Emilie Richards – Fox River (страница 20)

“Harry had a way of drawing people to him that neither of us has mastered. He walked into a room and the light went on. Not because he worked at being charming, because he was so confident.” She paused. “Powerful. He was powerful, and anyone who met him wanted to live in his sphere.”

Julia found her way around the bed and sat on the edge. “I don’t remember anything about him.”

“I know. Jake was all the father you ever really knew.”

“Enough father for anyone. The best.”

Julia suspected that the window into her mother’s feelings was closing. But it had been a beginning and something to ponder. “You said you needed my help?”

Maisy didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she almost sounded embarrassed. “Julia, I’m writing a novel.”

Julia supposed if any of the mothers of her friends had admitted such a thing, their daughters would have been stunned. The mothers of Ridge’s Race gave charity teas and served on committees, they shepherded children and grandchildren to horse and pony shows and steeplechase events, entertained friends, oversaw the baking of ham and the assembly of salads for tailgate parties. They did not, for the most part, pursue their muse.

Maisy had always pursued hers with a vengeance.

Julia thought back to her mother’s last creative attempts. “You got tired of sculpture?”

“I was a failure.”

“Not so. I thought some of the things you did were interesting.”

“Julia, we both know what interesting means in the art world. Spare me false praise.”

“I liked the bust of Callie. I really did.”

“You were the only person who knew it was Callie, and that’s only because you let her pose for me.”

“So you’ve moved to writing. Didn’t you try your hand at poetry when I was in college?”

“No matter what I wrote, I rhymed. I shamed myself.”

“Well, if you’re telling me this because you want my approval, you know you have it. I think it’s great.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I want to read what I’ve written to you.”

Julia sobered. “I’m not going to be much of an audience, Maisy.”

“I know you have a lot on your mind.”

Maisy had tried to be honest with her. Now Julia tried to be honest with her mother. “I feel like I’m putting my life back together, or taking it apart, I’m not sure which. I feel like I’m curled up in a hard little ball, the way a porcupine does when it’s under attack. Everything that’s happening inside me right now is centered around me and my life. I feel selfish, but there it is. I don’t know if I even have the ability to think about anybody else.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad.”

“I still would appreciate it if you listened to my story. I’ll tell you why,” Maisy continued before Julia could object. “I think you need something outside yourself to think about. Just for a small part of each day. I understand what you’re going through. I do, as well as anyone could. But I also know you need a break from the crisis, and it’s going to be hard to get one. You can’t read. You can’t paint. You can’t ride. You can listen to music or television, but I think while you do, you’ll be worrying and digging away at the things inside you.”

“That’s all I’m good for right now.”

“Your heart and soul need a resting place. You need to heal a little before you move on to the next thought. You need time to heal. Is this making any sense?”

To Julia, what made sense was that her mother, in her own confusing way, was trying to help her. Right at the beginning Maisy had offered her a home, solace, the use of Maisy’s own eyes and hands as she cared for her. Now she was offering two things more. Respite and a piece of Maisy’s own heart. Julia, as an artist, understood that every creative endeavor, even the most amateur, was a gift of self.

How could she refuse to listen?

“I don’t think you’ll find it that painful, Julia,” Maisy said dryly. “You should see the look on your face. I swear.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. I’d like to do something for you if I can, in return for everything you’ve done. But do you want me to give my opinion? Because that might be tough on both of us.”

“Not really. Mostly I need a captive audience. Come here and get under the covers. It’s cold, and you’re not wearing enough.” Maisy stood, and the mattress lifted.

“When did you want to start?” Julia pulled the covers back and got under them. She felt the way she had as a little girl, waiting for her mother to tuck her in. Only she was a mother now and her own daughter was sleeping upstairs.

“Right now suits me.”

Julia’s heart sank. The day had been long and difficult, and she’d hoped for a reprieve. “A bedtime story?”

“It’s the quiet time of day. And maybe it will help you fall asleep.”

Julia struggled to keep her voice light. “Maybe I’ll fall asleep while you’re reading. What will that tell you?”

“That you’re tired. Only that you’re tired.”

“What kind of novel is it?”

“A romance, I think. At least that’s how it seems to be shaping up. When it comes right down to it, though, that’s what I like to read. I need a happy ending.”

“You’ll guarantee one?”

Maisy paused. “Can’t. These characters have a mind of their own. It’s going like gangbusters.”

Julia was afraid to think what that said about quality. Maisy’s pottery had always gone like gangbusters, too. “You used to read to me when I was little. Every night. It was one of the things I loved best about my childhood.”

“I used to tell you to settle back and let the story take over. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Julia, settle back tonight and let the story take over. Forget everything else that happened. There’ll be plenty of time to remember it all again in the morning.”

“You have the book?”

“The first chapter’s right here.” The rustle of pages followed her words. Julia heard a chair scraping the floor, then the creak of a cane seat as Maisy lowered herself into it.

“Does Jake know about this?”

“Your stepfather doesn’t ask questions. He knows he’ll hear all the details eventually. More than he usually wants to know.”

Julia settled back. Maisy had a soothing, melodious voice, and she was capable of putting a great deal of drama into whatever she read. She would do her best to make the book entertaining for Julia.

“Go ahead and close your eyes,” Maisy said.

“Not that it makes much difference.” But Julia did.

The sedate flow of Maisy’s words began to wash over her.

From the unpublished novel Fox River, by Maisy Fletcher

My father had great hopes for me. I was to marry into New York society and advance the status of our family. My brothers, George and Henry, were, by my father’s high standards, without significant potential. Lumpish and plain-spoken, they would do well enough managing the import and mercantile company that had brought our family to the brink of a better life. But I, Louisa, with my golden curls, my sea-green eyes, the anticipated extension of my considerable childish charm, was to carry all of us over the threshold.

My father died before he could see his plan to fruition, but my mother, lumpish and plain-spoken herself, made my father’s mission her own. When she saw that my brothers could indeed manage the family’s affairs, she focused her attention on me. Even though I was not yet ten, I was to be a memorial to my father’s dreams.

Despite the fact that we—like our three-story brownstone—stood on the fringes of Fifth Avenue society, I was schooled by its finest masters. By the time I was eighteen and Cousin Annabelle Jones invited me to summer at her family estate in Middleburg, Virginia, my posture was perfection, my voice as musical as a canary’s warblings. The fashionable girls’ school I attended had only taught me the rudiments of history, geography and literature, but I could dance until dawn and ride with a proper seat. I had learned the fine art of flirtation and the more advanced art of conversation. I was ready, it seemed, to polish stepping-stones for generations of Schumachers still to come.

If I could not marry a man with a European title, as Astor, Guggenheim and Vanderbilt daughters had done, I could, at the very least, marry one who set us squarely in the middle of the Social Register.

I hesitate to say it now, but from the beginning I cooperated with all plans for our future. Not because I was spineless or without any thoughts on the subject. Born just after the turn of the century, I was the product of a new era, a willful child, high-spirited and fully capable of demanding my way when it suited me. But I was always certain a life of ease, a life of acceptance by people I admired, suited me best. When the Great War ended, I knew I had come into my own.

As I grew, I was seldom in my mother’s presence without an etiquette tutor or a dressmaker in attendance. Mama filled her days overseeing my education or making overtures to women who thought her beneath them. Now, when I think of her, I see unsmiling lips and hazel eyes darting from face to face in a crowded room, searching for the next person who might advance her cause.

I remember little about the days just before I traveled to Virginia. My mother cried. I do remember that. She was plain-spoken, perhaps, but also, at heart, a sentimental woman. On my last evening at home, as I was preparing for bed, she told me that marriage was never quite what it seemed. Men did not marry for friendship but because they wanted their needs attended to. Once I was safely wed, I should use the skills we’d so carefully nurtured to better the life of my husband, but never to set myself above him.