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“Hello, there, and what can I—well, bless my soul!” The woman blinked owlishly at me from behind her glasses. “Well, if it isn’t the Vesper girl! I’d know you anywhere!”
I felt my smile freeze on my face as I processed my confusion. I hadn’t been back to this town since I was a few months old, and my resemblance to my mother was passing at best. But I swallowed and renewed the smile.
“That’s right. I’m Wren. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Wren, that’s right. I’m Phoebe Sterling. Why, I just can’t believe that… oh.” Her face fell as the realization hit. “Oh yes, of course. You must be here for Asteria’s funeral. I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thank you. So, you knew my grandmother?” I asked.
Phoebe smiled. “Everyone knew your grandmother.” She fingered a black ribbon tied around her right wrist as she spoke. “The Vespers have lived in Sedgwick Cove since its founding.” She laughed. “But listen to me, telling you about your own family history! Don’t you mind me, I never know when to stop talking!”
I just nodded, trying not to look surprised by this information. I knew our family had lived here a long time, but I didn’t realize it had been that long.
Phoebe’s lips pressed together as though she was trying to prevent herself from saying something, but after a few seconds her curiosity got the better of her, and the question burst forth. “And does that mean Kerridwen is back as well?”
It was so strange to hear people use my mother’s full name, like a misplayed note in a familiar song. But I nodded.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Phoebe murmured, more to herself than to me, and then she turned an almost too-bright smile on me. “Well, welcome back, child,” Phoebe said. “And feel free to have a look around. We’re just putting the finishing touches on the exhibit: ‘Sedgwick Cove: A Watercolor Journey.’ Been two years in the making. And there’s going to be some new artifacts on display next door at the Historical Society.” She gestured to the wall near the front windows; the name of the exhibit had been hand-painted on a sea-smoothed piece of driftwood and affixed to the wall. Then she dropped her eyes to her work again and left me in quiet to experience the exhibit.
Having been invited, I began to wander through, lingering in front of each painting and examining it closely. I didn’t have an ounce of artistic talent myself, but I’d always enjoyed museums. I thought I felt Phoebe’s eyes on me as I browsed, but when I chanced a glance at her, she seemed to be deep in concentration over her work.
The paintings themselves were fascinating, tracing the history of the town. Many portrayed a place long gone: a busy fisherman’s wharf with old-fashioned boats and horse-drawn carriages, a bustling general store with a dog drowsing on the porch, women in long petticoats dancing barefoot on the sand.
I turned the corner and saw a blank stretch of wall that had clearly been prepped for artwork, though none had been hung yet. A light shone down on a bare space of fresh paint along with a small brass frame carrying a description: “Untitled watercolor of Sedgwick Cove Beach, one of three. Bernadette Claire, local artist, 2010.”
“I’m still waiting for that one to come in,” Phoebe explained when she looked up and saw where I was. “The artist is a bit reclusive and is dragging her feet, so I—well, bless my soul, if this isn’t her walking in this very minute!”
I turned in time to see two women walk in from the street. My first thought was that they must be twins—they had identical tall, willowy frames and long, straight curtains of white-blonde hair. As they entered and moved closer, however, I realized that they were more likely to be mother and daughter. The slightly shorter of the women, upon closer inspection, was significantly older, but carried herself with a regalness and upright bearing that belied her age. The younger woman, on the other hand, followed meekly in her wake, her shoulders slightly hunched and her eyes cast downward.
“Hello, Phoebe,” the older woman said, her face breaking into a somewhat strained smile. “My apologies for the delay. We appreciate your patience.”
She looked pointedly at the young woman behind who chimed in without looking up.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Oh, please don’t apologize,” Phoebe said, waving their words away. “I know it can be a difficult decision, to put one’s work on display, especially after the theft.”
“Theft?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“Yes, from the Historical Society. There was an old family heirloom on loan from the Claires that was stolen—a mirror, belonging to a very pivotal personage in our town history. The other volunteers and I were devastated to discover the break-in.”
“As I’ve said before, no one blames you, Phoebe. And in any case, the Claires keep their word. Bernadette agreed to allow you to display her work. Such an agreement must be honored, and she must learn that.”
She looked disapprovingly at the younger woman—Bernadette, I realized—the way an owner might look at a naughty puppy; and a wave of dislike for the older woman rippled through me.
As though she could hear what I was thinking, the older woman turned toward me and caught me looking at her. Rather than turning her rudeness on me, however, her face split into an expression of wide-eyed surprise and dawning recognition that I was starting to grow accustomed to in this town.
“Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day. This is the young Vesper, is it not?” she asked, addressing Phoebe as though I weren’t standing right there, perfectly capable of introducing myself.
Phoebe stepped in, though, perhaps sensing my indignation. “Yes, I’m so sorry; where are my manners today? Wren Vesper, this is Ostara Claire and her niece, Bernadette Claire.”
Ostara held out her hand rather like she thought I might kiss it, but as I took it, she shook it with surprising vigor. I noted with interest the same black ribbon tied around her wrist that Phoebe wore around hers. I turned to shake Bernadette’s hand, but she made no motion at all to take mine as I held it out to her. She simply stood there, staring at me as though I’d just introduced myself as the Queen of England, or something equally intimidating.
“Nice to meet you,” I prompted, trying to smile.
Still, Bernadette only stared, a deer caught in the headlights.
“Please excuse my niece. She considers shyness a perfectly reasonable excuse for a complete lack of social etiquette,” Ostara said, shooting Bernadette a furious look.
