Summer with My Sisters (6 page)

E
vie opened the door to the pantry and surveyed the contents neatly displayed on the shelves. In the typed letter Nico had left her, crammed with instructions for her stay, he had told her that she could use whatever she wanted from the pantry, as long as she replaced anything she finished. Evie frowned. She supposed that was nice of Nico, but honestly, there was nothing in the pantry that appealed to her, not even when she felt really hungry. Dried seaweed? Water chestnuts? She didn’t even know what they were. Glass jars of various colored beans. How did you cook beans, anyway? Evie closed the pantry door and wandered over to the window, which faced the small shady yard behind the house.

In his long letter of instructions Nico had also bragged that the house had a “spectacular” view of the water and Evie had imagined sunning herself on a large deck a stone’s throw from the Atlantic. In reality, the only way you could see the water—glimpse it, really—was if you climbed the impossibly steep flight of stairs to a narrow tower extending skyward from the second floor of the house, eventually reaching the glassed-in apex from which, on a very clear day and if you squinted as hard as you could, you might just make out a tiny thread of something silvery blue and sparkly. Even this tiny little view added thousands of dollars to the worth of the house, Nico had written, as if it was something she needed to know. After two sweaty trips to the top of the tower, Evie had decided that she could do without a water view just fine.

Evie left the kitchen and went into the living room. There were two exhibit catalogues on the coffee table, both featuring Nico’s work. Evie picked one up and opened it at random. “Assemblage,” she read. “Mixed media.” Mixed, she thought, was right. According to the catalogue, Nico’s work included materials as diverse as nuts and bolts, sand, lengths of string, bits of newspaper, old typewriter keys, seeds, and bicycle gears. Frankly, Evie thought his work was hideous, but she figured someone must like it, if his house was anything to go by. The master bedroom was bigger than her old living room and kitchen combined. Not that she liked to think about the old house in Vermont or anything much from those days—before. Before her father had killed her mother and lost his mind along with his job and their house and everything else that mattered.

Evie placed the catalogue back on the coffee table. She had never known an artist before and never been in an artist’s home so she hadn’t known what exactly to expect. Weird uncomfortable furniture in the shape of body parts? Lava lamps? Art materials scattered everywhere? But maybe all that stuff was kept in a studio somewhere. Certainly the last thing that had come to mind was in fact what she had found—nothing. Rather, normalcy. It was the most boringly basic home she had ever been inside, and there wasn’t one of his works to be found. (For that, she was grateful.)

A basic, three-cushion couch in a dull green print. Standard, square end tables. A rectangular coffee table, matching the end tables. Two tightly upholstered, high-backed armchairs in the same print as the couch. The framed pictures on the walls—a meadow dotted with flowers; a mountaintop covered in snow—looked as if they came out of a catalogue used by the designers who decorated doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms. The area rug was a sort of grayish green. Maybe, she thought, the enormous disconnect between Nico’s art and the décor he had chosen for his home was intentional, a deliberate statement only another artist would understand. These things were beyond her, though her mother probably would have understood. She had owned a really cool shop back in Vermont, a “curated shop,” her mother had called it. Once a year she had traveled to New York to meet with importers of beautiful fabrics from India, silver jewelry from Thailand, gold jewelry from Israel and Turkey, ceramics from Italy and Portugal, intricately carved woodwork from Indonesia. Evelyn had been so smart about so many things, and so open to new experiences. While still in college she had traveled to Vietnam and China all on her own; shortly after graduation, before she had met the man who would be her husband, she had hiked through the British Isles with a girl she had met on the plane.

It was this image of her mother as a courageous, creative, and intrepid person that had gotten Evie through some of the more difficult moments of life alone on the road. Like the night it had started to rain really hard and she had no choice but to crawl under a picnic table in the local park, terrified of being raped by the gang of drunken teenage boys she had seen earlier that evening. Like the night she had taken what shelter she could in a heavily wooded area and had sat up until dawn, listening to the awful screeching of owls and the unfamiliar sounds of nocturnal animals in the undergrowth. True, there had been a few moments when she had encountered kindness—like the time that truck driver had approached her in the little store at a gas station and given her ten dollars. “I can’t take this,” Evie had said, assuming he wanted something in return. “I have two girls about your age,” the man had replied. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if they were on the road.” The man had turned away then, not before saying, “I’ve seen it all too many times before.” And in those moments, too, Evie thought of her mother and believed that she was watching out for her.

Absentmindedly, Evie ran a finger along the back of one of the armchairs. If only she could lie low until she turned eighteen and could be legally declared an adult, she would be all right, no longer in need of a stranger’s kindness. What “all right” meant exactly, she didn’t really know. She hadn’t finished high school, she had no real job skills other than taking orders and working a cash register, she had no money to speak of.... But she would think of all that later; like Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine of her favorite book, she would set her face forward. “After all . . . Tomorrow is another day,” Scarlett had said. “It has to be,” Evie added to Nico’s living room.

Evie wandered into the hall between the living room and dining room and scanned the titles of the books on two small shelves. There was nothing much of interest to Evie—a biography of Andy Warhol, a history of the art colonies in Ogunquit, a paperback crime novel by a popular writer—and nothing in any language other than English. Evie was good with languages; she had been studying French in school since she was nine and had taught herself enough Spanish and Italian to hold a decent conversation, which she had often done with the Spanish teacher and a neighbor who was a native of Milan. She was looking forward to learning German in college. Well, she thought, turning away from the shelves. It was her own fault for forgetting to bring any books with her the night she had left her aunt and uncle’s house. She had tried to prepare, to consider what she might need for the journey, to figure out how much she could carry, but in the end she had made a lot of mistakes. Like not bringing extra batteries for the flashlight she had taken from her uncle’s workshop in the garage. Like not bringing a roll of toilet paper. At least she had found a pair of good sharp scissors in Nico’s kitchen and had managed to trim her hair without drastic mishaps.

With a sigh, Evie turned away from the bookshelves and trudged up to her bedroom. At least, she thought, she hadn’t forgotten to bring Ben. She had had the little plush bear for as long as she could remember; he was in almost every picture taken of her as a toddler. His fur had once been the color of heavy cream, but now it was a light brown and he was missing one button eye. Evie could easily have replaced the eye, but she loved Ben the way he was. Where was he, anyway? She thought she had left him on the dresser, propped against her backpack. But Ben wasn’t on the dresser. Evie felt the panic rise fast in her. She threw back the covers on the bed. He wasn’t there. She dropped to the floor and checked under the bed. No.
Please, oh, please,
Evie prayed.
Let him be here!
Evie climbed to her feet. There, on the armchair in the corner, where she had tossed her hoodie . . . Evie yanked the hoodie aside and there he was. Ben.

The sense of relief she felt was massive. She just couldn’t stand to lose anything or anyone else. There was a limit to the pain a person could bear, she knew that there was, and she didn’t want her courage or her sanity to be tested further. Clutching Ben tightly to her chest, she crawled into bed, ears pricked for the sound of an intruder.

T
he garden was brimming with the most beautiful green and white flowers in the most fantastical shapes she had ever seen. Some were as tiny as blueberries. Others were as large as pumpkins. Fuzzy black-and-yellow bees hung heavily in the air, buzzing mildly, as if exhausted from the making of honey. From somewhere unseen came the sound of water trickling over stones. Violet felt dizzy with the sweet, spicy, and slightly rancid smell of fecund life.

She bent down and picked a flower with a profusion of mottled green and white petals in the shape of a pinwheel. She thought that she had never seen anything so lovely. She stood up to see her mother walking toward her. Annabelle was smiling. She was wearing a bright white hospital gown that came to her knees. Her feet were bare. Violet held the flower out to her mother. Annabelle stuffed it into her mouth, chewed vigorously, and swallowed.

“No!” Violet shrieked. “It’s poisonous!” But her mother was already shriveling to dust before her eyes.

“Annabelle! Annabelle, where are you?” It was her father, his voice drowning out the buzzing of the bees and the trickling of the water.

She was frantic with guilt. She hadn’t meant to kill her mother. She had only wanted her to have the pretty flower. She grabbed the flimsy hospital gown from the ground and began to run, pursued now by heavy footsteps. “Annabelle!” Her father’s voice had become a throaty roar, like that of an angry animal. There, ahead . . . She ran toward the stone well. She could hide the telltale gown there. She looked over her shoulder, her father’s footsteps thundering in her ear though she couldn’t yet see him, then turned back and raised the bunched gown over the black hole of the well when up from the depths shot a demon, a beast snarling and red, with burning eyes and as he grabbed for her with shimmering claws—

Violet woke, gasping. Grimace was pawing her face and meowing demandingly. “Demons down under the sea,” she whispered. Grimace removed his paw from her cheek and stared down at her. “Yes,” she told him. “I know it’s breakfast time.”

“W
hat did you think of our Jon Gascoyne?”

“Our?” Poppy asked. She was with Freddie in her home on Howard Lane; more specifically, they were in the study, a room that looked like it had been plucked from a novel by Agatha Christie—high-backed leather armchairs, walls lined with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, a massive stone fireplace, a mahogany desk fit for a famously brilliant detective. Poppy thought she wouldn’t be surprised if one day Hercule Poirot himself minced into the room.
Jon would like this room,
she thought now.
With his addiction to British mysteries. Our Jon Gascoyne
.

“By which I mean Yorktide’s,” Freddie explained. “A true son of the land. And of the sea, I suppose.”

“Oh. I thought he was very nice. I somehow can’t see him as a lobsterman, though.”

“Why not?”

Poppy shrugged. “I guess I’m guilty of stereotyping. I didn’t expect a guy who makes a living hauling lobster pots out of the ocean to be at an art exhibit.”

“You should be ashamed,” Freddie said mildly. “Where did you get such prejudices?”

“Sorry. It was stupid. Anyway, he’s very good-looking. Not that I’m in the market for a boyfriend.”

“Not that he would choose you. Necessarily.”

“I know that! I’m not entirely vain,” Poppy protested.

“Well, a young woman with your looks almost has to be vain. The world won’t let her be otherwise, I’m afraid.”

“And look where my appearance has gotten me. Nowhere in particular.”

“Good,” Freddie said firmly. “Looks should be irrelevant. In a perfect world they would be.”

Poppy couldn’t argue that. Ever since she was small people had openly stared at her, whether she was on her own or with her parents. Total strangers had come right up to her and said things like, “You’re gorgeous, do you know that?” She had always found the attention a bit puzzling as well as a bit annoying. Really, what did you say to questions like that? “Yes, I know I’m gorgeous.” Then you sounded as if you were stuck-up. “Oh, no I’m not.” Then you might be accused of false modesty.

There had been that man at the mall in Kittery. He had approached her as she was coming out of the Coach shop with some girlfriends (a mom of one friend had driven them as they were all only fifteen). He had politely introduced himself as a scout for a major New York–based modeling agency and handed Poppy his card. Her friends had squealed in excitement. Poppy stuck the card in her back pocket and forgot about it for three days until her mother unearthed it as she was putting a load of laundry in the washing machine. Her father had checked out the man’s credentials (they were all mildly curious) and had found that he was indeed a legitimate scout. Still, Annabelle and Oliver had adamantly refused to let their daughter pursue a career in modeling. Poppy didn’t care. At that point in her life she had never paid much attention to fashion and found the idea of modeling boring. Besides, the thought of having to leave her close-knit family was a bit terrifying.

And now . . . Now that close-knit family had been partly but irreparably unraveled . . .

“Why didn’t you sue for legal guardianship of Daisy and Violet?” Poppy asked Freddie. “Why didn’t Dad choose you? He’d known you forever and you
are
the family lawyer.”

“If I had wanted children I would have had my own,” Freddie said firmly. “Besides, I’m almost eighty years old. I’m far too tired to raise teenagers, even ones as lovely and interesting as your sisters.”

“You forgot headstrong and difficult.”

“Be that as it may, Oliver would never have burdened me—sorry to be blunt—with the care and feeding of his children.”

Poppy smiled feebly. “You make them sound like pets. Cats and dogs.”

“Cats, dogs, and human young ones need to be watered, sheltered, and fed. I see little difference. Cats and dogs and babies don’t go on expensive spring breaks and they don’t demand exorbitantly priced weddings. Not that all human children behave badly. You never did, from what I could tell.”

Unless you count running off to Boston after Mom died. Abandoning my father and sisters,
Poppy thought
.
What she said was: “There never seemed to be any reason to act badly.”

“It was a happy home,” Freddie stated.

“It was.”

“It can be again, you know. Not in the same way, of course.”

“And it’s up to me to make us a happy family again.” Poppy wasn’t sure if she meant that as a question or a statement of fact.

“Not only you,” Freddie argued. “Daisy and Violet will also have to choose to make an effort. But yes, you are in the position of guiding spirit.”

“Whether I’m up to the challenge or not.”

“Exactly. But I think that you
are
up to the challenge, Poppy. The problem is you don’t yet believe that. Now, enough talk. I’ve got to keep this old body moving. Use it or lose it. Do you want to walk down to the marshes with me or do you have somewhere you need to be? It’s high tide and you know how beautiful the marsh is at high tide.”

“Nowhere to be,” Poppy said. “Unless I’m forgetting something. Like paying the electric bill or—”

Freddie took hold of her elbow. “Then come on.”