The Shadow Box(40)

“I don’t believe you,” Sloane said.

“You do believe me, though,” Ford said. “When you love someone, you see through them, whether you want to admit it or not. That’s how I knew about Sallie. I felt it coming through her skin, that she wanted him. You feel that from Edward, don’t you? That he’s been with someone else? That he wants her?”

I looked at Sloane, saw the flash of despair in her eyes, and realized that Ford’s words were registering with her. Sloane turned too quickly, and she knocked her easel and paints over. The canvas went flying. Ford tried to catch it, but it skittered past, sliding across the floor. He stepped toward Sloane, reached out to touch her. She stood facing the wall. She was shaking.

I took Ford’s hand to pull him away from Sloane. He yanked it away, enraged. He poked me in the chest with two fingers, glared at me with fury I’d previously only seen in his father’s eyes. I felt terrified.

“I’m trying to help,” he yelled at me. His tone was just like Griffin’s. His body tensed, as if he wanted to hit me. I took a step backward and forced myself to stay calm.

“Leave, Ford,” I said. “Now.”

Alexander caught my eyes and nodded. “She’s right, Ford,” he said, with the tone of a peacemaker. “Let’s go.”

“You’re always judging me, Claire,” Ford said. “Just like you judge Dad. I know all those lies you tell yourself about him, about that other bitch.”

“What bitch?” I asked.

“The one in the tide pool,” he said. “You want to ruin his chances in the election?”

“Ford, shut up,” Alexander said.

He was talking about Ellen; my skin crawled. I saw him glance at my worktable, where I kept my notes for each shadow box. Had he gone through them, read what I had written? I wrote in code, lines of poetry to describe my feelings and the meanings of each piece. Was it possible he had deciphered my words about Fingerbone, connected them with Ellen’s death?

“What has your father been saying to you?” I asked Ford.

“That elections are lost on rumors,” he said.

“What did he tell you about the tide pool?” I asked.

“Nothing! Because there’s nothing to tell. See? You’re so focused on a lie, something that didn’t even happen. My brother and I are working our asses off on his campaign. You should be too. He’s a great man, Claire.”

“She knows that, Ford,” Alexander said with a glance at me. “She wants him to win, just like we do. We’re all on the same team.”

He started easing Ford toward the door. Ford’s gaze was on me, full of hatred, as if all his fury needed a single object. He was out of control, drunk on wine and his wild emotions. But he finally gave in to Alexander, let him lead him out of the studio. I was shaking. I couldn’t imagine Griffin discussing Ellen with Ford, but maybe I was wrong. I had seen, just now, how alike they were.

When the boys had left, I went to Sloane. I tried to put my arm around her shoulders, but she backed away.

“Sloane, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Did you know about Edward and Sallie?” she asked.

“No, I had no idea. It might not even be true.”

She turned to me, a blink of hope in her bleary eyes. “Would Ford make it up?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Griffin was cruel. Although I hadn’t seen that explicit tendency in Ford before, his behavior just now showed he was his father’s son.

“Maybe he did,” she said. “He wasn’t making any sense, all that stuff about his father and a tide pool and the election. He sounded insane.”

“He did,” I said, and I hugged her.

We stood together for a minute, each of us lost in the pain of wondering about truth and lies and love and hurt. And I stared at the sheaf of notes beside Fingerbone and realized that Ford had probably read them.





23





SALLIE


Sallie sat at the desk in her home office, listening to sprinklers through her open window. She loved the sound of water—whether at the beach, on the boat, or in the garden—and as sunlight streamed in, she closed her eyes and felt at peace for the first time in weeks. Swimming with her children, making the decision to stop seeing Edward had given her a fresh start.

It was late afternoon. Dan had taken Gwen and Charlie to the tennis court. Many days after work he would play with them—teaching them how to swing the racket, wait for the ball, toss it straight up, and hit through for a strong serve. They enjoyed learning how to keep score, and Charlie thought it was hilarious to keep saying love. “Love–fifteen, love–thirty, love–forty!” he’d say to Sallie, running in from the court, sweaty and laughing.

The smell of flowers and freshly mown grass filled her with the joy that summer was about to start. A week away from June, the roses were in bloom. She loved old varieties, English roses from the David Austin catalog. She found their names to be romantic, inspiring: Munstead Wood, Gentle Hermione, Golden Celebration, Scepter’d Isle, and Susan Williams-Ellis.

She had wanted to name Gwen Susan, after the beautiful white rose, but instead she had let Dan talk her into naming their daughter after his mother, Gwendolyn. It wasn’t that Sallie hadn’t liked her mother-in-law—she had, very much. It’s just that it was the beginning of her giving in to Dan, just to mollify him—keep him happy and prevent his mood from turning dark for too long.