Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  “A cousin of your father called me the other day. Her name is Ellen. Seems she and her husband, Richard, have rented a house in Yorktide for the rest of the summer. She says she’d like to see you.”

  Gemma shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

  The ready acceptance of this idea surprised me. “She never met you before your father . . . In fact, I never met her. She and Alan weren’t close. Alan wasn’t close to anyone in his family but his mother.”

  “You think she’s another voyeur?”

  I don’t know why I was surprised Gemma should ask that question. My daughter is a very intelligent young woman. And a suspicious one. “Honestly,” I said, “I don’t know.” Though I did know, at least I suspected, that given what Marion had told me about Ellen’s character, she hoped to get something more out of meeting her long-lost relative besides a warm and fuzzy feeling. But I will not share my suspicions with Gemma.

  “Whatever,” she said now. “I can handle it.”

  And at that moment, thinking about all Gemma’s been through since the spring, I believed she could indeed handle meeting Alan’s cousin. Besides, I thought, we were so much closer now than we’d been at the start of the summer. Together, I thought, we could handle whatever Cousin Ellen threw at us.

  “They’ve invited us to a party on Saturday around four. We’ll see them once,” I said, “be good doobies, then we don’t have to see them again.”

  “We don’t have to get dressed up, do we?” Gemma asked. “It was cool at your opening that people wore whatever they wanted to wear. I mean, did you see those ladies dressed like gypsies in a movie? And the guy in the red velvet suit? I don’t know how he didn’t sweat to death, but he looked like a celebrity or a rock star from the seventies.”

  I didn’t tell Gemma I’d been a bit worried about what sort of appearance she would make at the opening. The daughter of the artist, all eyes upon her. “No,” I said. “We don’t have to dress up. Ellen stressed it was a casual thing.”

  Gemma grinned. “But no sweat pants, right?”

  I grinned back. “Right.”

  Chapter 73

  I was waiting for the scheduled call from Alan, but unlike what I used to feel when I first got here to Maine, which was eagerness to hear his voice and maybe even to hear some good news, like how charges were being reduced or something, now I kind of half wished something would prevent him from making the call. Not something horrible, like he’d been hurt in a fight or something, just maybe that there was a problem with the phone lines. Talking to him has really become difficult for me. Sometimes I just want to slam the phone down the second he says hello, which I could do, given that I talk to him on an old-fashioned landline phone with a separate receiver. Sometimes I want to scream, How could you have deprived me of my own name, my own identity? and then slam the phone down. And sometimes, well, sometimes I just want to cry, just break down and let him hear me sob.

  Not that it would change anything.

  I didn’t let on to Verity, but I actually am interested in meeting Ellen. I mean, she’s another flesh and blood relative of Dad. I’m curious. It’s not that I really believe seeing his cousin is going to magically help me better understand my father and why he did what he did. But getting to know Marion a bit has been kind of illuminating. Anyway, I wasn’t sure I’d tell Dad about his cousin popping up in Yorktide. I figured I’d see how the conversation went. He can be so . . . touchy.

  Precisely on time, the phone rang.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  No greeting. Not, I thought, a good sign. And thinking? Always a dangerous thing with Dad. “About what?” I asked, half dreading the answer.

  “I’m thinking I’m not going to accept a plea bargain.”

  “Dad,” I snapped. “Don’t be crazy. You have to take it.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he said with that familiar note of petulance. “Besides, I know best.”

  It was hard, but I controlled my annoyance and my anger. “No, Dad,” I said, “you don’t. Your lawyers know best.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and I wondered if he’d heard what I’d said. And then he laughed harshly. “I know what’s happening,” he said. “She’s been trying to turn you against me, hasn’t she? That’s why you can’t see that I know how to handle things!”

  Now I was seriously annoyed. “She has not been doing any such thing!” I took a deep breath before going on. “Look, Dad, just promise me you’ll take the plea bargain. The less time you have to spend in jail, the better. Right? Don’t you want to get out and see me again?”

  There was another long moment of silence before he said, in a tone of false conciliation, “Sure I do. All right, I’ll reconsider. I have to go now.”

  And that was that, the call cut short. I don’t really believe he’ll reconsider taking a plea bargain, but miracles do happen. Or it’s said they do. Anyway, I felt as if I had been talking to a dim-witted, whiny child. And I was glad I hadn’t told him about his cousin Ellen getting in touch with me. He’d probably see some conspiracy there, too. Anyway, since the time I told Dad I’d met his mother, he hasn’t once asked about her, so how much can he really care about any of his family?

  You know, not once since I’ve been living here with Verity has she ever bad-mouthed my father, though there must be times when she wants to. Well, maybe she’s bad-mouthed him to Annie or to David, and if she has, I can’t help that, it’s a free country, but at least she’s had the—the what? The decency?—not to do it in front of me.

  But I wonder if Dad deserves such consideration.

  Chapter 74

  David had offered to be my plus one at Ellen and Richard’s party, even though he hadn’t exactly been invited. “You might need the backup,” he’d said. “At least, you might welcome it.”

  But I didn’t want to drag him into what might turn out to be a family debacle. And there was the fact that Gemma had only met David once. He was almost as new to her as Ellen and Richard would be, and that would be of little or no comfort to her.

  The house Ellen and Richard had rented was one of those McMansions, a cookie-cutter house chosen from a brochure and customized here and there to distinguish it from the otherwise identical houses to the left and the right. It seemed to hulk over us as we pulled into the circular drive, like some oddly ineffectual monster, relying on its size alone to intimidate.

  “It’s huge,” Gemma said.

  “It’s ugly,” I said. “What I mean is, it’s not my taste in architecture.”

  “I wonder if their house back wherever they live is this big.”

  “I have no idea.” And I had no interest in finding out.

  I parked next to a new-model Mercedes. Every single one of the other cars drawn up in front of the house was newer and way more expensive than my trusty Honda CRV. And did I mention they were shinier? Gemma didn’t comment on the vehicles, and I hoped she wasn’t the sort to care about owning a car as a status symbol, because that’s something we just can’t afford to do. On second thought, I seriously doubt Gemma cares at all about things like social status and one-upping the neighbors. But is that a positive lesson Alan taught her or a result of her not ever realizing or believing it’s within the reach of most people to improve their lots in life?

  A woman appeared at the top of the massive set of stairs leading up to the house, and waved. Gemma and I glanced at each other a bit warily and began the climb.

  “Verity?” the woman said when Gemma and I had reached the top stair and found ourselves on a palatial paved stone veranda. “Of course it must be you! And Gemma. Or should I say Marni?”

  “Gemma’s okay,” my daughter said.

  I startled a bit when I heard my daughter use her birth name, but wisely, I didn’t comment.

  Ellen smiled. “Welcome! We’re so glad you could make it.”

  I could see absolutely no family resemblance to Alan, though admittedly my visu
al memory of him isn’t perfect in spite of the old images of him on my now defunct website and the more recent photo in Gemma’s room—a photo I avoid looking at. I guessed her to be in her mid-forties, but who knows these days? If she’s wealthy enough for Botox treatments and laser therapy and all that, she might be closer to fifty. Her hair is blond and clearly done at a salon; that much I can always tell for sure. She was tastefully dressed in a very crisp white blouse with the collar turned up, and a pale-pink silk scarf tied around her neck, navy slacks, and a pair of taupe-colored espadrilles. On her left hand she wore a substantial diamond solitaire (she’d told me not to break out the diamonds, but . . . ) set in what I thought must be platinum, and a plain matching band. Her other jewelry was yellow gold, eighteen-carat for all I know, and quite frankly, beautiful. Italian design, I’d say, reflecting centuries of fine art and craftsmanship. Her bearing was dignified but not stuffy.

  Ellen led us around the side of the house to an extension of the veranda. It was all I could do not to gasp. There was a large in-ground pool; two tables set for six and shaded by umbrellas; several well-padded lounge chairs; and an outdoor kitchen, complete with grill, sink, fridge, and bar. Modulated laughter came from the small groups of guests gathered at the bar and poolside. The air smelled strongly of roses; I guessed there was a rose garden around another side of the house, no small feat in this climate.

  “Richard!” Ellen called, waving to a tall slim man standing not far away, by a massive potted rosemary bush. He turned to us. Along with his wife, Richard might have stepped out of the pages of Town & Country. Pressed chinos, a blue Oxford shirt, navy blazer, and a pair of broken-in brown leather loafers, sans socks. His wedding ring, I noticed, matched Ellen’s simple band. On his left wrist I caught a glimpse of a large, heavy-looking watch. Rolex? Tag Heuer? Whatever it was, I was pretty sure it wasn’t a good old Timex. I realized I had no idea what he—and she?—did for a living, and I thought it would be interesting to know. Was it good manners, I wondered (and still do) to ask the host and hostess how they could afford their largesse? I kept my curiosity to myself.

  Richard smiled, giving us the full force of his perfectly straight white teeth. “Finally,” he said. “We’ve been so eager to meet you both.”

  I noticed neither Ellen nor Richard had extended a hand for us to shake, and I wondered why. Is shaking someone’s hand a no-no in these days of the renewed fear of infectious diseases? Or had I missed the memo prescribing the latest social mores of the upper crust? You can see my attitude toward my hosts was not the most open.

  After a few minutes of mindless chitchat (there I go again), Richard took Gemma off to show her around the house. “Wait until you see the billiard room,” he said as they walked toward a door that led into an obviously state-of-the-art kitchen.

  “Is Marion coming?” I asked Ellen when I could no longer see my daughter. It occurred to me that I should have offered Marion a ride to the party; though she’s perfectly capable of driving herself, she would probably be nervous meeting this long-lost relative of her late husband once again. She might have appreciated the companionship.

  Ellen grimaced. “God, no. I’d rather she didn’t even know we’re in town! No, I didn’t want her to spoil the party. She’s always been such a drip. No wonder her son turned out the way he did. Alan didn’t stand a chance with either of those two as parents.”

  “So you feel sorry for him?” I asked, knowing I really should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Not in the least,” Ellen said stoutly. “He’s not insane. He’s still responsible for his actions. No, Alan got what he deserved, in my opinion.”

  And your opinion is all that counts, I thought. What I said was: “Please keep in mind, Ellen, that for better or worse Alan is Gemma’s father, and he did take decent care of her for seventeen years. She loves him. I don’t think she’d welcome your bad-mouthing him.”

  Ellen put a manicured hand to her heart, nails of medium length and painted a pale shell-pink. “Of course not,” she said in an unnecessary whisper, “don’t worry about that. I’m the soul of discretion.”

  I doubted that, but there was no point in prolonging the conversation. In any case, a newly arrived guest caught Ellen’s attention, and she went off to offer greetings. I helped myself to a cold shrimp and asked the bartender (yes, there was a bartender at this casual affair) for a white wine. It was very good. Probably a vintage I can’t afford. I could feel resentment and something else—fear?—come over me with every passing moment, and I really did try to keep it at bay. For Gemma’s sake, I thought. Keep an open mind for Gemma’s sake. These people might turn out to be of some good in her life. A positive influence. Help with college tuition? But only if they offered and only if there were no strings.

  I used to be debilitatingly shy, but that was way back in the old days, and now I have no problem introducing myself to a group of strangers, if one by one. I soon found myself in a conversation about lawn fertilizer of all things with a man who boasted that he was eighty-five with the constitution of a sixty-five-year-old. He did look extremely fit and was still handsome in a debonair sort of way, and for a split second I wondered if he was flirting with me. I saw no wedding ring, but that means nothing, and at his age he might easily be a widower. The thought amused me until he began to get a bit too touchy-feely for my taste—nothing gross, just enough to make his intentions clear—and with apologies and excuses, I moved off to look for my daughter. Richard must have finished showing off the glories of this suburban castle, and no doubt Gemma was either bored stiff or sick to her stomach with the show of wealth for wealth’s sake.

  But when I found her back on the side veranda by the pool, she was reclining in one of the lounges, a plate of food on her lap.

  “This burger is the best I’ve ever had,” she said, smiling up at me. “And check out that carrot salad. I never knew you could make carrots taste so good. There’s pineapple in it.”

  “I could make it for you at home,” I said quickly, aware that I felt in fierce competition with these people with the palatial veranda and the best burgers ever.

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  It was another small victory, but still a victory.

  Chapter 75

  Ellen and I were alone in the kitchen. She had asked me to come inside for a “private chat.” That sounded ominous, like something the evil stepmother says in one of those old fairy tales when what she really means is she’s going to tell you she’s throwing you out of the house and disinheriting you, but I went with her, hoping that when I could go back to the veranda, there would be more burgers ready. I’m not a pig or anything. Just that they were so good, definitely not from some ordinary old cow.

  Anyway, I watched while Ellen poured a glass of wine and took a sip of it. I tried to spot any resemblance to Dad, but I couldn’t see anything. Not that it matters.

  “Do you want a glass?” she asked, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to her. “It’s very good.”

  “No, thanks.” I’m not a wine person, though I’ve had a few glasses in the past. And I wondered what Verity would say if she knew Ellen had offered me alcohol.

  Ellen raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “What does your father have to say about his cousin looking you up?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Nothing. I haven’t told him.”

  “Probably a good thing. We were never close, Alan and my part of the family.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Ellen sighed and looked all fake sympathetic. Well, maybe she really was feeling sympathetic. “Let’s just say none of us could relate to the path Alan chose for himself.”

  In other words, I thought, Ellen and “her” part of the family—whatever that meant—decided early on that Dad was a loser.

  “Do you like it here?” Ellen asked then. “I mean, living in Yorktide. It’s a pretty small town.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve mostly lived in small towns,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

 
; “Small towns are fine,” Ellen said, “when there’s a big city a short drive away.”

  “I thought Marion might be here,” I said.

  Ellen finished her wine before saying: “When I said that my part of the family was never close to Alan, I should have added that we were never close to his parents, either.”

  I don’t know what prompted me to say this, but I said, “Marion’s okay. She’s nice. Verity kind of looks out for her.”

  “Does she? How good-hearted of her.”

  Something in the way Ellen said those words made me think what she really thought was what I used to think. That Verity was nuts for being nice to the mother of the man who’d pretty much ruined her life.

  A woman, one of the guests, gestured to Ellen from the door then, and Ellen went off to join her. I wandered back to the veranda. I don’t really know what to make of Ellen. She seems so different from Verity and Annie. From anyone I’ve ever known, really. Not intimidating or nasty, just—foreign. Richard is easier for me to feel comfortable with for some reason. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t feel so scrutinized, like I did with Ellen. She didn’t actually stare at me or look me up and down. Still, I felt she was watching me very, very closely. The Little Kidnapped Girl, local celeb. Maybe she was looking for a sign of my father’s criminal tendencies.

  Verity told me that Ellen and Richard don’t have kids. I wonder why. They can certainly afford them. Maybe they don’t like kids much, like me. Well, that’s not true. I don’t dislike kids; it’s that I’ve never really been around them. The Gallisons’ twins are pretty cute, now that I’ve seen them up close. I could spend some time with them, I guess. Grace did invite me over. Anyway, asking someone why they don’t have kids is one of the rudest things you can ask someone, so unless Ellen decides to tell Verity or me why she doesn’t, we won’t know.

  Not that it matters.

  But maybe I’ll ask Verity why she didn’t have another baby after I was taken. I think I might have a right to ask her. She is, after all, my mother.