Pickin Clover (21 page)

Again, Clover nodded with enthusiasm.

Polly cheerfully said goodbye and hurried out. The elevator was empty; she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, letting the false smile fade at last.

She was stupid, stupid, not to have realized sooner that Norah wanted Jerome all to herself. And there was absolutely no reason to feel this lonely and left out. After all, she didn’t have to even think about Clover for a few hours.

She’d lied about the errands. What should she do for the rest of the afternoon? She had to go to the bank, she had hardly any money in her wallet.

Was there any money in the bank? She should have asked Michael more about their finances in the past few days, but they’d reached some sort of polite truce that Polly was loath to disturb.

Certainly she couldn’t go shopping. She’d given her word that she would cut back and she meant to keep it. Where could she go, what could she do, that didn’t cost money? Art galleries, she decided. She’d tour the art galleries, big established ones as well as the little ones that exhibited work from unknown artists. She and Michael used to do that sometimes on Saturday afternoons when Susannah was at a movie with her friends.

Michael had always insisted that Polly’s work would someday be displayed in a gallery, she remembered wistfully. He’d been her biggest fan. Twice, with Michael’s encouragement, Polly had taken a portfolio of her sketches to one of the galleries. Both times the owner had commented that although her work showed promise, it wasn’t what he was looking for. In other words, it wasn’t good enough.

After the second disappointment, she’d never tried again, although she’d gone on drawing. She’d stopped when Susannah got sick, and had never drawn again.

So she wasn’t an artist any longer. Michael never mentioned the dozens of sketches of Susannah that she’d turned to face the wall in her studio. He never went in there anymore. She hardly did herself. It was another portion of her life that had ended abruptly.

But she could still look at other people’s work and appreciate it. She could still dream, she assured herself now. Dreams were free, and fortunately visiting galleries was, as well.

If only she had someone to go with her, someone with whom to share her impressions the way she used to with Michael. A terrible aloneness came over her, and she longed for him, for the intimacy of intellect and heart and imagination they used to share. She felt almost as if he’d gone on a trip to a far country, a place where she couldn’t follow.

Most of the afternoon was unremarkable. The art she viewed was technically good, but it didn’t resonate viscerally. It started to rain as she was heading for Concepts, a new, small gallery on Fourth Avenue, and finding a parking spot on the busy street was difficult. When at last she left the car in a lot blocks from the gallery, she hesitated before she stepped out into the downpour. Maybe she should just go home.

But the thought of the empty house and the hours to fill before night made her grab an umbrella from the back seat.

The narrow window at Concepts had a single painting displayed, a surrealistic tulip. Even before she stepped inside the gallery, Polly felt her spirits lift at the artistic explosion of color and raw energy the large canvas conveyed.

“Afternoon.” The cheerful greeting came from an attractive woman seated at a desk at the rear of the narrow gallery. She looked to be in her fifties, and she had coal-black hair with a startling white stripe down the middle.

“I’m Jade Crampton. If you need any information, let me know.”

Polly nodded, overwhelmed by the effect of the floral paintings that surrounded her. The small gallery obviously featured only a single artist at a time. All the paintings were of flowers— huge, outrageous, otherworldly flowers, each of which held in its center something hazy waiting to be born, an embryo, a half-glimpsed vision from another reality that the viewer couldn’t quite identify.

The paintings stirred Polly’s imagination and her emotions. The colors were so vibrant that Polly could feel them on her skin, and the contrast between their intensity and the fragile center was mesmerizing.

She felt as if she’d stumbled into a dream that promised depth and peace and joy if only she could understand the artist’s symbolism.

A small dais held a picture of the artist, an ordinary- looking elderly woman from Saskatchewan. Polly read her bio, and a shudder went down her spine. This woman, too, had known loss.

The bio said she had done only watercolor landscapes until the death of her beloved husband three years ago. After his death these dramatic flowers with their secret, hazy hearts exposed came to her in dreams and obsessed her. She felt they were a gift from him, from his spirit to hers.

One last time, Polly moved slowly from one painting to the next. Could a spirit communicate in a dream? So often she dreamed of Susannah, but the dreams were always troubled. What was her daughter trying to tell her?

She left the gallery and drove home through the heavy traffic and the rain, but neither affected her the way they might have. She felt excited, as if she’d almost discovered a truth she’d been searching for.

Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t last long. When she walked in, the house felt chilly and damp, and Polly’s spirits flagged. She turned on the gas fireplace and lit the lamps against the sudden stormy darkness.

Then she ventured into her studio. In spite of the rain, light still poured from the enormous skylights she’d had installed. The cleaning service people had been the only ones in here during the past months. Her easel was empty, her charcoals, pencils, jars of watercolor and tubes of paint lined up in neat, unnatural order.

On a three-tiered workbench dozens of her drawings lay neatly stacked, and against two walls, the works she’d had framed stood like shy sentinels, their wired backs facing her.

Resolutely, Polly turned some of them around. Although she knew what to expect, the sight of Susannah, smiling, laughing, posturing, dancing, tore at her heart and made her breath catch. For a very long time she stared at them, breathing hard, willing herself to get beyond the subject and assess their worth in an objective, artistic sense.

Of course she couldn’t. They were her children almost as much as Susannah had been, and it was impossible to be impartial about them. They were also the past, she thought sadly. What would the future hold, if ever she dared to begin again?

I sure as hell don’t feel any flowers coming on. But it’s past time to try again.

Determinedly, she pinned a sheet of paper to her easel and chose a pencil. She’d always drawn Susannah, and her daughter’s face and form were clear in her mind’s eye.

Two hours later, she’d just crumpled up the fifth attempt and tossed it into the overflowing wastebasket, when the doorbell sounded.

Relieved beyond measure at the interruption, she hastily turned out the lights in the studio and went to open the front door.

“Hi, Clover. Come on in, Norah.”

“Hi.” Norah collapsed a red umbrella and shook the raindrops free before she stepped inside.

“It was too wet for Stanley Park, so we’re home a bit early. I stopped and got Clover a video.”

“How about dinner? I was just about to make something.” She was hungry, Polly realized.

“No, thanks. We had a burger and ice cream, and I should really get home."

“Oh, c’mon, stay for a cup of tea at least,” Polly pleaded. “Michael’s late, as usual, and I’d enjoy the company.”

Norah hesitated but then slipped off her raincoat. Polly took it from her, adding, “Clover, please take those shoes off before you walk on the rug. They’re all muddy.”

Clover plopped down and did as she was told, then asked, “Can I watch my movie?”

“Sure, go ahead. Do you know how to program the television?”

“Doctor showed me.” She ran to turn on the television, and Polly led the way into the kitchen.

“I drove past Mom’s house again and there’s still nobody there.” Norah stood by a stool at the island, but she didn’t sit. “It’s been twenty-four hours now, and I’m really concerned, Polly. I think we should call the police.”

Polly was exasperated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Norah. We’ll just end up looking really stupid when they find out she’s been on some marathon senior-sex binge at her boyfriend’s place.”

“Why does it bother you so much to think that someone finds Mom attractive?” Norah’s usually moderate voice was shrill and accusatory. “You act as if you’re the only one who deserves a sex life, the only one who should have a man who cares about you.”

Polly set down the teapot with a thump and stared at her sister, astonished. “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you mad at me about all of a sudden? I didn’t murder Mom and hide her body in the cellar, for gosh sakes.”

“Sometimes I think that if you could get away with it you would, you hate her so much.” There wasn’t a trace of humor in Norah’s tone. “You don’t seem to realize that I’m really worried about her. You never consider anybody’s feelings but your own, Polly. You’re so much like Mom I can’t believe it.”

Polly’s mouth dropped open. “Me, like Mom? You’ve got to be kidding.” She was angry now, her voice as loud as Norah’s. “That’s a rotten, unfair thing to say. Why would you accuse me of being like her?”

Norah’s voice was out of control. “Because it’s the truth, Polly. You always talk about how she flirts. Well, take a look at yourself. You do the same. You go on about her having to be the center of attention. Well, you can’t bear it if everyone isn’t dancing attendance on you. Today, at the hospital, for instance—” Norah stopped abruptly. Her face turned magenta. It was obvious she’d said more than she’d intended.

Suddenly, Polly understood. “You’re jealous, Norah. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You...you’re in love with Jerome, and you actually think there’s something between me and him.”

Norah couldn’t meet Polly’s eyes. “I don’t think you’re having an affair, if that’s what you mean. I know Jerome, and I respect him. I don’t believe he’d do something like that.”

“And you think I would?” Polly was incredulous and deeply hurt.

Norah’s shoulders slumped and she plopped onto a stool. “No, I don’t really think that. I know you love Michael. But you don’t always act like it Polly. You flirted with Jerome the whole time you were painting Mom’s house, you know you did. In fact, you’ve flirted with every man I’ve ever been interested in. And you force them to compare us. Naturally, I come off second best. I always have. I’ve always been your homely little sister. Well, the fact is, you’ve never grown up, Polly. You don’t act like a responsible adult. You were Daddy’s little girl, and then Michael took over spoiling you. He’s given you everything he has to give, and sometimes I don’t think you even appreciate it.”

Norah’s voice was quiet now, and icy cold. “You’re spoiled, Polly, and you’re self-centered. You always have been. You have no idea what it’s like to be really alone, to be responsible for yourself, to have to pay your own bills and be alone in the night. I know you lost Susannah. I know that’s the worst loss anyone could have. But we all lost her, and you even shut us out when we tried to share that grief.”

“Share?” Polly’s voice, too, was out of control. “You didn’t try to share. You disappeared after Susannah’s funeral, just when I needed you most.”

Norah looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Polly.” She stumbled to her feet. “I’m going home. I’ve already said too much.”

Speechless and numb with shock and hurt, Polly couldn’t move. She heard the front door open and close behind her sister.

Long, silent moments crept by until at last, with trembling hands, Polly poured a cup of tea and sank onto a stool. Norah’s accusations rang in her ears, even though she assured herself that none was true. They were affecting her so much simply because Norah had never done this before, never lost her temper, never said things she couldn’t possibly mean. She’d probably phone any minute now and apologize.

But an hour passed and the phone was silent. Michael came home, and like an automaton, Polly made supper while he put Clover to bed. It was a routine they’d fallen into. As usual, Clover had obviously been waiting for him. The moment she heard him open the front door, she came running to greet him, full of stories about her afternoon with Norah and the video she was watching. The sense of aloneness that had plagued Polly all day grew deeper and more painful.

When he came downstairs again, he seemed distracted, and barely responded to her remarks about the weather. Polly, too, fell silent, the memory of the quarrel with Norah haunting her.

They ate a simple meal of soup and sandwiches at the kitchen counter, and she longed to tell Michael what had occurred, but each time she opened her mouth to begin, fear stopped her.

What if Michael thought she was all the things Norah had claimed? He’d never say so. She knew he’d never hurt her like that, but she knew him so well she’d be able to tell by his expression whether or not he agreed. And if he did, she didn’t think she could stand it.

Norah’s words were going ’round and ’round in her head as she stowed the dishes in the dishwasher, and she was barely paying attention when Michael suddenly said, “Polly, we have to sell this house right away. I spoke to a real estate agent this afternoon. He’ll be coming by tomorrow to evaluate and suggest a selling price.”