Portrait of a protege, p.1
Portrait of a Protégé, page 1
part #2 of Portraits Series
Portrait of a Protégé
Portraits Trilogy
Book II
by
J.B.Chicoine
Also in the
Portraits Trilogy:
Book I
Portrait of a Girl Running
Book III
Portrait of a Girl Adrift
strawhillpublishing@jbchicoine.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2013 by J. B. Chicoine
Cover art: original watercolor painting—Portrait of a Protégé—by J. B. Chicoine.
Cover and interior design by Straw Hill Design.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Meet the Cast
Other Novels by J. B. Chicoine
Author Biography
Acknowledgments
Many, many thanks to my writing partner, Robynne Marie Plouff, and my beta readers, Ryan Skidmore, Marie Skidmore, Liza Carens Salerno, Craig A. Chicoine, Carol Newman Cronin, Lindsey Hanchett, Laura Martone, and Beth Zygiel. I would also like to thank Lisa Porter for her wise insights, and Glenn Rawlinson for his continuous background support.
Most of all, thanks to my Todd
For my beautiful daughter, Heather
Chapter 1
Summer 1982, New Hampshire
The lake’s tranquility exploded with a prelude of July 4th firecrackers and bottle rockets echoing into the cove, drowning out the ringing telephone. As the sulfur smoke dissipated, Leila’s nerves settled. The phone rang again, startling her, and she sprung to her feet, praying it would be Clarence calling from Cricenti’s Market. The screen door slammed as she picked up on the next ring.
“Hello,” she said, winded.
“Hi—” Clarence’s voice trailed with hesitation.
Her heart withered. “You’re not coming ….”
“I’m so sorry, Leila. I would have called sooner, but I was holding off until Bonnie got word from the specialist. He’s willing to fit Peter in early on Monday morning. His next available slot wouldn’t be for over three months.”
“Oh well ….”
“Bonnie really wants me to be there.”
“No, you should definitely go with them.” She stifled unjustifiable resentment—after all, an only daughter and grandson ranked higher than friend, even if exceptional.
“I could still come this weekend,” his words lacked conviction, “but I could stay only one night.”
Leila pulled the phone cord out through the back door onto the deck. Birch leaves fluttered, launching a dragonfly. “No, that’s crazy. It’s an eight-hour drive and on a holiday weekend—that’s too much. You have enough stress without cramming all that in.”
“It’s just that of all weekends ….” Worry laced his voice. She pictured him raking fingers through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair.
“You know me. I’ll be fine ….” She sat on the top step of the deck, swatting a mosquito. “I’ll go see the fireworks or just hang out at the movies or something.”
“Please don’t stay holed up in a theater all weekend.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. And honestly, don’t worry. You can come up when things settle down a little. Maybe in a few weeks or sometime next month, before school starts.”
“I will. Let me get through this next week and see what this shrink has to offer. Then we’ll put something on the calendar.”
“Okay, then. I’ll let you go.”
“Oh, by the way, Bonnie sends her regards and apologies for detaining me.”
Leila’s pulse flared. “Tell her it’s fine. I just want what’s best for Peter, too.”
“I will, but she knows it’s not easy for you, either.”
“It’s not easy for any of us.”
“Well, I’ll let you go.”
“We’ll talk soon.” Leila clicked the receiver and sat for a moment, playing with the end of her long braid like a fine-point sable brush, painting imaginary circles on her knee. An early firefly blinked in the cove, its light diffuse in the humid evening air.
Resigned, she stood and plodded her way to the screen door. Its creak grated her nerves as she stepped back into the kitchen. She hung up the phone beside the butcher-block island and then paced the span of windows overlooking the lake. Standing before her gleaming appliances, she wiped down the granite counters one more time, draped the folded dishtowel over its rack, and returned to the deck. She rocked on the gliding settee until the moon rose and mosquitoes became as unbearable as the bottle rockets and firecrackers splintering the lake’s calm. There would be no escaping the stomach-churning sounds of it all. Perhaps the basement cinder block might baffle the noise and provide relief.
From the kitchen, she descended the stairs and landed in her husband’s photography studio, imagining Ian might return home at any moment—that she should dust so he wouldn’t think she had been idle in his absence. Ian had always been one to spring a surprise on her. Without more than a glance, she slipped on past into her own little studio.
The nearly full moon washed her room in an ethereal blue and dissolved with a flip of the light switch. She stood before the one large window looking out onto the little sandy spot they called ‘the beach.’ She turned to face her room. Tidy and predictable as always. Her controlled environment. The taut quilt of the bed Clarence was to sleep on beckoned. She dropped to the mattress and lay down.
Within minutes—or hours—of drifting in and out of sleep, she awoke with a start. She wasn’t sure if a firecracker, a barking dog, or another intense dream jarred her awake. As always, her first thought was Ian. Then, the peripheral flash—Clarence’s cancellation—cut in, deepening the ache. She rose from the bed and smoothed the quilt, each stroke an attempt to quell her disappointment. It would be hours before she could settle down to sleep for the night, and so she headed upstairs.
Standing in front of her piano, she stared out the window, out at the front dooryard, her thoughts returning to Clarence Myles. It had been months since she last saw him. Even if his visits had not been frequent, at least he had followed through on his promise when she left Long Island four years ago.
Back then, while Ian renovated this cottage on Pleasant Lake, she had rented a tiny cabin on nearby Little Lake Sunapee. She had started working at the local art supply store and lent a hand with remodeling what became their honeymoon cottage. The sale of Ian’s prime real estate on Long Island’s south shore had given them a good start and a nicer home than she had ever known. Just the same, she still remembered her rustic little ‘camp’ with fondness. She and Ian’s relationship had bloomed during that summer of 1978.
That was also the summer she met Bonnie, who accompanied Clarence on his first visit. Ah, yes. The estranged daughter, Ian had surmised. Coming to size up her competition. Leila had cringed at Ian’s astute observation, and she would never forget one detail of that visit four years ago. Her heart pounded now as it had then, as if she could hear Clarence’s old Volvo pulling into her dooryard. She closed her eyes, the scene rushing in at her. Bonnie had sat in Clarence’s front seat, the sight of his daughter restraining Leila from rushing to his arms.
“Hi,” Leila had called out as Clarence shut his door.
Bonnie emerged without acknowledging her. Leila caught only a glimpse of bright green eyes before Bonnie bent to pull her sleeping three-year-old from his car seat. Her designer shorts hid little of her derrière. When she stood, even with her little boy covering much of her front, her snug tank top revealed a figure worth flaunting. Bonnie looked nothing like the rehab waif Leila had expected.
“Hi,” Leila said, extending her hand.
Bonnie looked her up and down, both hands keeping hold of her child. “Sorry, he’s an armful.”
Leila withdrew, wiping her hands on her cutoffs, stalling in the awkward moment, and then turned to Clarence as she led the way. “How was the drive?”
“Not too bad north of Hartford,” Clarence said as they stepped inside. He glanced from the yard-sale
Leila smiled, directing her attention to Bonnie, still carrying the sleeping armful of her tow-headed son.
“The two of you can take my room.” She led Bonnie through the skewed bedroom door. “It’s closer to the bathroom and not as musty as the basement where the bunk bed is.”
Bonnie scanned the room, expressionless. “Thank you.”
Leila opened the closet. “There’s plenty of space for your clothes. As you can see, I’m a bit of a minimalist.”
“Yes. I see.”
“Your father says you were a fashion designer. You probably have a lot of nice clothes.”
Bonnie stared at Leila as if scrutinizing each feature of her heating face.
“You look a lot like her,” Bonnie said, with the first hint of kindness.
Leila’s heart jumped.
Bonnie’s expression softened more. “Mostly in the eyes. Not just the blue, but the shape … the expressiveness ….”
Leila’s eyes fogged. “Did you know my mother very well?”
She laid Peter on the bed, smoothing his hair. “How can anyone truly know someone else?”
Bonnie’s question took Leila aback. “But you spent time with her in rehab. What was she like?”
Bonnie paused before turning to Leila, and looked at her level eyed. “She was a good person. I’m so sorry about how all that turned out. I wish you could have received her note in an easier way.”
“Suicide is never easy, right?”
Bonnie sighed and firmed her chin as if restraining its quiver. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Not at all. Just make sure you jiggle the toilet handle.” Leila pushed open the door outside the bedroom. She still had so many questions about her mother—questions that vacillated between simple curiosity and a longing ache. Bonnie was the doorkeeper and a reluctant one at that.
Joining Clarence, Leila slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a less reserved greeting, withdrawing as soon as Bonnie reappeared with now wide-awake Peter. He clung to his mother’s leg, reaching up for her.
“He’s awfully cute,” Leila said as Peter buried his face in his mother’s shoulder.
“He’s playing bashful, but that won’t last.” Bonnie kissed his tuft of silken hair as she adjusted him on her hip. “Soon he’ll be climbing all over Grandpa—won’tcha.”
“Supper is nearly ready if anyone’s hungry,” Leila said, anxious to avoid uncomfortable silence.
“Smells wonderful. Italian?” Clarence said.
Leila smiled, anxious to show off her newfound cooking skills. “Lasagne di Bugialli.”
A glint of approval shot from his eyes. “Excellent.”
Bonnie quirked a brow, perhaps annoyed by their apparent rapport.
Leila cringed at her own insensitivity but rebounded. “Sorry about the kitchen heat. We can eat at the picnic table on the deck, and swim after dinner, if you’d like.”
“Terrific.” Bonnie snuggled the boy. “Peter will love that, won’tcha.”
Bonnie lightened up and Leila relaxed, although she sensed Clarence’s stifled spontaneity. Leila had hoped he and his daughter had come to enjoy an easier rapport—apparently they hadn’t.
“I have a few more preparations in the kitchen,” Leila pinched Clarence’s sleeve.
“Let me help,” he said as Bonnie sat the boy on her lap in the dining nook, adjacent the kitchen.
Clarence followed Leila. She bent to remove the casserole dish from the oven. “Salad makings are in the fridge.”
Clarence maneuvered around her, removing lettuce, dressing, and a tomato from the refrigerator. Like synchronized dancing partners, they ducked and wove around each other in tight quarters, one brushing comfortably against the other between the kitchen and the deck. Bonnie watched, her mouth twisting.
Outside at the picnic table as they ate, Bonnie sipped lemonade, more intent on studying Leila’s mismatched table setting—the antithesis of all fashion sense—than finishing her lasagne. Peter grinned at Leila between bites, diminishing some of the tense silence. Leila had hoped Clarence might be more conversant with his daughter, but he had little to say as he fidgeted with cutlery, and his foot wiggled beneath the table.
Monitoring Bonnie, Leila formulated a question, weighing the prudence of again bringing up her mother. When Bonnie’s gaze met Leila’s, she ventured, “So, what was my mother like?”
Bonnie’s focus shifted and came back to Leila. “She was quiet.”
“That’s all?”
Bonnie drew in a breath, bordering on irate. “Marilyn—your mother—was in a bad place when I knew her. I can’t imagine how you must feel, but—” she looked away, “—there’s nothing I can say—”
“But there must be something—”
“Rehab was hell. You don’t want to know.”
That was at least partly true—Leila didn’t want to know enough to push it. Her mother would remain the big unknown, the vacant space consumed by only vague stirrings of something like emotion. Was Leila so broken she didn’t really want to know, or was it still true that she couldn’t miss what she never had?
Leila retreated to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Merlot and a corkscrew.
“Why don’t you do the honors,” Leila said, plunking them both in front of Clarence.
He glanced at his daughter feeding Peter from her own plate, and then back to Leila. “Why don’t we save this for later?”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry, of course.” How could she have so quickly forgotten about rehab?
“So, how is Ian’s renovation project coming along?” Clarence asked.
“Really well. It’s going to be beautiful. It’s not too far from here.”
“Will we be seeing him?”
“Yes. He’s coming by tomorrow. I thought we might grill out here. The weather’s supposed to be good.” Directing her attention to Bonnie, Leila added, “See, there’s a nice little beach area and the water is shallow for several feet out. Peter might like playing in it.”
“Sounds wonderful.” She smiled. “Who’s Ian?”
“He’s—” Leila glanced at Clarence, “—he’s a friend of ours.” Why should she hesitate to call Ian her boyfriend? Clarence had given his blessing—more or less—but would he think they had been sleeping together, that they had been moving too fast?
Bonnie’s eyebrow flicked. “Really, Dad? Where do you know him from?” Apparently Clarence hadn’t filled Bonnie in on Leila and Ian. Perhaps their relationship still made him uncomfortable.
“He and I had positions at the same high school on Long Island.”
“A teacher?”
His jaw shifted. “A coach.”
“Does he just vacation in New Hampshire or does he live up here?”
“He’s renovating a house—doing the work himself,” Leila said with pride. “He’ll be living here year-round.”
“How curious.”
Leila strained a smile as Clarence intervened. “Dinner is excellent.”
“Yes, dinner was lovely,” Bonnie’s kinder smile returned.
“Thank you. Would Peter like a little cheesecake?”
Bonnie kissed the boy’s forehead. “No sugar after six, thank you.”
Peter climbed over to his grandpa’s lap, brandishing a Band-Aided boo-boo on his finger.
Bonnie rose from the table. “I’m going to change into my swimsuit. Dad, would you occupy him?”
Clarence bounced the little boy on his knee and stroked his hair. “I’d sure like some of that cheesecake.”
Leila served him a large slab on another mismatched plate.
“Wedgewood. Nice.” Clarence winked.
“It clashes perfectly with everything else in the cabin, don’t you think?”
“Not everyone can pull off tacky with this much style, you know.”
She grinned. “Indeed! I know how to make a real fashion statement.”
While Bonnie and Peter waded in the lake, Leila and Clarence kept conversation light as they cleaned up after dinner, reserving their deep discussion for later when they could savor every morsel in private.
As soon as Bonnie turned in for the night with Peter and his bedtime story, Leila grabbed the bottle of wine, which Clarence had already uncorked, allowing it to breathe. She led him out to the sand under the light of the half-moon. He sat on a lawn chair, and she pulled one right next to him as he poured the Merlot into their happily mismatched goblets. Silently, they watched the distorted reflection of the moon stretch and break apart on the placid water. The bluish light accentuated the gray at Clarence’s temples. Leila swallowed a mouthful.
