The Swan House (49 page)

“Yeah. Yeah, we did, amazingly enough. We talked about her and her painting and how you and Ella Mae took care of her and about Resthaven. Daddy admitted it all. And he apologized. He really apologized.”

“He's a good man, Mary Swan. He just never knew what to do. It was so hard.”

I was nibbling on my fingernail nervously, determined to ask Trixie something that had been on my mind since that night before Christmas when I'd overheard her conversation with Daddy. “Do you like my dad?”

“Well, of course I like him, Swannee. We've been friends for years.”

“But do you like him more than just a friend?”

“Swan, I don't know what you mean.” She pressed her lips together and fiddled with her pack of cigarettes until she got one out and lit it.

“Of course you do. I think Daddy likes you. I think he likes you a lot.”

“Swannee, please.”

“I know he loved Mama. But Mama's not here anymore. And I think if you ever gave Daddy a little attention, well, gosh, Trixie, I'd much prefer he dated you than Amanda Hunnicutt.”

“Swan, it's impossible. Sheila was my best friend.”

“So?”

“So I won't get involved in any other scandals.”

“What do you mean by scandals? What's the matter with dating a man whose wife has been dead for seven months?”

“Oh, Mary Swan Middleton. You and your ideas!” There was no lightness in her voice.

“But you told me yourself not to listen to what other people say, especially if it isn't true.”

Trixie's eyes were riveted to the highway. “It's more complicated than that, Mary Swan. If your dad and I started dating, well, it'd be the talk of the town. And there would be the possibility of a lot of people getting hurt.”

“Why?”

“Rumors. Gossip. I lived through that enough for ten people when Tony divorced me. The rumors flew all around the town, and I went from being a rather helpless victim to a woman of low repute who deserved everything she got. It was horrible, absolutely horrible.” She had rolled down the window and was blowing out big puffs of cigarette smoke. “I learned to be strong. I learned to close my ears and eyes and not pay attention to any of the rumors. I knew they weren't true anyway. But it still hurt. Oh, how it hurt to have everyone making snide comments about how much money I was worth and that it wasn't such a bad deal after all since I got to keep the house. Already I'd been through hell with him for all those years, knowing what he was doing. I thought it couldn't be worse, but it was. And I knew he'd never come crawling back and apologize. I think he was happy to have destroyed my life.”

“That's why you deserve something better, Trixie.”

“Mary Swan.” She turned her eyes momentarily from the road. “I would never ever in all my life want to put anyone else through the pain I went through, and certainly not JJ or you or Jimmy. You've been through enough.”

“But what would people say? What could they say?”

“Believe me, Swannee, they could make up stories—they could say your dad and I were in love all along, that we'd been seeing each other. Heaven knows what else.”

“But that's insane! Completely insane! And who cares?”

“I care. Please don't bring it up again.” And that's when I realized how terribly stricken she looked, as if I had guessed her deepest secret, and she was sure it was something that could never happen in a million years.

Trixie left me at the main entrance to Resthaven, and I waved to her from beside one of the white fluted columns. “I'll be back at four o'clock.” She glanced at her watch. “That gives me time to shop in Highlands and visit a friend. You gonna be okay, Swan?”

I nodded. I stood on the wide terrace and watched her drive away, down the long, tree-lined road. Then I opened the heavy wooden door and stepped into the entrance hall of Resthaven, its high ceilings and black-and-white tiled floors now seeming a bit more familiar. The same secretary sat behind the reception desk.

“You're Miss Middleton, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Please have a seat.” She nodded to a cluster of comfortable chairs to her left. “Nurse Leschamps will be right with you.”

I had called Resthaven two days earlier and set up an appointment with Leslie Leschamps, so she was expecting me. She arrived almost immediately. She was plump with short, graying hair, and her manner was neat, efficient, and helpful. She led me into a small sitting room that was empty for the moment of other patients or visitors. “Good to meet you, Miss Middleton. How can I help you?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew my mother. I mean, did you know her well?”

“Yes, I knew her. I'm so sorry about the terrible plane crash.” She reached out automatically and took my hand. “I've been here at Rest-haven for many years now. Your mother became very dear to me.”

I explained to her briefly how my search for three missing paintings had led me to Resthaven. “I met Mr. Henry Becker a month ago. He told me about how Mama loved to paint while she was here. He even had a painting she'd given him hanging in his bedroom. Did Mama give you a painting?”

Nurse Leschamps looked surprised. “As a matter of fact, she did. It's one of my prized possessions.”

“And did you help Mama paint?”

She chuckled. “I have never held a paintbrush in my hand except when I repainted the walls in my kitchen. But I loved to watch her paint, and I encouraged her to keep working at it.”

“Do you think she signed some of her paintings with your name?”

Leslie Leschamps wrinkled her brow and asked, “Why would she do that?”

“I'm not sure. There are so many questions I still have. But I think it's because of the way her painting changed when she was at Rest-haven.” Nurse Leschamps pursed her lips and nodded, so I continued, “Could you tell a difference in the way she painted here?”

“Oh yes. Immediately. But of course I don't have a trained eye. I just alerted the doctors and encouraged them to let her stay off medication while at Resthaven.” She reached for my hand again. “You know, Miss Middleton, I really think you should talk to Dr. Clark about all this.”

“Dr. Alfred Clark?” I asked, remembering his name.

“Yes. He's the main doctor who worked with your mother. A wonderful man.”

I grimaced. “But I'm only here for a few hours.”

“Well, Dr. Clark is on duty. Sit tight. I'll see what I can do.” I understood then why Mama must have liked Leslie Leschamps so much. She knew how to get things done.

In less than ten minutes, I was greeted by Dr. Alfred Clark, who invited me into his office. He was thin, not very tall, and balding. He moved quickly and smiled reassuringly, and his soft blue eyes looked compassionate. “Nice to meet you, Miss Middleton.” He stuck out his hand. “So you are Sheila Middleton's daughter. No mistaking that. You look just like her.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Nurse Leschamps said you have some questions for me?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Thanks so much for seeing me. I know you're busy.” Then I launched into my story about my hunt for the three missing paintings by the artists Sheila Middleton, Henry Becker, and Leslie Leschamps. I explained to Dr. Clark about finding Mama's Rest-haven sketchpads, of seeing Henry Becker's sketch and knowing he must be the same man who had painted one of the missing paintings. I told him about my last trip to Resthaven and how I had met Mr. Becker and seen Mama's painting in his house, only it didn't look like Mama's painting. And how Henry Becker had never painted anything in his life and neither had Leslie Leschamps.

“I am so very confused, Dr. Clark. I think for some reason Mama painted better at Resthaven, and I think all three of the missing paintings must have been painted by her. Maybe she used different names because she wanted to hide the fact that she painted differently or something. And I know that none of this makes one bit of sense, but you're my last hope, and I really, really need to find those missing paintings.”

So intent was I on my speech that I didn't notice at first how Dr. Clark leaned forward with great interest and how gradually a smile spread across his face. “You're a very intelligent young woman, Miss Middleton.”

“Oh no. No, I'm not. I'm really confused. But I was hoping . . .”

“That I could answer a few questions?”

I nodded.

“You have come to the right place.”

“I have?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes. I can at least answer some of them.” He gave the same reassuring smile. “Nurse Leschamps was the first person to talk to me about your mother and her painting. I found her art fascinating. I personally had several art experts come to examine her work—with her full knowledge and agreement, of course. In the past few years, we've started research on art as a therapeutic way to deal with emotional problems, largely based on your mother's experience.”

I got the feeling that Dr. Clark really wanted to help me.

“Your mother was diagnosed a long time ago as having something that is called chronic seasonal depression. But what that means is simply that your mother got hurt a lot as a child, and the memories of that pain affected her quite dramatically at different times of the year.”

I must have looked uncomfortable, because Dr. Clark paused and his voice grew soft, as if he didn't want to upset me. “Sometimes the bad things that happen to us as children stay with us in a way throughout our lives. Sometimes we can never really understand how the people we love the most could do things that seem to contradict that love. Many adults have never really learned how to accept the traumas of their childhood. It's as though they're dragging their past along behind them into each new circumstance. That makes for very emotionally unstable people. Here at Resthaven, our job is to help the individual admit the pain in his past and move on to a more healthy way of functioning. Does that make sense, Miss Middleton?”

I was concentrating on his every word. “I think so. You're saying that bad things happened to Mama when she was young, and she never really got over it.”

“For many years she didn't. But she was making great progress and finding new freedom in her life. I believe her art was a reflection of what she was feeling inside.”

“But what happened to Mama that was so terrible?”

Dr. Clark cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard of a term called doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“No.”

He chuckled a little. “What it means is that I'm not allowed to talk about my patients to others—what they've confided to me. But the details are not what is important. What you need to know, Miss Middleton, is that your mother wanted very much to function as a normal adult. In her case, particular times of the year were extremely difficult because of the memories they brought along. That is often when she came to Resthaven.”

“To be put on medication?”

“Oh no. Not at all. Medication helped her get through the roughest times and reduced the stress that she put on her family, but her best therapy was in doing what she enjoyed—painting. Before she could put into words her hurt, she was able to paint it. And that started her on the path to freedom. She was making progress, and her painting showed this.”

“Then are the three paintings all by her?”

“They are.”

“And she used pseudonyms.”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“She wanted so much to show her work to the public. But like every artist, she was afraid of rejection. With the permission of her two dear friends, Mr. Becker and Miss Leschamps, she borrowed their names. It was also a way to honor those who had helped her. It was through Mr. Becker and Miss Leschamps that I first became aware of your mother's talent.”

“But they said they didn't know anything about the paintings!”

“I believe they, too, felt strongly about protecting your mother's confidentiality.”

“Yeah. I see what you mean.”

“Come with me.” He led me down a spacious hall of the high-ceilinged, airy brick building. “Here is our art studio.” He opened a door and motioned for me to enter. I couldn't help but smile. All across one wall were big picture windows with light streaming in everywhere.

“This looks just like Mama's studio at home!” I gasped.

“Yes. I imagine it does. She helped design it and paid for it.” Easels, paints, canvases, and clay filled different-sized cubbyholes. “This room has become very important in the healing process of some of our patients,” Dr. Clark said, almost reverently.

“Mama convinced you to build an art studio?”

Dr. Clark smiled. “Not exactly. It was your mother's paintings that convinced me that art could be therapeutic for certain patients. Mind you, this is all very experimental. Not widely accepted.”

“Did Daddy know about how she painted at Resthaven?”

“Actually, he didn't. Not at the time. I don't believe your mother wanted anyone outside of Resthaven to know. There was a lot of shame involved in her being here. She was not easy on herself.”

“And she came here often?”

“Fairly often, yes. At least twice a year.”

“So she just came to paint!” I accused. “She wasn't ever going to get better, was she?”

“Oh yes, she was improving. She was making great strides.” He stared out the big picture window. “Many patients reach a plateau in the healing process. We can keep them fairly stabilized with medication, but they don't make much progress. It all depends on the type of mental illness. But your mother wasn't mentally ill. She was very high-strung and, at times, emotionally unstable. She felt certain . . . certain constraints from the society in which she lived. At Resthaven she left those constraints behind and was gradually able to be herself. A big part of being herself was experimenting with painting. And as she did, her style of painting changed.” He turned to me, his eyes intense, concentrated. “I'd like to show you something, Miss Middleton.”