Mating for Life (32 page)

“You're biased.”

“I'm not. I tried to walk around the gallery pretending this was someone else's work. That's why I didn't greet you. I wanted to detach myself. It was impossible, though. You practically bleed off those canvases.” Helen's eyes shone. “I wish it didn't all hurt you so much, my daughter. But I'm proud of you for making it all look so beautiful.”

“It's getting better. I promise. I'm doing better.”

“Listen, my friend Cameron, who lives about ten minutes outside of Rye, maybe you remember her, has decided to spend the next six months abroad visiting her son. She needs someone to look after her house, feed her cat, water her plants . . . I mentioned you and she said it was completely fine for you to stay there. Should I tell her you're interested? Ani and Xavier would love it there. The neighbor has a pony. They could stay with you on weekends. Sorry, I'm not trying to control your life, I just thought—”

“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it. It seems like the perfect solution, maybe. I'll get in touch with her.”

“I'll give her your number.”

“How are
you
doing, Mom?”

“Me?” She seemed surprised that Ilsa would ask. Ilsa realized she hadn't in a while. And when someone asked how Helen was, she always told the truth. “Well, I'm actually . . . I'm lonely,” she said. “I've been feeling a little lonely lately.”

“Aw, Mom. No man on the horizon to distract you?”

To Ilsa's surprise, Helen didn't laugh. “Oh, there's a man on the horizon,” she said. “But it's a distant horizon.”

“You could come stay with me, too. At Cameron's. I mean, if I do decide to stay there, if it works out.”

“Maybe. I think I might head up north, though.” She hesitated. “Unless I'm needed here?”

“I'm pretty sure we're all fine. For the moment, at least.”

Liane approached. “Oops. I have champagne for you, too,
but it looks like Mom already beat me to it. Ilsa, this is really exquisite work.
Really.
There's just something about these . . . I don't even know what to call them.”

Ilsa laughed. “Me neither.”

“They make me feel . . .” She tilted her head to one side. “Well, they make me feel sad, at first. They remind me of heartbreak and heartache. And yet, they also make me feel hopeful. They make me believe in love. Does that make any sense at all?”

Ilsa nodded. “It was the point. I was trying to prove that things that have been torn and ruined, things that have failed, can be put back together in other ways. Maybe even in beautiful ways, or at the very least in truer ways.” She felt a hand on her arm. Fiona. All of them now, standing with their mother. She thought,
Maybe Helen was right. Maybe we never did
need
the men, the fathers. Maybe we just needed each other, and her.
But she also knew that wasn't necessarily a fair thought, that although the fathers weren't in the room, they were with them—
within
them—and always would be.

“You know, I always liked your paintings, but there's something about these that are better,” Fiona said. “Different. Profound. Perfectly
you
. I know nothing about art, but I think these are really good.” Liane handed Fiona the extra champagne glass and tapped hers against it.

“Hear, hear,” she said.

Helen was smiling. “Girls,” she said. “This is the first time we have all been standing together in the same room in a year. I think that calls for a
real
toast.” She raised a glass. “To my daughters, my girls, my
people.
” They raised their glasses in a perfect circle.

“To you, too, Mom,” Fiona said, almost in a whisper. They drank. Then Helen looked across the room.

“How is the visit with Samira going, Fiona? She seems lovely.”

Fiona thought for a moment. She, too, looked to where Samira was standing, talking to Cole and Isabel. “It's been strange,” she said. “But not bad at all. I guess I was threatened in part because I thought she would be only Tim's and it was somehow going to distance him from all of us even more. When we went to get her at the airport, I was so afraid that everything Tim and I had been working toward would fall apart. I didn't know how I was going to feel, how I was going to deal with her, how I was going to manage to pretend I didn't feel as resentful toward her as I still did, that I wasn't as afraid of her as I felt that day. But then, when she got off the plane, when she came through arrivals,
I
was the one to spot her. I knew it was her immediately. She looks like Tim, a little, don't you think? Holds herself in the same way. And his mouth. And before I could stop myself, I waved. I'm not saying it's all been easy—but she doesn't feel like
just
his. She feels like ours.”

Ilsa was listening to Fiona but movement at the door had caught her eye. Lincoln Porter had walked into the studio. He was wearing a dark gray fedora. Fiona trailed off and looked at Ilsa, wide-eyed, and Ilsa shook her head imperceptibly.
No, don't say anything. Don't tell them. And also, don't leave me. Stay with me.
I'm scared.
Helen and Liane now started talking about how, if Helen was going to go up north for a few weeks, she and Laurence might bring the girls one weekend. Ilsa said quietly to Fiona: “Just talk to me, please, just talk to me. About anything.”

So Fiona started telling her a story about how they had taken Samira sightseeing in the city that day and how fun it was to revisit spots you thought you already knew, to see them through fresh eyes. And then about how they had decided to separate from the boys and go shopping. “For, you know,
dresses
and stuff. It felt like having a daughter, at least I think. And I have to admit, I liked it.” She paused. “Ilsa?”

“Please,” Ilsa said. “Keep talking. I can't.” When Lincoln was at the canvas beside them, Ilsa found she was having trouble breathing. She stared into her sister's eyes and focused on the sound of her voice. Fiona put her hand on her sister's forearm and held it there.

Then he moved around them and on to the next canvas. Only a few more and he was near the door. Fiona stopped talking. They were both watching him now. He was standing still. Ilsa thought he might take a glass of champagne and stay, and that eventually she would have to go over and greet him, thank him for coming. There was a part of her that wanted to know what he thought of her work. There was a part of her that was elated that he had come, even after everything. It meant something. It meant that it hadn't all been for nothing.

He didn't stay, though. He cast one more glance around the room. His dismissive gaze did not reach Ilsa or Fiona. It missed them just barely. Ilsa realized that she had been wrong, that his coming had not meant anything to him.

He left.

“I guess he didn't like what he saw,” Ilsa said.

“He didn't
understand
what he saw,” Fiona said. “It was above him. Leagues and leagues and leagues above him. Outside of the realm of anything a man like him could possibly understand.”

“What are we talking about?” said Helen, leaning in.

“The past,” said Ilsa.

Epilogue

D
ays into her time at the cottage, when Helen finally worked up the courage, he was in his garden, just as he had been the first time she walked alone up this same road.

But something
was
different. No apron, for one thing, and new bushel baskets that looked less worn than his old ones. Helen stood and watched him. Eventually he looked up, and she half expected him to say what he had said that first time, for her to realize she had fallen down some sort of rabbit hole and was being given the chance to do it all over again.
But that doesn't happen in real life, no matter how hard you wish for it. You don't get second chances.

Instead, he looked up, and she couldn't read the expression on his face because he wasn't quite as familiar to her anymore. This made her sad.

“Hi,” he said eventually.

“Hi,” she said. She took a step closer, then a few more steps. Finally, she was close enough. “I'm a stubborn old woman,” she said, and wished she had chosen to say anything but that as her opening line.

“That might have been one of the things I loved about you, the stubbornness,” he said. “Old, though? Never. Not you. But listen, I think we'd better go inside now.”

“Might have been? Loved?”

“Come here,” he said. There was something in his voice that startled her. When she was beside him she turned and saw that across the road, standing in the trees, there was a coyote, thin and ragged, watching them.

“Oh, and here I thought you were inviting me in because you wanted to, not because we were in mortal danger.”

“He's been coming around a lot lately,” Iain said. “I should probably call someone in, but I don't have the stomach for it. He seems harmless, but still . . . a little too tame. Maybe he's just lonely.”

“How do you know he's a
he
?”

“Something about him. Maybe I'm wrong. Did you know coyotes mate for life?”

Helen leaned against him and said, “I've always thought they were stupid animals.” She didn't think he was going to laugh, but he did.

“They're smarter than you think,” he said. “Now, please, come inside, Helen. I do want you to. Very much. I have so many things I want to say to you. I've even been making little notes. I have a notebook. Things to Tell Helen.”

“Okay, but you're going to think this is weird.”

“I bet I won't. I don't think you can surprise me at this point.”

She spun around and walked backward toward his cottage. “Help me,” she said. “Make sure I don't trip over anything and break a hip.”

“
What
are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm rewinding,” she said.

He smiled, turned around, took her hand, and started walking backward, too. “What if we both fall?”

“Then we both fall,” she said. “But I think I know the way.”

Acknowledgments

The following websites were useful when gathering information about the mating habits of the animals for use in the epigraphs at the beginning of each chapter: Wikipedia,
eol.org
(Encyclopedia of Life),
hww.ca
(Hinterland Who's Who),
bear.org
(North American Bear Center),
defenders.org
(Defenders of Wildlife),
barnowltrust.org
(The Barn Owl Trust),
allaboutbirds.org
(The Cornell Lab of Ornithology),
northland.edu
(Northland College). I also relied on research about swan “divorces” performed at the Slimbridge Wetland Centre in Gloucestershire, England.

Years ago, I was told that to find a home for a book a writer needed to find people who loved it, truly. I have been blessed with an entire team of people who love my book—and the perfect home for it. I am so grateful.

Thank you especially to Samantha Haywood, my passionate and instinctive agent (every nice thing my dad says about you is true); her assistant, Stephanie Sinclair, for a great first read; Sarah Cantin, my extraordinary editor at Atria Books, who has also proven herself to be a mama bear, cheerleader, and dear friend (and who sends the absolute best emails and notes on the planet); and Alison Clarke at Simon & Schuster Canada, for welcoming me warmly and offering wise insights. (Also, for oysters and cocktails.)

And special thanks to Judith Curr of Atria Books and Kevin Hanson at Simon & Schuster Canada, for captaining the ship and for making this publishing house a home.

Thank you to marketing mavens Felicia Quon (I'm still working on the accent) and Anneliese Grosfeld; my wonderful publicist, Amy Jacobson; the rest of the team at S&S Canada (with a particularly warm thank-you to Sarah Smith Eivemark for being my first actual fan); plus marketing pro Hillary Tisman and publicity guru Valerie Vennix at Atria Books.

Thank you to Kathleen Rizzo, Kimberly Goldstein, and Kristen Lemire for all of your hard work on the details and for shepherding my book along the path toward becoming “real”; and to Janet Perr for the beautiful cover.

I am also grateful for and to my friends. In particular, thank you to Chantel Guertin for early reads, literary dream sharing, and jokes only the two of us get; Nance Williams for reading
everything
I send you and for being a constant supporter; Asha Frost (you know why); Priya Karani Davies for keeping the faith (and for the pink champagne); Susan Robertson, Delphine Buglio, and Natalie Bordeau-Legris for the assistance with the French; Joni Serio for teaching me how to fish when it came to my website; and Leigh Fenwick, Michelle Schlag, and Amanda Watson—for being like sisters and for being great friends.

Many fellow writers have helped me out, including Moriah Cleveland, who read, believed, and gave me a much-needed mantra at exactly the right moment (“All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well”; I suppose I should thank T. S. Eliot for that one, too); Jennifer Close, who offered so many kindnesses; Lauren Groff, who allowed her words to grace the pages of my book; and Grace O'Connell, who compared me to Wolitzer and Atwood, thus making my year, and possibly my life.

Finally, thank you to my family: Bruce Stapley, hands down the best dad ever, for being so proud of me, for passing down the writing gene, for all the cottages weeks and weekends over the course of a lifetime, and for being swell in general; my mom, Valerie Clubine, for standing beside me, behind me, in front of me, and all around me (it doesn't seem like enough, but I think you know how I feel); my stepfather, James Clubine, for the love, the prayers, and for always being in my corner; my brothers, Shane, Drew, and Griffin Stapley, for being untypical brothers (I love you all so much and am proud of each of you); my parents-in-law, Joyce and Joe, for the babysitting (there were times when I wouldn't have been able to write without you!)
and
for raising that Joe guy, of course; and the entire Ponikowski family, for making me feel like one of them, always; plus a special shout-out to my Stapley aunts and uncles: a zanier, prouder, more supportive bunch could not be found anywhere. Thank you also to my always encouraging grandparents: Ron Soper and, in loving memory, Jean Soper (who gave me the strength of character to see a book through to completion and whom I miss every day) and Margaret and Ray Stapley, both of whom were writers and would have loved to hold this book in their hands.

Thank you to my children, Joseph and Maia, for providing astonishing joy, giving me a reason to write, and offering unconditional love. You are my favorites. You are excellent little people.

And last but not least (most, definitely most), thank you to my husband, Joe, for patiently enduring the realities of being married to a writer, for holding my hand, for the bridge visits this past winter, and for loving me. I love you, too, until the end of the world.