Her Mother's Shadow (3 page)

Stop it,
she thought to herself. She had her mother's genes, whether she wanted them or not; she was doomed to feel compassion for everyone.

“He should have been fried,” she said, the words so alien coming from her mouth that her brother and father both turned to stare at her.

“Well, we're in agreement then,” her father said after a moment. “We'll fight his parole. I'll hire an attorney to find out what our next step should be.”

In her bedroom later that night, Lacey opened the windows wide and let the strong breeze whip the sheer seafoam-colored curtains into the room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she could hear laughter coming from Clay and Gina's room. She loved them both and loved that they were together, but the sound of their laughter increased the feeling that often crept over her in the evenings: loneliness. The feeling would only intensify once she was under the covers. That was the most alone time in the world, being in bed at night, in the dark, when all you had for company was your thoughts. The emptiness she felt was not new. It had started when her mother died. She'd lost her father then, too, as he became absorbed in grief. Once he started seeing Olivia, the woman he'd eventually married, he'd shifted that absorption to her. Although Olivia had been very kind to Lacey, she'd been more parent than friend, wrapped up in her own pregnancy and her growing love for Lacey's father.

Sometime that year Lacey learned that she could fill the void with boys, however temporary that filling might be. She grew to be a woman, the boys grew to be men, but the void remained, yawning and insatiable, and she'd continued to fill it the only way she knew how. She hadn't had all that many lovers. Not as many as Clay seemed to think when he chastised her about her promiscuity. But all the men she selected
seemed to fit the same mold: they were “bad boys,” edgy and exciting, who wanted nothing more from her than a good night in bed. That was the one thing she'd excelled at. Maybe the only thing.

It had not been a conscious choice for Lacey to begin emulating her mother after her death. She'd tried only to be the sort of woman her mother would have wanted her to be, taking on volunteer activities, tutoring kids, reading to the seniors at the retirement home, donating blood as often as allowed. But the pull she'd felt to the wrong sort of men had always distressed her; surely her mother would have disapproved. Little did she know that she was emulating her mother in that regard, as well, and the revelation had shocked her. Annie O'Neill had been, quite simply, a fraud.

Since learning the truth about her mother and her adulterous behavior, Lacey had not had a single lover. Not a single date. She had avoided men altogether, distrustful of her own judgment. She felt like Tom, trying to fight his yearning for alcohol. Tom could not have a single drink or he would be right back where he started. It was the same with her and men.

She'd discarded other qualities she thought of as her mother's, as well, pulling back from the many volunteer activities she used to do, turning inward. At Clay and Gina's insistence, she'd seen a counselor, a woman who had been too damn insightful for Lacey's comfort level. Lacey had presented herself to the woman as a sex addict. The label comforted her somehow, a neat little package that could be addressed through a twelve-step program, the way Tom's alcoholism was being treated. But the counselor had not agreed. “Depression, yes,” she'd said. “Some self-esteem issues, yes. Sex addiction, no. You don't fit the criteria.” She'd forced Lacey to look at pieces of her behavior she could not
bear to examine. “You're always doing things for other people,” the counselor had said, “as though you don't feel you deserve anything for yourself. Focusing on others keeps you from feeling your own pain. You need to let yourself feel it, Lacey, before you can fix it.”

Well, she thought as she slipped beneath the covers on her bed, she was feeling it now.

F
rom the outside, the stained glass studio in Kill Devil Hills looked the same as when her mother had worked there. Set back just a few yards from Croatan Highway, its floor-to-ceiling windows were filled with stained glass panels, but the trained eye would be able to detect a difference between then and now. Tom's glasswork had changed over the years and was now more geometric, and there was less of it since he had gradually shifted his focus to photography over the years. Lacey's stained glass panels hung intermingled with his. She did not think her work was as beautiful as her mother's had been; she had never mastered some of Annie's special touches, which had seemed more of an infusion of feeling rather than the result of a specific technique. But Lacey's work was popular, nonetheless. She had her own style, and her subject matter leaned more toward animals and florals than the stunning gowned women her mother had been known for. Lacey's worktable was the same one her mother had used, placed next to Tom's, as it had always been. She used her mother's tools, as well. For a long time
she used her mother's green safety glasses, in spite of the fact that they were scratched and worn. A year ago, though, she'd tossed them away and bought her own glasses, amazed at how clearly she could suddenly see her work and the world.

Two women—tourists—were in the studio, oohing and aahing over the artwork. Although Tom was out to lunch, a third woman stood next to his worktable, seemingly mesmerized by the work in progress resting on the tabletop. From the corner of her eye, Lacey saw one of the women run her fingers lightly over a stained glass egret hanging in the window. She would buy it, Lacey knew. She could read the people who came into the studio. Those who were simply spending idle time held their arms folded across their chests as they walked around the room, looking without really seeing. Others, like the woman touching the egret, could not tear themselves away from a particular piece. They studied it from every angle. They reached out and touched. They imagined how the colors would look in their homes. They'd drag a friend over to see the piece. The friend would nod. Sold.

Sure enough, the woman walked toward Lacey, a smile on her lips.

“I'd like to buy the egret,” she said. “Are you the artist?”

Lacey set down her glass cutter and slipped off her safety glasses. “That's me,” she said, standing up. “I'm glad you're taking that one. It's one of my favorites.” This was not a lie, not a ploy to make the woman feel good about her purchase. She loved the shades of green she'd found for the tall grasses surrounding the giant bird. She would make another piece similar to this one now that it was sold, but it would not be exactly the same. She liked the idea that each of her stained glass panels was one-of-a-kind.

The woman and her friends were just leaving the studio with the carefully wrapped glass egret when a man walked through the front door. His eyes lit briefly on Lacey, then on the large black-and-white photograph hanging on the movable wall in the center of the room. The picture had been there for as long as Lacey could remember.

The man stopped walking. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he stared at the photograph, then at Lacey again. “What a beautiful shot of you,” he said.

“That's not me,” Lacey said. “That's my mother.”

“Oh.” The man winced as though embarrassed by his mistake. “Quite a resemblance.”

“People always think it's me,” she said. A year earlier she had wanted to take that picture down, but Tom was the photographer and she could never have explained to him why a photograph she had once loved had come to disturb her.

“Were you the photographer?” the man asked.

“No. I was only about ten when that was taken.”

“Oh. Of course.” He had wandered toward the display table near the window and carefully picked up one of her kaleidoscopes. “This is beautiful,” he said, holding the heavy stained glass tube in his hands.

“Look through it,” she said.

He lifted the kaleidoscope to his left eye and faced the window. “It's beautiful,” he said again, turning the disk, and she knew what he was seeing—triangles of design formed by intensely colored glass beads and slivers of mirror.

Lowering the kaleidoscope, he looked over at her. “Did you make this?”

“Uh-huh.”

He looked like one of those preppy sort of guys you might see modeling clothes in a catalogue. His brown hair was cut short and his eyes were dark, with lashes she could
see from across the room. He was hardly dressed for the beach, in his khaki-colored chinos and plaid sport shirt. Although she supposed most women would find him drop-dead gorgeous, he was not her type and that relieved her, because he was obviously interested in her. She would not be tempted. She went for the earthier types—a little disheveled, imperfect features, knowing grins and the sort of eyes that cut right through to her soul. She was grateful that this guy did not come close to fitting that bill.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Lacey O'Neill.”

“And is all this stained glass yours?” He motioned toward the windows.

“Most of it. Some of it was made by Tom Nestor.” She nodded toward Tom's empty worktable. “He's at lunch. All the photographs are his.”

The man glanced again at the huge black-and-white print of her mother.

“Including that one,” she said.

He walked across the room to her worktable. He was still holding the kaleidoscope, and he shifted it to his left hand as he held his right out toward her.

“I'm Rick Tenley,” he said.

She shook his hand. “You just here for the week?” she asked, making conversation. Most tourists visited the Outer Banks for a week.

“Actually, no.” He lifted the kaleidoscope to his eye again and gently spun the wheel. “I'm staying in a buddy's cottage while I'm working on a book. He's in Europe, and I wanted the peace and quiet.”

She had to laugh. “Not much peace and quiet around here during the summer.”

He lowered the kaleidoscope with a smile. “Well, it's
away from my regular life,” he said. “None of the usual interruptions.”

She spotted Tom walking up the front steps of the studio, and Rick followed her gaze to the door.

“This is the other artist,” she said as Tom walked into the room. “Tom Nestor, this is Rick…”

“Tenley.” Rick turned to shake Tom's hand. “You do beautiful work,” he said.

“Thanks.”

There was an awkward moment of silence between the three of them. Rick turned to face Lacey again, a question in his eyes she couldn't read, and in that instant, she knew he wanted something more from her than stained glass.

“Rick is here for the summer, working on a novel,” she said, to break the silence.

“Not a novel,” Rick said. “It's nonfiction. Dry stuff.”

“Ah.” Tom moved to the coffeepot at the side of the room. He poured himself a cup, then lifted it to his lips, looking at Rick over the rim. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“Chapel Hill,” Rick said. “I teach at Duke.”

She couldn't help but be impressed. He looked too young to teach in a high school, much less a university. “What do you teach?” she asked.

“Law.”

“Wow,” she said. “That's great.”

Tom sat down at his table, slipped on his safety glasses and returned to his work, probably figuring that the stilted conversation was not worth his time.

“How long have you lived here?” Rick asked her.

“My whole life.”

He held the kaleidoscope toward her. “I'd like to buy this,” he said.

“Good choice.” She wondered if he truly liked it or if he
was simply trying to ingratiate himself with her. Taking the kaleidoscope from him, she began wrapping it in tissue paper. She could feel him appraising her.

Don't look at me that way,
she thought to herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw him glance at Tom, then back at her, and she guessed he was trying to figure out if they might be a couple. A very odd couple. A twentysomething-year-old woman and a fiftysomething-year-old ponytailed ex-hippie. Apparently, he came to the correct conclusion.

“Any chance you'd have dinner with me tonight?” he asked her. “You probably know all the best places to eat.”

“Oh, sorry, I can't,” she answered quickly, prepared for the invitation. She thought of telling him she was going to the gym, which was the truth, but then he might ask if he could join her there. She slipped the wrapped kaleidoscope into a plastic bag and handed it to him. “I can recommend some places for you, though.”

“Are you…attached?” He caught himself. “Sorry. That was blunt. None of my business.”

She might have lied, but found she couldn't with Tom listening in on the conversation.

“Not really,” she hedged. “I'm just…I'm busy tonight.”

“Okay.” He seemed to accept that. “Some other time, maybe.” He held the bag in the air like a salute. “Thanks for the kaleidoscope.”

“You're welcome.”

She watched him leave the studio and walk across the small lot, where he got into a BMW the same color as his pants. She felt Tom's gaze on her and knew he was smiling.

“He'll be back,” Tom said, standing up to pour himself another cup of coffee. “A guy like that isn't used to rejection.”