Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  “Why are you picking on me?” Colleen pointed at Maggie, sitting in the old wingback chair. “Marge isn’t exactly talking up a storm, either.”

  “Good point.” Ran slapped her foot on the floor to halt the motion of the rocker. “Marge?”

  Maggie smiled wanly. “I did read it but not closely. I’m sorry. The last couple of weeks have been stressful.” Suddenly silent Jane. Now Mom and Wren at war. November was getting rougher by the minute.

  Julia tutted. “That sucks.”

  “Last week was bad for me, too,” Colleen said peevishly. “It was, like, crazy busy.”

  “So many Game of Thrones episodes to catch up on,” Hope said drily, “and so little time.”

  Colleen made a face.

  “How has it been stressful, Marge?” Ran folded her hands against her stomach. “Tell Cousin Ran all about it.”

  Maggie plucked at the loose threads on her cardigan’s hem. “You know … mostly family stuff.”

  Ran grimaced. “Blech. Family. They’re the worst.” Then she muttered about how her mom had cleaned her room and thrown out the concert ticket stubs that Ran had been saving for her college scrapbook, “not to mention a bunch of other things Mom shouldn’t have been touching in the first place.”

  Maggie nodded but only half-listened. She was struggling … fighting a temptation … to tell. To share Jane’s situation and the other crises simmering in and around Aunt Wren’s cabin. These girls—funny and smart and quirky and kind—would almost certainly listen and sympathize, and maybe even offer good advice.

  But how could she unburden herself without revealing herself, without becoming again that-girl-who-was-raped? Blowing a sigh, she smoothed the threads along the cardigan’s hem. Better if she just stuck with Marge.

  “Margaret Arioli!”

  Maggie jerked upright in her chair.

  Sam Blake grinned down at her. “Why, if it isn’t Margaret Arioli.” Holding a huge hardcover book at his side, he rocked back on his heels. “Are you proud of me? Margaret. Arioli. I remembered the first and the last.”

  Maggie opened her mouth. Closed it.

  Of all the times for him to remember her name! Heart pounding, she licked her dry lips and asked faintly, “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” He smiled cheekily. “Book shopping, of course. Dad offered to hang out with Kate today so I could go to the Drexler exhibition at the Albright-Knox. I noticed this place coming back. Thought I’d stop in and check it out.” He looked around admiringly. “It’s cool.” He raised a hand, then strolled out of the reading nook.

  Full of dread, Maggie slowly turned to face the girls.

  Except for Julia, who was focused on a page in her copy of News of the World, they were gazing at her in amazement.

  Shit. Maggie held her breath and waited to get peppered with questions—waited to be outed.

  Ran, poised on the very edge of the rocker and gripping the chair’s arms, broke the silence with a whispered, “Oh my God. That is—by far—the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.”

  Maggie blinked.

  Colleen murmured dreamily, “He’s like a … a…”—her head lolled back—“a model or something.” She collapsed sideways, over Hope’s legs. “A supermodel.” She reached past Hope to poke Julia in the thigh. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I guess,” Julia said impatiently. Irritation sharpened her features. “Why are you asking me? Ask them.”

  “Julia’s gay,” Ran explained to Maggie.

  “She’s got eyes, doesn’t she?” Colleen insisted from Hope’s lap.

  “Get off,” Hope ordered. “You’re squashing me.” After Colleen sat up, Hope confirmed matter-of-factly, “But yes. Supermodel hot.”

  The gushing over Sam made Maggie anxious. Uncomfortable. She didn’t like thinking of him in this way. Of any guy in this way.

  Ran smiled. “How do you know him, Marge? You and he aren’t…?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “No!” she shouted, and pressed the book against her pounding heart. Can we change the subject? Please?

  The girls gaped at her.

  Ran gave her head a shake. “Are you okay—”

  “Oh, hey,” Sam said.

  There was a trio of screeches from Ran, Colleen, and Hope.

  Sam sauntered into the reading nook again. He still carried the hardcover book, but this time, he held it in both hands so that the cover was visible. Masters of Earth and Fire the book was called. “Forgot to show you this. It’s your aunt! On the cover. Isn’t that amazing?”

  She swallowed a moan. First he spilled the beans with her name, and now he was revealing her relationship to Wren Heed, an artist clearly famous enough to make the cover of a book? For the love of God, what was next? A copy of Maggie’s birth certificate? Christ! She glared at him. Shut up.

  But he was busy admiring the cover. “I think I’m going to buy this.” He opened the book and cringed. “Though it costs a fortune…”

  “It’s half off,” Ran said quickly.

  “Wow, really?” His smile widened.

  Julia rolled her eyes and mouthed, No. Not really.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll check you out,” Ran said, nervously glancing toward the front of the store, probably plotting how to finagle Sam’s discount without her dad’s noticing.

  “That means I have enough to buy Kate a book, too.” He looked over his shoulder. “Where’s the children’s—”

  Colleen bounded off the couch. “I’ll show you!”

  “Oh, just point me in the right direction. Or I can ask the man working up front. I hate to break up your meeting.”

  Colleen dismissed this with an airy wave, then dabbed at her bob and peered up at him through her lashes. “I’d better show you. This place is like a maze. You could get lost. I don’t mind. This way.” She fluttered her fingers to steer him out of the reading nook and, as soon as his back was turned to the book club members, gave the girls a victorious smile and preened, kicking up a heel and flaring her hands. She sidled ahead of Sam and murmured, “I know this place from top to bottom.”

  Ran glowered after them. “No, Colleen,” she grumbled softly, “I know this place from top to bottom. Because this place happens to be mine.”

  Maggie shoved her hair out of her face. Her hand trembled. Her skin was damp. Maybe Sam’s effect on the girls was a good thing. They’d paid a lot more attention to how he looked than to what he’d said. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

  “Already?” Julia asked.

  Maggie nodded and grabbed her things off the floor: coat, book, keys. She had to get out of there.

  “That’s too bad,” Hope said.

  “I’ll text you,” Ran said, “and let you know when we’re meeting next.”

  Maggie mumbled a thank-you.

  Ran was eyeing her with a frown. Slowly, she added, “See you soon, Margaret Arioli.”

  The keys slipped out of Maggie’s hand. She snatched them off the floor. Damn.

  12

  MAGGIE PRACTICALLY RAN out of the bookstore. A thin snow fell. In the glow of the streetlamp, the flakes swirled like a cloud of gnats. She hurried down the sidewalk. The cold felt good on her face.

  Bells jingled. “Maggie!” Sam called. “Wait up!” He strode out of the store, and the door swung shut with another peal of bells.

  She waited for him by the curb. Snow settled on his dark hair and glistened on his high cheekbones. She looked away.

  “Left my books on the counter. I’ll have to go back and buy them, but I thought I’d walk you to your car first.”

  “Thanks.” She tried to smile. “That was nice.”

  “You parked over there?” He jerked up his chin to indicate the municipal lot.

  “Yeah.”

  They crossed the street side by side. There was no traffic, but Maggie strode quickly anyway. She was anxious to get back to the cabin.

  “So that’s your book club?”
Sam asked when they reached the sidewalk.

  She nodded.

  “Your friends seem sweet. Colleen was sad you were leaving—said she thought you’d be going to see The Girl on the Train with them tonight.”

  “Yeah. No.” Maggie clumsily shuffled her book and phone to her side so she could don the half of the coat she hadn’t put on yet.

  “She invited me to go, too.” His smile was rueful. “I’m kind of sorry I showed up. Feel like I crashed your meeting and ruined your discussion.”

  Just Marge. You just crashed and ruined Marge. She mumbled a nah-don’t-worry-about-it and dug the aunt’s keys out of her pocket, mentally listing the things she had to do: Get the hell out of here, talk to Wren, deal with Mom, figure out how to help Jane …

  “Hey.” He ducked his head. “What’s wrong?”

  She clutched the keys. Everything. Everything was wrong. Western New York was supposed to be her safe retreat—where she’d forget, hide, start over. It wasn’t supposed to be a fucking zoo. “Wren and my mom.” The words burst out of her, fast and loud. “They must have had a fight. Mom wants me to come home. She said something about…” Maggie shrugged, bewildered by her mother’s sobbed words, and finished questioningly, “About not trusting Wren?”

  There. She sighed, relieved—no, intensely relieved. It had felt great to tell Sam, to share at least one of the messes in her life. The ache in her chest eased.

  “Oh boy.” Sam turned a shuttered face toward the bookshop. Without glancing at Maggie, he asked, “She didn’t say why?”

  Maggie frowned at his careful tone. “No.”

  “And you haven’t”—he tugged at the cuff on one of his coat sleeves—“seen Wren’s sculpture?”

  “Not yet.”

  He ran his thumb over his jaw. “It’s not my place to talk about this.” His gaze, when he glanced at her again, was sad. “You need to discuss it with Wren.” He opened the truck door for her.

  Confused, she automatically climbed in.

  He took a step away from the truck but kept his hand on the door. After a moment of hesitation, he said with conviction, “But I can tell you one thing. Your mom’s wrong. You can trust Wren. I trust her. I would trust her with my life. She’s one of the best people I know.”

  * * *

  Wren had left on the porch light, as well as the pendant over the table. But the kitchen was empty. Blindly reaching behind her to lock the back door, Maggie checked her phone. Nothing from Jane Cannon. She quickly toed off her snowy shoes and shrugged out of her coat. She had to find her aunt.

  And you haven’t … seen Wren’s sculpture? The vagueness of Sam’s question frustrated her. Or maybe she was perturbed by the fact that she hadn’t seen the sculpture. The aunt had let him see it. Why not Maggie?

  The hallway was dark; the door to the studio, closed. She cracked it open. The studio was dark, too. The aunt must have gone to bed.

  And Maggie seriously wished she hadn’t. She didn’t relish the prospect of hauling her worry about Wren and Mom up to the loft, along with so many other unanswered questions. Obsessing about this latest situation would probably kill what little sleep she managed these days, between nightmares and spiraling thoughts.

  Frankly, she’d had it with unanswered questions.

  She flicked on the studio lights. Then, before she could change her mind, she shuffled over the threshold. It wasn’t as if the aunt had forbidden her to see the sculpture.

  Well, not explicitly, anyway, Maggie thought guiltily.

  A few steps brought her fully into the studio. And face-to-face with a sculpture. With the sculpture. “Holy…” She covered her mouth with a fist. Explicitly echoed in her head, as she absorbed the sight.

  Her calves hit Wren’s wheel. Maggie had staggered back from the sculpture without even realizing it. She swallowed hard and stared.

  The sculpture wasn’t coy. In its details, she saw her aunt’s history. Most obvious was how the work implicated Maggie’s grandfather. Her naked grandfather. She flinched away from that telling state and dizzily took in the rest of the sculpture. It featured everyone in the aunt’s immediate family, including Wren. Maggie’s mom, too. Hollowed heads, groggy folds of clay, thick and frail slab elements, two emaciated subjects, one underfoot, one raised in a delicate suspension, and two giant shapes, the largest figure in a threatening stance, the other turned away, either indifferent or oblivious; it was hard to tell which.

  No one came out looking pretty or normal.

  “Margaret.”

  Startled, Maggie whirled around.

  The aunt trudged in, head lowered, as if she were avoiding the sight of her own work of art.

  “Oh, Wren,” Maggie said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Why—why didn’t you tell me?” Why didn’t I guess? Me, of all people? I should have guessed.

  Her aunt rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It’s hard to talk about.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Maggie said, and heard the futility in her own words. Sympathy—what difference did it make? It couldn’t undo the past. Her gaze swung back to the sculpture. Oh my God, that’s Gramps …

  A wave of revulsion ran through her. Maggie looked away fast. “Are you okay?”

  Wren’s arms fell to her sides. “Not really.” She dropped onto a stool. “Your mom and I … well. Let’s just say, that”—she waved a hand in the direction of the sculpture without glancing at it—“has become an issue.” She slumped against the worktable, letting her forehead land in a palm, and continued grimly, “It’s the last one in the series. The others are already in New York”—Wren made a sound that barely qualified as a laugh—“the city, I mean. The show’s coming up at the beginning of next month. I promised my agent this piece would be finished in time, but I’m cutting it so close I’ll have to transport it myself just to get it there by the opening. And I can’t even finish it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have an ingredient I need for the main glaze. Gerstley borate. It’s hard to come by these days, but I think my pal Mark has a stash. He’s in Avon but out of town this weekend. I’ll have to head to his studio on Tuesday or Wednesday. Can’t go Monday. I’m directing the first day of the Memorial Art Gallery’s ceramics symposium.” Her gaze flitted over the sculpture. “This thing isn’t even bisqued yet. It’s barely bone-dry.” She dropped her head in her hand again. “I’ve been putting off finishing it for weeks.”

  Maggie considered the sculpture, this time out of the corners of her eyes, as if she were passing an accident. A safer angle—it made looking away that much quicker. “Because it’s … painful?”

  “Yes, and because I haven’t known how to talk to your mother about it. Honestly, Margaret, if there had been a reasonable way for me to avoid telling Min, I would have. I didn’t want to trash her happy childhood memories. Truly, I didn’t. With the folks gone, memories are all she has left. That’s the reason I’d never talked about what … well, what used to happen to me. I let her believe what she wanted to believe. And I still would have, except this show’s going to get back to her. You know she’ll hear about it. She searches for news about me.”

  Maggie nodded. Even when Mom and the aunt were at their most distant, going months without shooting an email the other’s way, once letting an entire year slip by without talking on the phone, Maggie’s mom was still fiercely proud of her twin’s accomplishments. In fact she subscribed to art magazines for no other reason than Wren. Any word of praise for her sister thrilled her. So yes, she’d learn of this latest series.

  Maggie winced, imagining her mother seeing this sculpture. It would devastate her. Maggie didn’t doubt that for a second.

  “I just tried to throw out a warning,” the aunt said, “like ‘heads up, sis; stay away from ARTnews for a few months.’”

  Avoidance didn’t seem likely. Somehow Mom would come across this work. What about the other pieces? Were they just as graphic?

  “I’m sorry.” The aunt touched her
arm. “This can’t be easy for you, either.”

  “This isn’t…” She shook her head and finished in a whisper, “Easy.” Her thoughts tumbled over memories, recasting holidays, birthdays, Sunday afternoon gatherings in uglier lights—remembering, dissembling, revising. Holy shit. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m sorry.” Her eyes burned. “I’m sorry for you. This must have been painful to create.”

  “But necessary. Actually, it helped me.” Elbows on the table, she folded her hands and tapped her knuckles against her mouth, like a prayer knocking for words. “It might help others, too.”

  Maggie kneaded her temples. “I’ll talk to Mom.”

  Wren’s head came up. “Would you? Oh, that would be really good of you, honey.”

  The hope in the aunt’s face made Maggie sad. Wren didn’t want to lose her sister. She wanted only to be free of a horrible secret—and relieved of the pain she’d kept hidden. Mom shouldn’t punish her for that, Maggie thought with a flash of anger. Mom should know better.

  “I—I’m afraid our Thanksgiving with your folks is off.”

  She nodded, soberly wondering if Wren knew Mom wanted this off—this whole extended visit. Mom wanted her to move back home.

  “I’d appreciate it if you called her.”

  “I will.” Or I’ll go see her. Maggie wasn’t sure how to accomplish it. She couldn’t borrow the truck, not when the aunt had such a busy week ahead of her. And though Mom, during her emotional call, had choked out something about sending money, Maggie didn’t want to wait for the cash to buy a bus ticket. Waiting suddenly seemed even more intolerable than the inevitable confrontations looming in Carlton. Just driving into that town was going to be tough. Carlton had become the crime scene, the indifferent judge, the suspicious jury, the enemy, all wrapped up into one. She hadn’t expected to return so soon, if at all.

  But she would. In fact, if she could, she’d leave right then. Not only because of Mom and Wren. Jane Cannon, too. Why wasn’t the girl writing back? Maggie couldn’t help but think that silence spelled trouble. Until she knew for sure that Jane was okay, she wouldn’t stop worrying.