Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,7

he is.” I stab at a piece of avocado. Why doesn’t Granddad adopt Connor then?

Connor looks back and forth between Granddad, who’s pageant-momming all over the place, and me, slumping sullenly in my chair. He stands. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m doing a double at Java Jim’s. But thanks for having me over, Professor. This was great. Thanks for making lunch, Ivy.”

“You’re welcome. It was nice to meet you,” I mumble.

While Granddad walks him out, I clear the table. Without being asked. Like a good granddaughter. But I bang the plates a little. I would rather die than share my scribblings with Connor. Poetry is obviously his thing, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s really good at it. I mean, he loves it enough to work in Granddad’s office this summer. Enough to come over and have lunch with his professor and the professor’s grumpy granddaughter. The way Connor talked about poetry—leaning forward in his chair, his ink-stained hands waving to illustrate his point, that big, goofy grin on his face—was dorky as hell but also kind of hot.

I wish I felt that way about something. Consumed by it.

My eyes fall on one of Grandmother’s paintings. In it, the black sky twists and the waves rage.

I shiver. Maybe it’s easier being ordinary.

Granddad pokes his head back into the kitchen. “You all right, Ivy Bear? You were awfully quiet at lunch.”

“Fine,” I mutter, sliding the clean cutting board onto the drying rack.

“You sure?” he presses. “I thought Connor made some good points about Emily Dickinson, but I can’t imagine you agreed.”

I dry my hands on the green dish towel. “Didn’t think there was any point in arguing. He thinks awfully well of himself, doesn’t he?”

As soon as I say it, I want to reel the bratty words back in.

Granddad braces his hands, ropy and twisted from arthritis, against one of the wooden chairs. “He’s one of the brightest young men I’ve taught. I don’t find him arrogant.”

I sigh. “Neither do I. Not really. He was nice. I like his tattoos.”

Granddad peers at me. “You look like somebody ran over your dog.”

“You never let me have a dog.” Too afraid it’d pee on Dorothea’s carpets and chew on her books. Another price of living in the family museum.

“You know what I mean. You look upset.”

“You sounded upset.” I toss the towel onto the counter. “On the phone. What were you and Erica fighting about?”

“Nothing,” Granddad says. “Just trying to figure out the details for the move. We’ll get it all straightened out by Saturday.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Was it about me?” Asking is pressing on a bruise.

“What? No. Of course not. Your mother… Erica’s not an easy person,” he admits.

“Is she awful?” I ask.

Granddad hesitates. “She can be,” he says. “She’s stubborn. Lashes out and doesn’t like to admit when she’s wrong. Gets that from me, I guess.” He tries a smile, but it falters. “We’ve always been like oil and water. Her mother knew how to manage her. They were pretty close. When Grace died, Erica was devastated. I couldn’t… I didn’t know how…”

He stares at the tiled floor. “I didn’t know how to help her,” he finishes. “I thought—hoped—that having you would turn things around. That she’d step up to the responsibility. But she didn’t. And that’s not on you, Ivy. There was something broken in her, and she had to want to fix it.”

“Maybe she’s different now,” I say.

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. Whatever she said on the phone, it has him second-guessing his decision to let her come home.

I wish he’d tell her to stay away. We don’t need her anymore. The days when I wished on every shooting star and birthday candle for my mama are long past, and now I don’t want her here any more than she ever wanted me.

Chapter

Three

My mother was pretty.

As a little girl, she had white-blond hair and chubby, pink cheeks and big, brown eyes. She wore neon dresses and leg warmers and pink jelly shoes as she posed on the brick sidewalk downtown. In one photo, she holds Granddad’s hand and a chocolate ice cream cone. In the next, Grandmother pushes her on the tire swing in the backyard.

As she gets older, there are fewer pictures. Teenage Erica is thin as a rail, swallowed up by plaid shirts and baggy jeans. I can tell by her dark roots and eyebrows that her spiky blond hair comes from a bottle. Her smiles are thorny and reluctant.