As the Crow Flies, page 8
“You certainly do know your botanicals.”
“Like I said—”
“Your mother was a florist.”
“My father,” Samantha said, fixated on the floral vases and only half paying attention to what she herself was saying, “was both an attorney and avid hunter—which is to say, when he wasn’t preying on people, he preyed on animals. He always took my brother, against his protests, but I refused.” She crouched to examine a vase on a lower shelf. “Instead, I spent my free time working in my mom’s greenhouses with Arthur, one of my father’s reject scent hounds. He had a bad nose,” she said, looking up at Gwen from where she squatted. “Arthur was a Weimaraner, often called the gray ghost. But he was also what hunters call a ghost runner.”
This term seemed to pique Gwen’s interest. “A ghost runner?”
“Dogs who track imaginary scents. They take off, hot on the trail of something that turns out to be nothing at all. My mother always said Arthur wasn’t imagining anything, that he simply preferred the scent of flowers. I think he just preferred to be with my mother and me. She would have loved these floral vases.”
“Does she still have her business?”
“Unfortunately, we lost her fifteen years ago to breast cancer. She was only fifty-eight.”
“What a devastating loss…I’m sorry to hear that. I myself was diagnosed several years ago.”
Samantha’s breath caught in her throat, and she stood up, regarding her with concern. “And? Are you okay?”
“I am. A mastectomy and reconstructive surgery all in one and…so far, so good.”
“That’s really good to hear. Diagnosis and treatment options are so much better for women than they were fifteen years ago. My mother might have survived if it had happened now instead of then.”
Gwen nodded, her smile sad, and followed Samantha’s eyes back to the vases.
“Incredible,” Samantha said.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?”
“These flowers look like they’re alive and blooming beneath the glaze. I feel as if I’m seeing a garden through a magnifying glass.”
“You say such beautiful things, Sam. Perhaps you’d do well to produce a book of poetry in between all those mysteries you write.”
“If you let me come here for the inspiration, I just might.”
“You have an open invitation.”
Gwen drew in a deep breath, delighting in the pleasure Samantha took as she strolled from piece to piece. And while her guest made a study of the art pottery, Gwen studied Samantha: her stature, mannerisms, and the short hair that showed off her contoured jawline. She was as tall as Gwen and just as slim, and something in the way she moved, the way she stood with her hands clasped behind her back and bestowed her undivided attention intrigued Gwen in a way so new, yet so familiar.
Gwen hadn’t been yet fourteen when she developed her first maddening crush on Margot, the daughter of the owner of a Cape Cod yacht club to which the Laraways had belonged. Margot had just finished high school and was on her way to Harvard. Gwen adored her. Her salty skin was always sun-kissed, short hair tousled from the sea breeze, and in her dark and dreamy eyes was an ever-present spark of mischief. Unconventional, adventurous, rebellious, Margot would have qualified as an adrenaline junkie by today’s standards. She belonged to a cigarette boat racing team, and when she wasn’t zipping around in her daddy’s boat, she was ocean-kayaking or participating in nighttime sailboat races.
An instant chemistry between them had ignited, and Gwen, being lanky and tall for her age, had professed to be sixteen to encourage a friendship. Margot probably knew Gwen was lying, but when she wasn’t with her older friends she indulged Gwen, sometimes inviting her out on the water for a joy ride or into her parents’ cabin cruiser to sneak a drag of a cigarette or a swig of a cold beer she’d snatched from the club’s bar. Just putting her lips on something that Margot’s lips had touched excited Gwen in a way she couldn’t explain. And when Margot was out of sight, Gwen thought of nothing else but seeing her again.
One night while a party was on at the yacht club, Gwen watched as Margot dragged an older girl off the dance floor and ran outside with her. When they didn’t return, Gwen wandered down to the dock to see a light burning in the cabin cruiser. Beyond the sound of buoy bells and water lapping the side of the boat, she heard the muffled sound of rock music coming from inside. When no one answered her call, she climbed aboard and went down to find the two young ladies topless and engaged in a passionate kiss that shocked and changed her life that night.
Quietly, she crept away. Oh, how she desperately longed to be that girl in Margot’s arms. She was jealous, yes, but more than jealousy she felt joy—a joy that instantly clarified her confused adolescence and gave definition to the same-sex attraction she’d been unable to put into words. Suddenly she understood why she never got excited over boys the way other schoolgirls did. It was wonderful to know others like her existed and, best of all, that Margot was one of them.
Toward the end of that summer, during a sunset walk on the beach with Margot, Gwen worked up the nerve to profess her adolescent love with a sudden and nervous and quite sloppy kiss. Obviously caught off guard, Margot waited a moment before taking hold of Gwen’s wrists and stepping back in gentle rejection. “Whoa, kiddo, what are you doing?”
“Kissing you…” young Gwen had said. “I know you like girls.”
Margot laughed. “I do, but you’re a little too young for me.”
“I’m sixteen,” Gwen lied.
“Well, even if that’s true, it still makes you a minor. I’m eighteen now.” Without warning she grabbed Gwen’s rib cage, tickling her until Gwen squirmed and struggled to free herself. And then Margot took off, water splashing and wetting her shorts as she ran along the shoreline.
Gwen ran after her, hurt by the rejection, humiliated by Margot’s making a joke of her kiss. When Gwen had nearly caught up, Margot slowed down and turned, walking backward and laughing as she caught her breath. “So pretty little Gwen likes girls, huh?” she said between taking heavy breaths. “Your parents would send you to a shrink if they knew. Mine did. They think I’m cured now.”
“I don’t care what they do! And it’s not funny!” Gwen bent down, forcefully scooping a handful of water in Margot’s direction.
“Hey!” Margot hollered as the spray of cold water hit her chest. She looked down at her wet shirt. “You did that just to see my nipples get hard, didn’t you?” But when tears filled Gwen’s eyes she stopped. “Aww, come here…I’m sorry.” She opened her arms.
Gwen rushed into them and cried.
“You are so sweet and so pretty,” Margot said. “And you’re going to be gorgeous by the time you turn eighteen. So when you do, come up to Cambridge and visit me at Harvard. I promise to let you kiss me then…for as long as you want.” Margot broke the hug and pulled back to look at her. “Maybe I’ll even kiss you back.”
But Margot never made it to Harvard. She was killed in a boating accident a few days later.
Gwen had never experienced death before, and when her parents broke the devastating news, she fainted. It took her months and months to accept the fact that Margot was no more. How could someone so alive suddenly stop living? How could Margot exist one day and stop existing the next? Questions like these sometimes kept her up all night, eventually leading her to study philosophy and theology in college and ultimately pushing her toward academia to teach metaphysics: the study of being and the nature of existence.
Not until graduate school did Gwen meet her first lover and become involved with other lesbians and gay clubs. Prior to that time, she had unenthusiastically dated a few young men at her parents’ encouragement. She had some pleasant dates, friendly courtships, plenty of potential suitors who’d tried desperately to win her love—and her family’s money, she suspected—but none possessed the power to touch her heart or stir in her a sexual desire. Not the way women did, and certainly not like Margot had. Gwen never forgot her, and throughout the years she often wondered what Margot might have looked like at the age of thirty, forty, fifty. Probably a lot like Sam did now.
For a moment Gwen closed her eyes, thinking that if she were ten years younger, or Sam ten years older, she could easily fall for her, love her madly. But timing was everything, wasn’t it? And in the larger scheme of things, their timing was a little off. Perhaps it was better, she lamented, when the things we want most in life come never at all, rather than sooner or later. When they come sooner, we live with the knowledge of what we’ve lost; when they come later we’re only reminded of what it’s too late to have. But she saw no sense in regretting the could-have-beens of life. It only made your heart heavy, subtracted from the beauty and wonder of the here and now. Gwen took another deep breath and slowly exhaled, detaching herself from the past as she heard her name being called.
“Gwen…?” Samantha was staring at her, smiling a little, a perplexed crease in her brow. “Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, I was just—”
“Having a private thought and I rudely interrupted. I’m sorry,” Samantha said in good humor.
Gwen gazed into Samantha’s dark-brown eyes. They were honest eyes, yes, but they were bedroom eyes, too, as deep and dreamy as Margot’s. “I was just thinking that you remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Not your ex, I hope. You know, the one you said you would have divorced by now?”
Gwen laughed. “Heavens, no. You remind me of my very first girl-crush.”
“Do you still know her?”
“She died very young…a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Oh…” Gwen paused to think. “Over forty-seven years ago.”
“Hmm…maybe I’m her, reincarnated. Maybe I’ve come back to you.”
The thought startled Gwen. “Nice of you to take so long.” She searched Samantha’s face. “You came back too late.”
“Late?” Samantha looked at her watch and smiled. “I was thinking I’m right on time.”
Gwen parted her lips but was unable to think of a suitable retort. The mood became serious, and she thought it best to change the subject. “Feel free to touch or hold a vase.”
“You read my mind,” Sam said, as though sensing Gwen’s need to lighten the mood. “I’d like to hold one…very carefully…just for the tactile experience.”
“Knock yourself out, Sam.” Gwen reached in front of her and opened a curio door. “Pick a favorite.”
Without hesitation, she pointed to the red poppies.
Gwen lifted it from the shelf. “You have very fine taste.”
“Shh! Don’t tell me what it’s worth. I’ll get nervous and drop it.”
“That’s what insurance is for.” Gwen chuckled, and her mood did lighten.
With two hands Samantha carefully accepted the proffered vase, but just as she did their bare arms touched. The feel of Samantha’s skin brushing hers sent chills through her body. Call it chemistry, call it magnetism, but an undeniable electrical current sizzled between them. She knew Sam felt it too because they both froze for a moment before Samantha took the vase. Gwen watched as Samantha carefully rotated it in her hands, clearly admiring the full design, and then turned it over. “Eighteen ninety-six…” Samantha said.
Gwen looked on in surprise. “So you’ve learned to count in Rookwood years!”
“I have!” Samantha spoke like a proud student. “Liz taught me. I hope I’m impressing you in some small way.”
Gwen tried to hide her smile. “In a big way, Sam.”
“Well, I have to say you were right when you said I would fall in love.”
“Was I?”
“Yes, you were.” They were staring at each other now, not at the vase, and Gwen had the feeling they weren’t talking about pottery anymore. If not for Isabel calling them for dessert, it seemed neither one would have managed to break their stare.
“Aunt Gwen?” Isabel called. “Are you two still in here?” She stood with her hands on her hips, Liz coming up alongside her.
“Uh-oh,” Liz said to Gwen. “Sam’s hooked. You’re turning her into a pottery addict. Now she’ll start buying up Rookwood and Weller pottery, and this time next year she’ll be attending Collectors Anonymous meetings with the rest of us.”
Gwen laughed.
“Go away.” Samantha seemed to be only half joking. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an intense sensory experience?”
Isabel and Liz had obviously become instant friends, and Gwen was glad to see them getting on so well. Business associates and social contacts, Isabel had plenty, but no intimate relationships. If Gwen couldn’t interest her in seeking out a romantic relationship, then a close friendship would do for now.
“Come on, you two,” Isabel said. “Dessert is served on the front porch. Liz and Sam brought us custard cream puffs, and Rosa has made a fruit salad. It’s spiked with tequila, although she denies it. And she’s making latte if you’re interested.”
“Rosa’s making latte? She must be in a good mood. Sam? Latte?”
“Sure.”
“Tell Rosa to make it four.”
“All right,” Isabel said, “but don’t be too long. Liz wants to see the property.”
“By all means, go on without us.”
When the two young women retreated she returned her attention to Samantha, clenching the arm of her glasses between her teeth. She bit on it thoughtfully. “Okay, Sam, back to pottery. Are you up for a quick test before dessert?”
Samantha’s brown eyes narrowed challengingly. “Test me.”
Gwen smiled as she pondered her for a moment. “All right, then.” She slipped her glasses back on. “There’s one last showcase over here,” she said, leading the way. “You won’t find any floral designs, just figurals and scenic pieces—vases, tiles, plaques, and such—all by different potters. Let’s see if you can identify Rookwood from the rest.”
Gwen adjusted a dimmer that brightened both the track lighting above and the lights within the case. The curio was enormous, but she saw Sam zero in on the Rookwood bookend she’d come for.
“Oh, wow—that’s mine. I mean, yours, ours.”
“Yes, it is…waiting for its mate for many years now.” Gwen opened the double doors of the cabinet in which it was displayed.
Samantha surveyed the six or so shelves. All the pieces were beautiful, but some had that same haunting, ethereal style about them, with flying bats and owls against nocturnal landscapes. Another vase depicted a foggy swamp in the light of a blue moon. She took her time, keeping Gwen in suspense. “Should I start?” she asked.
“Go ahead.”
Samantha was quiet for a while as she gazed at all the pieces of pottery, and then she began pointing. “Rookwood.”
“Correct.”
She pointed to another. “Rookwood.”
“Yes.”
“Rookwood…Rookwood…Rookwood,” she called them, stopping at a life-like snapping turtle with a circle of holes in its back. “That doesn’t look like Rookwood, but I love it.”
“You should. It’s Weller.”
“Why the holes?”
“It’s a flower frog?”
Sam trailed a finger along the snapper’s spiked, dragon-like tail. “A snapping-turtle flower frog? I know florists use them to make arrangements, but the ones my mother had were flat disks with holes that sat in the bottom of vases, not ornamental like this.”
“Well, during the thirties and forties all sorts of ceramic animal sculptures were made to hold water and display tiny buds and flowers too small for vases. Vintage flower frogs are very collectible right now. Besides putting flowers in the holes, people use them as pen holders, others to display vintage marble collections, and some keep them in the bathroom to hold eyeliner pencils, tweezers, and so forth.”
“And what’s that?” Samantha pointed to a blue-and-white cameo plate. “It’s looks out of place with the other pottery.”
“It is. It’s English. Wedgwood. You might enjoy knowing that Charles Darwin married one of the Wedgwood daughters, Emma Wedgwood. She was his first cousin. Unfortunately, three of their ten children didn’t survive. Others were intellectually disabled. In fact, Darwin’s personal observations contributed to his essays against inbreeding.”
“Geez…what a crash course this has been,” Samantha said. “So, did I pass?”
“You more than passed.” Gwen was amazed at Samantha’s ability to identify and distinguish Rookwood from the others. “You are astute. And you have a great eye for detail.”
“It’s what made me such a good forensic investigator before I left the field to write full-time.”
“Seriously? You were a detective?”
“No, a civilian. I worked for a crime lab.”
“That certainly explains your sharp eye and fine investigative work, Detective Crowley.”
Samantha did a double take, her mouth opening in surprise at the mention of her fictional sleuth. “How do you know about Detective Crowley?”
“I do my homework,” she said quite nonchalantly.
“You’ve read my work?”
She edged her glasses down her nose. “Do you think I would entertain an author without first familiarizing myself with her work?”
Samantha shook her head, as if not quite knowing what to say.
“I will confess that Isabel told me about your books the other night. She passed along your first one she had in her library.”
“Since our phone conversation two days ago you managed to read my first book?”
“I’m a professor. I read. It’s what I do. Besides, I couldn’t put it down. It’s a hauntingly compelling story—atmospheric, mystical, your characters quite engaging. I stayed up half the night, unable to put it down. Tell me, though,” she said, reaching in and taking the rook bookend from its shelf. “Detective Crowley is a ghost, is she not?”
Samantha looked at her incredulously. “How can you know that? Do you know how many readers are just now beginning to figure out that she’s not real?”
