The Splendour Falls (9 page)

‘Anyway,' said Kimberly, ‘it's sweet that Rhys is helping his dad with his research.'

Travis groaned. ‘Can we move on to a new subject, please?'

‘Oh my God,' Kimberly snapped. ‘How many times did we have to listen to you guys talk about Sylvie? Deal with it.'

I blinked, like I'd been hit by a bucket of cold water she'd meant to throw on someone else. ‘Excuse me?'

Shawn cleared his throat and stared at the ceil?ing. Addie rolled her eyes (big surprise). Travis and Aaron exchanged grimaces of chagrin and Caitlin glared at Kimberly, who explained apologetically, ‘When we heard you were coming, we Googled you. We've never had anyone famous, or even semifamous, come here.'

‘We weren't being creepy,' Aaron assured me, after shooting Kimberly an irritated glare. ‘It's just, there was this picture, and you were standing on one toe, with your other leg waaay up here.' He measured a spot by his ear. ‘It was kind of impressive.'

‘Um, thanks,' I said, vaguely. Dancers didn't take compliments well. Nothing was ever good enough. And now it never would be, because even the
attempt
at a moment of dynamic perfection was out of reach.

Also, if they'd looked me up, then they had to know about The Accident. They had an idea of what I'd once been capable of, and that now I couldn't even get up off the floor without help.

‘But,' I went on with a note of irony, ‘I'm hardly famous. Or impressive any more.'

Kimberly laughed. ‘Oh, honey. You're a Davis. You're automatically famous in Maddox Landing.'

I wanted to ask what she meant, but Caitlin, who still held Gigi in her lap, continued in a cajoling tone, ‘And I'll say what these boys are all thinking. You're
still
darned impressive. Lord, what I wouldn't give for a great pair of legs like yours.'

‘I don't know about a
pair,
' said Addie, with only a veneer of drollery over the venom in her voice. ‘If she had
two
good legs, she'd still be dancing.'

For a heartbeat, icy disbelief kept me numb, certain I'd misheard her. But the awkward silence that dropped like a bomb in the room proved I hadn't, and my ears began to burn.

Shawn tensed angrily beside me, though he didn't speak. It was Caitlin who breathed, ‘Jeez, Addie. That was uncool.'

‘Please,' she said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I'm just stating a fact. If she hadn't broken her leg, she wouldn't be here, dumped on her relatives.'

‘OK. Wow.' Feeling their appalled stares richochet between us, I tried to shake off the daze of the verbal sucker punch. The show must go on. Wiping my fingers precisely and placing my napkin in an empty pizza box, I stood smoothly, with some covert help from the sofa. ‘Thanks for this example of Southern hospitality, but I really need to walk my dog, and I can only handle one bitch at a time.'

Addie's face flushed. She opened her mouth to snap back a retort, but Shawn's quiet and clipped words stopped her. ‘Cut it out, Adina.' I expected her to tell him where to stick it, but she merely shrugged and threw her legs over the arm of the chair.

He'd gotten up too, and he handed me Gigi's bag. ‘Want some help?'

‘I can handle this much. Come on, Gigi.' She came running, her little legs prancing, and we headed for the French doors. I didn't know where they led exactly, nor did I care. I just wanted out of there.

‘We'll see you around, Sylvie,' said Caitlin, with the deliberate cheerfulness of someone trying to smooth things over. ‘Maybe at the Catfish Festival this weekend.'

‘Maybe,' I murmured. And maybe I would break my other leg, and be spared that particular joy.

The French doors opened onto a veranda on the side of the house. It was clean but scattered with dilapidated porch furniture. I snapped on Gigi's leash and headed for the steps, wondering how far my leg would take me if I just kept walking.

T
he moon had barely risen, but there was enough light from the porch to see where I was going. As satisfying as it would be to storm off into the dark, it would also be self-destructive. Besides, I was too tired and achy to storm anywhere. The best I could do was stagger off in a snit.

Coming down the side stairs, Gigi and I faced the hedged border of what had once been the formal garden, the shape just visible under the excess foliage, like good bone structure in someone who has let himself
put on some pounds. Weeds and vines pushed up through the gravel and paving stones of the path, but I braved it anyway.

From the painting in the foyer, I knew this was once a knot garden, but I couldn't see much design in the overgrown shapes of the planting beds. In the centre was some kind of tall topiary, gone shapeless with neglect. Gigi wanted to dive into the circular flower bed around it but I pulled her back, worried about what wildlife might be in the snarled weeds.

I felt a similar pull to investigate, but I resisted it, making instead for the open area between the house and the river. The hedges opened to the southeast, and with Gigi trotting beside me, I stepped out of the garden onto a vista that, even in the starlight, held me transfixed.

From the house, the land rolled softly, in a gently sculpted fall that was too perfect to be natural, to the bright ribbon of the river. It was as if someone had unfurled a bolt of cloth and draped it for artistic effect, with swells and nooks and shadows. It was the contrived nature of an artist in soil – a landscape architect, like Capability Brown, or Frederick Law Olmstead, whom my dad had idolized.

Had this been the beginning of Dad's passion for making art out of nature? I couldn't help but imagine him standing right here, thinking … I didn't know what, because he'd never talked about it.

Gigi pulled at her leash, begging to be let loose for a run. I wished I could oblige her; I, too, wanted to run and roll and yell at the universe, but I settled for
kicking off my shoes and lowering myself stiffly to the lawn. Then I dug my fingers and toes into the grass, anchoring myself to the ground, to solid reality.

On the slope of lawn leading to the water I saw the silhouette of a small building. The summerhouse, I figured. North of that, the river disappeared behind an area of thick trees. In the dark, the woods were just a swath of deeper blackness, but I could see the tips of the pines against the starlit charcoal sky.

Nothing explained why that made me shiver. It could be the breeze that had come with sunset, carrying the scent of the river.

Or maybe I was just nuts. How many times since reaching the house had I imagined things too well, with so much detail that the line became fuzzy between what was
there
and what wasn't?

It had been a long, tiring day. And here I was in this old house, full of history, trying to connect the father I knew with the teenager Paula remembered. Of
course
I was going to be picturing the past at every turn.

My imagination had always had an outlet in ballet. I created things in my mind's eye, things like transforming swans and dancing candy canes, which I had to make an audience believe that
I
believed were real. I was
full
of creative energy, which, until The Accident, I'd channelled into dance.

Everything
had been channelled into dance. Energy, emotion, creativity. For all the months of recovery, most of that had been pushed towards healing – physically, at least. Now it was like a Band-Aid had been ripped off my feelings, and I was one raw nerve.

And then there were the two guys. Rhys and Shawn. Both of them getting under my skin in completely different ways. Before The Accident, I'd dated, as long as it didn't interfere with dance. But what was it about crossing the Mason-Dixon Line that had turned me into this hormone-driven, boy-crazy—

Crap. There was that word again.

I rubbed my hands over my face, the sweet smell of grass and dirt failing to soothe me. Just the stress of worrying that I was cracking up was enough to crack me up.

The ring of my phone startled me, and Gigi barked as I jumped. Prokofiev's
Cinderella
– the stepsister's theme. It was John, the second-to-last person I wanted to talk to while I was thinking about going bonkers. But if I didn't answer, he might tell his dad, who might call Paula, and then they'd
all
be thinking about how I was going bonkers.

So I clicked to answer, and growled, ‘Calling to check up on me?'

‘Hello, Sylvie.' He took my tone in stride, which stole some of the wind from my sails. In the two weeks since the wedding, I'd seethed and sulked and practically hissed every time I saw him – which was a lot, since our parents were consolidating households before leaving on their honeymoon. Eventually it was too much effort to stay furious, especially at someone who didn't get angry back.

Which was his strategy, of course, as he asked, with exaggerated tranquillity, ‘How is Alabama?'

I sighed. ‘It's driving me crazy already,' I answered. ‘You can report that back to your dad.' Sarcasm made
me feel better. I mean, I was only nuts if I thought I wasn't, right? Flexing my feet, I stretched my cramped muscles as well as my figurative claws. ‘Mother was too busy packing to check on her only offspring, huh?'

John paused, as if hunting for a tactful answer, then gave up. ‘They're getting ready to leave in the morning. How are you?'

‘Stiff. Sore. Brain-dead.' Gigi climbed onto my lap, putting her paws on my chest so she could sniff the phone. ‘Gigi says hi.'

‘If you think I've forgiven her for peeing in my suitcase, you are so wrong.'

‘She can't help it. She knew I was mad at you.' I was mad at everyone, all the time.

‘
Was
mad? Past tense?'

I sighed and pulled up my knees, trapping Gigi against my chest. She curled up, contentedly licking the buttons on my sweater. ‘Half past tense, maybe.' Like I said, angry takes a lot of energy.

‘I'm glad.' He sounded genuine, which was the other reason I'd softened to him. That, and if I hadn't, I wouldn't have anyone to talk to but Gigi. ‘I take it you got to your cousin's house OK?'

‘Yeah. Only get this. It's not a house. It's an antebellum mansion. And it's out in the absolute boonies.' He sounded amused. ‘Not up to your high stan-dards?'

Jerk. ‘Like
you've
ever been on a vacation that didn't involve turndown service and five-star dining.'

‘That's not true. And it's not the point. Do you think you'll get along with your cousin all right?'

‘Maybe.' I lay back, looking up at the stars. ‘I don't
know. She talks like that Southern woman on the Food Network. Crap – she even has the same name. Kind of looks like her too.'

‘Can she cook?'

‘No. Apparently her business partner does the cooking.'

‘Business partner?'

‘Paula is turning the family homestead into a B&B.'

‘Oh really?' I couldn't see him raising his eyebrows, but I pictured it clearly. ‘And how do you feel about that?'

I barked out a laugh. It wasn't even ironic. ‘I can't believe you just said that. You were born to be a shrink, John.'

His chuckle sounded embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I really wasn't trying to – I just mean that you called it the family homestead. It's your ancestral home, too, right?'

‘But I don't
own
it. I guess Paula inherited it.'

‘Is her father older than your father's father?'

Genealogy made my head hurt. ‘Jeez, John, I don't know. Why does it matter? I don't want the place. I didn't even want to come here.'

‘Yeah, but it's still your family history.' He sounded very reasonable. ‘And as long as you're there, don't you want to find out more about where your father came from?'

‘I don't know.' I meant to snap at him, but it came out genuinely uncertain. My gaze turned towards the house; I couldn't see much more than shapes, but in my mind's eye was the painting in the hall and the separate quarters out back.

And there was the curious thing Caitlin had said. Being a Davis made me famous here. What did that mean?

‘There's a lot of history,' I said. ‘I can't believe Dad never mentioned some of this stuff. He used to spend his summers here, but he never said— It's just sort of a big thing to omit. Even if he never described the house, how could he not mention the gardens and the landscape …'

I was talking incoherently, free-associating. Why did that happen with John? He didn't even have a degree yet, and already he had some kind of mojo. He really was born to be a shrink. Or a bartender.

But I stopped before I said the damning thing that had been gnawing at me since I'd first seen Bluestone Hill. The only way I could be this clueless about where Dad came from is if he had deliberately kept it from me. It's one thing to reinvent yourself and leave your upbringing behind. But why keep it secret from your daughter?

If John had asked me just then what I felt about that, my answer would have been pretty profane.

‘Do they teach you that in school?' I asked. ‘To just let someone ramble until they say something that reveals their psyche?'

He paused. Unlike me, he chose his words carefully. ‘Sylvie, believe it or not, when I saw you at the wedding with that Day-Glo cast, my first thought was not, There's a girl who needs psychological help. Though it could have been.'

I gave a derisive snort. Gigi, lying on my stomach,
opened one eye to glare at me for disturbing her sleep. ‘Then what
did
you think?'

‘There's a girl who desperately needs someone to give a damn about her. And I've never had a sister. This may work out after all.'

I didn't say anything. After feeling nothing but anger for so long, I couldn't sort out the emotions that lodged in an aching knot in my throat. And then John ruined – or saved – the moment by adding, ‘Of course, when you passed out on me and I had to drag your drunk butt and your ten pounds of fibreglass cast through the lobby of the Pierre, I had my doubts.'