Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,11

like it’s time to dive into the deep end.

I’m about to step around the corner when I hear a voice. Her voice. I don’t catch the words, just the gravel and honey mix of it, scratchy and slow. I know that voice. It fixes me in place. It’s been fifteen years, but a tiny part of me still wants to run to her for a hug and a song. Mama.

I steady myself against the house, pulling strength from the warm, white bricks. My heart is racing as I poke my head out.

She doesn’t look like somebody’s mom.

That’s my first, maybe uncharitable, thought. Abby’s mom is a part-time real estate agent who wears capris and pastel T-shirts from the Gap. Claire’s mom is a history professor who wears a lot of belted fifties-style shirtdresses. Erica is wearing black shorts so short they’d get her sent home from school and a black tank top that show off her long, skinny limbs. Her bleached-blond hair is swept to one side in a chic pixie cut. She’s carrying a huge iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and her eyes are hidden behind enormous sunglasses. She’s tall—taller than me, I think, till I see the strappy gladiator sandals that give her a couple extra inches.

The front door bangs and Granddad’s loafers slap across the porch, then the driveway. “Erica. It’s good to see you.” He goes to hug her and she takes a step back. Ouch.

“Dad.” She gives a curt nod. “This is Grace.” Grace is tall and skinny for six, with all of Erica’s sharp angles. “And this is Isobel.” Isobel is short and curvy, with a heart-shaped face that makes her look younger than fifteen. She and Grace have the same white-blond hair that Erica had when she was a little girl, which apparently skipped me.

The three of them stand together in a little triangle. A team. A family.

Loneliness knifes through me.

Stupid. So stupid. These people are strangers. Why do I care how they stand?

Granddad shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Well, it’s real nice to meet you girls.”

“You’re our grandpa, huh? Is that what I call you?” Grace pulls off her pink, star-shaped sunglasses and gazes up at him. “I never had a grandpa before. Daddy’s daddy died before I was born.”

“You could try Granddad. See how that feels,” he suggests. “Or you could call me George.”

“George!” Grace laughs. “Like Curious George?”

I can hear the smile creep into his voice. “Yep.”

“You can call me Gracie. Everybody does, ’cept Mama,” Grace says. “Oh, Mama, look! A porch swing! I love porch swings.” She bounds past Granddad up to the porch, and I dart back before she can see me. “I think I’m going to like it here!” she announces.

“Mmm-hmm,” Erica says, noncommittal, and I peek out in time to see her take a long drag from her cigarette. Gross.

Isobel looks around at the gabled old farmhouse and the fields that stretch out as far as the eye can see. “That makes one of us who wants to be here,” she mutters, loud enough that I can hear. I know Cecil must be real different from what they’re used to in New York and Washington, DC, but that’s no excuse to be rude.

Enough. I can’t let Granddad stand out there by himself.

“Hi.” I’m proud that my voice doesn’t shake or squeak.

Granddad turns. “There’s our Ivy.”

I resist the urge to hide behind him. I step up next to him instead and square my shoulders. Even with her crazy heels, I’m Erica’s height. My eyes meet her mirrored sunglasses and I wonder what she’s thinking. Am I how she pictured me?

She takes another drag of her cigarette and stares long enough that I want to squirm. “Jesus, you’re tall.”

I wait for her to say more.

She doesn’t.

My mother hasn’t seen me in fifteen years, and that’s all she has to say to me?

“Five ten,” I mumble, fighting the urge to slouch.

“I’m tall too,” Gracie calls from the porch swing. “I’m going to be practically a giant. Like my daddy. He’s six feet two inches tall.” She scrutinizes me. “So you’re my aunt Ivy, huh? I never had an aunt before. Just uncles.”

My stomach drops like a stone.

“Your—” I choke, turning back to my mother. “Aunt Ivy?”

Erica pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her big, brown eyes are rimmed in black and framed by long lashes. Fake, probably.

She stares at Granddad. “You didn’t talk to her