Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (8 page)

“But he was so talented.”

“Lots of people are talented, and still end up penniless.”

“It hurt Daniel that you didn’t like his college friends.” Stevie took a sip of tea from the bone-china cup. “Couldn’t you have accepted him the way he was?”

“Oh, that’s the trendy thing to do now, isn’t it? No. I was too disappointed, too worried by the bad influences on him, both then and now. I kept hoping he’d see sense.”

“Bad influences like me?” The younger, nervous Stevie wouldn’t have dared say such a thing, but she was more confident now, a match for the acid-tongued professor.

“Nothing personal. I wanted to protect him. He’s always been drawn to types with an aura of anarchy and laziness about them. I hated my son being part of that.”

“I don’t recognize that description of our old friends. I’m not in the gutter on drugs. I manage a museum.”

“Well, good for you. The funny thing, though, is that he’s never stopped talking about you. He still claims that
you
were the one who made him paint so furiously.”

Stevie felt a wave of shock and denial as she recalled having similar thoughts this morning. “After all this time? Are you suggesting this is somehow my fault?”

Frances shook her head, coppery hair bouncing on her thin cheeks. “No, no, of course not. But it’s all so— Stephanie, I didn’t mean to be accusatory. I’m not handling this well. But I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“Can I see the note? The one that made you think he’d…”

With a faint groan, Frances took a folded letter from her pocket. “They found it in his studio after he’d disappeared.”

Stevie took the letter, recognizing the wild, cramped handwriting.

Dear Mother, this is hard. You know how it’s been—or no, that’s the point, you don’t know. That’s okay. I disappointed you and I’m sorry. But why be
disappointed
in me, any more than you’d be disappointed in the postman, or some random person you passed on the street? For the sole reason that I’m your son. That gives you the right to judge another human being, does it? Genes. But that’s fine, you’re entitled to your opinions of me—I’m very used to them, after all—but I want you to know that your expectations and disappointments
have got nothing to do with this.

No. It’s something else. Can’t explain and you wouldn’t understand. I’m trying to say it’s not your fault. It’s me. Me. I’m tired of arguing, of trying to prove myself, of hoping you’ll understand, because I accept now that you can’t. But I’m so tired. I need to make a clean break. Permanent. For your sake, as much as mine.

My brain is exploding with dreams. It’s like trying to contain whole worlds in my head and I can’t anymore. No sooner do I paint one vision than another rushes in to fill the gap and I don’t know if anyone will ever see or understand any of it—so I have to make it STOP.

Give my love to my friends. Especially Stevie Silverwood, don’t forget her. Tell them I’m sorry. Sorry to you too, Mum. Don’t be lonely. Love you.

Bye, Daniel.

“So tell me,” said Frances, “does it sound like a suicide note?”

Stevie waited for the ache in her throat to subside. How on earth to answer? “It could be. He sounds … angry. All he wanted was for you to accept him.”

“It’s the ultimate way to get back at me, of course. To show how much I hurt him. Very adolescent. But then I never thought he’d properly grown up.”

Stevie decided to change tack, and not react to Frances’s bitter remarks. “Did you call the police?”

“Yes, of course! They found the note, but the studio was virtually stripped bare, so they told me. I couldn’t face going there.”

“Are they still looking for him?”

“Yes, they’re going through their missing persons procedure. They classed him as ‘medium risk,’ because of his precarious mental state, which means they’re making serious efforts to trace him … but with no luck so far. Really, they were very helpful, but you can’t help feeling he’s just one of hundreds. I’m sure they think, privately, that this is a mere case of a son falling out with his mother. He’s an adult, after all, and there’s no sign he’s come to any actual harm.”

Stevie scanned the letter again, handed it back. “This is so ambiguous. Perhaps it’s his way of cutting you out of his life and vanishing.”

“So you’re suggesting he’d rather I thought he was dead than ever see me again?”

“Er … I didn’t mean that. It could be that he’s exhausted and needs to get away. He might feel differently in a few weeks’ time. Maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt and … let him go.”

Frances snorted. “That’s what the police counselors hinted. Patronizing little devils, the pair of them looked barely fifteen! What do they know?”

One thing was clear: Frances and Daniel were equally difficult people. Stevie felt like walking away, but couldn’t, because his mother’s anger was so obviously a mask. Fear and misery shone from her like light through a cracked shell.

“What can I do to help?”

“Oh, Stephanie, I don’t know. Daniel’s right, I
don’t
understand. This isn’t about trying to control him. I’d take back every word, just to see him again. What does any of it matter? I need to know if he’s dead, or ill, or run off to a new life. I won’t even try to speak to him, if he doesn’t want to. I simply need to
know
. He’s my son. That’s only thing that matters. Do you see that?”

“Yes, of course,” Stevie said firmly. “And I’ll try to find out for you. For his sake and mine, as well as yours. I’m no detective, but I’ll do my best.”

A gleam of hope lit the tired eyes. “Would you?”

“Yes, anything it takes. About his artwork—do you want me to display it, or send it to you?”

“Oh lord. I really don’t care. He sent the damned thing to you, so there’s your answer.”

Again, her vehement rejection of Daniel’s work was automatic, almost an expression of revulsion. Perhaps Frances didn’t see it as rejection of Daniel himself, but he must have read it that way. How else to take it? If she hated his work, the most important part of him …

Yet Frances wasn’t a hateful person. Only stubborn, too rigid in her views.

Stevie excused herself to visit the loo. Frances sent her to the upstairs bathroom, explaining that it was warmer than the one downstairs. From a window on the landing, Stevie looked out and saw the professor in the garden, scattering scraps for the birds. Several blackbirds, semi-tame, fluttered hungrily towards her.

Is there is something she’s not telling me?
The suspicion lodged uneasily in Stevie’s mind. The house had a desolate, haunted feeling. Dark shapes flickered in the edges of her vision, like the start of one of her hallucinatory episodes. A cold draft moved across the back of her neck as if some creature was snuffling at her …

She whipped around to find herself looking at Daniel’s bedroom door. She pictured the bed where they’d often sat talking—occasionally making love—and his bookshelves and glass display case … but the thought of peeping inside filled her with irrational terror, as if she might find his corpse in there. Ghosts of the past sighed all around her.

“I ought to be going,” she said, reaching the bottom of the stairs as the professor came into the hall. Humphrey trotted after her, chewing on a ball. “Will you be all right on your own?”

Frances gave a dry laugh. “I’m not on my own. I’ve a lively dog and scores of garden birds to keep me occupied. But it’s good of you to ask, Stephanie. I didn’t expect such thoughtfulness.”

“Why not? Did I seem rude in the past?” Stevie asked warily. “I was scared of you, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. You were never rude. Only … Never mind.”

She let the remark pass. “If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

She moved towards the coat pegs in the hall, but Frances said, “Stephanie … there’s something else. During one of our arguments, Daniel told me he’d found a buyer for most of his work. I didn’t believe him.”

“Why?”

“Because he was implying that his work was too important and dangerous for the world at large to see. He sounded utterly delusional. That’s why I wanted him to consult a doctor.” Deep lines creased her forehead and she colored slightly. “I suppose he told you that I took him to a psychologist years ago?”

“Yes.” Stevie swallowed a surge of complex emotions. “He thought you were making a fuss over nothing.”

“Well, he would say that. But he was always … sensitive. His father’s death hit him hard. And then his obsessive sketching—his insistence on going to art college was bound to make things worse. I’m
not
blaming you. I’ve simply spent years trying to shield him from anything that fed his delusions. And I’ve failed.”

“Perhaps you tried too hard.” Stevie’s head ached. These raw glimpses into his state of mind were too painful to bear. “You couldn’t stop him being himself.”

Frances sighed. “Clearly.”

“As I said, I’ll do all I can to find him. Maybe I can dig deeper than the police.”

Frances gave a tired grin. “What if he doesn’t want his rotten old mother to know you’ve seen him, and swears you to secrecy?”

“Then I won’t tell you,” Stevie answered with a smile. “I’ll contact you with a passphrase. I’ll phone up and say … ‘Humphrey has landed.’”

She laughed. “Then my dog’s name would be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”

As she showed Stevie to the door, the mood between them was subdued, laced with pain. Frances said, “So you will let me know if there’s any news?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll come back anyway, to make sure you’re all right.”

Frances took Stevie’s forearm in a bony grip. “Thank you.” She held on for a moment. “Trust, Stephanie. I only deal in facts; I don’t know what to do with ‘maybe’s. Promise you’ll be straight with me from now on.”

Stevie’s breath stilled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You weren’t always in the past.”

“We barely knew each other.”

Frances’s lips thinned. “Just promise. I must be able to trust you.”

“You can. I promise.”

*   *   *

The museum was quiet when Stevie arrived. Two visitors were leaving with gift bags full of souvenirs or jewelry. Ron, sweeping the floors, raised a hand to greet her. There was no one manning the counter, but Stevie found the door to the back office open.

“Fin, I’m back! No dents in your car! I’ve had a very strange day. How was yours?”

Fin didn’t answer. Stevie entered the office, saw her assistant’s dark head bent towards the computer screen.

“Nutcases!” Fin exclaimed, making her start.

She leaned over Fin’s shoulder and saw a busy website with news stories down the center, ad banners flashing at the sides.

“That doesn’t look like a spreadsheet,” said Stevie.

“I’ve finished the figures,” said Fin. “Checked our email, got distracted by the news headlines.”

“Who are the nutcases?”

Fin waved a contemptuous hand at the screen. “It’s a summary of all this year’s natural disasters. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis and so on. And they’ve included a statement by some idiot claiming that it’s divine punishment on the human race!”

“For what?”

“Oh, the usual. For being gay, following the wrong religion, listening to the wrong music or daring to have some harmless fun.” Fin gave an exasperated huff. “You’d think that ten minutes of scientific education would teach these crazies that it’s nature, weather systems, the Earth’s crust shifting around. But no.” She threw her hands in the air. “Earthquakes are caused by human sin!”

Stevie grimaced. “Maybe they’re being ironic.”

“Nah. It’s only irony if it’s funny.”

“Can I draw your attention to about a hundred comments underneath agreeing with you?” Stevie smiled, glad to be distracted by Fin’s righteous indignation.

“Yes, thank goodness. I was going to add one, but I don’t think all the effing and blinding would have got past the moderator.” Fin closed the site. “You need the computer?”

“No, you can shut it down,” said Stevie. “While we’re quiet, I want to put Daniel’s artwork on display. By the way, where’s Alec?”

“Ah.” Fin pulled a face. “He went home early in a huff. Don’t know how to tell you this, but he’s managed to burn out the motor on your bench lathe.”

“Oh, great. Never mind, I’ll sort it.”

“The thing is, though, he tried to blame it on you.”

Stevie’s mouth fell open. “How is it my fault?”

“He was grumbling a load of rubbish about women damaging delicate equipment because they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“
What?
Alec’s the one who punishes the tools,
my
tools, and I haven’t even touched the lathe in three months, because he’s always on it. The nerve!”

“I know,” said Fin. “So I gave him both barrels, and he went home in a huge grump. Sorry, I’m not diplomatic like you.”

“Fantastic.” Stevie pulled off her scarf, shook out her damp hair. “Never mind. If Alec doesn’t come back, we’ll cope—but he will. He always does. As I was saying, we can put the triptych on a table, because it’s freestanding. People will see it as they enter the exhibition room.”

“So is Daniel’s mother okay about that? How did it go?”

“Awful,” said Stevie, leaning on the counter. “Sad. Weird. Heartbreaking.”

Fin’s expression turned sober. “And did you find out if he…”

“That’s the worst thing. We don’t know. He vanished, leaving a mysterious letter. The police haven’t traced him so far. His mother’s devastated. She puts on a brave front, but I’m really worried about her.”

As they carried the triptych into the larger room and positioned it on a narrow side table, Stevie gave a brief account of the visit.

“Part of the reason Daniel and I split up was that his mother never liked me. She thinks I led her darling son astray. But I always
did
like her, in the perverse way that some people like sour lemons. I wanted her to trust me, and now she’s obliged to.”

“You need a drink,” Fin said firmly, putting a hand on Stevie’s shoulder. “Honestly, you look drained.”

“Thanks.” Stevie pressed her forefingers under her eyes, as if to press away the shadows.