The Stolen Canvas (15 page)

“I—I shouldn’t have said anything,” Tara whispered to Annie when they gathered up their things and prepared to leave the shop. “Carla would probably fire me if she knew I’d told you all about the clipping. It’s just that I feel sorry for her. She’s so—I don’t know—troubled. And she has been good to me.”

And likely it takes one troubled soul to recognize another,
Annie thought, regarding Tara’s brooding eyes. Maybe Carla also recognized a fellow sufferer. Maybe that’s why she was gentle with Tara when she was such a bear with everyone else.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “Stella’s bark is much worse than her bite, and Alice and I won’t say anything to hurt Carla. We’d like to help her too. All of us would. That’s why we’re having the benefit for the animals. And speaking of animals, you’d better go collect little Blackie. Mary Beth won’t let you out the door without your charge.”

“You mean?” Tara started with a lift of her eyebrows.

“Yes, Blackie’s for you. You can keep her in your room at Grey Gables, and when you leave you can take her along with you. Boots and I will have a little talk about this temporary arrangement. She’ll behave herself. I won’t let her swallow the poor thing.”

“Oh!” Tara said, throwing her arms around Annie’s neck. “I didn’t know you were taking her for me.” She drew back, her cheeks pink. She had not shown such affection before and seemed embarrassed now by her spontaneous reaction.

Annie linked an arm through Tara’s. “The little runt needs a good home. I know you’ll give it to her, Tara. Love and a bowl of milk now and then—that’s all any of us really need. Come on. Mary Beth will be champing at the bit.”

16

Tara walked along the beach and thought about all that had transpired since she’d come to Stony Point. Two days had passed since she brought Blackie home from A Stitch in Time. She was touched by the gift of the kitten and by the warmth of her new friends. It was generosity she could never have anticipated and trust she had no right to claim.

They all cared about her search for her mother’s story, and they cared about Carla. How strange that the two were inextricably linked. Wonderingly, Tara played their conversation over in her mind.

“You found the clipping, didn’t you?”

Carla Calloway had fixed her with wary eyes, favoring her bandaged arm as she sat behind her desk. Just released from the hospital, she probably should be in bed, but she had quickly resumed her duties.

“I—I didn’t mean to pry,” Tara stammered. “I was just cleaning up a little and …” She met her employer’s gaze, trying to analyze the expression on her face.

Carla stood and walked to the window. She was silent for a long time, just looking through the glass. When she turned back, her eyes were misted with tears. “I thought it was just a coincidence—you looking so much like her. That day you came in, all the years melted away.
She
was here again. We were both fifteen years old and walking along Stony Point beach together, drinking lemonade with Mrs. Holden, laughing and full of summer adventure …” Her voice caught, and Tara was frightened. She’d never seen the feisty Carla Calloway cry.

What was she talking about? Had she left the hospital too soon? Was she delirious again? Tara took a step forward but faltered, wondering what she should do and what she should say. But Carla shook her head slowly, moistening her lips before she spoke again. “When Stella Brickson came to the hospital to see me and showed me what she’d found, I knew who you were.”

Stella Brickson? Tara thought back to Tuesday’s meeting of the Hook and Needle Club meeting. They had been discussing the clipping. Everyone but Annie and Alice had gone, but Stella had overheard, and she’d remembered H.T. Simmons, the man whose car had been stolen and wrecked. He was a distant cousin of Stella’s. But what did that have to do with Tara and her mother?

“She found the whole story in one of her old scrapbooks,” Carla said, pausing and catching her lower lip between her teeth.

Had Carla been arrested for stealing? Had her mother perished in the crash when the police phoned with the news? The terror of the experience would have marked anyone who’d gone through it and made them sad and resentful. No wonder Carla was so indrawn and suspicious. But why was she telling her all this? “What story? I don’t understand,” Tara stammered.

“She called herself Corky,” Carla said in a near whisper. “She had curly hair—dark and thick—and when it rained it coiled up like corkscrews all over her head. She called me Carlotta, and we were best friends.” She drew her arms across her chest, cupping the injured one, and a sad smile trembled on her lips.

Tara shrank back, frightened—though of what she didn’t know.

“She never told anyone,” Carla continued in the same detached voice. “All those years, and she never told a soul.” With her good arm Carla pulled something from the pocket of her jeans—an envelope. She opened it to show Tara the contents. It was the coil of hair and the small beaded ring that Tara had discovered in Carla’s bedroom. She held them out to Tara with trembling fingers.

“I don’t understand.”

“She gave these to me; I’ve always treasured them. When you read the article, you probably thought I was the girl who was arrested. But it wasn’t me.” Carla’s eyes widened, as though she saw something Tara could not see. “It was
your
mother—Claire … my best friend, Corky. But
I
was the one driving the car.
I
crashed it into that tree.
I
ran away and just left her standing there to face the police alone. I didn’t do the right thing because I was afraid.”

Tara backed away, staring at the ring and the black coil of hair that was so like her own. So that was why she hadn’t been able to put that clipping out of her mind—the sight of that hair. It had seemed alive, as though it could speak to her. She had been touching part of her mother’s life, a part she had never known. A part that had marked her forever.

“It was your
grandmother
who died in the crash, Tara,” Carla moaned. “All these years, I’ve been haunted by what happened. Your grandmother might be alive today if I had told the truth that day. Oh, Tara, I—I am so sorry. Please, don’t ever let fear keep you from doing the right thing … like I did.”

The mother she’d neglected had come alive to her in those few moments. She imagined her as a teenager, lonely and afraid … as she had been. Longing for love, as she had been, and looking in all the wrong places. Claire’s mother had died because of a childish indiscretion on a summer day. But she had never revealed the truth about Carla. That had taken loyalty and love. If only Tara could tell her mother now how much she loved her—how she’d always loved her.

But it was all too late. Her mother was beyond her reach. She fought to understand her emotions. She didn’t hate Carla. Carla and Claire had been young and adventurous; they had done something wrong, and their folly had resulted in unforeseen tragedy. Neither had told the truth. Perhaps if they had, their lives would have been very different. Each lived with their guilt, just as Tara was doing now.

“Don’t let fear keep you from doing the right thing
,
”
Carla had said
.
But Tara was afraid. She hadn’t told the truth from the minute she’d come to Stony Point. She should have admitted why she and Jem had come to Grey Gables. She should have asked for forgiveness—as Carla had. If only she could find the strength. … She had run from Carla, fast and hard without stopping, leaving her alone at the window, supporting her injured arm.

Now as she walked with these revelations crowding her mind, Tara saw Grey Gables just ahead, its facade tinted gold in the late afternoon light. How good its hostess had been to her. How trusting. Indeed, everyone in Stony Point had shown her kindness. They too must subscribe to Annie’s creed:
A person can stay strong through trouble by doing what’s right and by opening your heart to others.

Tara paused on the same hill she had climbed that first night where she’d been given shelter in Annie’s house. She hid behind a tree, the ache in her heart weighing her down. She was a fraud! What a mess she had made of things with all her lies.

She would speak to Annie now and tell her the whole truth. She was about to step away from her hiding place when Annie came out onto the porch, her blue dress twirling as she closed the screen door. The lowering sun turned her hair golden. She was beautiful—beautiful and good. Or was she beautiful because she was good?

Tara watched a car pull up the drive. It was Ian Butler, the handsome mayor she had met and liked immediately. But his piercing eyes had put her on guard, and she had been glad to stay in the kitchen while he and Annie talked on the porch. Now they were going somewhere together, perhaps to dinner. There would be no time to speak to Annie now. She would have to carry the burden of her deception a while longer.

When she saw them disappear into the distance, she stepped out from behind the tree and walked to the house—the lovely Victorian house that had been her brief but blessed refuge. Her eyes burned with tears when she saw the note on the kitchen table:

Missed you, Tara. Hope you enjoyed your day. I fed Blackie. Ham and potato salad are in the fridge for you. See you tonight.

She stared at the note a long time as Boots twined around her ankles. She could hear an insistent mewling coming from above. Blackie was waiting for her. She started up the stairs to her room, but heard something at the back door, a scraping or stamping of feet. Had Annie forgotten something? Tara retraced her steps to the kitchen. She opened the back door, weary from the day’s climb and the heaviness of her thoughts.

Her heart leapt to her throat as Jem pushed his way into the kitchen. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the woods, the same day she’d found Carla sick and disoriented. She thought he had left her for good this time. And she’d begun to be glad.

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He looked worn and disheveled, as though he’d been up a long time; dark circles ringed his eyes and stubble shadowed his jaw. Her heart melted; she wanted to throw her arms around him. Instead she sprang away. “You’ve got to go! Annie will be back any minute.”

“No she won’t. She just left.” He stared at her with an expression she couldn’t read. “She probably won’t be back for hours.” A smile played briefly over his lips and disappeared. “It’s just you and me.” He took a step toward her. “Didn’t you miss me, honey?”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I came back for you,” he said in that same urgent way. “I could never leave you. You know that.” His eyes strayed from her face, roaming around the kitchen. “Nice place,” he said dreamily, “but it’s time to go. It shouldn’t take you long to pack your stuff—” He broke off, and then moved past her into the kitchen.

She stared at him as he walked toward the stairs. His shirt had pulled away from his belt, and his shoulders drooped. His too-long hair straggled against his collar.
He has come back for me!
She thought he had gone for good, but he loved her. He must love her!

But something inside her knew; she recognized yet another lie she was telling herself.

He wanted her to pack her bag and take off. Just like that, with no goodbyes and no explanations. How could she do that to Annie, and to everyone who had befriended her?

“No, Jem,” she said, stepping ahead of him. “I’m not ready to go yet. There are things I have to …” The hard glitter in his eyes stopped her.

“I told you to call me J.C.!” he screamed angrily. “We’re going, but first you’re going to show me where those pretty pictures are. You didn’t think I’d forget our plan, did you?”

She shook her head, suddenly aware of what she should have known all along. He didn’t love her, but only wanted what he could take from her. “No!” she said, blocking his way. “I’m not going to do this. It’s wrong. It would hurt Annie. It would hurt everyone who has been so kind to me. I couldn’t …”

He pushed past her and headed up the stairs. She scrambled after him, grabbing the tail of his shirt. “Please, Jem! I have some money … you can have it …”

He continued up the steps, stumbling a little, and pushed open the door to the attic. He turned around to face her, his face an angry mask. “Now get it!” He paused, stroking his jaw with grubby fingers. Tara saw that he’d bitten his nails to the quick. “No, I’ll need more than just one. Get two. Get three.”

“I don’t know where they are,” she lied. She’d helped Annie get the one named
Country Meadow Fantasy
ready for Ian. It was to be sold at a New York auction, and the proceeds given to the animal shelter.

Jem climbed the stairs to the attic, dragging Tara with him. He began pushing trunks and crates around, tearing at boxes and knocking them off shelves. “Either you show me, or I’ll find them myself. I’ll tear this place apart!”

The sound of crashing and tinkling shattered the air. Boots howled, and the kitten in her bedroom cried like a lost thing. “Stop!” Tara pleaded. “Please don’t do this!” More boxes thudded to the floor. A doll with a china head clattered against a trunk, its head breaking in two.

“All right! All right!” Tara screamed. “I’ll get it.” She leaned back against a tall bureau and dropped her arms to her sides in defeat.

Triumph glittered in his eyes. “That’s better! Now make it fast.”

“I’m not sure where …” she stammered. If she could just buy some time, someone might come. Maybe Annie would return. But what would happen then? Would Jem stop? Or would he … ? She dared not finish that thought. If Jem were desperate enough, and drunk enough, he might hurt Annie. Was he drunk? He was mean enough to be.

She forced herself not to look where the framed canvases rested flat, carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. She played at opening drawers; she looked behind dusty furniture.

“Come on! Big pictures like the one in the Brown Library wouldn’t be there!” Jem whined. His foot caught the rung of the ladder propped up against the wall. “Get up there and look!” he commanded, nudging her roughly toward the ladder.

She climbed slowly, reaching the shelf where the large needlework pieces were stored. “I don’t see them,” she said and started to back down the ladder.

“What’s in the brown paper?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and peering up.

She stood stock-still on the ladder, her heart pounding, but she knew he’d guessed.

“Hand it down,” he said, stretching his arms up. “And be careful.”

Be careful.
He had just torn through precious treasures that Annie’s grandmother had preserved over a lifetime, and he was telling her to be careful! She was trembling with anger and fear as she grasped the edges of the large canvas.

“No, don’t come down them steps yet. There’s more up there. I seen ’em,” he said, his innate poor grammar resurfacing. Jem balanced the first package against the adjacent wall and turned back to her. “Give me that one too.” Even in the dark attic she could see his eyes shining with greed. “And that one!”

The shelf was stripped of its treasures, and her heart was stripped of the love she once had had for him.

Tara descended the ladder and began mechanically to clean up the mess Jem had made. Elizabeth Holden’s beautiful handwork—hours of love and patience and skill—lost. Annie’s inheritance stolen. It was all her fault. If only she’d never come. If only she had told the truth from the beginning.

“That’s good, that’s good,” Jem muttered as she replaced fallen items tenderly. “We don’t want the lady of the house suspecting anything until we’re long gone. He began helping her, hastily returning boxes to their former positions. “OK, that’s good enough. Now get your things. We’re getting out of here.”