The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (good books for high schoolers txt) 📕

stuff. She’s dead, and her crazy husband, who my father remembers, is now dead, and her house sits empty. It’s a work of art in itself, Mrs. Sarah Seabury says, but it’s abandoned and falling in. Sarah Seabury, famous painter who summered in the Mercy River watershed region, was acquainted with Mrs. Lewis. Her friends and family called her Sally, just as friends and family of Mrs. Lewis called her Maudie. The two artists used to discuss painting technique, although Mrs. Lewis had a wholly unique technique due to her severe arthritis and her chain-smoking. Mrs. Sally Seabury abandoned her family, her own daughter, and went to Florida.”

Cynthia curtsies perfecty and bows her head. Stella misses Cynthia’s mother and she’s never even met her. She misses all moms. She can’t tell if Cynthia misses her own mother. She always goes along with everything.

They are in Cynthia’s bedroom now. “Cynthia has an ability to cut through the bullshit, to call an ace an ace and not a spade, a mermaid a mermaid and not a fish, and to call a lie for what it is. Now, if you’ll look over here . . . see how Miss Seabury has her very own powder-pink ensuite bathroom with a tub shaped like an oyster shell. And in this closet, look at the clothes Miss Cynthia Seabury has.”

“Wow. I only have this kind of stuff.” Stella points at her own dress.

“It’s very pretty, though you do remind me of some of the old postcards my grandmother has, of old-time girls. But that’s a style statement, Stella. It’s like . . . stellar.” Cynthia giggles. She looks pleased when Stella smiles.

“Now, please observe how Cynthia’s mother, the famous artist Sally . . . I mean Sarah Seabury . . . I mean Windsor . . . has painted an extensive mural on the walls, a garden scene here, and on the other side, a seascape, with plum and black water with hints of silver. Note the detail on the sandcastle, the exquisite blending of colours in the sunset, the Renaissance influences. You’ll notice by the bed the mermaids in the sea on the rocks, a tribute to German expressionism, an early influence. Observe the young girl in the castle, how she looks out to sea.”

It’s Cynthia painted in the castle, in the most beautiful room Stella has ever seen.

“My mother painted the room herself. Well, I helped her. She said she couldn’t have done it without me.” Cynthia looks around her bedroom. “I’ve only ever spent about ten nights in here, if you can believe it.

“We did it when my mother came back from the nuthouse. That’s what my father calls it. She went away for a while. I was at boarding school. Did you ever read Charlotte Sometimes?”

“Yes!” Stella can’t believe Cynthia knows this book too. And that her mother was in a hospital.

“My mother cried all the time and stuff. At least whenever she called me she did. My dad got mad at her. She was scared to bawl in front of him. He hates bawling. That’s what he calls it. He’d take the phone away and apologize to me and then hang up! ‘On behalf of your mother, I apologize to you, Cynthia.’ All formal, and stuff.

“My dad can be a humongous asshole, you know. Don’t let him fool you. I knew he’d be mad when I dyed my hair and got tattoos. He blamed the school. He’s always blaming the wrong people. In the old times, my dad’s ancestors had slaves. I bet he misses those days.”

Cynthia presents a photograph of her parents together when they were younger. When Frank was younger, Stella thinks. “I know, ginormous age gap. Cradle robber. That’s what Granny calls it. Mom got pregnant with me so that’s why they got married.”

“My mom too. But she was thirty when I was born.”

And almost forty-three when she died, Stella thinks.

Frank’s voice rolls out of a square beige box on the wall. “Cynthia? Stella? Are you girls in your room? Time for supper . . . Hello?”

Cynthia crosses her arms and smirks.

“Girls? Cynthia . . . Stella? I don’t know where they are, Billy. That’s the trouble with a gigantic house.”

Cynthia winks. “Let them worry a bit. We’ll just show up. If you want, I can give you some of my clothes that don’t fit me anymore. I love your style with those old-time dresses and all, but if you want some things in fashion, it’s no problem.”

Cynthia puts on a Blondie cassette and shakes her head, singing along with the song “Call Me.” The intercom buzzes again and she turns up the music and sings until the song ends. Then she puts in a different cassette. Another song flares out. Love will tear us apart, she chants. Cynthia turns off the boom box. “Wow, I feel so much better. That’s Joy Division. That song is killer. It’s on a mixed tape my boyfriend sent me. Well, he wasn’t really my boyfriend. We hung out. At school. Well, he was at a boys’ school. My dad keeps taking the tapes away. He’s keeping my mail now. It’s hard to go against my father.”

Back down some halls and around some corners and up and down some stairs, a maze of a house, and then into the dining room where the men are just sitting down.

“Oh, there you are, girls. Didn’t you hear me calling for you? I tried every intercom in the house.” Frank smiles.

“Sorry, we were having a discussion about art and music.”

Frank pours everyone glasses of champagne, even the girls. Stella looks at her father but he seems oblivious, studying the flute rimmed with gold. Frank raises his glass. “Let’s have a toast — to new beginnings, to the best of the good old days, to friendship, to family.”

Stella’s father raises his glass. “To summer in Seabury. Seas the day, get it?” Cynthia erupts in a tinkling laughter as though it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard,