Shadows at the Spring Show (7 page)

“You’re thinking of suing OWOC?” Maggie put her glass down, too. The remaining wine sloshed from one side to another.

“This may be my last chance! I want to do something to make OWOC and other agencies wake up and help people like me adopt the children we’re looking for.”

“Ann, I don’t agree. I don’t agree about the discrimination, and I don’t want to talk with a lawyer. This isn’t like going to the Bridgewater Mall and picking out the best pair of shoes for the money. This is wanting to share your life with a child who has no one. A child who needs love, and attention, and someone to help them grow up and find out what their life could be like. It’s not about lawyers, or about getting what we want. It’s about giving what we can.”

Ann’s face reddened, and then a tear slid down her cheek. “But I can’t give up my dream.”

Maggie reached out and put her hand over Ann’s. “Then maybe adoption isn’t the right choice for you. Or maybe you’re just not quite ready.”

“Maggie, will our lives always be this complicated?”

“At least,” Maggie answered. “That’s the one thing I’m sure of.”

Chapter 8

“Hark! hark! The dogs bark, The beggars are coming to town; Some in rags and some in tags, And some in a silken gown. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown, And some gave them a good horse-whip, And sent them out of the town.” From
Kate Greenaway’s Mother Goose,
1881. Lithograph of two little girls holding on to each other and looking through their gate at several beggars standing on the outskirts of town. 3 x 4.5 inches. Price: $40.

It was after nine when Maggie got back from dinner with Ann. It hadn’t been the relaxing evening she’d hoped for. Ann’s concerns had increased Maggie’s own fears.

Was she ready for adoption?

What
would
a man’s reaction be to a woman who’d adopted alone? She hoped Ann was overemphasizing the issue, but it wasn’t an imaginary one. And while Maggie was sincere in wanting to adopt an older child, she couldn’t help thinking of what experienced adoptive parents like Holly and Rob Sloane were dealing with. If they couldn’t cope with some of the problems of their adopted children, how could
she, who had never had children, possibly believe she could handle them?

She wanted to help a child. But what if the child she adopted didn’t want her help? Could she deal with that kind of rejection? Could she hang in and be a loving and caring parent for the years it might take to win a child’s trust and love?

Her mind was too full of questions for her to forget them. She finished grading exams, then decided that, late as it was, she’d clean the house. After all, she was expecting company Wednesday.

Winslow thought cleaning was a game. He pounced on her dusting cloths until Maggie wouldn’t play any longer and shut him in the bathroom so she could clean in peace. She relented and let him out in less than half an hour, but when he heard the vacuum, he dove under her bed.

It was almost midnight when she finished, but she still couldn’t settle down. She pulled out her Arthur Rackham (1867–1939) prints. Because Rackham was one of her favorite illustrators, she could rarely resist purchasing his prints. That meant she almost always had new prints to replace those she’d sold. But those new prints needed to be matted. She hadn’t done that for months. She could check the prints she had now and choose the ones she’d mat as soon as she had time.

Spending time with Rackham was a delight. Just looking at his work took her into another, magical, world. Although others of his period, such as Kay Nielsen and Edmund Dulac, had done similar work in the early twentieth century, no one else was like Rackham. Maggie’d heard there were organizations in England formed just to celebrate and share his work. She wasn’t surprised. It was getting more difficult to find his early prints, and prices were going up. Some had been carefully reproduced in the past twenty years, too, so she never bought Rackham prints whose origins she didn’t know.

Rackham was an illustrator of stories for adults and children; often traditional stories, but his vision of the world was anything but traditional. The worlds he pictured were fantastic
and mysterious. His line drawings contained incredibly fine details. Trees were formed of faces and arms, and elves lived in attics. Flowers, roots, and ferns had human features.

Maggie smiled at an illustration from
Peter Pan in Kensington Garden
of a tiny, gnarled gnomelike creature hiding behind a tulip. He had long, pointed toes and ears, striped socks, and a feather half his size jauntily stuck in his hair.

But despite the imagination showed in his prints, Arthur Rackham himself had lived a rather ordinary life.

For eight years he’d clerked in an insurance office during the day and attended art school at night. In 1900 he married Edyth Starkie, a portrait painter, and got his first major commission: to illustrate
The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm.
About this time color reproduction techniques improved, thanks to photographic separation using filters. Only heavy and highly glazed art paper would retain the colored inks well, so publishers using this new technique printed the color illustrations separately and “tipped in” the prints after the book was printed. This operation had to be done by hand, so it cost more, but the resulting prints were so lovely that people were willing to pay more for the books.

Every time Maggie looked at Rackham’s illustrations, she saw more. The details were extraordinary. Her longtime personal favorites were the ones Rackham had done for
The Wind in the Willows
and
Ondine,
but there were none she disliked. She had about forty in her current inventory, and in the late-night peace she chose another twenty to be matted.

She refused to think about threats or shootings. Or adoptions. There had been three calls while she’d been at dinner with Ann: Carole asked whether they could get two extra tables for the admissions area, and if there would be coatracks customers could use. A dealer from Ohio wanted to know if there was a reach number at the show; another dealer, from New York State, needed directions. None of those were problems. She could return the calls tomorrow.

Maggie had almost forgotten how good it felt to have her print files updated and the house clean and in order. She added the Rackham portfolio to the pile she had already started next to the French doors in her study. Most of the portfolios featured children, but she’d added her Winslow Homers, and Thomas Nast Christmas prints (they included children, after all). The pile also included tools, display racks, and table covers.

Tomorrow she would add several portfolios of flowers, one of birds and nests, anatomy, and astronomy and astrology. Might as well have the stars on her side.

As long as she finished before Gussie and Will arrived on Wednesday, she’d be fine.

Even if Holly had been shot, her son Jackson was missing, and someone was threatening to sabotage the antiques show.

Chapter 9

Illumination of Manuscripts—Arabian.
Chromolithograph from
Dekarative Varbilder,
printed by E. Hochdanz, Stuttgart, 1891. Beautiful example of Middle Eastern design patterns in gold, blue, and red. 9.75 x 13.5 inches. Price: $90.

“Professor Summer!”

It was Monday morning. Exams and papers were graded, and Maggie was in her office at Somerset County College filing grade reports and copies of exams.

“Yes, Abdullah?” The tall, muscular, dark-haired young man in her doorway had become a fixture in the American Studies offices during the past few months. In his late twenties, he’d registered at the college for the first time this semester and was one of the most enthusiastic and bright students Maggie had taught. She wondered sometimes what he’d been doing between high school and college. Saving money? Supporting his family? Whatever it was, it had prepared him well for college.

“Have you graded the Myths in American Culture papers we handed in last week?”

“I’m not finished, and you’ll have to wait for your grade report, in any case.” Maggie smiled. She remembered Abdullah’s
paper, an incisive analysis of the myth of America as a melting pot. Amazing work for a first-semester student.

“I understand. I just wondered. And I wanted you to know I’ve volunteered to work on the antiques show you’re running. The one that’s going to benefit the adoption agency.”

“I saw your name on the list; thank you. We can use your help. Make sure you come to the meeting Wednesday morning in the lobby outside the basketball courts at the gym. We’ll go over assignments and make sure everyone knows what they’re going to help with.”

He turned to leave.

“Abdullah,” said Maggie. “Did I see you on television last night? I thought I saw you at a meeting about creating a memorial for the victims of 9/11.”

His body stiffened, but he turned back toward her. “I was there.”

“Did you lose someone at the World Trade Center?”

“My brother was on the ninety-seventh floor of the South Tower.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been very hard.”

“Life is not easy for many people.” He turned again to leave.

“Good luck with getting support for the memorial.”

He nodded and left.

What a relief it would be to lock this office for the summer, even though she’d done her best to brighten the small room. She’d hung several hand-colored prints near the window overlooking the front of the campus: an Alexander Wilson engraving of eider ducks, a lithograph of a clump of naturalized daffodils, and a self-portrait of George Catlin painting a Native American family. She’d reframed her Currier & Ives print of
Maggie
and hung it between a high bookcase piled with books on American history and literature and a four-drawer file cabinet full of lecture notes, papers, exams, records of past students, and clippings and notes for articles she might write or lectures she might give. Someday. May 11, the last day of the semester, was circled
on the calendar next to the window. Even heavier lines were around May 14 and 15.

When the college and the agency had finally agreed those would be the dates for the antiques show, Maggie had considered it a good omen. May 23 was her birthday. She wasn’t particularly excited about tearing another leaf off her life. Thirty-nine. It seemed impossible. But it did seem auspicious that the antiques show would be over before her thirty-eighth year ended. What would the next year bring?

Not that she’d be able to relax and contemplate the future even after May 23. Memorial Day weekend was the Rensselaer County show in New York. But the stock market had been up recently. Maybe that was an omen of better shows ahead.

She’d read somewhere that time passed more quickly when you were older. No wonder she sometimes felt she couldn’t keep up with it. Seventeen months ago her husband, Michael, had died of a stroke, leaving her with regrets, bills, and the knowledge that Michael had been unfaithful. It had taken months to get through the grief and anger his death had left behind.

So much had happened since then that sometimes she had trouble absorbing it all. This spring the antiques show had taken up so much of her time she hadn’t had time to step back and think. She hoped the show made lots of money for the agency. And if she did apply to be an adoptive parent (when she did, Maggie mentally corrected herself), she’d know a lot more about adoption than she had a year ago.

Last night’s conversation with Ann kept coming back to her. She didn’t agree with Ann’s limitations on what child she might adopt, but Ann was correct in thinking that adopting an older child, one who came with emotional baggage and might be another race, or from another culture, would change her life completely. Was she ready to cope with all the issues Holly and Rob dealt with every day? How was Holly this morning? Had Jackson come home?

“Professor Summer?” Claudia Hall, the American Studies
department secretary, was standing in the door of Maggie’s office, a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of chocolate kisses in the other. Her blouse strained a bit at the buttons, she wore a bright yellow-flowered skirt, and her tangled brown hair was under more control than usual.