Lovely, Dark and Deep Page 12

  He sits in the armchair, clicks the light off again so we can see out. The real gift is time. Now. Each other, this night, and the wide, wide moon-silvered sea.

  swap

  night

  THERE’S NO DOWNTIME. In the few days between Christmas and New Year’s, our place becomes a hive of caterers, art movers, people delivering cases of champagne. I slip out and away whenever I can. The library’s technically closed for the week, but Lucy lets me hide out there anyway. She’s in herself, doing what she calls spring cleaning, directing a floor polisher and hand washing the woodwork.

  Mary is in the studio all hours, finishing things and getting my dad’s help selecting which pieces to show the trustees. She begs me to come to her last Secret Cinema, a going-away party for her, I hear, but I decline. Even a silent movie would be too loud right now. Mary’s leaving, and Cal’s brother’s coming up for the party. Both truths like birds in my chest flapping, trapped.

  Only Cal seems to understand my heart’s slamming away inside me, bruising itself against my rib cage, making it hard to find any rhythm at all. He doesn’t pressure me to go to Secret Cinema with him or tease me when I run between our houses rather than take the Jeep.

  Michael arrives on New Year’s Eve, a few hours before the party. Cal asks me to come meet him at the house before everything begins, but I can’t seem to bring myself back in from my run until it’s too late to get over there and back and still keep my promise to Mary that we’ll dress together. I text a lame apology.

  Mary’s face falls slightly when I stomp back into the house, flushed and drenched in sweat. She’s been waiting for me, and behind her I spot a neat little row of vintage suitcases lined up against the wall of my room. Packed and ready to go.

  “I’m heading right for the shower,” I say, by way of apology for coming in later than I’d said I would.

  “We have time,” she says, brightly, even though we really don’t have much. “Your dad kicked me out of the studio. He says I can’t see it until the party.” My room’s lit, buzzing with her nervous energy. It makes me want to nap.

  “Shower.” She sets a flame-colored suitcase on my bed and pops open the brass latches. “I’ll hang the dresses. You’re going to love what I have planned for your hair!”

  It’s not a nap, but the shower’s warm and quiet, and I use every minute of it to try to relax, tell myself everything’s fine. It’s Mary’s night. Time to shine for her.

  While Mary twists and pins my hair into loopy knots using vintage ivory combs and jeweled hairpins her grandmother gave her, the stars twirl themselves into the high sky. We zip into our dresses right as the first cars start to line the driveway. Finally my dad pokes a head in to let us know it’s go time.

  The studio’s transformed. Looks more like a gallery than a workspace. Wire birdcages filled with candles dangle at various heights from the pitched ceiling, one of them made by my father, for Mary, with three little wire twist birds suspended inside it, a good-bye gift.

  Candlelight flickers on every surface in the studio like light on water, alive. Everyone’s more beautiful for it. And the place is packed. People I’ve never seen before. My dad and the trustees welcome people near the door, while servers make their way through the crowd, pouring champagne. Mary slips into a stream of guests who have come to celebrate with her. The studio is a bell, ringing with the sounds of a party. So many different voices, talking, laughing.

  Cal and Michael are waiting for me and it’s all I can do not to turn and run back to the house. I feel strange in my heels and it’s difficult to walk up to that much attention. Cal takes me in, every inch of Mary’s transformation. I pray not to fall before I reach them. It’s a weird time to meet Michael, but here they are, grinning at me, brothers, handsome in dress clothes. Cal catches my eye and gives me a quick wink before he introduces us. They’re so alike, yet just the slightest bit different, the way people sometimes look in drawings of themselves. Same dark hair, full mouth, nose—Cal’s is longer, Michael’s a little more round. But Michael . . . it’s hard not to stare. Makes me feel guilty. It’s like looking at Cal, stronger, healthier. Michael meets my gaze and I look away, worried he can see what I’m thinking.

  Behind me a cork pops. I start, nearly drop my flute.

  “Jumpy?” Michael says, smirking slightly.

  I’m embarrassed. Before I can say anything, Cal slips a steady hand against the small of my back and eyes his brother. “It’s a big night.”

  People gather near the other end of the studio. One of the trustees starts to talk about my dad, the fellowship. The din changes to a murmur, then shifts to whispers as people finish telling each other their stories, then at last to quiet. I try to focus on something other than all that breathing around me. Remember why we’re here. Mary’s last night with us. The new residents arriving and settling in at Mercy House, Mary’s room already filled with someone else’s stuff. Her bright row of vintage suitcases lined up against my bedroom wall like the tiles to a children’s board game.

  Standing by my dad’s side in a shimmering metal-gray taffeta dress, her milky neck long as a swan’s, Mary looks like a 1940s Hollywood siren. Some grandma working in the dinky hair salon in town set her white-blond hair in glamorous pin curls, and it ripples away from her face now in bright waves. Nick Bishop, the new guy, is at her elbow. Might be cute, it’s hard to say. He has one of those faces that could go either way. He’s Mary’s twin in coloring, like my dad’s put in a special order for cheery-looking fellows this year.

  While Dad talks about Mary’s work, Nick checks her out a little bit. Classy. He towers over Mary, leaning toward her, like she’s his, his mouth pulled into the grin of someone having an adventure.

  “Tonight,” Dad finishes, lifting his glass to Mary, “and with special gratitude, we celebrate the fine work done by Mary Virginia Roebling.”

  The place breaks into noise. Cheers. Chiming flutes.

  One of the trustees steps up. He speaks about the history of the fellowship and the value of building relationships between working and emerging artists. He thanks my dad for his continued mentorship of young sculptors, calls him an asset to the community. Finally, he turns toward Nick. “And in that spirit, please join me in welcoming Nick Bishop.”

  A group of people near us hoot for him. Definitely his friends.

  “Mabry Fellows,” the trustee continues, “are chosen from a competitive pool of applicants.” He lifts his glass to Nick. “We congratulate Nick and wish him great success during his tenure here.”

  Applause.

  My father raises his voice over the din, “Let the party begin!”

  “Happy New Year!” Mary calls out, raising her glass to my Dad’s, then Nick’s.

  Cheers. Some of Mary’s friends chant her name from the crowd. She laughs. My father envelops her in a great hug, lifting her off her feet. As the three of them work their way into the crowd, she locks arms with Nick. Always looking out for people.

  I clink my flute to Michael’s and Cal’s and we drink. Then Cal hands his glass to Michael so he can wrap an arm around my waist. We kiss. I’m self-conscious with Michael watching.

  “Cheers, Wren,” he says, lifting his glass when Cal and I pull apart. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Feels like a test. I hope I pass.

  My father strolls back toward us, Mary on his arm now, Nick following close behind.

  “Wren”—he says, his face is rosy from drinking—“I want you to meet Nick. Our new Mary.”

  I raise my glass in a little wave. “Hello Nick,” I say, flat, trying not to wince at Dad’s words.

  Cal shoots me a look that says try harder.

  I give it a little more effort. “Big shoes to fill.” Try to smile.

  “Congratulations on your fellowship,” Michael says, with a quick glance at Nick and a longer appreciation for Mary.

  Cal, infinitely warmer, pulls his arm from my waist to shake Nick’s hand. “I’m Cal, this is my brother, Michael.” Without t
he weight of his arm I feel a little like I might float up to the ceiling and out a skylight.

  Nick and Michael shake hands. Nick glances at Cal, his crutches, openly curious. My stomach twists a bit.

  Then he catches my eye and shoots me a flirty smile.

  “I’m really glad to be here,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I blush again. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty.” I sink ’em left and right.

  Mary fills the weird air with a light laugh.

  “You’re going to have a great time working with John,” she says.

  “Yes,” my dad cuts in. “Your drowned maidens were eye-catching.”

  “Drowned maidens?” Michael asks, looking at Mary.

  She flushes with pleasure. “Nick did this series of figureheads—you know, carved for the prow of a ship? Only he worked from photographs of people lost at sea in famous shipwrecks. It caused a stir in Providence.”

  Nick looks pleased with himself.

  “Indeed,” my father says, lifting another flute from a passing tray. “I’m looking forward to a larger discussion about form and content while Nick’s here.”

  Nick waves his arm around the studio, “I can’t wait,” he says. “Mary’s series of hands back there is really strong, different from what she was doing when she left. Reminds me of Kiki Smith.” He shoots a fast glance at my dad to see if the name-dropping has effect. “Not derivative, of course.”

  “Of course,” Michael says, slightly mocking him.

  “Mary’s work,” my dad says casually, lifting his flute and downing it, “will be unstoppable when she learns to attend it as selflessly as she attended us during her Mabry tenure.”

  It’s surprising, almost cruel.

  At my side, Cal flinches slightly.

  My dad’s words land on Mary’s face, erase some of the high color there. Her hand flutters near her heart a second, like a bird just flushed from a bush. Michael stops another server, pulls two glasses from the tray, and slips one into Mary’s hand.

  “Art asks for everything,” my father finishes, looking Mary straight in the eye. “That’s harder sometimes for women.”

  He turns away, leaving us suspended in the wake of his remarks. For a second Nick looks unsure whether to follow or not. He does, but not before he gives me a quick backward smile and a wink. It’s not lost on Cal.

  There are so many things going on at once I think I might just slip out. Run away from all these people and their careless tongues. I’m afraid to face Mary.

  Cal looks at me, then gets us two fresh glasses from a passing server’s tray.

  Michael raises a brow at his brother. “Watch it,” he says.

  “Thanks, Mother.” Cal gives him a withering look.

  I lift my eyes to Mary, who appears to be swaying slightly at his elbow, trying to slip happiness back over her shoulders like a fallen stole. Then she straightens a little, tosses her shoulders back, and smiles again.

  “No sense letting that ruin the night,” she says.

  I’m speechless, watching her shrug it off.

  “I like your work,” Michael tells her, helping smooth it away, even though he hasn’t left Cal and me for a second to look at any of her pieces. “Your hands are awesome.” He grins charmingly. “I mean, I don’t really know art, but those are fine hands.”

  Mary laughs. “I like you, Cal’s little brother,” she says, slipping her arm through his. “Let’s go have a closer look at my hands, then, shall we?”

  They drift away.

  Cal laughs. “Michael’s happy now.”

  My dad’s oldest friends from Berlin, Marta and Theo, join us. Marta wraps her arms around me from behind.

  “Mausi,” she says softly into my ear, “I’m sorry we got in too late last night to come say hello. Matthau sends his love.”

  “Marta!” I turn and hug her. Her arms around me are a relief. Motherly. I haven’t seen Theo and Marta since they came to New York a few years ago for an opening.

  “Marta, Theo, this is my friend Cal. And that was his brother, Michael.” I gesture toward Mary and Michael.

  Marta appraises Cal, kisses him on both cheeks, then turns to me, lightly touching one of the jeweled vintage combs Mary worked into my hair. “Theo, look how beautiful she is.”

  Theo embraces me, then claps Cal on the shoulder like he’s thanking him for something.

  “We’ve heard about you,” he says in his wonderful accent. “You are the one who found John’s little Wren here in the woods and brought her back.”

  I could die right then and there. I tip my glass again. Who cares if my face is the color of the dress Mary zipped me into. I forgot how great it feels to drink at a party—the bubbly’s a lift, smoothing all the jangled edges.

  “Wren”—Marta turns back to me after asking Cal a few questions about his work—“Have you given any thought to our offer?”

  “Offer?” Cal’s eyes on me.

  I shake my head, “No,” I say, “No . . .”

  In truth, I’d forgotten about it. My dad mentioned it a while ago. The details are sketchy, like a half-remembered dream.

  Marta explains it to Cal, “Theo and I suggested to John that Wren come and work with us, for a year, if she’d like. We’d teach her all about printmaking, she could take classes at der Künste, Berlin’s University of the Arts.”

  I watch Cal’s face for a reaction but he just looks polite, interested. Keeps a strong arm around me.

  “I haven’t had any time,” I say, chest tight. Lift my glass and finish it.

  “Never mind.” She shakes her head and pats my arm. “In time. No hurry, no hurry. Your father says you’re thinking of RISD. He thinks you’d be happy there. He never stops talking about your work, Wren. We have two of your photographs in our house. He’s given us many over the years.”

  I must look surprised when she says that, because she squeezes my hand.

  “Do what feels right, darling, when you’re ready.” She pulls me away from Cal, her hands on my shoulders. “It’s marvelous to be young! You haven’t lost that.” She folds me into her arms and holds me a minute. Until I feel more like I can breathe again.

  I love Marta. And she’s asking me to come stay with her, them. Work in Berlin. It’s a lot to consider. Another time. It’s enough for me that I’m here, tonight, sort of dating Cal, getting up in the morning, working at the library, and thinking about more than my careful nothing each day.

  Cal and I make our way through the crush of people and over toward a more quiet corner. I watch Mary move through the room, smiling, radiant. My dad hovers, introducing her, opening doors for her, looking almost like a proud father. She seems happy, unfazed, like all is forgiven and her night is going exactly as she hoped.

  People begin dancing after midnight. One of Mary’s friends hooks up a laptop and deejays. The studio’s a pulsing disco, sound bouncing off all the metal, whirling everyone around. The tempo is deep in my bones, my sternum vibrating with the bass. My heart feels like it’s skipping beats, being reset by everything around me, leaving me breathless. It’s not a good feeling and isn’t really helped by the fact that I’ve lost track of how many glasses I’ve had. In the far back, a lobsterman and his wife set up a table of fresh lobster rolls, whoopie pies, and a Down East bisque served in these crazy 1970s soup mugs, “my touch,” Mary sings, whirling past us, gaining a grin from Michael.

  After we eat, she spins by again, barefoot, her silver toes sparkling, and tries to pull me out to dance with her.

  No way.

  She pleads with her eyes.

  My heart’s doing that fractured syncopation. The hot, airless crush of people. More than one of my dad’s colleagues has exclaimed over me in that syrupy way that says they know everything—about what happened.

  I shake my head. Apologize. No dancing. I can’t, not even for Mary. I’m already on the far side of the moon.

  She grabs Michael instead. He starts to protest, but Cal gives him a little
push, and he follows her into the crowd. We watch them grab hands before the mass of dancing people parts to pull them in.

  Cal looks wiped out all of a sudden.

  “Let’s find a place to sit,” I say. “I need to be somewhere quiet.”

  We slip around the back corner to the little office where my dad stashes everything. It’s still really loud, but the absence of the crowd makes all the difference.

  Cal sinks into a dusty armchair, setting the crutches on the floor. He pulls me by the waist onto his lap.

  “Earth to Wren, Happy New Year.”

  “Cheers,” I say, but I can feel myself leaving, lifting away to someplace more still. A year ago, it was Patrick and me together, his hand running over the silky slip of a dress I borrowed from Meredith. This is the first new year he won’t see. It’s a blow. I let go of the breath I’m holding.

  “This is some dress you have on.”

  His eyes follow my new necklace down my sweetheart neckline. His hand brushes my breast. Stops my heart. He slips his fingers into my hair, freeing the combs and pins, pulling them out so it falls, warm against my back and shoulders.

  “All I can think of is how much I want to pull it off you,” Cal says, voice low.

  I try force myself back here, back to him, feel this, but I notice how pale he is. The look Nick gave him when we met flashes through my mind. Uncomfortable. Makes me wonder if people look at him like that all the time, whether he notices.

  “You doing okay?” I ask. “You look tired.”

  He groans, lets his head fall back against the chair.

  I wrecked it.

  “Don’t do that,” he says. “This is not how it’s going to go, between us, okay? I’ll take care of myself. Also, were you going to tell me about Berlin? Or was it some kind of secret? And who’s Matthau?”

  “Oh God.” I bury my face in my hands, Cal’s words registering more clearly now. “I’m sorry. Too much champagne.”

  I let my hair fall forward, a curtain between us.

  “Matthau’s their son. I was seven the last time I saw him. Cal, I honestly forgot about the offer,” I say, feeling like a total loser. “My dad mentioned it to me when I was—” I’m at a loss. Sleepwalking through everything. “I didn’t—”