Perfect Lies Page 15

  “Shall we do the tables?” Francine asked when the chairs had been stowed away in the storage room behind the coatracks. Meg helped Francine ease the first table over onto its side and then unclasp and push the metal legs inward. They hadn’t exchanged more than ten words over the twenty minutes or so that they’d been working together, though it didn’t surprise Meg when Francine finally spoke. It was as though they were already in the midst of a long, ongoing conversation on the subject.

  “I saw you out in the parking lot. I saw the look on your face, Meg. Could it be true that you really didn’t know about Ethan until tonight?”

  “Well, I knew—from personal experience—that he had his problems, but I guess I didn’t realize the extent of them.”

  “You couldn’t see it for yourself?”

  “When I first met Ethan—a decade or so ago—I had my doubts.” Meg looked down the edge of the table at Francine and felt for the first time the gentleness of her pale, disarming gaze.

  “Yes.” Francine nodded, encouraging her, “Lark told me about Bennington.”

  “But, over the years,” Meg continued, feeling the release of confession, “as their marriage lasted, as the girls were born, I guess I came to believe in him. In them. More than that, I grew envious. They seemed so united, dedicated to each other and the girls.”

  “Ah … yes. I see,” Francine said, nodding, as they started to collapse the next table. “The grass is always greener. Need, desire … they can be such positive driving forces. The emotional fuel to get us from place to place. And yet, so often when we get there, what do we find? Well, life is never what we expect, is it?”

  “So everybody in this town knew the truth about Ethan?”

  Francine drummed her fingers on the table as she met Meg’s eyes. She hesitated. “Truth? When it comes to the actions and motives of mankind, I sometimes think the word truth just doesn’t apply. God deals in truth. We seem to traffic in something much baser. But, to answer your question, I can at least give you facts. You’re sure you want to hear them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ethan McGowan seemed to make a hobby of going after the most desirable and prominent women in this town. How many over the years that I’ve been here? My guess is half a dozen. Regardless of marital status. Or emotional stability. I suppose he couldn’t help himself. Some people claim it’s an addiction—like alcohol or drug dependency. There’s actually a support group in Albany for sexual addiction. I suggested once to Ethan that he try it. You know what his response was? He laughed at me. In my heart, I have examined the question countless times: Should Ethan be absolved of his actions because—like some down-and-out drunk—he can’t help himself?”

  Meg noticed that Francine was talking about Ethan in the present tense, the intensity of her feelings bringing him back to life.

  “You didn’t much like him, did you?”

  Francine stared back at her, but Meg felt as though the minister were staring through her—at something beyond the reach of the human eye.

  “When I first met Lark and Ethan,” Francine said, shaking her head at the memory, “I was so taken with them. As you just said, they seemed perfect—but not in any cookie-cutter kind of way. They were genuine—intelligent, artistic, and committed, I felt, to living good lives. Lark and I—from the beginning we could talk for hours. Ethan and I were friendly then, too. I realized, of course, that he was an agnostic, but out of real conviction rather than laziness. We used to have such intense arguments. Ethan knew his stuff—Kierkegaard, Ortega y Gasset, Spinoza—and he was an exciting, challenging sparring partner. It was a real pleasure, debating him….” Francine broke off with a trail of dry laughter.

  “He walked me home one summer night and, halfway there, right past the Lindbergh’s house at the end of the driveway, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me. Oh Lord, yes. Kissed me. I was so shocked. But … I wasn’t horrified. I’d never—I’m not a particularly sensual person. His, his … passionate nature took me by surprise. Eventually I pushed him away, told him not to be ridiculous and never to do it again. But he told me that he’d longed to kiss me from the first time he saw me—that he’d fallen in love with … my mind! You see how smart he was? He knew that I would never believe he’d long for me physically—but I might just go for the idea that he had this great intellectual passion for me. And I did. For several days.”

  Meg held her breath. It was eerily like what Ethan had said to her.

  “Then, a night or two after that, a young woman in my congregation, newly married, came to see me. Local girl. Farming family. Pretty, buxom, a redhead. She was clearly troubled about something and eventually—it took nearly an hour—she confessed that she’d fallen in love with someone other than her husband. Well, why drag this out? You know who it was, of course. Ethan. Though, with her, he’d taken a different course of action. She liked to paint in watercolor. Fancied herself an artist. Seems he’d started giving her lessons. Told her she had a special talent. That she needed to develop it. Of course, her brute of a husband didn’t understand. But Ethan did all right. You see, he’d fallen in love with her artistic nature. And that, Meg, was the beginning….”

  “And they came to you,” Meg said, imagining how it must have been for Francine. “To pour out their hearts.”

  “Those in my parish, yes,” Francine continued. “Even after Ethan had developed something of a reputation in this town. It didn’t matter. He was that good. He had this uncanny sixth sense of where a woman’s weak spot might be—where she might have hidden the one little weakness or small dream that he could exploit. Ethan wasn’t content with physically seducing someone—he had to do it emotionally as well. He wanted your body, of course, but even more than that he wanted your heart. He did everything he could to ensure that you loved him, had fallen totally in love with him, body and soul, casting off husband, children, whomever, and given yourself over entirely to him. Then he moved on to his next victim.”

  “You hated him,” Meg said.

  “Yes. It is my worst sin. I’ve hated Ethan McGowan with all my heart for years now. I’ve hated him as I would hate the devil himself.”

  18

  The clear weather held through Tuesday, and they were able to bury Ethan in the new cemetery south of town. Only Lark, Meg, Clint, Abe, Francine, and the cemetery workers were in attendance. Lark, deciding that the girls shouldn’t be exposed to any more of death’s unhappy details, had left them at home in Janine’s care. It was a brief ceremony. As Francine recited the Twenty-third Psalm, electronic pulleys lowered the casket into the prepared grave.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …”

  Meg listened impassively, dry-eyed, unable to feel much of anything except bone-weary exhaustion. She knew that it would take her a very long time to understand—if she ever would—the man they were burying that day. For so many years, Ethan had been such a familiar part of her world that she hadn’t really seen him, hadn’t acknowledged him as a man, separate from Lark and the girls. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he’d ripped through her life, leaving behind a trail of emotional chaos. Only now, with him gone, could she see the devastation he had caused. Meg glanced around the semicircle of mourners, assessing the damage.

  There was Abe, standing beside Lark, dressed in an expensively tailored black suit and overcoat that looked out of place against the rural countryside. He’d told Meg before the ceremony that he was heading directly down to the city after the burial because of pressing business concerns. She sensed that he’d only stayed on to help Lark, who’d increasingly turned to him—as she’d turned from Meg—over the last few days. Though Abe and Lark had always been friendly, she had never noticed how close they’d become until this past weekend. He was good with Brook and Phoebe, who clearly adored him, and thoughtful and gentle with Lark. Meg felt a pang of envy when Abe put his arm around Lark’s shoulder as the workers started to shovel a mixture of dirt and snow onto the casket.

  Abe h
ad been perfectly cordial to Meg over the past few days, though from time to time she’d caught him so deep in his own thoughts he didn’t even realize he was being watched. This was unlike Abe, who was usually the most observant person in the room. He’d been by the house a lot, helping Lark deal with the funeral home and cemetery, doing what he could to keep the girls’ spirits up, but Meg felt his bantering good humor was forced. Of course, they were all under a lot of pressure—sorrow had the tendency to make the world feel like it was lodged directly on one’s shoulders, but she sensed a deeper undercurrent of unease in Abe.

  Lark was crying, her whole body shuddering with silent sobs. A few brief days ago Meg would have been torn apart by the sight. Now she felt only confusion. How could Lark care about a man who had been cheating on her for years? Why should she feel anything but relief that he was gone? Of all the questions surrounding Ethan’s life and death, this puzzled Meg the most: How could Lark have acted so much in love with Ethan when she must have been so terribly disturbed by what he was doing to her and to the family?

  Clint looked terrible, his eyes puffy and his face flushed red. He stood stiffly beside Francine, holding her purse as she read from the Bible, his wispy hair blown about by the wind. Meg had overheard him ask Lark if he could come by the house after the burial.

  “There’s something Janine and I need to talk to you about,” he’d said in the cemetery parking lot while they waited for the hearse to arrive.

  “Of course,” Lark had replied. “But you needn’t be so formal about it, Clint. You’ve been dropping in and out of the house since I’ve known you.”

  “Well, this is kind of important,” he’d replied. “I’d prefer to make an appointment.”

  They were going to tell Lark they were leaving, Meg guessed, watching Clint bow his head as Francine began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Of course, the two of them would be moving on; their whole lives had been tied to the Red River studio. They’d worked behind the scenes for nearly a decade—Janine handling the shipping, invoicing, and inventory, Clint assisting in the studio and helping with the heavy lifting and maintenance work that Ethan couldn’t be bothered with—and what did they have to show for it? Meg doubted if Ethan had set up any kind of retirement fund for them, or if they themselves had ever considered what would happen to them if Ethan wasn’t there to run things. She felt bad for the Lindberghs—two more people left in the rubble of Ethan’s careless life and senseless death.

  And there was yet another sad victim of Ethan’s recklessness. Lucinda, alone in the hospital—indicted already in the eyes of the town. Rebellious, confused, unloved, Lucinda had been handed over to Ethan and Lark at a most difficult time in her life. Hoping for shelter, she had found in the rural quiet of Red River a stepfather who, having already abandoned her mother, was now deceiving his own young family. She had to deal with the fact that the only father figure in her life was … a monster. At an age when most teenagers were worrying primarily about their complexions, Lucinda had been forced to confront the most complicated of adult issues—lust, adultery, betrayal. Meg thought of the weeping mess of a girl she’d seen in the hospital and felt her heart harden even further against Ethan.

  “… And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  Francine’s deep voice was steady and clear—but Meg wondered just how sincere she could be. If Francine hadn’t been able to forgive Ethan while he was alive, Meg doubted that death would suddenly absolve him of all the trespasses Francine had witnessed during his lifetime. Francine paused and looked around the circle of mourners. Meg met her eyes with a wan smile.

  Francine nodded back.

  “Amen,” she said, and shut the Bible with a thump

  Clint followed them back to the house, and as Lark was pulling into the driveway she turned to Meg and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d sit in on this thing with Clint and Janine. I’m not sure what they want, or what Ethan might have promised them at some point. Whatever it is, I could use some advice on what to do with the studio.” It was the first time since Ethan’s death that Lark had really turned to her for help, and she felt both relieved and apprehensive. Now that her sister had reopened communications, Meg knew she’d have to restrain herself from offering unwanted words of caution and concern.

  They sat around the kitchen table. Clint had brought a thick manila folder with him. Lark immediately lit up a cigarette. Janine coughed, waving her hands in front of her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Janine said in an apologetic voice. “I’m allergic, you know.”

  “And I’m a nervous wreck,” Lark replied sharply, “so it’s a draw.”

  “Of course,” Janine said, letting out a little sigh. “I totally understand. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Now the thing is,” Clint began without preamble, opening the file, “Janine and me know how to run the studio. And you need someone to run it for you. We’ve talked about it—Janine and me—and we think we’ve got a good plan for keeping things going more or less as they were. Without the artistic pieces, of course.”

  “How?” Lark asked. “Ethan was a master craftsman. I don’t mean to be unkind, Clint, or sound ungrateful. But Ethan left some pretty big shoes to fill.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” Clint said, nodding his head and looking down at the papers in front of him. “But, in reality, I’ve been turning out Red River Studio glasses—all three varieties—as well as vases, plates, and whatnot on my own now for nearly two years.”

  “Clint, is that true?” Lark sounded shocked. “Ethan never told me….”

  “We didn’t think you knew,” Clint replied. “I guess Ethan kept imagining it was going to be a temporary sort of thing. That he’d get back to the glasswork himself. Once the show happened, though, he pretty much turned the day-to-day work over to me. He told me to keep quiet about it. I guess he was afraid that customers might feel cheated if they didn’t think the master craftsman oversaw all the stuff himself. But I never understood why. The pieces are all produced from Ethan’s designs. And they all feature his techniques. That’s what matters, after all, that’s what can’t be duplicated. I know plenty of other studios where the assistants do most of the work. In any case, I’ve been doing it for a while now and it hasn’t hurt business any that I can tell.”

  “And what was Ethan doing?” Lark asked.

  “His art pieces,” Clint replied. “I think we all know that that’s what he really cared about. When he saw that I could do the other, the commercial stuff, he just kind of turned it over to me. For a while I guess I felt a little cheated, I mean he didn’t raise my salary or anything, but then I began to see it as a blessing in disguise. I learned the trade, you see. Believe me, I wouldn’t be offering to take on the studio if I didn’t think I could do a good job of it. I’m not that kind of person.”

  Silently, Meg agreed with Clint’s assessment of himself. Like his wife, Clint might be self-effacing and uncomfortable in the spotlight, but he was a conscientious man, determined and hardworking. It struck Meg that Clint’s conclusion about learning the trade applied to Lark’s circumstances as well: it was a secret blessing. Ethan’s growing disinterest in the commercial side of his studio had left Lark with a manager capable of carrying on in Ethan’s stead.

  “It’s certainly worth thinking about,” Lark replied.

  “We’ve done more than think,” Clint continued, laying a neat stack of typed pages in front of Lark. “Here’s our proposal. It’s something I’ve been considering for a while now. I would have approached Ethan directly with it at some point, if… ”

  Lark flipped quickly through the pages. “What’s this about a retail outlet?” she asked, pointing to a line item halfway down the second page.

  “It’s, well, sort of a store that we’d open, with an area for various workshops and classes,” Clint replied, sounding unsure of himself for the first time since the conversation began. “We could sell pieces there, and make extra mon
ey giving classes, sort of promoting interest in glassblowing in the community.”

  “I doubt if Ethan would have allowed that,” Lark mused. “He hated anything that commercialized something he considered an art form.”

  “In his hands,” Clint said, nodding quickly in agreement. “But for others—for me—it’s just a skill. A job. I’m not an artist, Lark, I’ve never pretended to be. The kind of things I can make—the tumblers, the simpler paperweights and vases—I won’t be able to charge what Ethan did for his finer pieces. We’ll need to generate money in other ways to compensate. Through the store. The classes.” He leaned over and tapped the pages in front of Lark. “It’s all spelled out in here.”

  “We’ll give you fifty percent of everything we make,” Janine added meekly. “That’s sales, you know, not profits. So it would be up to us to handle expenses.”

  “But you’d expect the use of the studio as part of the agreement, right? And you’ve always paid minimal rent for your house. I don’t know….”

  “But, Lark,” Meg broke in when she saw the Lindberghs’ disappointed expressions, “it’s a terrific solution for everyone. I can’t imagine why—”

  “I need a little time to think about it,” Lark sighed, lighting another cigarette. “Everything’s been happening … so quickly.”

  “We understand,” Clint said, rising to go. He pulled Janine’s chair back, forcing her to stand as well. “We just want you to know, though, that we’ve been in touch with a crafts center in New Hampshire. They said they might make us an offer; they were going to think about it, they said. So we’ll need an answer soon.”

  Lark squinted up at him through her cigarette smoke, and Meg thought she saw tears in her sister’s eyes. “You’ll have it within the week.”

  “Okay, I give up,” Meg said when she returned from showing the Lindberghs out. “I was under the impression that you wanted my advice. So what the hell more can you ask? If Clint ran the studio, you’d have enough income to keep working on your children’s books. You could go on as you were….”