by Lea Wait
“Neither of us,” I said, my mind flashing back to the bones I’d buried in my backyard the day before.
“So we’re all the end of our lines,” said Abbie.
“Women are usually the ones who keep families together. None of us had that happen. And none of us are carrying our families further.”
Sarah and I had had grandmothers to care for us. Abbie hadn’t even had that.
“So far,” I said. “Maybe one or more of us will have a family. We’re all still young.”
“I don’t feel young,” said Abbie. “Friday afternoon, driving down here, I was excited. Nervous, yes. But excited. I hoped somehow our family would come together, the way we were when we my brothers and I were small. That all the disagreements and problems would disappear.”
“That’s what your father wanted, too,” I said quietly. She nodded. “Strange, isn’t it? Life never turns out the way you want it to.”
Chapter Forty-two
“Come read, my little friend,
And learn this for a truth
That learning forms the mind
And manners that of youth.”
—From 1836 sampler of Caroline Brice, “wrought at Mrs. Maunder’s Seminary, Thorverten,” in England. Caroline’s sampler is unusual because it includes a strong outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral as well as three large bouquets of flowers.
Abbie excused herself to go and lie down. I didn’t ask her to stay. I’d heard all I needed to hear right now.
I took a few notes, and went to look for her brother Michael.
I found him sitting on a granite bench on the lawn below the house, facing the ocean. He was holding a tumbler of scotch; any ice in it had long since melted.
He looked up as I walked toward him. “You’re here. Luke said you would be.”
I nodded. “This is a beautiful place. And it’s comfortable in the sun. This morning the winds were piercing for September.”
“Winds blow strong between buildings in Manhattan, too,” he said. “They’re not like Maine winds that churn and swirl and come from all directions. In New York City, winds are single-minded. They tunnel through the streets, penetrating your bones. L.L. Bean should be marketing to people crossing Forty-second Street as well as those camping in Acadia.”
“But you like living there.”
“In the city you can be free to be whoever you are, or want to be. You’re not watched by neighbors or gossiped about at church or expected to live up to your family’s reputation.” He looked at me. “New York’s my home now.”
“Your dad must have understood that. He left you your apartment.”
“He did. Maybe he understood me, or maybe he didn’t know what else to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the youngest. The last great hope for the artistic Lawrences. My grandfather was a great painter. My father’s art wasn’t bad, but it could never live up to Grandpa’s. Both of them kept hoping for another artistic genius. Abbie tried to please them, I suspect, but when she painted she copied. And didn’t copy all that well.”
“They were disappointed in that?”
Michael shrugged. “Of course. But she was the first, and a girl. I don’t think they pressed her that hard. They had two boys to focus on.”
“So you and Luke painted?”
“Every Lawrence was expected to paint,” said Michael. “No question.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “I’ve never seen paintings by any of you.”
Michael focused on his scotch for a moment and then looked out at the sea. “You’re not likely to, either. Luke couldn’t draw a straight line. Funny. He’s the gay one. You’d think he’d be the artistic one.”
“That’s a stereotype,” I pointed out.
“Maybe. But stereotype or not, he wasn’t an artist. Didn’t have the expected Lawrence gene. Abbie was better than he was, and she’d already been dismissed.”
“Dismissed?”
“Told she wasn’t a real Lawrence, told to find something else to do in life that wouldn’t disgrace the family too much.” He looked at me. “I don’t remember much about our mother, but I’m told she was a family embarrassment.”
“Your father loved her.”
“That was the story, too. That he neglected his art to fall in love with a beautiful woman and have children. Maybe it was true. But then she drank too much, and took lovers, and drowned in a most public and embarrassing manner.”
“Who told you that?”
“Grandpa, I think. I don’t know. It was common knowledge around town when I was a kid. I heard people talking.”
“So Abbie and Luke couldn’t paint. Couldn’t carry on the tradition.”
“Which left it up to me, of course. The sole hope of the family.”
“And?”
“I hated art.” Michael stopped. “No, I didn’t hate art. I admired it. But in this family, you’re expected to do more than admire. You must create.”
“You’re a poet.”
“Right. I ‘create with words.’ That’s what Dad used to say. You’re looking at a man who writes very bad poetry and drinks very good scotch whenever he can.”
“Your father supported you.”
He shrugged. “I told you—I was his forlorn hope. He didn’t know anything about poetry. He didn’t even care about poetry. That’s why I chose to make it my métier. He could tell people his son was a New York City poet, that he found his inspiration in the streets.” Michael shook his head. “Pure crap.”
“Then you don’t write?”
“Oh, I write. I’ve been working on a memoir. Telling the world what it was like to grow up a Lawrence. The real story. I didn’t even get a chance to tell the old man. He would have been furious. It would have reflected poorly on the family name.” Michael smiled, looking down at his scotch. “I wasn’t sure how to end the book. After this weekend I’ll have enough material for a total rewrite.” He took a deep drink. “Could be I’ll have a best seller on my hands. The truth about the famous Lawrences.”
“So that’s why you came home this weekend? To tell your family about your book?”
“Partially. To see the place it all started. Luke and I live in the same city and never see each other. Abbie hides out up in the wilderness somewhere. Dad lived with the ghosts of his father . . . canvasses of them. His rebellion was to have his own gallery and represent artists who weren’t his father. But his prize possessions were his Robert Lawrences. They were more important to him than his children.” Michael looked down at the sea below. “The Point is a beautiful place to live. And die.”
What had Michael written in his memoir?
Ted hadn’t been close to any of his children, yet he’d accepted Sarah. Or she’d thought he had. Because she hadn’t grown up here? Because she was a part of Robert Lawrence? That might explain why he’d acknowledged her relationship to the family and not Jeremy’s.
“What do you think happened to your father this past weekend?”
“We all grew up knowing about Red Tide. It’s a part of Maine. Kind of ironic, actually. Poetic. He identified with Maine, and then it killed him.”
“What happened Sunday night?”
Michael raised his glass toward me. “I was drunk. We all were, a little. But Silas and I had drunk the most. He kept gulping that sludge, that coffee liquor. Said if you mixed it with milk or cream you wouldn’t get drunk. Really? Sixty proof plus caffeine and sugar and you wouldn’t get drunk?”
“He was the only one drinking that?”
“For sure. No one with any taste would touch it. I wondered why Dad even had it in his bar. I had my scotch, and Abbie was drinking some sort of wine. Luke was carrying around a bottle of vintage cognac he’d found. ” He raised his glass again. “You missed a great party. Just like the old days, so I’ve heard, when Mom was still alive, and she and Dad hosted local artists. Drunks, arguing. Silas kept falling asleep. Abbie was walking around the house making lists of what she wan
ted when we divided the estate. Luke was on the phone to Harold off and on. I didn’t pay attention.”
“And then you went swimming.”
“Lawrence tradition. Late-night swim. Cold water was supposed to sober you up. Abbie never did it, even years ago. She always said saltwater messed up her hair. Luke and I just figured she didn’t like the cold. Plus, we boys used to strip down to go in. Abbie wouldn’t do that, even in the dark.”
“So did you and Luke go down to the beach?”
“Nah. He was still jabbering on the phone. He waved me off. But I knew I’d had a bit too much, even for me. You’re not supposed to go swimming alone, right? Everyone’s mom and dad and swimming instructors tell you that.”
I nodded. “So you asked Silas.”
“Figured he could use some sobering up. Told him we men were going to brave the currents. He took another swig of that rot he drinks and followed me.”
“And then?”
“Then nothing. We got to the beach—took the same path we had Friday night. We left our clothes on the beach. I yelled, ‘First one in!’ the way Luke and I always did, and ran and jumped in. Brrr, it was cold. I’ve gotten old and soft.”
“And Silas?”
“He went in, too. I heard him splashing. He yelled,
‘Cold! I’m heading in,’ and I decided to join him on the beach. But he didn’t come in. We hadn’t taken towels—guess we were too drunk to think of them—but I pulled on my clothes. Took a few minutes. My hands were shaking with the cold, and I was soaked.”
“Of course.”
“I was almost dressed when I realized Silas was still in the water. I yelled a few times, hoping he’d answer. I figured he’d done what Luke used to do—tell me it was time to get out and then tease me I was too chicken to stay in as long as he could. But Silas didn’t answer.”
“And?”
“I panicked. I ran up to the house, screaming that Silas had disappeared. Abbie ran down to the beach. Luke called nine-one-one. You’ve probably heard what happened after that. He’d drowned.”
I nodded. “But the ME says Silas was poisoned.”
Michael snorted. “No way. Poisoned with that swill he was drinking, maybe. All any of us ate that day was the lasagna Sarah brought over. And her cheesecake. Pretty impressive, that cheesecake. And that’s coming from a New Yorker. None of the rest of us were sick. Or died.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Sit on this bench until I finish my scotch. Then go and pour another one,” said Michael. “Look out at the place my family ended.” He grimaced. “Write a new ending to my book.”
I looked down at my phone. Call me. Please. It was Sarah.
Chapter Forty-three
“The loss of Time is much
The loss of Grace is more.
The loss of Christ is Such
That no man can restore.”
—This sampler, completed by Mary Howard in England in 1786, features three trees topped with different birds above the quotation. Below is a large castlelike English country house and a scene of hunting, complete with riders, dogs, and a fox—a very unusual subject for a sampler.
I wasn’t ready to talk to Sarah, but I’d have to return her call soon. I’d committed to talking to everyone who’d been at The Point this past weekend. So far I’d only spoken with Abbie and Michael.
This wasn’t the close-knit, loving family Sarah had hoped for.
But she and Patrick were both on my list, along with Luke and Jeremy. We’d all been here, family or not.
Had Luke returned from grocery shopping?
I walked back up the hill to the Lawrence house. All was quiet. The truck Luke had borrowed wasn’t in the driveway. How much food had he planned to get?
He’d known I wanted to talk with him. Hell, he was the one who’d hired me to talk with everyone.
I shivered. I’d admired The Point Friday afternoon, but after all that had happened here, I wasn’t comfortable hanging around the place by myself.
Instead, I headed back to town to talk with Jeremy. The little we’d spoken during the weekend made it clear he knew the Lawrence family well. Like Sarah, he was a member of the family unknown to others. And, in his case, even to himself. He didn’t have any reason to kill his benefactor—his father—but maybe he’d have some insights as to what had happened.
I parked behind the gallery. It wasn’t far from Sarah’s home and store. I didn’t look forward to facing her after this morning, but I’d have to. I’d stop there after I talked with Jeremy.
A black beribboned wreath was on the gallery’s front door. I rang the bell, as a sign directed, and walked in.
I’d always assumed art galleries were for people who were rich, or “interestingly creative,” as I’d once heard someone say. Or who were trying to impress others. I’d lived in Haven Harbor most of my life, and most of that time this gallery had been on Main Street.
I’d never been inside.
The first floor was a large space surrounded by white walls, each one hung with ten or twelve large paintings. Large modern sculptures, some made of scraps of wood and some of metal, were in the center of the gallery. Along the front windows, each displaying two paintings, were narrow shelves holding small brass or ceramic sculptures of whales, seals, starfish, sea urchins, and porpoises. A wrought-iron spiral staircase next to a large desk covered with papers and postcards led from this main floor to the second floor. Looking up, I could see smaller paintings hanging upstairs.
Everywhere, the pictures were draped in black.
I almost laughed. It was sad, of course, that Ted Lawrence had died, but to put the gallery in mourning seemed a little overly dramatic for Haven Harbor. Maybe it was an artistic thing.
Jeremy wasn’t in sight.
I stared at the wall closest to me. The paintings were grouped by artist.
The first group were traditional Maine scenes: lighthouses, lobstermen, surf, and sailboats. Dramatic seascapes and surreal landscapes too large to fit in my home were on the back wall. I recognized the artist’s name: Linda Zaharee. She’d known Patrick‘s mother, Skye West, years ago, and I’d met her this past June. Had she had anything to do with Patrick’s being hired by this gallery?
The art world probably wasn’t a large one.
“Angie! How nice of you to stop by!” Jeremy ran down the staircase, clearly happy to see me. “After that dreadful weekend, it’s nice to see a friendly face. And, as you can see”—he gestured at the room—“we open Tuesdays, but this time of year we’re not overrun by customers.”
I nodded. “I like Linda Zaharee’s work. Do you sell many of hers?”
“Are you interested in one in particular?” he asked.
“No! I mean, they’re wonderful. But they’re way over my budget.” The painting I’d been admiring was marked $40,000. It was over the budget of anyone I knew—except maybe Patrick.
“Too bad. Her work is special. We don’t sell many, but she and Ted are old friends, so she let us have two or three paintings each year.” He leaned over, as though confiding in me. “I suspect they’re pieces her New York gallery didn’t want. But they’re still spectacular.” He looked at the paintings with the pride of a young father.
“So this gallery will be yours.”
Jeremy sighed. “It’s a dream come true. Yes. Ted was kind to remember me.”
He hadn’t called Ted “Father.”
“When did you first meet Ted?”
“When I was at RISD—the Rhode Island School of Design. I was on scholarship, living at home with my mother not far from the school. She’d always encouraged my art, but she clerked at a supermarket. We didn’t have much money, although she always managed to have enough for my canvasses and paint.”
“You didn’t ask about your dad?” I could identify with that. I didn’t expect to ever find out who my father was. Jeremy was lucky, even if his luck came late.
“She’d never talk about who my father was. Said it
wasn’t important. That what was important was my finding my own talents.”
“So you did.”
“I dreamed,” Jeremy said. “I painted, but my first love was the theater. I wanted to be a set designer. That’s why I went to RISD. Then, one day when I was a sophomore, Robert Lawrence gave a guest lecture there. Ted was with him. We started chatting at the reception afterward. I wanted to impress him, so even though I’d never been north of Massachusetts I told him I loved Maine. He said if I was looking for a job after I graduated I should contact him, that he was looking for a bright young man to help in his gallery.” Jeremy blushed. “I mean—a chance to work with someone in the famous Lawrence family? A dream come true! And then he called the dean and, to my amazement, set up a scholarship at RISD and asked that I be the first recipient. He paid for the rest of my time in school, and I started coming to Haven Harbor on my vacations.”
“And you had no idea he was your father?”
“Not a clue. Once in a while someone at the gallery would say we looked alike. He’d joke we’d just worked together too long.”
“So you’ve known him since you were at RISD.” He nodded. “I called Mom after I heard what Ted had written in his will. She told me that, yes, he was my father. That he’d sworn her to secrecy, but had been sending money over the years. He’d met Mom when she was young, and worked at a gallery in Providence. He was married when I was born. He didn’t want his wife to know about me, or the publicity to tarnish the Lawrence family image.” The Lawrence family image. What would Michael’s memoir do to that?
“How did that make you feel?”
“I thought Ted valued my ideas and my work. Now I’m wondering if he was just trying to make up for the years he wasn’t around. The years he wasn’t my father. Maybe he felt guilty; that’s why he never told me himself. And then Sarah showed up, and he made this big announcement and called his family together.... Angie, I’m honestly not sure how I feel about him right now.”
“But you’ll stay, and take over the gallery.”
