“It’s my fault. The way I raised her—”
“Wait,” Lucy said, more sharply than she had intended. She took a frayed breath and softened her tone. “For once, Mom, please, can something be her fault? Can we just agree that Alice did something wrong, and not find a dozen ways to excuse her for it? Because every time I think of her sleeping in my house, in my bed, with my boyfriend, I really feel like blaming her.”
“But Lucy—even though it’s probably too soon to bring this up—she is your sister. And one day when she comes to you with a sincere apology, I hope you’ll forgive her. Because family is family.”
“It is too soon to bring that up. Listen, Mom, I … need to go.” Lucy knew that her mother was trying to help. But this wasn’t the kind of conversation that had ever gone well for them. They could talk about superficial things, but whenever they ventured into deeper territory, her mother seemed compelled to tell her how to think and feel. As a result, Lucy usually confided the personal details of her relationships to her friends rather than her family.
“I know you think I don’t understand how you feel, Lucy,” her mother said. “But I do.”
“You do?” As Lucy waited for her mother to continue, her gaze fell on a print of Munch’s painting The Dance of Life. The work depicted several couples dancing on a summer night. But two women stood alone in the picture. The one on the left was dressed in white, looking innocent and hopeful. The older woman on the right, however, was dressed in black, the uncompromising angles of her body conveying the bitterness of a love affair gone wrong.
“Before I was married,” her mother said, “I was involved with a man—I loved him very much—and one day he broke the news to me that he was in love with my best friend.”
Her mother had never divulged anything of the kind to her before. Lucy gripped the phone, unable to make a sound.
“It was beyond painful. I had … well, I suppose you would call it a nervous breakdown. I’ve never forgotten that feeling of not being able to get out of bed. That feeling of your soul being too heavy for you to move.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said in a hushed voice. “It’s hard to think of you going through something like that. It must have been terrible.”
“The most difficult part was that I lost my boyfriend and my best friend at the same time. I think they both regretted the pain they had caused me, but they loved each other so much that nothing else mattered. They got married. Later my former friend asked for my forgiveness, and I gave it to her.”
“Did you mean it?” Lucy couldn’t help asking.
That provoked a rueful laugh. “I said the words. That was the most I could manage. And I was glad I had done that, because about a year after the wedding, she died of Lou Gehrig’s.”
“What about the guy? Did you ever get back in touch with him?”
“You could say that.” Her mother’s voice turned gently arid. “I eventually married him, and we had two daughters.”
Lucy’s eyes widened at the revelation. She had never known that her father had been married before. That he had loved and lost another woman. Was that the reason for his eternal remoteness?
So many secrets, hidden in a family’s history. Inside a parent’s heart.
“Why are you telling me now?” she finally managed to ask.
“I married Phillip because I still loved him, even though I knew that he didn’t care for me in the same way. He came back to me because he was grieving, and lonely, and he needed someone. But that’s not the same as being in love.”
“He does love you,” Lucy protested.
“In his way. And it’s been a good marriage. But I’ve always had to live with the knowledge that I was his second choice. And I would never want that for you. I want you to find a man who thinks you’re the sun and the moon.”
“I don’t think that guy is out there.”
“He is. And Lucy, even though you said yes to the wrong man, I hope that won’t cause you to say no to the right one.”
Six
After two months of living at Artist’s Point, Lucy had narrowed down a list of potential apartments, but there were issues with each of them. One was out in the middle of nowhere, another was too expensive, another was depressingly dark, and so forth. She would have to make a decision soon, but Justine and Zoë had encouraged her to take as much time as she needed.
It had done Lucy a world of good to stay with the Hoffmans. Their company had been the perfect antidote for her postbreakup blues. Any time she felt gloomy or lonely, she could keep company with Zoë in the kitchen, or go for a run with Justine. It was nearly impossible to stay depressed around Justine, with her raffish sense of fun and boundless energy.
“I’ve got the perfect guy for you,” Justine announced one afternoon, as she, Zoë, and Lucy prepared the inn for a monthly event at the bed-and-breakfast—a silent reading party. It had originally been Zoë’s idea. People could bring their favorite books, or choose from the selection at the bed-and-breakfast. They would settle into the deep sofas or chairs in the big downstairs common room, and have wine and cheese while reading to themselves. Justine had initially scoffed at the idea—“Why would people go somewhere to read when they could do that at home?”—but Zoë had persevered. And it had become a huge success, with long lines forming at the front door, even in bad weather.
“I’d suggest him for you, Lucy,” Justine continued, “but Zoë’s gone longer without a guy. It’s like triage—I have to assign priority to those in the worst condition.”
Zoë shook her head as she set a tray of cheese on a huge antique sideboard in the common room. “I don’t need triage. I’ll meet someone eventually, when the time is right. Why can’t you just let these things happen naturally?”
“Letting things happen naturally takes too long,” Justine said. “And you need to start going out again. I’ve seen the signs.”
“Like what?” Zoë asked.
“For one thing, you spend too much time with Byron. He is so spoiled.”
Much of Zoë’s spare time was spent indulging her Persian cat, who had a mahogany-paneled litter box, a selection of rhinestone collars, and a blue velvet cat bed. Byron was regularly bathed and groomed, and ate his designer cat food from china saucers.
“That cat lives better than I do,” Justine continued.
“He certainly has better jewelry,” Lucy said.
Zoë frowned. “I’ll take a cat’s company over a man’s any day.”
Justine gave her a sardonic look. “Have you ever been on a date with a guy who coughed up a hairball?”
“No. But unlike a man, Byron is always on time for dinner, and he never complains about my shopping.”
“Despite your weakness for neutered males,” Justine said, “I think you’d get along great with Sam. You like cooking, he makes wine … it’s a natural.”
Zoë looked dubious. “This is the Sam Nolan who was so geeky in elementary school?”
Lucy had nearly dropped a stack of books as she heard his name. Fumbling a little, she piled the heavy volumes on a coffee table in front of a flower-upholstered sofa.
“He wasn’t that bad,” Justine protested.
“Please. He was always walking around playing with a Rubik’s Cube. Like Gollum petting his ring.”
Justine began to laugh. “God, I remember that.”
“And he was so skinny, we used to have to hold him down during a strong breeze. Did he actually grow up to be cute?”
“He grew up to be hot,” Justine said emphatically.
“In your opinion,” Zoë said. “But you and I have different taste in men.”
Justine gave her a perplexed glance. “You think Duane’s cute, don’t you?”
Zoë’s soft shoulders hitched in an uncomfortable shrug. “I can’t tell. He’s all covered up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t see his face because his sideburns are the size of my cast-iron skillets. And he has all those tattoos.”
&n
bsp; “He only has three,” Justine protested.
“He has way more than that,” Zoë said. “I could read him like a Kindle.”
“Well, I like tattoos. But to put your fears to rest, Sam doesn’t have any. No piercings either.” As Zoë opened her mouth, Justine added, “And no sideburns.” She made a sound of exasperation. “I’ll get photographic proof.”
“Justine’s right,” Lucy said to Zoë. “I’ve met him, and he is hot.”
Their gazes flew to her.
“You met Sam and you never mentioned it?” Justine asked.
“Well, it was only one time, and it was very brief. I had no idea you knew him.”
“I’ve been friends with Sam forever.”
“Why hasn’t he ever dropped by here?” Zoë asked.
“Sam’s been crazy-busy for a couple of years, ever since he started the vineyard. He’s got a crew, but he does a lot of the work himself.” Justine’s attention returned to Lucy. “Tell me how you met him.”
Lucy set out wineglasses on a sideboard as she replied. “I was out riding my bike, and I sort of … stopped for a minute. We had a quick conversation. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Justine, why aren’t you going out with him?” Zoë asked.
“I did in middle school, after your family moved to Everett. It was one of those summer flings. Once school started, it sort of evaporated. Sam and I have been friends ever since.” Justine paused. “The thing about Sam is, he’s not a long-term guy. He’s not looking to get serious with anyone. He’s a free spirit. Very upfront about never wanting to get married.” A strategic pause. “Just ask Denise Rausman.”
Lucy recognized the name of a stunning blond television reporter who had recently been voted as Seattle’s Hottest News Babe. “He went out with her?”
“Yes, she has a vacation house near Roche Harbor, and she and Sam had quite a thing going for almost a year. She was wild about him. But she couldn’t get him to commit, and she finally gave up. And then there was Laura Delfrancia.”
“Who’s she?” Zoë asked.
“The head of Pacific Mountain Capital … she invests in all these early-stage companies in hi-tech and clean-energy fields. She’s classy and loaded, and she couldn’t persuade Sam to get serious with her either.”
“It’s hard to imagine that kind of woman chasing after Sam Nolan,” Zoë said. “He had a lot of geekitude to overcome.”
“In defense of geeks,” Justine said, “they’re great in bed. They fantasize a lot, so they’re really creative. And they love to play with gadgets.” As the other two started laughing, Justine handed them glasses of wine. “Here. Whatever else you may say about Sam, he makes fantastic wine.”
“This is one of his?” Lucy asked, swirling the rich garnet vintage in her glass.
“It’s called ‘Keelhaul,’” Justine said. “A Shiraz-Cab.”
Lucy took a sip. The wine was amazingly smooth, the fruit strong but silky, the finish mocha-inflected. “This is good,” she said. “It would be worth going out with him to get bottles of this for free.”
“Did you give Sam your number?” Justine asked.
Lucy shook her head. “Kevin had just dumped me.”
“No problem. I can set you up with Sam now. As long as Zoë has no objections.”
“None,” Zoë said distinctly. “I’m not interested.”
Justine let out an exasperated laugh. “Your loss, Lucy’s gain.”
“I’m not interested either,” Lucy said. “It’s only been two months since my breakup. And the rule is that you have to wait for exactly half the time of the relationship … which for me would be about a year.”
“That’s not the rule,” Justine exclaimed. “You only have to wait one month for each year of the relationship.”
“I think all these rules are ridiculous,” Zoë said. “Lucy, you should let your instincts guide you. You’ll know when you’re ready again.”
“I don’t trust my instincts where men are concerned,” Lucy said. “It’s like this article I read the other day about the decline of the firefly population. One of the reasons they’re disappearing is because of modern artificial lighting. Fireflies can’t find the signals of their mates, because they’re so distracted by porch lights, streetlamps, illuminated sign letters…”
“Poor things,” Zoë said.
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “You think you’ve found the perfect mate and you head for him, blinking as fast as you can, and then you find out he’s a Bic lighter. I just can’t handle that again.”
Justine shook her head slowly as she looked at the two of them. “Life is a banquet, and you are both wandering around with chronic indigestion.”
* * *
After helping the Hoffmans to set up for the reading party, Lucy went up to her room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop, she checked her e-mail, and found a message from a former professor and mentor, Dr. Alan Spellman. He had recently been appointed as the arts and industry coordinator at the world-renowned Mitchell Art Center in New York.
Dear Lucy,
Remember the Artist in Residence program I mentioned last time we talked? A full year, all expenses paid, working with artists from all around the world. You would be perfect for it. I believe you have a unique sense of glass as a medium, whereas too many modern artists overlook its illusory possibilities. This grant would give you the freedom to experiment in ways that would be difficult—if not impossible—for you in your current circumstances.
Let me know if you decide to give it a shot. The application form is attached. I’ve already put in a word for you, and they’re excited about the chance to make something happen.
Best,
Alan Spellman
The chance of a lifetime—a year in New York to study and experiment with glass.
Clicking on a link at the bottom of the e-mail, Lucy glanced over the application requirements—a one-page proposal, a cover letter, and twenty digital images of her work. For one tantalizing moment, she let herself think about it.
A new place … a new beginning.
But the likelihood of being chosen over all the other applicants was so slight that she wondered why she was even bothering.
Who are you, to think you have a chance at this? she asked herself.
But then another thought occurred to her … Who are you, to not at least try?
Seven
“I need to talk to you, Lucy,” her mother had said on the answering machine. “Call me when you get a minute in private. Please don’t put this off, it’s important.”
Despite the urgency in her mother’s voice, Lucy hadn’t yet returned the call. She had no doubt that the message had something to do with Alice, and she wanted just one day of not thinking or talking about her younger sister. Instead she had spent the afternoon packing her latest finished pieces and taking them to a couple of shops in Friday Harbor.
“Wonderful,” Susan Seburg, a shop manager and a friend, exclaimed as she viewed the selection of glass mosaic pieces that Lucy had brought. It was a series of women’s shoes: pumps, high-heeled sandals, wedges, and even a pair of sneakers. They were all made of glass, tile, crystals, and beads. “Oh, I wish I could actually wear them! You know someone’s going to come in and buy the entire set at once. Lately I can’t keep your work on the shelves—it sells as soon as I set it out.”
“That’s good to hear,” Lucy said.
“There’s something so charming and … I don’t know, special … about your recent stuff. A couple of customers are thinking of asking you to do something on commission.”
“That’s great. I can always use the work.”
“Yes, it’s good to stay busy.” Setting down the accent lamp, Susan gave her a compassionate look. “I imagine it helps to keep your mind off what’s happening.” Seeing Lucy’s blank expression, she clarified, “With Kevin Pearson and your sister.”
Lucy dropped her gaze to her phone schedule planner. “You mean the two of them living togeth
er?”
“That, and the wedding.”
“Wedding?” Lucy repeated faintly. It seemed as if a sheet of ice had instantly formed beneath her feet. Any direction she tried to go in, she was guaranteed to slip and fall.
Susan’s face changed. “You didn’t know? Shit. I’m sorry, Lucy, I would never have wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“They’re engaged?” Lucy couldn’t believe it. How had Alice managed to convince Kevin to make such a commitment? “I don’t mind the idea of getting married, someday,” he had once told Lucy, “but it’s not something I’d ever rush into. I mean, I’m willing to stay with someone, by choice, for a long time. But how exactly is that different from marriage?”
“It’s a different level,” Lucy had said.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just some goal that other people have set for us. Do we really need to buy into that?”
Apparently now he was buying into it. Because of Alice. Did this mean he truly loved her?
It wasn’t that Lucy was jealous. Kevin had cheated on her, and would likely cheat in his future relationships. But the news made her wonder what was wrong with her. Maybe Alice had been right—Lucy was a control freak. Maybe she would drive away any man who was foolish enough to love her.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said again. “Your sister’s been driving around the island with a wedding planner. They’re checking out locations.”
The phone was trembling in her hand. Lucy put it into her bag and attempted a smile that came out as a grimace. “Well,” she said, “now I know why my mother left a message for me this morning.”
“All the color’s gone out of your face. Come to the back with me—I’ve got soft drinks, or I could make some coffee—”
“No. Thanks, Susan, but I’m going to call it a day.” The mass of emotion had begun to separate into layers. Sadness, bewilderment, anger.
“Is there something I can do?” she heard Susan ask.