Crazy in Love by Luanne Rice Page A

Of course it was probably artistic license, giving him that Tom Sawyer look. Freckles, cowlick, and all. What a kid,” Honora said, turning from the window. Sunlight burnished her chestnut hair. “Is it wrong of me to wish Clare would do more with her painting? I love her sea paintings. And I’m sure Dina Clarke at the gallery would give her a show.”
    “Clare’s never seemed to want that,” I said. Clare, who always seemed in perfect control as a sister, daughter, wife, and mother, had shied away from succeeding as an artist. As her sister I was probably unqualified to rate her painting, but I had never seen a seascape I liked more than hers. One night after she married Donald she confessed to me that during graduate school she had been offered a one-woman show at Boston’s Drake Gallery. I had known enough never to tell Honora: Honora would have lost her mind with the idea her daughter could decline such an opportunity. Clare knew how to wisecrack, and she loved to tease me about “affair paranoia,” but my own theory was that she bore her own scars of my parents’ troubles, and they kept her very close to home.
    “Well, she’s a wonderful artist,” Honora said. “It’s ungenerous, in a way, to keep her work hidden. When so many people could enjoy it. But you’re right out there, honey. My little chicken, the Swift Observer.”
    “Mom, do you really think it makes sense? I mean, I’ve set myself up to observe families. I love doing it, of course, but I don’t want to give myself the voice of authority.”
    Honora gazed at me for ten long seconds, her mouth set to speak. “Of course it makes sense,” she said, “but you do seem to be devoting an inordinate amount of time to Mona Tuchman. I mean, I’m wondering how Nicky feels about that.”
    “How Nick feels about what?” I asked, my back stiffening.
    “Well, about the fact you’re so fascinated by a story about adultery. Isn’t that begging for trouble?”
    I sputtered. I guffawed. I was laughing so hard that Honora, now frowning, had to give me a glass of water.
    That was Honora—she said what was on her mind. She made it her business to tell Clare she should show her work in a gallery, to tell me my choice of subjects might be coming between me and Nick. God, how she annoyed me! But did I want the perfect mother, one who would say just the right thing without taking risks, without the cliff-edge passion that for me came along with love? Even family love, the kind that was supposed to be safest?
    “Do you find it so funny?” Honora asked glumly.
    “No. I find it disgusting, but I have to laugh,” I said. “Daddy hurt you. That doesn’t mean Nick’s going to do the same thing to me.”
    “I hope he doesn’t. I’m sure he won’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be on guard, sweetie.”
    “Okay. Thanks. Come on—let’s go take a look at Clare’s painting.”
    “You go. I’ve got to get your grandmother dressed.”
    I paused. I almost offered to help her, but instead I kissed her cheek and walked outside into the fresh air.
    “Hey there,” Clare said, not looking up from her watercolor. I stood beside her, saw it was of the rocky archipelago that led from the bay into the Sound.
    “Doesn’t Mommy’s painting look like turtle shells?” Casey asked.
    “Well, yes,” I said. “If you look at it a certain way, the rocks do look a little like turtle backs. Gleaming in the sun.”
    “I told you, I told you, Mommy,” Casey said.
    “Mmm,” Clare said. “Box turtles? Sea turtles? Any particular kind?”
    “There are sea turtles in the Galápagos Islands,” Eugene said. He reached for my hand, pulled me close to the water’s edge where he had drawn chalk pictures. One of them showed a dog with a remarkable penis. Eugene grinned when he saw me notice it.
    “Isn’t that cute?” I said. “Want to have lunch at my place today, Clare?”
    “Sure. I’ll bring the brownies.” Clare loved to bake; brownies were her specialty. I