Rainy Day Sisters (22 page)

Lucy

LUCY STRAIGHTENED THE CHAIRS
in front of the two rather rickety tables that Alex had brought into the school's old resource room and tried to pretend she hadn't noticed her hands were shaking. It had been a week since Alex had asked her to teach an art class, a week since she'd agreed, and in precisely three minutes twenty-four Year Six children would be coming in for their first art lesson.

She was terrified.

She'd spent endless evenings on her laptop, garnering ideas from the Internet, going over lesson plans. She'd spent an enjoyable afternoon with Diana Rigby, sorting through the school's craft supplies, joking and laughing as they discarded ancient bottles of poster paint with dried-up drips down the sides, and tried every felt-tip marker in a box of five hundred to make sure they worked.

Diana had seemed more cheerful; she'd told Lucy she was taking her two boys down to Manchester for the half-term break at the end of October, to see Andrew and look at properties.

“I thought I should at least have a say in what flat he buys,” she'd said. “And you know, ‘if the mountain won't come to Mohammed . . .'”

“That seems like a good solution,” Lucy had said. She was all for optimism.

After she and Diana had sorted through the old art supplies, Lucy had spent a happy hour in the art shop in Whitehaven, filling in the gaps in the school's cupboard. It had felt surprisingly familiar, almost like coming home, to touch the crisp, thick pages of a sketchbook and run her thumb along the waxy edge of a pastel. She hadn't thought she'd missed art, but standing in the middle of the shop, she knew she had. She just hadn't wanted to admit it to herself.

And now she was here, with a neatly typed lesson plan, sheets of pristine white paper on the table in front of every chair, and plastic tubs of oil pastel crayons placed every few seats.

She picked up a red pastel and tossed it from hand to hand. She felt so unprepared for today, and yet also so desperate to prove herself—not just to her pupils or Alex or even the whole village, but to herself.

And to her mother.

Too bad her mother didn't even know she was teaching an art class, hadn't spoken to her in nearly two months now. And even if she did know? Lucy could imagine Fiona's response.
Well, of course such mediocre talent would find its home in teaching art to primary school pupils. What do they do but scribble?
A small, teasing smile.
You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can't . . .

Never mind that her mother lectured at a university. She'd already proven her artistic talent many times over, from the time she'd won an emerging artist award before Lucy was born, to the phallic sculptures that could be seen in several prominent museums around the world.

It was stupid to be arguing as if her mother were here, or even cared. Pathetic to let her mother influence her decisions and plague her with self-doubt from thousand of miles away. In the five weeks since Lucy had come to England, Fiona hadn't called or e-mailed even once.

And yet Lucy could still hear her mother's voice in her head.

Now she heard the sound of boisterous voices coming down the hall, and she tossed the pastel back in the tub as her stomach plunged with nerves. They were coming. And they sounded like a horde of wild animals.

A few seconds later twenty-four rowdy Year Sixes trooped in, hot and disheveled from recess. Lucy could tell the troublesome ones straight off: a gaggle of girls who hung by the door, giggling behind their hands and shooting her scornfully speculative looks. Two boys, clearly the coolest in the class, sprawled, legs open wide, in the chairs. One of them grabbed a pastel and sent it flying across the room, a bright-colored missile that bounced harmlessly off the wall. The other kids noticed, and they watched Lucy, waiting for her reaction.

“Everyone, sit down, please,” she called out, her voice coming out in a croak. She retrieved the pastel from the floor and returned it to its tub with a pointed look for the boy who had thrown it. Not the most effective discipline, but it was all she was capable of at the moment.

The children took their seats more or less obediently, and Lucy stood there, a tense smile on her face, every inspiring word she'd practiced vanishing from her head.

She heard someone whisper; then a titter came from the far side of the room. Children, she decided, were devils.

She looked up, and her panicked gaze rested on the figure standing behind the door to the room. Through the single narrow pane of glass she could see Alex smile at her, and then give her a thumbs-up.

Relief flooded through her, a cold, sweet rush. Someone, at least, thought she could do this. Or maybe Alex just didn't want a riot on his hands.

“All right, everyone pick up a pastel,” she said loudly, clapping her hands. “Only one, thank you,” she added as the boy who had thrown the crayon earlier reached for a handful. She plucked them from his hands and deposited them back in the tub. “This is not archery class,” she told him, and someone giggled. Lucy felt a surge of confidence and even elation.

“Now I want you to draw a line on your paper. It can be any line, in any color: wavy, curvy, straight, diagonal. You choose. But only one.”

The children looked at her, nonplussed for a moment, and Lucy raised her eyebrows in expectation. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?” And she only just kept from sagging in relief as they all started to draw.

Forty minutes later twenty-four children trooped out of the resource room, and Lucy let out a shuddery sigh as she sank into a chair.

“How did it go?” She looked up to see Liz smiling at her from the doorway.

“Okay, I think. I wasn't too much of a disaster, I hope.”

“I think you most likely weren't a disaster at all,” Liz answered. “Did Simon and Rupert give you any trouble?”

The two too-cool-for-school boys who had lounged in their chairs. She'd kept a beady eye trained on them all lesson, overlooking the minor misdemeanors and, at one point, confiscating a spitball.

“A little,” she admitted, and Liz nodded knowingly.

“They're a handful, those two.”

“Yes, I think they are.” Lucy remembered her moment of paralysis when they'd come into the classroom, all cocky indifference, and suppressed another shudder. “They also had me almost falling apart before the lesson even began. I don't think I could ever be a real teacher.”

“But you are a real teacher,” Liz reminded her. “You just taught a lesson.”

“Yes, but—”

“Don't put yourself down,” Liz admonished, wagging a finger. “There are enough people in life who will do that for you.”

Yes,
Lucy thought,
there certainly are.
And Liz was right; she had been putting herself down. Always jokey, always with a smile on her face, but she'd been self-deprecating about herself for so long, she'd forgotten how to be anything else. Silly, scatterbrained Lucy, who leaped before looking, who was a walking disaster, who had a BA and was only a barista. Talentless Lucy, who painted wildflowers, barely a step above posters of kittens stuck in wineglasses.

“You're right, Liz,” she said. “And the truth is, I enjoyed teaching that lesson, once I got over my nerves.”

“I think the children enjoyed it too. They were all talking about their lines as they left.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly and so Lucy explained, a bit self-consciously just in case it really was a stupid idea.

“I had them all draw one line on their papers. Then they had to exchange papers and use someone else's line as the beginning of a drawing.”

“Very clever,” Liz said with a nod of approval. “Next we'll have the Year Fives begging for lessons.”

“I don't know about that—”

“Children like you,” Liz said frankly. “Can't you feel it? Even the stroppy ones. And I've seen the little ones in the school yard. If anyone has a scraped knee, they ask for Miss Bagshaw.”

“Well . . .”

“It's a talent, you know,” Liz said. “Not everyone has it, an ease with children. Not even every teacher, unfortunately.”

“You do,” Lucy answered with a smile. “I've seen you with the children, and with some of the younger teachers too.” She thought of Tara, whom she'd seen earnestly talking with Liz after school on more than one occasion, her daughter, Emma, on her lap. “You're like a mum to them.”

Liz smiled a bit sadly. “I never did have any of my own,” she said. “It just never happened for my husband and me. But I ought to go sort my lot out. They're ready for maths.”

After Liz had left, Lucy tidied up the classroom, humming under her breath. Maybe Liz was right, and children did like her. She'd bought into everyone's criticism for so long, but for the first time Lucy considered that a man's two sons disliking his new girlfriend was not proof that she was terrible with children. Nor did her mother's opinion of her art mean she was a talentless hack.

She felt a sense of freedom, a burden she hadn't realized she'd been carrying slipping from her shoulders. She didn't have to be defined by a few people's opinions of her.

Even your own mother's?

“So, Liz tells me it went well.”

Lucy turned to see Alex standing in the doorway, that endearingly crooked smile curving his mouth.

“Yes, I think so. Actually,” she amended, emboldened now, “I know so. It was fun, and I think the kids had fun too. Amazingly.”

“Why amazingly?”

She shrugged, not wanting to go into it. “Anyway, it turned out all right today. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“Thank you for taking it.”

They smiled at each other, awkwardly now because there was nothing left to say and yet Alex was still standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, rocking a bit on his heels, and now that Lucy looked, the tips of his ears had gone red.

“So . . . ,” she said, the only opener she could think of. Thankfully Alex took it.

“So I was wondering if you were free this weekend, to go to the Crab Fair with me and Poppy and Bella.”

He'd spoken in such a rush it took Lucy a moment to comprehend that he was asking her out. Sort of. “Oh,” she said, stupidly, because her mind was spinning.

The tips of his ears went redder and he continued tersely. “Poppy wanted me to ask you. She's taken a shine to you, and frankly I'd do just about anything to make my daughter happy.”

Okay, so he wasn't asking her out. Not willingly, anyway. The smile she'd felt dawning across her face slid right off. “Including suffering through a Saturday with me?” she said, lightly enough, but Alex must have heard the edge of hurt in her voice because he answered, “There would be no suffering involved. I didn't mean . . .” He trailed off, and Lucy waited, bemused, wondering if he'd dig himself out of the hole they'd both created. “I'd like you to come with us,” he finally said. “If you want to.”

Lucy didn't answer for a moment. She wanted to—of course she did—but she still felt wary. She still couldn't tell if Alex wanted her to come for his sake or just his daughters'.

“Of course, if you're busy,” Alex said, “I understand. It's no problem. . . .”

“What's a Crab Fair?”

“Oh.” He looked relieved that she hadn't refused him, and that made Lucy smile a little. Made it also a lot more likely that she'd say yes.

“It's an autumn festival, I suppose. Crab refers to apples, not crustaceans. It's one of the oldest fairs in the country—King Henry III granted a charter for it in 1267.”

“You're obviously a teacher,” Lucy teased, and Alex cracked a smile, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“So . . . ?”

“Yes, thank you, I'd love to come.” Alex nodded, and Lucy couldn't tell what he felt. She still didn't know if this counted as a date. “What time do you want me?” she asked, and then winced inwardly at the blatant suggestion of that question.

Judging from the now fire-engine red of Alex's ears, she was pretty sure he'd gotten the unintended innuendo. “Ten?” he suggested. “We can have lunch there, if that's okay.”

“Great.”

She nodded, and he nodded back. Their social dynamics, Lucy thought, were on par with seventh grade. Then the phone rang and she heard a teacher's heels clicking down the hall, and with another nod Alex turned and went back to his office.

Juliet

IN THE WEEK AFTER
Peter stormed out of the pub, Juliet retreated into a familiar, comforting blanket of numbness. It was how she'd reacted during the worst hurts inflicted by her mother: the Leavers' Day at the end of Year Six, when Juliet was the only one there without a parent; the teacher in primary school who had, in front of Juliet's entire class, shouted at Fiona for missing every single parent/teacher conference, and Fiona had simply stared at her, stonily indifferent. When she'd been twenty-six and in hospital, her baby bleeding out of her, and she'd had absolutely no one to call or come to visit.

So this wasn't that bad, in comparison. It wasn't as if she'd actually been
friends
with Peter. He'd turned down her offer, fine. She'd find someone else, or she'd cough up the money to get a donor from the US, pick a profile from the database.

Except as the days passed, she didn't call the clinic; she didn't even let herself think about the clinic. She tried not to think about anything.

She kept busy, though; busy was good. She had a steady stream of walkers who came hoping for autumnal color; the wind tended to blow the leaves from the trees in Hartley-by-the-Sea before they'd turned, but Juliet promised her disappointed guests that it was better towards Keswick, and the walks around Crummock Water and Buttermere, two of the nearest lakes, were spectacular.

She dug over the old stone troughs she used as flower beds in front of the house, and filled them with chrysanthemums in a riot of reds and yellows. She redesigned the B&B's Web site, adding a guest book and more links to local restaurants and pubs. She even volunteered to organize the village's Bonfire Night on the fifth of November, a monumental task that involved coordinating with the Women's Institute, which handled the food stall; the local authority, which had to approve the fireworks; and the primary school, which sold the tickets. For the last she simply gave the tickets to Lucy with strict instructions to keep the money separate from the school dinner money.

“I think I can manage that,” Lucy had said with a smile, and it had occurred to Juliet how much more confident and relaxed and even
happy
her sister seemed. Hartley-by-the-Sea was good for her; Lucy clearly enjoyed working at the school, and if her secretive little smile was anything to go by, she was becoming friendlier with Alex Kincaid.

It seemed both ironic and fitting that Lucy's life was getting better and bigger while Juliet's was falling apart.

Except she wasn't going to think about that.

Yet she found she couldn't
not
think about it. At night she lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattling the windowpanes as she went over in excruciating detail the last conversation she'd had with Peter. She remembered the look of scornful disgust on his face, the way he'd shaken his head at her and raised his voice so it had practically rung through the pub.

Remembering it all, she vacillated between self-righteous anger—her request hadn't been
that
unreasonable—and shame. A shame she hated to feel, and so she clung to her anger and pretended she didn't feel it.

She also avoided Peter as much as she could, which was aggravatingly difficult in a village the size of Hartley-by-the-Sea. When she walked into the post office shop, he was buying a newspaper, and she kept her head lowered and intently studied the cover of
Cumbria Life
until Dan Trenton had given Peter his change. Peter walked out without a word for her, and she saw Dan raise his eyebrows at her before he sold her some stamps. If even surly, silent Dan Trenton noticed something was going on between her and Peter, things had to be bad.

When she walked the dogs down at the beach, avoiding the lane to Bega Farm, Peter was emptying his recycling into the bins by the promenade. He stared at her for a moment across several yards of concrete before turning back to chuck empty milk cartons into the big metal bin. Juliet pulled the dogs towards the sea.

She cried off the pub quiz the following week; Lucy informed her, with a narrowed look, that Peter hadn't shown up, either.

“We had to join Liz Benson and Tara Dunwell,” Lucy said. “I like Tara, and I know she's had a hard time, but she talks constantly. Even Rachel couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“Liz is good value,” Juliet answered, not meeting Lucy's eye, but her half sister would not be put off.

“Has something happened between you and Peter?”

“What do you mean?” Juliet asked, and then hurried on without waiting for Lucy to clarify. “We're acquaintances. How could something have happened?”

“I thought you were friends.” Juliet said nothing. “Rachel thought something was happening between the two of you. Something a little more than friendship—”

“Rachel should mind her own business.”

“Seriously, Juliet. If you want to have friends, you've got to—”

“The last thing I need,” Juliet cut across her, “is a lecture from you.”

“From me?” Lucy blinked, looking hurt. “Ouch.”

“I'm fine,” Juliet snapped, and she almost believed it.

Yet standing by the sitting room window, watching Peter drive by in his Land Rover before she ducked behind the net curtains, she knew she wasn't. She was miserable and she missed him; something had opened up inside her and no matter how she tried to close it again, she couldn't. It felt like a gaping wound, a yearning she hadn't let herself feel before.

“He came over maybe three times,” she told herself crossly one afternoon as she waxed the hall floor, another attempt to stay busy. “Get over yourself.”

“Talking to yourself is a bad sign, you know,” Lucy told her cheerfully as she came into the house. “But I've been doing it for ages. Why do you need to get over yourself?”

Juliet sat back on her heels and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. Yes, Lucy was looking very cheerful these days. She even did a little twirl as she hung up her coat.

“You're in a good mood,” she remarked sourly. They'd reached a holding pattern in their relationship; they weren't doing each other's nails, but neither were they arguing or ignoring each other.

“Is that a crime?” Lucy countered, and walked right across Juliet's newly waxed floor into the kitchen. Juliet heaved herself up from the floor and followed her sister.

Lucy was putting the kettle on top of the Aga, whistling as she did so. Her good mood was becoming seriously aggravating. She turned to glance at Juliet. “Cup of tea?” she asked, and Juliet nodded reluctantly. She didn't really want to have a cozy chat with Lucy about her sister's promising love life, but neither did she want to exist in this vacuum of loneliness. She leaned against the radiator and folded her arms.

“So what's got you in such a good mood?”

“Nothing in particular,” Lucy said in a tone that made Juliet think it was very much something in particular. “It's not raining for once. Isn't that reason enough?”

“It hasn't rained for a week.” Drizzling didn't count.

Lucy shrugged as she got out the mugs and the milk. “Even more of a reason, then.” She turned around, a smile tugging her mouth upwards. “I also taught my first art class today, and it wasn't terrible.”

“Sorry I forgot,” Juliet said gruffly. “So, not terrible, eh?”

“I think that's fair to say.”

“I'm sure it was better than that,” Juliet answered, “judging by your grin.”

“I enjoyed it,” Lucy admitted. “And it felt—I don't know—validating. After Mum . . .” She trailed off, her smile starting to slip.

“Don't tell me you take anything our mother has to say seriously.”

Lucy turned to her with a sudden, surprisingly bleak look. “Don't you?”

“No—,” Juliet began, only to stop as she realized she did take what Fiona had said seriously. Not the ridiculous posturing for the press, but the flatly stated fact.
I never wanted you, Juliet.

Yes, she'd taken that rather seriously.

“Juliet?” Lucy's voice held a lilt of uncertainty and Juliet tried to shake off the dark mood that threatened to fall on her like a shroud. She didn't want to think about Fiona now, not on top of everything else.

“Fiona does everything for show these days,” Juliet said, keeping her voice brisk. “You know that. I'm sure the only reason she rubbished your artwork in the news is because it would gain her more coverage, and all the while she could say it was because she was protecting her integrity.” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy managed a small smile, but she didn't exactly look convinced.

The kettle began to whistle shrilly and Lucy turned to move it off the hot plate. Juliet watched her, frowning.

“I've never actually seen one of your paintings,” she said. “What are they like, anyway?”

“Nothing spectacular,” Lucy answered, her back still to her. “Just insipid little watercolors of wildflowers.”

“That's how you describe your own work?”

“Well . . .” Lucy turned around. “That's how Mum described it.”

“How about you let me judge for myself?” Juliet suggested, and Lucy's eyes widened.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I don't actually have a painting here,” she hastened to explain. “I mean, I don't lug them around or anything. But I set up a catalog online, in case anyone . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip. “Well, you know, to be professional.”

“So show me,” Juliet said, even as she wondered why she was asking. Did she really care about Lucy's paintings, insipid or not? Then, to her surprise, she realized she did.

“Okay,” Lucy said. “Let me get my laptop.”

Juliet finished making their tea as Lucy went upstairs. At least Lucy's paintings would provide a distraction from her own gloomy thoughts.

“Here we go.” Lucy set up her laptop on the kitchen table and Juliet handed her a mug of tea before sitting down. “They're not statements,” Lucy warned her. “I mean, my art isn't political or anything. . . .”

“Thank God for that. And stop making excuses. Let them speak for themselves.”

“All right,” Lucy answered, and pushed the laptop towards Juliet so she could see the screen.

Juliet hadn't really considered what to expect when it came to Lucy's paintings. She hadn't thought about them all that much, but if she was honest with herself, she would have expected them to be a little simplistic, a bit amateurish, and yet heartfelt. Kind of like Lucy herself.

What she hadn't anticipated was that they'd actually be quite good. They weren't going to set the art world on fire, by any means, but there was something warm and welcoming about each painting: bluebells in a shadowy wood, daisies blowing in a breeze. She captured a scene and made you want to enter it. And yet there was a surprising sorrow about the paintings too, as if the artist knew that flowers were fleeting, that the scene was nothing more than a moment in time.

“I like them,” Juliet said at last.

“You have to say that.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think,” she told Lucy, “I wouldn't tell you if I thought they were rubbish?”

“Well . . .” Lucy considered this and then let out a laugh. “Of course you would. So that gives you an admirable amount of credibility.”

“They're not mind-blowing or anything,” Juliet continued, determined to be both honest and fair. “But not everything has to be. They're comforting; they make you want to walk in that field or that wood. I like them,” she said again, stating it firmly, and Lucy smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft, and Juliet knew it meant something to her, that she did actually like them. And it felt surprisingly good to realize Lucy cared about her opinion.

“So come on, really. What's going on with you and Peter?” Lucy asked, and Juliet lurched upright, nearly spilling her tea in the abrupt change of subject.

“I told you, nothing—”

“Come on, Juliet. I'm not an idiot. Something happened between you two. You're avoiding each other—”

“How would you know? You're at school all day—”

“I live with you, and this is a small village. People notice things, like you not going to the pub quiz, for starters.”

“I only went three times.”

“And so did Peter. Coincidence? I don't think so. Other people don't, either.”

Juliet stilled at that, a horrible thought creeping up on her like a cold Cumbrian mist. “What do you mean?” she asked, hardly wanting to ask the question. “Has someone said something to you?”

“Maggie Bains told Diana Rigby that she saw the two of you in the pub last week,” Lucy answered, “and she said Peter walked out in a hurry.”

Juliet rose from the table on the pretense of fetching a dish towel, but more as an excuse to hide her face from Lucy, and the appalled expression she could feel contorting her features.