blurted. But she had thought no such thing. It was wrong to punish her mother for Cressida’s punishing her. If that’s what Cressida was doing. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll help.”
“Great. Maybe we could go somewhere fun for lunch. We haven’t been out to lunch once this summer. That’s not a criticism,” her mother added quickly. “I know you’ve been working hard.”
Amy managed a smile. “Sure,” she said. “We could go to that taco place you like.”
“Excellent idea. Let me grab some gardening gloves and we can get started.”
When her mother had left the kitchen, Amy put her fingers to her temples. She was getting a headache. She was in no mood to do anything other than shut her bedroom door behind her. Besides, a Mexican meal would make her regain the two pounds she had lost.
With a sigh, Amy went to change out of her work clothes. Not even the perfect nude lipstick could make this day a good one.
Chapter 77
A tall, thin woman was coming out of The Yellow Buttercup, the highest of the high-end boutiques in Yorktide. She was noticeable because she was the only one among the throngs of vacationers and random locals who was dressed as if she was heading to a business meeting in New York. Leda recognized a Gucci bag slung over the woman’s shoulder. She didn’t know where the pantsuit and heels had come from, but she knew quality workmanship when she saw it, even from a distance.
Suddenly it occurred to Leda that the woman had to be the infamous Cressida Prior. Leda watched as Cressida Prior—if that was her—walked through the crowd of casually dressed tourists. Her impression was of a woman unhealthily thin. The set of her shoulders and the angle of her head seemed to declare to the world that she would tolerate nothing less than perfection from others and expect nothing less than obedience to her every whim.
Leda sighed. How neutral could her assessment possibly be? Love and admiration transformed an average-looking human being into an angel of beauty. Contempt and dislike transformed an average-looki
ng human being into a goblin. Leda disliked Cressida Prior. Of course she would find her unattractive.
In a moment Amy’s so-called mentor had disappeared from sight. Leda decided she wouldn’t tell Amy she had seen Ms. Prior. What would be the point? She made her way to Wainscoting and Windowseats to find Phil behind the checkout counter, a look of puzzlement on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Leda asked.
“Nothing,” Phil said. “It’s just that Sadie Jones returned this table runner of yours a few minutes ago with the complaint that it wasn’t properly finished. See? These threads have unraveled from this bound edge.”
Leda looked at the piece and immediately felt her self-confidence plummet. “How could I have been so careless?” she said, putting a hand to her heart. “This is awful.”
“Wait a minute.” Phil held the damaged edge of the runner close to his face. “Just as I suspected,” he said after a moment. “The threads haven’t just come loose. They’ve been torn. Look.”
Phil handed the runner to Leda, who further examined the damage. “Yes,” she said. “I think you’re right. But I don’t understand.”
“All you need to understand for now,” Phil said firmly, “is that the damage is not your fault. Leave this to me.”
Leda shook her head. “What do you mean it’s not my fault?”
“What I mean,” Phil explained, “is that my esteemed customer has a reputation around town for returning items in mysteriously bad shape and demanding refunds. Invariably there’s no receipt—she claims to have lost it—and store return policy means nothing to her. She’s been known to show up a year or more after making a purchase expecting her money back or a replacement.”
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