Always the Last to Know(24)

The fact that my mother viewed Stoningham as an achievement, rather than a place, definitely colored my views as a teenager, when I felt it was my duty to think the opposite of everything she did. When I was little, it was paradise, of course—a rocky shore with a couple of sand beaches, huge stretches of marsh, land reserves, the gentle Sound always murmuring, that one part of the shore where the Atlantic roared in, unfettered by Long Island. There was Birch Lake, still so pristine and quiet, surrounded by old-growth forest with gentle paths for walking. We had the most beautiful skies, and they were my first paintings. Skyscapes in pastels or watercolors, those endless shades of blue, violently beautiful sunsets in the winter, summer skies smeared with colors.

But it was a small town. A tiny town, and so stuffy it was hard to breathe sometimes, especially if you were Juliet’s not-as-smart-or-athletic sister, or the daughter of Barb Frost, Queen of Committees and Volunteerism, daughter of John Frost the lawyer, and yes, related to that Robert Frost.

Being average was difficult.

I had one talent, though, and I would use it to get away, distance myself from the smugness, the familiar, the “aren’t you Barb’s daughter?” of Stoningham.

Looking back, it’s hard not to be a little embarrassed. Girl from tiny town in Connecticut goes to New York to become artist. Wears black and pierces nose. Fails to set the art world on fire. Becomes waitress, then teacher, then sells out. Eventually goes home to help ailing parent.

The thing was, I’d been sincere. At eighteen, my heart was pure, my determination boundless. I was talented . . . I’d won first prize in the annual Stoningham art show since I was fourteen and even sold three paintings at Coastal Beauty Art Gallery in Mystic. I’d placed third in the Young Artists of Connecticut Competition, Acrylics.

I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t draw or paint. I loved it so much—the smells, the textures, the way a single flicker of a brush could take you on a journey, how the slightest color variation could make all the difference. I loved mixing paints, the sweet perfection of a new brush, like the smallest baby animal, so soft and innocent and full of potential. I loved seeing something come from nothing. And not just something, but an experience. Not just a picture, but emotions, an entire story in a frame. There was nothing else I wanted to do.

Of course I was going to New York to study art! What other city in America was there for art? (Aside from Austin, Denver, San Francisco, Chicago, etc., but I was young and ill-informed.) New York it would be.

Dad was encouraging—“Of course! Follow your dream, sugarplum!” Mom was baffled.

“An art major?” she cried, as if I’d said assassin for drug cartel. “What are you going to do with an art major? Your sister is an architect!” Just in case I’d forgotten what Perfection from Conception did for a living.

Speaking of Juliet, who was also sitting in judgment, she laughed. “You’re adorable. Do you like living in cardboard boxes?”

“Have you ever been to a museum?” I asked in my oh-so-sophisticated way.

“I’ve designed museums, Sadie.”

“Then you should remember that they’re just places to hold art. Have you ever bought a painting? Seen a movie?” I raised an eyebrow at my mother in response to her snort of disapproval. “People who think art is a waste of time should have to live in a world without color.”

“Have you ever been poor?” Jules asked. “Ever eaten at a soup kitchen?”

“This might come as a shock to you, Jules, but money and luxury aren’t everything.” She’d just built her house on the water, tearing down an old gray-shingled cottage to construct what was admittedly a fabulous home with views from every angle. “You’re all very narrow-minded,” I said. “Except you, Daddy.”

“Well,” he said. “If you can’t follow your dreams now, baby, when can you?”

“See?” I said, hugging him.

“Oh, super, John,” Mom said. “She needs to have something to fall back on. Something practical.”

“What if she’s the next Jackson Pollock?” Dad said.

“Then she’ll kill herself in a car crash while drunk-driving,” said my sister.

“Keith Haring, then,” Dad said.

“AIDS.”

“Vincent van—ah, shit. Georgia O’Keeffe, then.”

“She lived to be ninety-eight,” I said. “Guess art isn’t always fatal. But I do appreciate the support.”

My mother would not be convinced. She wore my dad down until he agreed that I should double major in studio art and art education. I had nothing against teaching. I pictured myself in a Tribeca studio, allowing worshipful artists in every Saturday for a master class. At least one of them would be named Lorenzo and be madly in love with me. So off to Pace University I went. (Columbia and the School of Visual Arts had rejected me, thanks to mediocre grades, I told myself.) But hey. It was still New York, and I was going.

In doing so, I broke Noah Pelletier’s heart, and he broke mine.

High school sweethearts. The only boyfriend I’d ever had. Wise beyond his years, stoic, hardworking, a fifth-generation townie and my first love. He was wrenchingly beautiful—eyes so dark they were nearly black, full lips that made him look a little grumpy unless he smiled, and wild, curly unkempt black hair that framed his face.