Planned Coincidence
Nineteen years old and I’ve mastered two defense mechanisms: moping and the silent treatment. Two weeks after the Grandma-is-alive bomb, I’d stealthily employed them, imposing the brunt of my discontent on Dad and Edmond. I still worked at the restoration shop. I’d repaired and upholstered the Louis XIV chairs, which Dad delivered. Work orders slowed, but I took care of the few that came in, answered the phones, organized the invoicing, and made calls to old clients for potential commissions.
Reluctantly I continued to work with Edmond on the Tiffany. Its material brilliance prickled reminders of the lies I’d been told. He didn’t push for discussions regarding my mood. He had the patience of a hen on an egg and waited. I kept my sanity by counting down the days until I returned to college for my sophomore year. Not including today, fourteen were left.
My mom and Betts were still missing. The police had gone to their last known address in Sedona, but the home was deserted. The Cassandra hadn’t reappeared. A representative from the insurance company had come to the shop to interview Dad, Edmond, and me before visiting Geneva. The painting had been valued in the high six figures twenty years ago, and now her insurance carrier haggled with ours over the current value before any payments would be issued.
Edmond plugged in the Tiffany, and we both gasped at the green glass against the intricate golden frame. “I told Geneva we would deliver it today,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows. “We?”
“It’s delicate; I could use a hand. And since you put as much work into it as I did, I thought you might like to see it once it’s installed.”
“I don’t feel right. Going there.”
After unplugging the chandelier, he coiled the electrical cord. “Rachael, I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling, but I do know that time moves quickly, especially when you get to be my and Geneva’s age. Maybe you should consider giving her a chance to explain.”
I bit my cheek. I’d liked Geneva before I knew she was my grandma. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I was curious about her life and the blowout that shattered a mother and son’s relationship.
“I’ll go.”
THE BLOOMS ON THE day lilies and turtleheads had wilted and turned brown against green stalks. Darkness flushed out daylight earlier in the evenings, and lightning bug sightings had become sparse, signaling a close to summer. Edmond and I stood at Geneva’s front door. Even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, an acidic irritation loomed inside my chest, and I suddenly questioned the sanity of coming here. Excuses to bolt drizzled inside my head. I could faint—too risky; they might make me rest on her sofa. A schedule conflict? I’d have to say hi and bye in the same sentence. The front door opened, and a waft of cold air blew out through the screen.
Geneva looked from Edmond to me. Her cheeks lit up, matching her peony cigarette pants and coordinating silk blouse. She was barefoot and her toenail polish, I noticed, coordinated with her outfit.
A large box rested between Edmond and me. “Geneva,” he said. “We’ve brought you something.”
She stared into my eyes. “Indeed you have. Rachael, what a pleasant surprise.”
Edmond and I lifted the Tiffany while Geneva held the door open. “Careful, don’t trip. I’ve cleared a path down the hall.”
Outside the library, an arrangement of sweet peas and hydrangeas floated in an oversized leaded glass bowl, giving the air a delicate floral scent. Inside, other than the boxes that were stacked in front of the shelves and the missing Cassandra painting, the library hadn’t changed since my last visit. We put the chandelier box down, and Edmond asked where she wanted it. She pointed to the ceiling above a corner table anchored by two chairs.
“I’ll need my toolbox and a ladder before I turn the power off,” he said.
“Come with me, Rachael. Let’s put the kettle on while Edmond gets started.”
She backtracked toward the kitchen, and I trailed behind. She poured water into the teapot. “When do you go back to school?”
Leaning against the Formica counter, I said, “Fourteen days.”
After placing cups on saucers, she motioned for me to follow her into a back bedroom. “There’s something I wanted to show you.” Geneva rattled around in a drawer and pulled out a photo. She handed it to me. It was black and white of a girl my age, with short hair, in a flapper dress. I fixed on her smile. It was one I recognized. My own. The same lips, same opening, and same crooked eye tooth. Questioningly, I looked at her. “That’s me in New York when I was your age.”
“But the tooth,” I said, looking at her.
She rubbed her tongue along her front teeth. “These are capped.” She settled on the edge of the bed. “I worked at the New York Morning Journal.”
“The one owned by the newspaper magnate?”
Geneva nodded.
“The antiques, paintings.” I eyed the necklace she wore. “Your jewelry?”
“I traveled to Europe and India for him. While I took care of arrangements for his collections, I made a few acquisitions of my own.”
“Why did you and Dad stop talking?”
The kettle whistled.
She struggled to choose words. “It was different back then. We are Catholic. Maeve was Protestant.” Her tongue stopped. “It wasn’t accepted. Honestly, I never liked her. John changed when he met her. I’m one to voice my opinion. Our words escalated, and eventually we stopped talking.” She placed a hand on my leg. “Rachael, I’m sorry. I never meant for it to become such a big thing. Our argument grew larger than the both of us, and neither of us knew how to stop it. Will you forgive me?” Tears welled in Geneva’s eyes.
A frog stuck in my throat. I threw my arms around her and squeezed. “You’re forgiven.”
NOTE TO SELF
Family drama and then some. Would like to think this is the last of it, but until Mom is found, I know better.