Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  I nodded. “So, you do the garden and stuff?”

  Ellen looked shocked. “No, no,” she said. “We have a man in to handle the landscaping. And this, this is a view of the solarium out back, and this, this is the interior of the library.”

  We were sitting at the island or bar or whatever you call it in the kitchen of the McMansion, after yet another lunch out, this time at a place in Kennebunkport called Hurricane. I was dying to peek in the fridge and see if there was anything in there but bottles of the Prosecco Ellen seemed to love and maybe some milk for coffee. Ellen had told me the only time they really cooked was when Richard grilled—he was the guy responsible for the incredible hamburgers. “All the sides at our parties are catered,” she explained when I’d asked if she could give Verity the recipe for that carrot raisin salad I liked. “I don’t have a clue as to what’s in what.”

  “But what about everyday meals?” I’d asked. “You don’t use a catering service for those, do you?”

  Ellen laughed. “Of course not! We mostly order in or I throw together a salad.”

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the next picture on her phone. This picture showed a bow window up high above the rose trellis. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bow window (how do I even know that term?) anywhere but on the ground floor of a house.

  “That’s our suite, Richard’s and mine,” Ellen said. “We did a major reconstruction of our rooms before we moved into the house. We both wanted to maximize the light, and the existing closet space was ridiculously inadequate. Look, here’s a picture of our bathroom. We have a Jacuzzi and a Japanese soaking tub. I find soaking in warm water the most relaxing and beneficial thing ever.”

  I thought of Verity’s bathroom back home. Our bathroom, with its shower and no tub.

  I’ve never been a big fan of sitting around in water, warm or cold.

  I needed—I still need—to know more about what my life is going to be like in that house with the trellis of roses and the solarium and the library. (I wonder what Ellen reads.) I have to say it’s got a lot more character than the house they’re renting this summer. I say “character,” and now I think what I should say instead is that Ellen’s house in Lexington reminds me a bit of a castle, although not a huge one, but definitely a castle, the kind with a dungeon.

  I’m not saying I really believe there’s a dungeon in Ellen and Richard’s house, or that there are actual instruments of torture in its probably ordinary basement. I’m not an idiot. But looking at the pictures of the house made me feel sort of—anxious—about living in it. Like it isn’t straightforward or something.

  Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying!

  “Am I going to have chores?” I asked. Dad never assigned me chores. He never had to. I always did a lot of stuff around our house or apartment or wherever it was we were living. Like taking our dirty clothes and sheets and towels to the Laundromat.

  Funny. My not helping out with the laundry at Verity’s house was what we fought about.

  Though of course the fight wasn’t really about laundry.

  Ellen waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll work something out.”

  “I suppose I could make dinner sometimes,” I said. “Or lunch.” What I was thinking was: What can I give in return for all the stuff Ellen and Richard are giving me? What do they really expect from me besides doing well in school and not embarrassing them in front of their rich friends? Not that they’ve said I shouldn’t embarrass them; I figured that part out on my own.

  Ellen took a sip of water. She always drinks bottled water with a slice of lemon. When she’s not drinking Prosecco or a pink cocktail. “We’ll see how things go.”

  “I guess I’ll have a curfew.”

  Ellen put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Gemma,” she said, “you think too much.”

  Really? I wasn’t aware thinking too much was possible!

  I tried one more time to get a definitive answer from my father’s cousin.

  “When I get my driver’s license,” I said, “do I need to have an eye exam? I haven’t had my eyes checked since I was in first or second grade. I had some sort of infection for a while. I had to wear a patch.”

  Ellen got up from her tall chair and went over to the sink to dump the slice of lemon from her glass. Every time she pours more water into her glass, she adds a fresh slice of lemon.

  “Richard will take care of it,” she said.

  Of course he will, I thought. Of course he will.

  We’ll work something out.

  We’ll see how things go.

  And again, Richard will take care of it.

  I want to scream. Why can’t Ellen give me a straight answer? Verity always does. Why won’t Ellen just respect me enough to explain to me how things are going to play out day to day, week to week?

  But as annoyed and as frustrated as I was, sitting in the kitchen of Ellen’s rented house, I said nothing. As annoyed and as frustrated as I am, sitting here in Verity’s kitchen, I’ll say nothing.

  Too late. It’s too late.

  Chapter 105

  Verity and I went downtown this morning. I didn’t have to go with her, of course. I mean, she didn’t need me to help her carry heavy bags or anything. She was only going to the little bookstore on Clove Street, The Bookworm, and the post office, but when she asked if I wanted to go along, like she always asks, I said sure, even though we can hardly look at each other. It’s not that we’re angry at each other. It’s just that . . . Wait, why am I presuming I can speak for Verity? All I can say is that I’m not angry with her. I’m just . . .

  I just feel like crap.

  We’d come out of the post office—Verity bought a book of stamps—when we ran into that woman Aida Collins, the one who showed us around the high school earlier in the summer.

  Again her resemblance to the characters on that cartoon Bob’s Burgers struck me, but now I don’t find it so funny. Laughing at people because of the way they’re made is just wrong. Dad does it, laughs at people with a weird way of walking or a really big nose or whatever, and it always pissed me off, so why am I doing it now?

  Aida was pretty bubbly. “I hope you’re looking forward to being a student at Yorktide High this fall,” she said with a big smile.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  I could sense Verity’s confusion, and I was glad she didn’t contradict me.

  “We have a fantastic guidance program headed up by the wonderful Steve MacFarland, but if I can help in any way to get you adjusted to the way we do things at the school, just let me know, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Aida chatted with Verity for a minute, but I wasn’t listening to what they were saying. When Aida went off in the direction of the parking lot, Verity said: “You didn’t tell her you’ll be leaving.”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Her tone, by the way, wasn’t aggressive or accusatory.

  “Just because,” I said. “People will know when I’m gone.”

  It was kind of a stupid answer, but I can’t bear the idea of people knowing that The Little Kidnapped Girl is going off again, choosing her crazy father’s rich cousin over the mother who spent seventeen years waiting and hoping for her daughter’s return. I know people will think I’m a jerk or stupid or ungrateful, and I can’t help what people think, but I don’t have to look at them while they judge me.

  Told you I’m a coward.

  “I thought I’d make burritos tonight,” Verity said as we headed toward the bookstore. “Would you like chicken or beef?”

  My heart felt really bad. (Can you have a heart attack at seventeen?) Only a few weeks ago it used to annoy me when she asked what I preferred and if something was okay with me, and it drove me nuts when she apologized for every little thing, even shit she didn’t have any control over.

  Now I think I’m going to miss it.

  Chapter 106

  We had just come out of the boo
kstore when I heard a woman calling my name. I turned around to see Matilda Gascoyne striding toward us from the direction of the beach, where I know—everyone knows—she’s in the habit of taking a brisk daily walk before heading off to work at one of her family’s businesses.

  “Hail, fellow Yorktiders!” she said. Her face was flushed, and she looked the proverbial picture of health.

  “Hi, Matilda,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Great,” she said. “Busy planning the Harvest Festival.” She turned to Gemma. “You’ll enjoy the Harvest Festival, Gemma. It’s a good old-fashioned small-town event. There’s an apple-bobbing contest that’s supposed to be for children only, but there are some among the adult population who just can’t stay away! Which, of course, is unfair, because big teeth have an advantage over little teeth.”

  Gemma smiled at that. She’s a good actress after all, I thought. Because I was pretty sure she was feeling miserable.

  “And then there’s a costume contest,” Matilda went on, “also for the little ones, and baked goods and homemade jams and preserves for sale. And there are always a few local musical groups to get people dancing, and when there’s enough money in the town’s budget, we’re able to hire a carnival ride or two. There’s plenty more to the festival, but I won’t spoil it for you. You’ll have to experience it for yourself.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Gemma said. I thought I heard a wistful note in her voice, but I was probably imagining it. And if it was there, maybe she was faking it for Matilda’s sake. What do I know about my daughter, really?

  “We’re running a special on the scallop dinner at the restaurant this week,” Matilda said. “Our new chef makes an excellent potato gratin as a side. You should come in one night.”

  “Maybe we will,” I told her. Sharing a meal in a busy family restaurant might be more tolerable—at least, less painful—than sharing a largely silent one at home. Gemma’s and my home.

  Matilda was off with a wave, and Gemma and I headed toward the car.

  “Maybe you can come—” I stopped myself. I’d been about to say “home.” “Maybe you can come back for the weekend of the festival.”

  Though I doubt she’d have the time. I’ve seen sample course schedules on Greyson’s website. They’re brutal.

  “Maybe,” Gemma said, and that was the last word she’s spoken all day.

  Honestly, I feel like I can’t take much more of this. I almost want her to go away right now, if that’s what she really has a mind to do.

  But does she?

  Chapter 107

  Marion never calls after six in the evening.

  I snatched up the receiver.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, skipping the preliminary greeting.

  “No,” she cried, “it isn’t.” She sounded near hysterical.

  “Marion, calm down. What is it? Are you ill?”

  “I saw Ellen in Ogunquit earlier. I recognized her right away, even though it’s been well over twenty years. I tried to avoid her, but she saw me, she came running up to me. She told me, Verity. About Gemma.”

  Damn, I thought. I’d been negligent. Scared. I should have told Marion right away. She should have heard this from me.

  Ellen has a cruel streak. She told me she wanted nothing to do with Marion, and yet she grabbed the opportunity to deliver news she must have known would cause Alan’s mother—Gemma’s grandmother—pain.

  “I’m sorry, Marion,” I said. “I should have told you sooner.”

  “It’s all my fault she’s leaving us!”

  “No, Marion,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

  If it’s anyone’s fault Gemma is going off with Ellen and Richard, it’s probably mine. Isn’t the mother always to blame?

  “I never should have told Gemma about her father and grandfather,” Marion went on. “I didn’t mean anything bad to happen. I just thought that . . .”

  Famous last words. I didn’t mean. And I just thought.

  Still, I tried to comfort her. “I’m sure Gemma’s decision to live with Ellen has nothing to do with what you told her about her father and grandfather,” I said. “The school she’ll be attending is excellent. Gemma’s smart. I think the idea of Greyson Academy appeals to her.”

  “But why is she going away?” Marion asked plaintively. “We have good schools right here!”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. Suddenly I felt utterly fatigued. “Honestly, I don’t. Look, do you want me to come over?” Marion is not in what is called rude health.

  “No,” she said after a moment, and she did sound a bit calmer than she had. Resigned. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I called so late in the evening.”

  “It’s not so late, Marion. And again, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Gemma sooner.”

  “Verity?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember what I told you about Ellen, back when she first came to town?”

  “That she was self-serving and always has been. Yes, I remember.”

  “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes, Marion,” I said. “I think you were right.”

  Chapter 108

  I was lying on my bed in my room, staring at the ceiling and letting my mind wander and roam and generally feeling miserable when I suddenly remembered Verity’s silver and turquoise ring, the one I had been wearing when we had that big fight. The ring I had put in the pocket of my jeans when Cathy last came by the house.

  I jumped up and hurried into the laundry area. If Verity had done the laundry, the ring might have been destroyed in the washing machine or dryer. But the laundry hadn’t been done. (Now this seemed like a good thing.) Frantically, I rummaged through the bin of dirty clothes until I found the jeans. The ring was still in the front left pocket. I literally sighed with relief. I thought I should probably put it back in Verity’s jewelry box. I thought I probably had no right to be wearing it now that I was leaving her.

  But I couldn’t give it up. I put it on my finger instead and went back into my room.

  I thought about what Cathy said the other day, that she felt we had all become friends. I think she was implying I was betraying the friendship by going off to live with Ellen and Richard. At least, I think Cathy feels I’m betraying her, betraying all of them.

  Was I? I wondered if I owed loyalty to anyone but myself.

  About one thing I was certain. Everything felt . . . wrong. I realized that in a weird way I felt worse right then than I had when I first got to Yorktide. Then I had nothing—no expectations for anything good to come of having to live with my biological mother. But as of a few days ago I had not everything, but a lot. Maybe more than I’d ever had. Until that stupid fight ruined it all, good things had been happening with Verity and me. Okay, slowly and sometimes we’d take one step forward and two steps back, but still, I realized I had been beginning to think I could belong here one day.

  That I could belong with Verity. My mother.

  And now . . . Now it was all over.

  And it was pretty much all my fault.

  I took out my stolen sketchbook then—now no longer a secret, except for the stolen part—and began to make a list of reasons I should stay with Verity. Maybe not why I should stay, like it’s a guilt thing, like I owe her a debt, but reasons why it would be a good thing for me if I stayed. Assuming she would want me to, after I’ve been such a jerk.

  Number One. I’ve met some of Verity’s colleagues. I’ve seen how she’s respected at the college. She’s been chosen as Most Popular Teacher three years in a row. I’ve read some of the reviews of her sculpture. All the reviews are positive. Some are downright glowing. And I saw how many people came to that opening. Since then she’s sold two more pieces. What that all means is that she’s a genuine artist, a genuine teacher, too. That she works hard and that she cares.

  Number Two. I’ve seen how Cathy can go to Verity for advice, and though for a while this kind of pissed me off, now I realize I was probably only jealous. Becau
se even though I said I didn’t want or need Verity’s attention, I actually did. I still do.

  Three. Verity has really good friends, like Annie and Marc and David. They like her a lot. I like them a lot. And even though I was annoyed Verity didn’t tell me David is her boyfriend, it doesn’t matter, because I believe she really was trying to protect me. And as it turns out, I think David’s cool.

  By the way, I did ask Verity what everyone—Annie, Marc, and David—thought about my decision to live with Ellen and Richard and go to Greyson Academy. “Honestly,” Verity said, “no one’s very happy about it. But they all want what’s best for you.”

  How can anyone ever know what’s best for them until they’ve got it? Or until they’ve lost it?

  Four. Even her father, my grandfather, someone Verity rejected, said those nice things about her in that e-mail, after I’d told him about Ellen’s offer. He didn’t have to say anything in support of her, but he wanted to.

  The fifth reason. Verity didn’t make a big fuss about my celebrating my birthday in August, even when I went out to that stuffy restaurant with Ellen and Richard. She could have been all “pity me” about it, but she wasn’t. In her place, I probably would have been.

  The sixth reason. She really did try to call me Marni before I got pretty sick of the name and told everyone it was okay to call me Gemma.

  Reason number seven. There was the time she stayed up almost all night helping those guys who own the local vet, Jack and Hugh, rebuild their Fourth of July parade float after the one they had built caught fire. She was totally wiped the next day, and at one point she fell asleep on the beach during our picnic, but she never complained about it.

  Number Eight. I’ve seen her fight for something that’s morally right. The old people who live at Pine Hill Residence for the Elderly need—they deserve—that stoplight.

  Nine, and this is a big one. She’s actually forgiven Marion for keeping my father’s dangerous past with women a secret. She’s actually kind to Marion, and while at first I thought that was ridiculous, now I think it’s impressive. I’m still not sure I forgive my grandmother for being so wrong!