“Do you like these things?” Gemma asked when we were almost at the college.
“Openings? They’re okay. I’ve gotten used to them, mostly. I’m not really a party person, but when my work is the stuff on display, then it all feels like a business event. I mean, basically the point of an opening is to make an eventual sale.”
“You’re trying to impress people.”
“With the work, yes, I guess so. I mean, I want people to like my work.”
“So you can make money off it.”
The statement wasn’t spoken with contempt. I got the feeling Gemma was trying to figure something out. “I need the money, Gemma. But honestly, I’d be sculpting even if I didn’t need the money, if I were filthy rich. I sculpt because I have to. Any real artist feels that way. There’s no choice about having to pick up a pencil or a knife. Or, for that matter, a power tool.”
Gemma had no reply to that.
“I’ll have to talk to people,” I explained then. “People might have questions about the work, and I’ll probably know almost everyone there, at least by sight.”
Gemma shrugged. “I can take care of myself.”
I know you can, I thought. But why should you have to?
“Do you want to stay with me? Or do you want to hang out on your own?”
“I’m okay. You should do what you have to do.”
“All right. But if at any time you feel—”
“Verity. I’ll be fine.”
I shut up after that.
A few minutes later Gemma and I stood in the entrance to the gallery, which is on the ground floor of the building that houses my studio as well as all the other rooms used for various art classes, including dance and theater. “What do you think?” I asked. Gemma had been to the space before, but she hadn’t yet seen the installation of my work. “Those four pieces there are the new ones. Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. The Four Seasons.”
She didn’t answer right away, just looked around the exhibition from left to right and back again, and I felt my stomach drop. I know she’s not into art, but like I said, I want her to be proud of me. Am I being pathetic?
“It’s cool,” she said finally. “And it’s all yours? The drawings, too?”
“Yes,” I said, with a feeling of great relief. “It’s all mine.”
“How long did it take you to make everything?”
“I’ve been working on the new sculptures for over a year.”
Gemma turned to me then and smiled. “You really like to work, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. I more than like it. I love it.”
“Verity?”
The director of the gallery was at my shoulder, and as I turned to greet him, I was aware of Gemma moving off into the room.
“The show looks great,” he said. “Congratulations.” Though American, Harry Carlyle got his graduate degrees at Oxford and had lived for some years after that in London. I’ve always wondered how he got to Maine but haven’t wanted to ask. After all, I know all too well the value of privacy and how raw one can feel when privacy is ripped away.
“Thanks so much for all you’ve done,” I told him sincerely. “For all the opportunities you’ve given me over the years.”
Harry smiled. “My pleasure. And now, time to open the doors to the public.”
Things were a bit of a blur after that, as people began to arrive in a steady flow. Still, I was able to keep an eye on Gemma as she moved through the growing crowd. She managed, I thought, to project a sense of aloofness, apartness, and I wondered if she was consciously trying to keep people from approaching her. But then I saw her smile in answer to a smile and nod from a middle-aged couple I vaguely recognized, and I felt somewhat assured. Of course I’d been worried she might feel overwhelmed, too much on display, but thankfully this crowd was smart enough to leave her alone and focus on what they were supposed to focus on.
The art. And the food and wine. I spotted at least twelve YCC art students stuffing themselves with shrimp and slices of veggies. Students, particularly art students, are smart when it comes to getting a free meal.
As I’d told Gemma, I knew most of the people, some only by sight, some more closely. There were, for example, Freddie Ross and Sheila Simon. Freddie, who’s in her early eighties I think, only just retired from her law practice. Sheila’s a photographer and a pretty good one at that. We have our work in a few of the same galleries here, most notably The Luna Gallery, owned by a woman named Anna Ross, as well as at The Winslett Gallery in Ogunquit, the BlowFish Gallery in Kennebunkport, and a gallery as far north as Portland. Freddie and Sheila have been together for over fifty years, a real feat in this day and age of disposable commitments.
The women came over to me now, Sheila impeccable as always in a black linen dress and bolero jacket, a magnificent silver pendant around her neck, and Freddie in a more casual outfit of chinos and blue Oxford blouse.
“How’s she doing?” Freddie asked quietly. There was no need to name names.
“All right,” I replied. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Whatever that means.”
“Time. The great healer. Just be patient.”
Sheila shook her head. “Easier said than done, Freddie.”
After the women had wandered off, I spotted the Higgins girls: Poppy, with her husband, Jon Gascoyne, son of Matilda Gascoyne, who had been so good about greeting Gemma in town a few weeks back; Daisy, who’s about Gemma’s age, I think; and Violet, a few years younger. The girls lost both of their parents within three years of each other. Sad. But money helps. I don’t mean to be unsympathetic. But Annabelle and Oliver Higgins had been able to leave their children comfortably well off, with a big house fully paid for and a sound portfolio of investments. I know all this the way everyone in Yorktide knows the business of everyone else. Osmosis.
Sophie Stueben and her father, Dan, who had recently taken over Freddie’s practice, came in then. With them was Allie Swift. All were friends with the Higginses. It wasn’t long before Dan and Allie joined Poppy and Jon and Daisy, and Sophie and Violet drifted off on their own. I hoped Gemma would get to talk to the girls, especially to Sophie, whose own life story to date has been fairly traumatic. At one point I saw the girls moving toward Gemma, where she stood looking at one of the framed preliminary sketches, but Gemma suddenly walked rapidly across the room and seemed deeply interested once again in the food table. I don’t know if the girls had had any intention of introducing themselves to Gemma—of course someone would have told them she was The Little Kidnapped Girl, as Gemma puts it—but Gemma must have thought so.
I checked my watch and looked toward the door and, as if summoned, David strode into the gallery. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “The roof guy didn’t show up until almost six. Is she here?”
I gave a slight nod in Gemma’s direction. “I’ll introduce you. But, David? I still don’t think it’s the right time to tell her that we’re—”
David smiled down at me. “I’m your colleague and your friend. That’s all she needs to know for now.”
“Thank you. I know it’s been tough . . . our not being together.. . .”
“I’m not a randy teen, Verity. I’m a randy closing-in-on-fifty-year-old. I can wait for the girl I love.”
I smiled, though I still felt nervous about David’s meeting Gemma, even as just a colleague and friend. I finished off my glass of wine, and together we made our way through the crowd—many of whom were now laughing and talking more loudly than they had at the start of the party—toward Gemma. She greeted us with a smile.
“A good turnout,” David said, as I seemed to have lost my voice for a moment.
“Yes. Gemma, I’d like to introduce you to David Wildacre. He’s the head of the English department at the college. And he’s a friend.”
David stuck out his hand, and for half a second I was terrified Gemma wouldn’t respond, but to my amazement, she did, shaking his hand
briefly. “Hi,” she said.
None of us seemed to have anything more to add until David, with one artfully raised eyebrow, said to Gemma, “So, what do you think of your mother’s work? Or is that an unfair question?”
His words surprised me, but Gemma laughed. “Totally unfair. I plead the fifth.”
David grinned. “I’m starved,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t get dinner. I’m going to grab the last of those mini quiche things. See you later.”
And he was gone.
“He’s a very good teacher,” I said, flailing again. “His students like him.”
Before Gemma could say anything at all, my arm was being grasped by one of those extremely well-dressed women I mentioned earlier, who led me away to meet a “very respectable collector.” I mouthed a sorry over my shoulder to Gemma, who actually smiled back.
Chapter 68
There was only fifteen minutes left of the opening and people had begun to wander out, but there were still some who hung around, talking and laughing loudly and gesticulating wildly. I’d never been to this sort of a party before, and I realized I kind of liked it, even though in general I don’t like parties. I don’t know why exactly I liked it. Maybe it’s because there were so many different sorts of people, from babies in those sacks you strap on your chest or your back to people who looked old enough to be my great-grandparents. Maybe it’s because the music was kind of weird but in a good way. Interesting. And the food didn’t suck.
There was a photographer there from the local paper, as well as from the Portland Press Herald. And a lot of people wanted selfies with Verity. It seems she’s a bit of a local celebrity. Well, I guess for more than one reason. Artist and mother of the kidnapped baby.
I felt proud of her. Is that weird? I still feel proud of her. I know it’s unfair to compare Verity to Dad, and it’s something I do all too often these days, with Verity more and more winning out over Dad. But it’s hard not to compare. It’s hard not to see that Verity is successful. Okay, she’s not rich, but look at all those people who showed up to see her work, and there was that guy who even bought a piece.
I probably shouldn’t have said that about her sculpting just for the money. I would never have admitted it to Verity, but I was pretty nervous before the opening. I mean, I had this image in my head of everyone staring at me, whispering behind their hands, pointing. I mean, that hadn’t happened at the Strawberries’ party or at the Fourth of July parade, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen here. I’d told Verity I could take care of myself, but I wondered what I might do if someone said something stupid to me. I knew I shouldn’t embarrass Verity on her big night, in front of all her friends and colleagues, but I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t. I actually wished that the Strawberries had been able to come. At least I could tag along with them, which might keep people from trying to talk to me, but Marc’s old uncle had died, and they had gone to New Hampshire for the funeral. Bad timing for me. Marion never goes to openings, because she tends to get panic attacks in small crowded spaces. Not that she would have been much help even if she weren’t prone to panic attacks. Like I said, she has this air of, like . . . weakness around her. Like she could really easily just, I don’t know, blow away or something.
Anyway, the whole thing wasn’t at all as bad as I thought it might be. Most people spent a fair amount of time actually looking at Verity’s work, and I found that pretty cool. A lot of people sort of smiled and nodded at me as they strolled from work to work but didn’t stop to talk, for which I was grateful. One old lady did come up to me before I could scuttle away. She grasped my hand and I winced; she was only about eighty pounds, but her grip was like a vise’s. She was wearing a billowy black dress that came down to the floor, and around her neck there were about five necklaces made, I think, of big chunks of wood painted in red, blue, purple, and green. I stood there, captive, having no idea what she wanted with me. When she’d stopped staring, she said, “I simply adore your earrings! Where did you get them?” I almost laughed in relief; I thought she had been going to ask me about my “time in captivity.” I put my other hand to my ear to help me remember what earrings I’d put on. “A friend gave them to me,” I said. A friend. Cathy had given them to me; she’d said they’d never really looked right on her.
“Well, they suit you very nicely!” The old lady released her grip and moved off. I watched as she joined a group of three middle-aged women, each dressed more wildly bohemian than the other, in colorful caftans and oddly shaped hats, and I wondered if she had any idea who I was, the infamous Little Kidnapped Girl, or if she truly didn’t know—or care?—that I was Verity Peterson’s daughter. But that question was less interesting to me than the fact that I had spontaneously called Cathy a friend.
Verity didn’t say, but I got the feeling she and that guy David she introduced me to are together. Maybe they’re not in a relationship, but I bet they have sex. For one, he was the only person there she went out of her way to introduce to me. So, he’s important to her, at least, more important than anyone else at the opening. Well, she’s got pretty good taste. He’s not bad looking at all, though he’s way too old for me. And he has a sense of humor, which is always helpful. Dad laughs at obvious jokes, but he doesn’t have a sense of humor, if you know what I mean. He can’t make witty comments or get most sarcasm. Sometimes he asks me to explain a remark that had made me laugh, and let me tell you, there’s nothing to kill humor, to make something suddenly unfunny, like having to explain it.
Anyway, as things continued to wind down and the last people in the gallery began to leave and the catering people began to clear away the plastic glasses and the last of the food, I got this idea. All night long I’d seen people shake Verity’s hand or kiss her cheek or give her a hug. She seemed to like it. I mean, she didn’t look uncomfortable or anything. It seemed like she’d been smiling since we got to the gallery. And like I said before, Verity isn’t a faker.
So my idea was that I should give her a hug too. In congratulations. It probably wouldn’t kill me, and Verity would appreciate it. I mean, pretty much everyone else in the place had hugged her or kissed her cheek, men and women. Why should I be the only one not to? It’s not like Verity hasn’t been good to me since I came to live with her. I’d be stupid to deny that she treats me well, even when I’m being ungrateful. So, what’s a hug going to cost me?
I decided I’d do it.
“You made a sale,” I said when we were finally alone. We were standing right outside the door to the gallery. The night was clear (you could see lots of stars) and warm, and I realized I was enjoying breathing it in.
I’d never enjoyed breathing before! I mean, it’s so basic. Who even notices they’re breathing?
“Yeah,” Verity said. “Not the new work but one of my better pieces nonetheless.”
“A lot of people turned up.”
Verity shrugged. “Maybe it was the free food. Some people will show up anywhere for mini quiches.”
“Nah. It was your work.” And then I did it, before I could lose the determination. I won’t say nerve. I put my arms around her, patted her back, said, “Congratulations,” and stepped away. The look on her face almost made me laugh, though not meanly. She looked like she was going to burst out laughing and crying at the same time. For a split second I prayed she wouldn’t do either—I so didn’t want a big emotional scene—but she got control of herself, smiled a reasonable smile, and said, “Thanks. I’m glad you were here.” I nodded, and we both started to walk through the parking lot toward the car. We didn’t say much on the way home, and when we got into the house, I suddenly felt completely wiped out and said I was going to bed.
“It’s been a big evening,” Verity said as I turned to leave the kitchen.
“Yeah,” I said. “It has.”
Chapter 69
The opening was an unqualified success. That’s not bragging; that’s just being honest. The turnout was good. The meeting between David and Gemma, though brief, we
nt well. I got to see and say hi to some very nice people I hadn’t run into in ages.
But the best moment of the entire night, far better than making a fairly big sale, the money from which will help pay for a new dishwasher, as ours is dying a slow and painful death, was the fact that Gemma hugged me. It was brief and awkward, but it happened. It was at the end of the evening, when the two of us had just left the building. For some reason we both paused for a moment before walking on to the parking lot. And then she did it. I can’t tell you how good I feel. I know, I know, it’s only one battle won, not the entire war but . . . Come to think of it, maybe I should give up on the conflict imagery. Think more positively.
After breakfast this morning Gemma went to take a shower. I had just begun to put dishes in the dishwasher (hoping it would work), when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, though I did recognize the area code as one from Massachusetts. I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Verity. I bet you can’t guess who this is.”
The voice wasn’t even vaguely familiar. It was, however, annoying. It had that overly bright, strident quality that immediately turns me off. For a moment I assumed the voice belonged to someone trying to sell me something I didn’t want.
“No,” I said. “I can’t guess.”
“Hold on to your hat. It’s Ellen Burns-Cassidy. Alan’s cousin!”
Who? I thought. And then came a very small recollection of having once or twice heard Marion mention her name. But that was a long time ago. That was a world away.
“Oh,” I said, my hand tightening on the receiver. I don’t know why I suddenly felt so anxious, but I did.
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