Blackthorn Winter (8 page)

"Come on now, Celia," chuckled Rodney Whitsun, but the chuckle sounded a little uncomfortable. "Let it go, luv. That's all water under the bridge." He nudged me and pointed to Duncan and Kate. "It seems those young people want your attention, Juliana, my duck. And I see Andrew wants mine." He waved at another tall, elegant, ponytailed man across the room. "It was lovely to meet you, and I must say your mummy seems a dear. Nice to have some new faces in town. Now, remember—if you and your brother and sister would like to learn about glassblowing, do come along to our new classes."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll tell them."

"Perhaps your Kate would enjoy learning, too, Celia," he added to Mrs. Glendenning. "I know you'd rather she weren't spending so much time with her camera ... And now, will you both excuse me?"

As he wandered off, I made my getaway, too. Mrs. Glendenning, with a sour expression on her round face, bulldozed through the crowd, heading out of the room.

I took a plate as I passed the table and helped myself to a slice of ham, a sliver of quiche, and a couple little sausages wrapped in pastry. I noticed that the Goops, in true Goop fashion, had piled their plates with masses of
everything and were now sitting together in a corner, looking around and giggling.

Before I could head over to Kate and Duncan, my mom came up and put her arm around my shoulders. "Here's my daughter Juliana," she said, turning me to face the couple at her side. "And those two munchkins in the corner with their dinners are also mine."

A short, round, middle-aged couple smiled at me. The woman had soft dark curls that bobbed on her shoulders. The man had graying fair hair. He wore black-rimmed glasses that made him look like an aging Harry Potter. Both reached out and shook my hand eagerly, and the woman exclaimed brightly to my mom, "She's just lovely, Hedda. How lucky you are! I wish we could get one just like her..."

At my baffled expression, Mom smiled a little. "This is Jane and Leo Thurber, honey," she told me. She glanced up at the couple. "Do I have your names right?"

"It's Jean, actually," corrected the woman. "But you're doing very well, considering how many new people you're meeting tonight."

"Sorry," said Mom. "
Jean
and Leo Thurber," she said to me. "Mr. Thurber is a potter, and Mrs. Thurber is a stained-glass artist—"

"And we were very interested in meeting the new talent in town," Mr. Thurber said, "and all the more so once we learned that Hedda's children—or some of them—are adopted." He beamed at me.

I nodded, then glanced at Mom for clarification.

"I was asking Jean about commissioning a little stained-glass window for Ivy's bedroom," Mom explained.
"Maybe for her birthday—something with a fairy theme; you know our Ivy! And then somehow the talk turned to a window that Jean is making with an angel theme, and she said it was for the child they hope to adopt soon. So then talk turned to adoption. The Thurbers are very interested in hearing other families' adoption stories."

"Yes," added Mr. Thurber eagerly, taking off his black glasses and peering at me earnestly. "We were thinking of adopting an infant, but now are considering an older child instead."

"We've been married twenty-five years already," Mrs. Thurber said, with a sweet smile at her husband. "Twenty-five years of happiness—but no little ones ever came our way. It's the one thing missing from perfect bliss."

"Um—I, I'm sorry," I said, thinking how funny that this little round couple felt they'd nearly obtained perfect bliss! Anyway, I never really knew what to say when people wanted to talk about adopting kids. Of course I think it's a fine idea! But I hate when people think I somehow represent adopted children everywhere and look on me as a shining poster child for adoption. Mom knows this, and pretty much feels the same. I wished she'd go over and introduce the Thurbers to Ivy and Edmund instead—but probably one look at their loaded platters of food and goopy chops would put the Thurbers off the idea of any kids, period.

Mom squeezed my shoulder affectionately. "So," she said to me, "have you eaten yet? I see Duncan over there—"

Before I could tell her that's where I was heading when she stopped me, Mrs. Thurber reached for my hand. "We wished and wished and
wished
for a child," she confided urgently. "Right from the start—from our honeymoon! But month after month passed, then year after year, and no
baby! I used to wish on the first star I saw each and every night..."

"I had a special ring made for Jeannie on our tenth anniversary," added her husband. "A diamond ring in the shape of a star. Sort of a lucky charm, for wishing on."

His wife released my hand and patted his arm instead, gazing up at him adoringly. "He made it into the shape of a star so I didn't have to wait till dark to make my wishes!" She held out her right hand to me. "See?" she asked, wiggling her fingers. "Isn't it glorious?" A star-shaped arrangement of diamonds glittered. "And then—even better!—this past year, once we started our adoption search, lovely Leo outdid himself and had
these
made!"

She shook back her curls to reveal extravagantly large diamond earrings, star-shaped, of course, that flashed in the lamplight. "Aren't they to
die
for?"

Mom and I agreed they were. "So now you've got good luck charms all over," Mom observed drily.

Both Thurbers beamed. "Nothing short of death would keep me from wearing my stars!" Mrs. Thurber declared dramatically, and we all laughed. I was thinking this couple was a bit odd, but artists tended to be that way. At least they seemed sweetly eccentric instead of just plain weird.

"I hope you get your child soon," I said politely, looking over their heads to where Duncan was still standing with Kate.

"Sweet girl!" Mrs. Thurber's eyes got all misty.

"We're thinking our agency will find our special match before the summer," said Mr. Thurber, putting an arm around his wife. "It's all very exciting. I am making a special series of glazed garden pots to commemorate this time of our life, and to symbolize growth."

"I'm thinking of this time as my
pregnancy,
" giggled Mrs. Thurber, wiping her eyes with brisk fingers. "And I'm working on a brilliant new stained-glass window—the angels I mentioned to your mum." She reached for my hand again, and leaned in close. "Now, Julie, dear, tell me how it
feels
to be adopted. From the
child's
point of view, I mean—not that you're a child anymore, really. Clearly a young lady now, isn't she, Leo?"

Give me a break!
But Mom squeezed my arm, so I took a deep breath and smiled winningly. "It feels great to be adopted."

Mom patted my back. "Now," she said, "let me introduce you to Edmund. We adopted him from Russia as an infant..."

The Thurbers brightened even more and pressed my hand and waved good-bye as Mom led them across to the Goops. I hurried over to Duncan and Kate. My stomach was growling now.

"We meet again." Kate greeted me with a shy smile. "But out of the wind this time."

"Er—hullo," Duncan said, slanting a glance at me. "Er—I was just suggesting a house tour. Are you interested?"

"Sure," I said, munching on one of the little sausage and pastry things. "That sounds fun—," I broke off as raised voices burst out in the hall. Liza's wild laughter, and then the sound of a slap—and silence.

We stared at each other. Then Celia Glendenning stormed back into the dining room and headed our way. She grabbed her daughter's arm.

"Kate, get your coat. We are leaving this instant! I will not stay and be insulted by that—that viper! That snake in
the grass who has not one ounce of talent to her name! Somebody should take a hoe to that snake—"

"
Mother,
" Kate hissed, her face flaming with embarrassment.

Liza Pethering tittered from the doorway. There was a red handprint on her left cheek. "I was just saying to dear Celia before things got rather out of
hand—,
" she said in a slightly slurred voice that nonetheless carried across the room, "—just saying that perhaps she'd like to commission
another
portrait, one I could copy from a photograph of her in her younger,
slimmer
days."

Some of the guests were mean enough to laugh at this, but most of them just stared at Liza disapprovingly.

"It didn't look a thing like me!" screeched Celia. "You made it ugly out of spite."

"It would take a good bit of magic," laughed Liza shrilly, "to turn out a portrait you'd be happy with. You'd need some sort of lucky charm to be the beauty you imagine yourself to be! I only paint what I see—"

Oliver Pethering rolled his eyes, probably totally humiliated by his drunken wife.

"Now Liza," he said helplessly. "Mind your manners, luv."

"Mind your own!" trilled Liza. "I'd say they need minding just as much as mine do, if not more so! This conversation doesn't concern you. Celia and I are just talking business."

"You'll need a magic charm to stay in business at all, if you keep painting the way you did me in my portrait." Celia turned away disgustedly. "You'll need a magic charm—or you're dead to the art world, lady."

"Oh yeah?" screeched Liza.

"Think we ought to leave now, darling," Oliver said evenly to Liza. "Get on home."

Liza laughed loudly, and sounded once again like her brittle, angry self. "
You
get on home, little bald man. This party is just getting started!"

Oliver scowled and wiped a hand across his round face. He looked exhausted. "Time maybe I
will
be getting on home, Quent," he said. Then he looked back at his wife and shrugged. "Send her home when she gets on your nerves. Shouldn't take long."

"Are you saying I'm drunk?" sneered Liza. "I'm not the least bit drunk. I just can't toady up to that Glendenning witch the way all the rest of you do, and I'm not afraid to say so! Just because she buys your work, you let her think she's a respected art critic—but she's not. She's
nobody.
"

"Why, you nasty cow!" cried Celia Glendenning, whirling around by the door.

"Oh, dear," Jean Thurber murmured. Her husband, Leo, put his arm around her shoulders.

Quent Carrington calmly walked over and did the same to Liza—put his arm right around Liza's shoulders—but gave her a little shake. "Come along, old girl," he said tersely. "Let's get you a nice cup of coffee right now." He steered her toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder he asked, "Oliver?"

Oliver Pethering plucked his overcoat off the coatrack in the corner. "I really should take her off home," he said, glancing around at the assembled party guests. "She's just making a spectacle of herself. And I've got some, er, bookkeeping to see to. But ... all right. We'll pour some coffee
into the old girl first. Sober her up." He followed Quent and Liza out of the room.

"But I don't want coffee," they could hear Liza protesting. "Bring out more wine!"

"That's the spirit!" called Andrew Parker, raising his wineglass to the empty doorway. "Cheers."

The guests laughed and raised their glasses and shook their heads. Then they turned back to party chitchat, which after such theatrics was quite a buzz. Jean and Leo Thurber wandered over toward us, cocktail glasses in hand.

"Really," said Mrs. Thurber, tossing her curls in disdain. "Such theatrics. It's a good thing Liza and Oliver don't have any children, that's what I say. And no one would ever let
her
adopt a child—that's for certain! She would make a perfectly
dreadful
mother."

Liza's wild laughter drifted out from the kitchen. "Go home alone, little man," we all heard her shout. "I'll come when I'm good and ready!"

"Dreadful
wife
as well," asserted Mr. Thurber. "She's a disgrace." He scowled.

"Well,
we're
good and ready to head off home right now," said Mrs. Glendenning. "I've been insulted quite enough for one evening. Come along, Kate." She turned to Duncan. "Do give your stepfather our thanks for the invitation."

Kate sighed and rolled her eyes a bit, but meekly said her good-byes. Then she and her mother got their coats from the hall stand and left the house. I wondered if there was a Mr. Glendenning in the picture. When I asked Duncan, he shook his head. "Nope," he said. "Kate's dad ran off
at the same time mine did. Kate and I were both about nine, I think."

I was confused. "Your dad ran off with Mr. Glendenning?"

Duncan laughed. "No, though that would have been only slightly more scandalous, I guess." His face flushed a little bit, and he looked down at his feet, then back at me. "No, the true and sordid story of my life is that my dad ran off with a Brazilian dancer—that's code for a stripper, I'm fairly certain. At least in her case."

We stood there, just looking at each other, and I was aware that this was our first time alone together. It felt awkward.

"I'm sorry about your dad," I mumbled.

Would conversation be this awkward the whole time? I worried? What if I couldn't think of anything to say on the house tour? Or what if Duncan grew as silent and shy as he'd been at the Old Ship?

Duncan was looking at me with a worried expression, so I smiled. He smiled back, and his cheeks blushed as red as his hair. I felt better immediately, and then suddenly it wasn't so awkward anymore. "Before we do the house tour," he said, his bright color subsiding, "I could show you the grounds. Have you seen the old mill? Or Quent's studio?" He led me toward the kitchen. "Let's go tell them we're out of here."

Through the kitchen doorway we could see Liza slumped on a stool at the high, polished counter. Quent was spooning instant coffee into a mug. "I'm going to show Juliana around," Duncan told Quent. "All right? We'll be back later."

He looked up with a smile. "Fine, fine," he said distractedly. "Tell her all the history of the place. Show her the ancestral portrait gallery!"

Liza lifted her head. "Portraits!" she snarled. "That's
my
talent, and I'm damned good, y'know. I don't need any damned charm to paint well—I have magic in my fingers!"