Читать книгу A Bungalow For Two - Carole Page Gift - Страница 9

Panic was growing inside Frannie like mushrooms in the dark. In June she had received a handsome commission to sculpt a bust of Longfellow for the La Jolla Children’s Museum—due by the end of summer. It was already July, and all she could do was sit and stare at a mound of lifeless clay.

Try as she might, Frannie couldn’t muster a shred of creativity. Her mind felt dry, numb, dead. She wondered if she had ever had a creative thought in her life. Had she ever experienced that flaming impulse to create something from nothing, or nearly nothing? Had she in the past actually molded fine sculptures—not masterpieces, of course, but still quality work—from heaps of wet, shapeless clay?

Where was the artist she had been just a few short weeks ago? How could her talent have fled so swiftly, so completely?

Every time she thought of sinking her fingers into that formless mass, she remembered something else she needed to do—some mindless chore or task that wouldn’t usually demand her attention. With a sigh of resignation, she would drape the clay with a wet cloth, as if covering a dead body with a shroud. Then she would escape to another part of her house and fiddle with something, or busy herself in the kitchen, or stare out the window, or pester her father in his study—anything to keep from facing the task at hand, the challenge of pulling life and form out of that silent blob of gray earth.

Today held the same lack of promise. Right after breakfast, Frannie had gone to the sunroom to work. She had pored over a dozen drawings of the old poet and sketched several hurried renderings of her own. Then she had kneaded the clay until her fingers ached, until she admitted at last that she wasn’t in the mood to create. God help her, she had lost her vision for the work.

Once, days or weeks ago, she had felt that creative impulse in her fingers, in her mind, in her heart. But now it was gone. An empty place remained, a vacuum, a hollow in her soul that nothing seemed to fill.

She had heard of writers and artists hitting a dry spell, suffering writer’s block and questioning their talent. But it hadn’t happened to her. At least, not for several years. Not since…yes, she remembered now…not since her mother’s death seven years ago.

For two years after her mother died, she hadn’t been able to create a thing. She was seventeen at the time, fresh out of high school and just beginning her freshman year at San Diego State. Majoring in art, of course, as she had always planned. But every time she thought of creating something—a painting, a drawing, a vase or a piece of sculpture, she felt a knot of pain in her heart.

It was as if the idea of creation, even producing something as mundane as an object of art, signified a birth. The paradox was that her heart was deluged with the reality of death. But at last, praise God, when she began her junior year of college she experienced a breakthrough. Her creativity returned in a rush. She changed her major from art education to fine arts and completed her B.A. two years later.

And in the five years since then, her skill and reputation as a sculptor had grown. She was even teaching a night class at San Diego State…and the commissions were coming often enough that she had bankrolled a tidy sum in her savings account.

Yes, her life these days had been good, very good. Even though her evenings were devoid of romance, her routine had been satisfying and stable…. Until the last few weeks, when Frannie’s world turned topsy-turvy—the day her father brought home his new bride and stepdaughter. Since then, nothing had been the same.

Take today, for example. In the past (B.J.—before Juliana), Frannie would have risen at seven and fixed her father’s and Brianna’s breakfast. The three of them would have sat around the table chatting about their plans for the day. They would have held hands and prayed together before going their separate ways.

But now that Brianna was married and setting up housekeeping in her own country estate, Frannie was lucky to see her once a week. And Cassie, with her new baby, stopped by even less often. Even when her sisters dropped in to visit, they chatted only about their happy new lives and then were quickly on their way. They were so busy and preoccupied, they were totally unaware that Frannie felt lonely and left behind.

It wasn’t that the house was empty now. Frannie could have tolerated that. She had never minded long periods of solitude. The silence sometimes even stirred her creative juices. Peace and quiet were welcome friends.

But, in fact, the old Rowlands’ homestead wasn’t silent; it was as bustling as ever. It reverberated with noise and voices and music and laughter. But except for her father, the sounds belonged to strangers, not to the people Frannie loved.

In truth, even her father was different now. The dynamics had changed. He was a man absorbed with pleasing his wife. Where Frannie’s happy home had once comfortably contained a father and three daughters, now her father was half of a newlywed couple occupying the premises. And each had a daughter. To complicate matters, Frannie and Belina were virtual strangers and had no desire to be anything more.

These days, Frannie’s home was filled with Juliana’s laughter and songs. In her youth, Juliana had performed on the New York stage and in the opera houses of Europe. Now her full, lilting soprano wafted through the Rowlands house a dozen times a day…as Juliana cooked and cleaned, as she taught voice lessons to eager children and led a women’s Bible study twice a week in the parlor. Juliana was obviously determined to become the quintessential minister’s wife—a fact Frannie resented.

But if Frannie begrudged the way Juliana had taken over her home, she was equally disturbed by the stealthy comings and goings of the mysterious Belina. The aloof, raven-haired girl was like a ghost, flitting through the house noiselessly, rarely speaking or making eye contact. She spent most of her time alone in her room doing who knew what.

Frannie was just as glad that she didn’t have to make polite conversation with the strange young woman. What would they talk about? They had nothing in common…except that Belina’s mother was married to Frannie’s father.

Every morning, when Frannie awoke, she told herself, Maybe today things will be different. This will seem like my home again. I’ll feel comfortable around Belina and Juliana. We’ll begin to be a family at last.

But as quickly as she made her resolves, they were shattered by some minor event that caught Frannie unawares, that brought her up short and reminded her she was living in a vastly different household. It happened again today, the last week of July, just over two weeks since her father had brought Juliana home from their honeymoon.

This morning was the last straw for Frannie, because the incident involved someone dear to her heart. Ruggs, the family dog, an ancient, longhaired mongrel, had tracked mud all over Juliana’s freshly waxed floor. Juliana chased him out the back door with a broom. Frannie had never seen the old dog run so fast or yelp so loud. The sound nearly broke Frannie’s heart.

The problem was, Juliana just didn’t get it. She considered Ruggs a scroungy old dog that was always getting in the way. She didn’t understand that he was as much a member of the family as anyone. When Juliana shooed Ruggs out the door, it was as if she had shooed Frannie out, too.

Ten years ago, Brianna had found the scrawny, abandoned puppy on the street, hungry and shivering. She had brought him home and nursed him back to health, the way she nurtured everyone she came in contact with. And for ten years Ruggs had been king of the castle. There was no way Juliana was going to convince him he was just a mangy mutt.

The incident with Ruggs had left Frannie feeling more resentful of Juliana than ever. How dare that woman take over Frannie’s home and chase her dog outside? The trouble was, these days Frannie felt as unwelcome as Ruggs in her own house. No wonder she wasn’t in the mood to sculpt Longfellow’s bust.

Even as she sat in the sunroom contemplating the mountain of clay on her worktable, Frannie could hear Juliana bustling about in the kitchen, crooning the lyrics from some Italian aria. Frannie worked with the clay for a few minutes, dipping her hands in a container of water and wetting down the gray mound. It still wasn’t taking shape the way she wanted. It was as if the stubborn mass refused to relinquish the form hidden within.

Usually Frannie could work her artistic magic. A mysterious connection formed between her mind and hands; they worked together in a way Frannie herself couldn’t comprehend. It was as if some secret force within her recognized the shape inside the mass and freed it, then she molded it until it came to life under her fingers.

That was the way it was supposed to work. But not today. In exasperation, Frannie pounded the clay with her fists, then tossed the wet cloth over it and went to the deep sink to wash her hands. If she couldn’t sculpt anything worthwhile, she might as well go help Juliana in the kitchen. She emerged from the sunroom just as Juliana hit a high note that rattled the crystal on the buffet.

Frannie ambled over to the kitchen sink where Juliana was scouring a black kettle, and said, “Looks like you could use some help.”

Juliana whirled around and clasped her hand to her ample bosom. “Oh, dear girl, you startled me!”

“I’m sorry. I was going stir-crazy in the sunroom. The Longfellow bust—it’s just not working for me.”

“Oh, what a shame. Give it time, dear. It’ll come.” Juliana’s rosy lips pursed together, forming a tiny rosebud of sympathy. She extended a graceful hand and touched Frannie’s cheek with long, tapered fingers, her perfectly manicured nails a bright vermillion. “I have had many times when the music would not come, when I had to labor for every note. The arts do not give away their secrets easily. We must stretch and strain for every victory. But to create something beautiful is worth all the pain. It is like giving birth. Agony and ecstasy tied together. The agony of releasing something precious from within your secret self. And the ecstasy of holding in your hands a new life that only you and God could have created.”

Frannie nodded distractedly. She wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion about creativity.

Juliana set the kettle on the gas range, then reached for a can of tomatoes. Frannie’s stomach knotted as she watched Juliana move about the kitchen as if she had already memorized—and claimed—every inch of it. She already considers it her private domain! Frannie noted grudgingly.

How could her father be so captivated by a woman like Juliana? The ebony-haired matron looked nothing like Frannie’s idea of a minister’s wife. Juliana was a buxom, brassy woman who made a habit of wearing colorful, formfitting dresses that were just short of being tacky. All right, so on Juliana they somehow managed to look classy in a dramatic, theatrical sort of way. That still didn’t explain how her father could be so smitten by this flashy woman.

“What are you making?” Frannie asked as Juliana gathered an array of spices from the shelf.

Juliana paused and smiled at Frannie, her rosy face brightening. “I’m making spaghetti. Your father’s favorite. We are entertaining his ministerial staff here tonight.”

Frannie straightened, suddenly alert. “Tonight? They’re coming for dinner? Why didn’t Daddy tell me? He knows I teach my class tonight. There’s no way I can fix spaghetti.”

Juliana gently patted Frannie’s arm. “No, dear girl, you don’t understand. I will fix the spaghetti.”

Frannie drew back from Juliana’s touch. “But I always fix the spaghetti. Daddy won’t be happy if I don’t.”

Juliana opened the cupboard and removed several cans of tomato sauce, then turned back to Frannie. “Well, we will straighten him out, won’t we? We will tell him it’s time for a change. I will fix my family’s secret Italian recipe. I am sure your father will find it delightful.”

Frannie wanted to retort, It won’t be as good as mine! But she held her tongue. No sense in making waves. Her father would just take Juliana’s side. “Well, let me know if you need any help.”

“Thanks, dear. I’m fine.” Juliana waved her ringed fingers in the air. “You go work on your sculpture.”

A storm cloud of resentment swirled in Frannie’s chest. Before she said something she regretted, Frannie strode back down the hall to the sunroom. As she looked back, she caught a glimpse of Belina slipping like a silent shadow into the kitchen. She was waiting for me to leave! The girl was so antisocial, she made every effort to avoid encounters with Frannie. What’s her problem? Does she hate me? How can I live in the same house with someone who doesn’t even want to look me in the eye or say good morning!

Frannie knew as soon as she sat down and gazed at the leaden mound of clay that she wasn’t going to get any work done today. “Might as well take a drive and clear my head.”

Frannie ran upstairs to her room and grabbed her purse off the bureau. On her way out the door she noticed Ruggs crouching on the floor by her bed. “Hey, boy, how did you get back in the house? Oh, I bet Daddy let you in, didn’t he? While Juliana wasn’t looking!”

Frannie knelt down and wrapped her arms around the rangy, mop-haired dog. He made a whining sound and ran his rough tongue over her arm. His shiny black eyes peered yearningly at her through several shanks of sandy-brown hair.

“Poor baby. Are you still smarting from your scolding this morning? Queen Juliana banished you from the kitchen, didn’t she?” Frannie stood up, smoothed her jeans and beckoned the shaggy mongrel to follow her. “Come, boy. Let’s go for a joyride!”

She scrambled down the stairs, with Ruggs bounding right behind her. She took long strides down the hall, peeked in her father’s study and told him she was taking Ruggs for a ride to keep him out of Juliana’s hair. Her father looked up from his sermon notes with a distracted smile and told her to have fun.

“Sure, Daddy. See you later.” She sighed dispiritedly as she headed out the door. He doesn’t have a clue how miserable I am since he married Juliana! Not a clue!

Outside, in the driveway, Frannie opened the passenger door of her shiny yellow sports car and coaxed Ruggs inside. “Sit still now and be a good boy.”

Out on the open road, she looked over at Ruggs and grinned. Her hirsute pet sat tall, panting happily as the warm breeze rolled through the open window and fanned his heavy fur.

“Let’s go to the ocean and be beach bums for a day,” she suggested, as if expecting a reply. Ruggs accommodated her with an agreeable yip.

She took La Jolla Shores Drive for several miles, then turned off on a small winding road that led to a lonely expanse of beach. She parked beside the road, let Ruggs out and the two ambled across the sand under a shimmering white-hot sun. At the water’s edge, she pulled off her sandals, rolled up her pant legs and waded barefoot into the cool water. Ruggs started to follow, then backed up as a wave rippled over his paws.

Frannie laughed. “Oh, come on, you chicken. Come in the water! You won’t melt.”

Ruggs took another lumbering step backward and shook himself. No dip in the sea for him. He was staying high and dry.

As if to defy her stubborn pet, Frannie waded out deeper. A ringlet of seaweed caught her ankle. She kicked it away and noticed a creamy white shell in the water. She stooped down, picked it up and brushed off the wet sand. It was a perfect shell. She breathed in the fresh, briny air, filling her lungs. There was something she loved about the beach. A sense of freedom and adventure, as if the world were wide open, boundless, offering endless possibilities. And yet, somehow, standing there, she could stretch out her arms and touch the earth from end to end.

“I could stay here forever,” she told Ruggs. “I feel like I could sit down right here and sink my hands in the wet sand and create something beautiful.”

Ruggs ignored her and pawed at something slimy on the hard-packed sand. Frannie chose not to look too closely. “Come on, Ruggsy,” she urged. “Let’s explore!”

She slogged a while through the ankle-deep water, then made her way up the beach and padded across the warm, uneven sand. They had walked a quarter mile when Frannie spotted an old clapboard beach house nestled beside a rocky protuberance. Jutting cliffs dotted with palm trees rose beyond the modest little house. The place looked empty, its door padlocked. A weathered sign stood at an angle beside the house. It said For Rent. Call 555-7878.

Frannie shaded her eyes and gazed into the distance along the isolated beach. There were other houses, but they were far and few between. Anyone living in this house would have complete privacy, not to mention peace and quiet.

“This is just what we need, Ruggs. A place to call our own, with no one to disturb us. What do you say, boy? Shall we check it out?”

Ruggs galumphed toward the house. Frannie caught up with him as he clambered onto the small wood-frame porch and pawed the warped pine door. Frannie rubbed a layer of dirt off the window and peered inside. To her surprise, the little house was furnished. To be sure, the modest furnishings looked a bit dilapidated, but comfortable.

“Wouldn’t it be a hoot to move into this place? What do you think, Ruggs?” she asked, as if the pooch might actually respond.

He backed up and let out an approving howl. At least, that’s how she chose to interpret it.

“So you like it, too, boy. It’s something to think about.” She memorized the phone number and gave the house another once-over, then she and Ruggs headed back down the beach to her car.

Until now she had never seriously considered moving out of her father’s house. As long as he had needed her, she had vowed to be there for him. But the bitter truth was, he didn’t need her anymore. He had Juliana and her strange, reclusive daughter, and he seemed perfectly content to make them his family now.

But maybe her father’s marriage was a blessing in disguise. Frannie was twenty-four now, too old to still be living at home under her daddy’s watchful eye. Maybe it was time to step out, explore the world and carve a new life for herself. There was no telling what—or who—awaited her in this vast, beckoning land.