An Act of Love (24 page)

Bruce was ten, Emily eight, and in preparation for the trip to the art gallery, Owen and Linda had forced them to bathe and dress with care. Bruce wore his blue button-down Brooks Brothers shirt and khakis, just like his father, although Owen wore a navy blue blazer, too. Emily, fortunately, was still in her
Little House on the Prairie
phase and wore one of her adorable ruffled dresses. Linda tied a pink grosgrain ribbon around her head and let her long shimmering honey-brown hair curl down her back. She wore a
simple little black dress. No jewelry.

As they drove into Cambridge, she noticed that Bruce was nervous. He often drummed his fingers in the air as if playing an invisible piano. He did that then, and at the same time he kept pulling his lips in beneath his teeth and chattering his jaw. This gave him a lipless, idiotic look, and Linda considered gently mentioning it to him, but didn’t. It would have only made him more self-conscious. She couldn’t tell whether Owen was so quiet out of nervousness or simply out of habit. She had a hunch that it would take her years to coax Owen into the joys of normal conversation. Emily was the only one who wasn’t anxious. She was very happily admiring her dress, her shoes, and the little charm bracelet Linda had let her wear for the occasion.

The gallery was a crush of people, all of whom looked glamorous or eccentric or scholarly, all of whom seemed to sustain life from an atmosphere of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. Owen took Bruce by the hand and parted the way through the crowd, led—Linda realized—Ulysses-like by an unforgettable, throaty siren’s laugh.

Michelle was wearing black jeans and a shirt that on first glance seemed composed of Saran Wrap. It was transparent and she wore no bra, but the material did have a shimmer to it, it seemed to refract the light. She’d had her black hair cut very short, and her slender neck rose from her shirt like a pale column of smoke. Her dark eyes were ringed with black and her lips were dramatically crimson.

“Darling!” she cried, greeting Bruce. Bending, she folded him into her arms. “Everyone, this is my son!” Hugging Bruce to her side, she introduced him to those closest to her. “Bruce, this is Fritz, my agent, and Dominique, who owns this gallery, and my new very special friend, Rodney, and Mr. and Mrs. Delmonico, who are my favorite patrons in all the world.”

Spotting Owen, who stood darkly watching, his hand on Linda’s arm, she murmured, “Owen.” Her gaze settled on Linda. “And this must be your new girlfriend.” Before Linda could open her mouth to introduce Emily, she cooed, “I do hope you’re taking good care of my men.”

They’re not your men
, Linda silently objected. She didn’t introduce Emily, didn’t have a chance to, for already Michelle was turning away to greet others coming to pay homage. She continued to hug Bruce to her side for a while, but when a very tall, bearded, rather aristocratic older man approached, she reached up with both her arms to embrace him, and she kept her arms on his shoulders as she inquired, “Darling, how
are
you?” If Owen hadn’t moved around to catch Bruce, he would have been swept away from his mother like a grain of sand caught in the irresistible press through an hourglass.

The next time Linda saw Michelle was on the farm, after Owen and she had been married about a year. Michelle was coming to visit Bruce before she went for an extended artistic excursion through Europe. She could only come on a Thursday morning, and so Owen kept Bruce home from school so that he could see her. Linda accompanied Bruce that morning as he waited, sharing small tasks with him in order to make the time pass more quickly. He was nervous, and he wanted his room to look perfect. They had spent the week before cleaning it, Windexing the windows, using Murphy’s Oil Soap on the furniture and floors. He had dusted and painstakingly arranged his collections on the shelves: rocks, arrowheads, and fossils; stamps; coins; baseball cards; a few kiln-fired pieces of sculpture that might have been bowls or artistic endeavors and of which he was fiercely and irrationally proud.

Bruce was eleven that year. He was caught in the dreadful prepubescent phase when all at once his body was growing in irregular spurts, his voice cracked, his face was spotted with pimples and three or four ridiculous flossy hairs, precursors to a beard. His hair grew fast and thick, and he wore it in a disordered mane sweeping around his face; he thought he was hiding his bad skin. Linda knew the oil from his hair was only making it worse, but didn’t dare mention it to him for fear of hurting his pride.

They heard the car come down the long road, slowing as it hit the first ruts. It was early spring. The snow had melted and rains had swept through, turning the land into mud. Michelle was driving a red convertible. The top was down.

“Whoa!” Bruce yelped, and raced down the stairs. He’d never ridden in a convertible; like most kids, he’d always wanted to.

Linda had planned to behave with dignity. She vowed to herself not to go downstairs nor to stand behind a curtain in her room, peering out the window to watch Michelle’s reunion with her son and ex-husband. She would seclude herself in her study even if it meant staring blankly at her computer screen.

But as the red convertible approached, something caught her eye and she remained at her watch post at the window.

Michelle was not alone in the car. A man was with her, and in the back seat, something small … a dog? No, a child.

Linda was unspeakably curious. Besides, she reminded herself, Owen was her
husband, Bruce her stepson.

She grabbed up a plastic basket of dirty laundry from the bathroom—there was always a basket of dirty laundry waiting—and carried it downstairs, casually, as if this were any other normal day. The washer and dryer were in the old pantry off the kitchen, and Linda arrived there just as Michelle and the others were entering.

“Bruce!” Michelle cried. “Darling! Look how big you’ve grown!”

Michelle was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and enormous sunglasses, which she didn’t remove as she bent to embrace her child. Bruce’s eyes were as wide and soft as a sponge, soaking in the sight of his mother.

“Hi, Owen, darling!” She kissed his cheek. “And Laura—”

“Linda.”

“
Linda
, how good to see you again! I’d like you to meet my dear friend Pierre”—she gestured to the gorgeous man with her—“and Pierre’s daughter, Chloe.”

They all shook hands. Chloe was slender, like her father, like Michelle, and Linda amused and insulated herself by secretly thinking,
Attack of the Toothpick People
.

“You’re twelve now, aren’t you, Bruce? I know I should remember, but since I never get any older, it’s always such a surprise that you do!” Michelle ran her hand over her son’s shoulder and he seemed only too pleased to say, in a voice that cracked with emotion: “Eleven.”

“Eleven! That’s what I thought!” She beamed at Bruce as if he’d said something very clever. “Chloe is eleven, too! Isn’t that great? She’s going to tag along with us on this little
Français
jaunt. Of course not every minute. Sometimes she’ll stay with her mother or grandparents.”

“They live in Paris,” Chloe informed everyone with an arch smile.

The blood drained from Bruce’s face.

Michelle babbled on. “The Ente Gallery is going to mount a show of my dioramas in Paris. Then I
hope
Pierre and I might be able to escape for a little respite. Chloe will probably come along, too. She’s so used to traveling with her father, you see. She doesn’t mind having her own hotel room.”

You stupid bitch
, Linda thought. How could Michelle be so blind? So thoughtless? So heartless? Why had it not occurred to her either to invite Bruce along, too, since they were taking the cosmopolitan Chloe, or on the other hand to keep quiet about Chloe? Couldn’t Michelle see how she was hurting her son?

“Bruce, why don’t you and Chloe run along and play for a while?” Michelle asked.

“Michelle,” Chloe announced in a dry, weary voice, “we don’t
play
. We are eleven years old.”

Michelle rolled her eyes and collapsed into a chair. “Do you have any espresso? I’m dying for a good jolt of caffeine.”

Linda made coffee.

“Would you like to see the farm?” Owen asked Chloe.

Chloe shrugged.

“It’s just all mud out there, isn’t it?” Michelle asked.

Linda set a plate of date nut bars on the table.

“Did you make these?” Michelle asked, and when Linda nodded, cooed, “How
clever
! Want one, darling?” she asked Chloe.

Chloe shook her head.

“So tell me, Bruce,” Michelle said, turning her brilliant gaze on her son, “how do you like school?”

“Fine.” He sat on the end of the table, looking close to tears.

Blithely Michelle turned to Linda. “How do you like living out here in such isolation?”

“It’s heaven,” Linda replied quietly.

Michelle’s smile did not dim. “How’s your work going, Owen?”

“All right. I have a new book coming out in the fall.”

“That’s just so exciting. You’re lucky you’re dealing with words instead of three-dimensional material. I can’t tell you the difficulties we’re having getting the dioramas properly packed and shipped.” She described the problems while Linda and Bruce and Owen sat listening in various stages of misery.

Suddenly Michelle stretched and stood up. “I shouldn’t just sit here and complain. I really need to get back and accomplish a few little tasks.”

Chloe and Pierre rose, too. Bruce sat staring at the table.

“Good-bye, darling,” Michelle cried, swooping over to hug her son. “I’m so glad I got to see you. You’re adorable.” She ruffled his hair. “Going to be a heartbreaker someday.”

Linda and Owen walked the visitors out to the porch. Bruce stayed inside, still
staring at the table.

“It might be fun for Bruce to visit you all in Paris,” Owen softly suggested.

Michelle looked utterly blank for a moment, as if Owen had spoken in a foreign language, and then a look of delight crossed her face. “Oh, what a good idea! I’ll think about it and call you!”

She never did call. Instead she sent three postcards, one from Paris, one from St. Tropez, one from Versailles. She also sent Bruce a picture, taken in front of the Arc de Triomphe, of Michelle, Pierre, and Chloe. Linda found it in the wastebasket, torn into shreds. Later she saw it in Bruce’s desk, taped back together. He didn’t have many pictures of his mother.

In her deepest heart, Linda had been secretly glad that Michelle was such an absent, careless mother. It balanced out Simon’s lack of interest in Emily; both kids, Linda had thought, would feel less solitary in their situation. Less unwanted. They would understand that some parents were just neglectful, that it had nothing to do with their own desirability. And Linda had heard tales of hideous fights between divorced parents, situations in which the child was reduced to a pawn, a trophy, or cases where the child felt torn in half between conflicting rules and demands. As the years passed, Linda thought that she and Owen were doing a really good job of parenting and stepparenting. She thought both children felt safe and secure and equally loved by both parents. She thought she and Owen loved both children equally.

Now she vividly realized that this was not true.

As she was
coming down the farm’s drive, the horses thundered up to greet the car, their coats shaggy for the coming winter. They nipped one another on the neck and pranced, full of beans in the exhilarating air. Owen had obviously spent the day putting the farm in order. The tractor was in the shed, the bales of hay in the barn, the pasture smoothly mown to the pond. He would be in a good mood, too; he always was after a day’s work outdoors.

The day away had done her good. She felt more optimistic. And thinking of Michelle had made her feel by comparison enormously more competent as a mother and
wife. She really loved her family, each person: Emily, Owen, Bruce. She really believed that love could conquer all.

Her arms full of bundles, Linda shoved the car door shut with her backside and made her way up the walk to the kitchen door.

Owen was seated at the kitchen table, reading.

“Hi,” Linda said. She crossed the room and kissed his forehead. “Did you have a good day?”

“Fine.”

Something about his expression, his posture, set alarms off inside her. “What is it?”

“Sit down, Linda. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Yes. Okay.” Letting the shopping bags drop onto the floor, she sank into a chair across from him. Under the table Maud’s cold nose touched her calf, sending goosebumps up her leg. “What is it?”

“I’ve found proof that Emily is lying.”

Chapter Nineteen

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Owen held up a book. Of pink leather, it was about five inches by eight, with a small leather tab set with a keyhole. “I found Emily’s diary.”

Linda had not yet had time to assimilate into her mind the very
thereness
of Owen, stocky, redheaded, dark-eyed, stubborn, sweet-smelling Owen, so physically near, wearing the dark green sweater that made him look somehow medieval, gallant, mythic, a nobleman from a tapestry. As always upon seeing him, Linda was struck by love for him. She wanted to be in his arms, to rub her face against that sweater, to hold him and be healed of the ache of being apart from him.