Yesterday's Sun (8 page)

It was Tom’s turn to be cagey, which eased Holly’s conscience. He told her there was still lots of upheaval at the studio and reminded her that everyone there was fighting to keep their job. Demanding where he went and what he did simply wasn’t an option.

They chatted a while, until eventually work couldn’t be put off any longer for either of them. Holly put the phone down and reluctantly picked up her sketch pad. Her plan was to continue to work up more sketches based on the two designs she had already settled on.

When she opened her sketchbook to the first of her drawings, the one of a mother holding a baby, her eyes were immediately drawn to the image of the baby. Her sketch had only subtle suggestions of form but even so, when she traced the baby’s face with her finger it brought to mind the baby of her hallucination. Libby. With a warm rush of emotion, she recalled the moment she had looked into Libby’s eyes and felt an instant connection. Was this what maternal instinct felt like, she wondered, or was she just desperately trying to justify Tom’s belief in her?

Holly’s gaze turned to the figure of the mother. With new eyes, she could see the pose was all wrong. The figure she had sketched was holding the baby tentatively, almost as if it were a box of spiders ready to crawl up her arm. Holly scored a line through the drawing before she knew what she was doing. Then she turned to the second sketch, which she had thought was the most promising in terms of concept. She still liked the spiraling form of the mother spinning the baby around, but again the pose seemed all wrong and the mother might just as well be twirling her handbag. She scored a line through this drawing, too.

With a flutter of panic, Holly knew the pressure was on and she was going to have to work solidly for the next two days to get her proposal ready in time.

The trip to London was a dramatic gear-change from the country life Holly was slowly becoming accustomed to. She left the serenity of the village to catch the early morning train from a nearby town and then battled in vain for a seat, losing it to one of the more seasoned commuters.

The meeting with Mrs. Bronson was to take place at the gallery where Holly exhibited and sold her sculptures. It was a small gallery but ideal for her work, partially because of its prime position and select clientele, and partially because she worked well with the proprietor, Sam Peterson. Sam had been extremely supportive of her fledgling career when she had first arrived in London and had played a large part in Holly’s success as an artist.

Holly had met Sam through one of the many part-time jobs she had taken after leaving art school. She had worked for a pet-care agency—walking dogs, babysitting rabbits, and, in Sam’s case, feeding his cats while he was away on one of his many tropical holidays with his partner, James. Sam had taken a keen interest in her artwork and had not only encouraged her to keep up with her art after she left college but had eventually offered to exhibit her work in his gallery.

It was a short journey to the gallery on the Tube and then on through the bustling crowds, but Holly was starting to feel energized by the hustle and bustle. She was wearing a smart fifties-style tunic dress with matching jacket. The outfit was a shade of pale blue that set off her long blond hair, which was swept back off her face with a matching headband. It had been a while since Holly had worn something other than jeans and a T-shirt, and dressing up made her feel part of the crowd again.

She needed all the energy she could muster, because she was practically running on empty. She had worked nonstop on her designs, sketching into the wee hours of the night with nothing to keep her company except the waning moon, which peeped through the kitchen window like a brooding monster, narrowing its eye in concentration over Holly’s shoulder.

While she had managed to keep most of the details of her hallucination out of her thoughts, she couldn’t quite erase the picture of Libby from her mind’s eye. She used this to her advantage and breathed new life into the sketches she was creating. At long last, Holly felt a connection with the piece she was trying to create. The downside to this was that she had also somehow developed a connection with Libby. Libby may have only been a figment of her imagination, but she was the first baby that Holly hadn’t been terrified of, the first baby she had wanted to reach out and hold. Libby had sneaked into her heart and there was a part of Holly that almost wished she were real.

The tinkling of the brass bell over the door announced Holly’s arrival at the gallery, and the expanse of space that greeted her was bright and modern. White walls reflected the natural light streaming into the glass-fronted gallery, while strategically placed spotlights picked up the selection of brightly colored and contrasting art pieces to entice the buyers.

The receptionist waved to her and picked up the phone, no doubt announcing her arrival to Sam. As Holly waited, she took the opportunity to do a quick stock of the work she had on display and to check out the competition. Holly sold a range of small sculptures through the gallery. Some were figures, others more conceptual, but all had Holly’s distinctive style of mixing contrasting textures and color. Holly’s work seemed to be becoming more commercial and it was the income from this type of work that paid for her and Tom’s luxuries. Holly felt a twinge of disappointment as she noted that only a few pieces of her work were being displayed in this front-of-house section of the gallery.

“Looking for something?” A soft voice came from behind her. Holly turned around to be greeted by the portly features of a middle-aged man with an obvious obsession for tweed.

“Hello, Sam,” beamed Holly, giving her old friend a kiss on each cheek. “I was just looking for some art pieces by the up-and-coming artist Holly Corrigan, but for the life of me I can’t see the kind of collection I was hoping for. Keeping them in a darkened room somewhere, are you?”

“Oh, Holly, Holly, Holly. What suspicious creatures you countryfolk are,” he admonished. “So you think as soon as you traded in your stilettos for wellies, I’d be putting your artwork out to grass, too, do you?”

“Well …” grimaced Holly, feeling guilty that she would even suggest that Sam wasn’t taking care of her best interests.

“There’s one of your pieces over there,” Sam sniffed, pointing to the window front. Holly wasn’t sure if his stance reminded her of a schoolteacher or an air steward.

“Another to the right there and two to the left, there and there.”

Definitely air steward, thought Holly, suppressing a grin. “And the rest?”

“S-O-L-D, sold!”

“All of them?” gasped Holly.

“All of them,” confirmed Sam. “The recession is officially over. You heard it here first.”

Holly grabbed his arms and they did a little celebratory jig in the middle of the gallery.

“Well done, Sam!”

“Well done, Holly!” corrected Sam. He stopped still and peered at Holly’s face. “Is that a black eye I see beneath the camouflage of makeup? Has that man of yours been beating you up?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that!” demanded Holly. “Of course he didn’t. I fell in the garden; that’s all.”

“Hmm,” replied Sam. “Well, you can tell me all about your new country life later. First we need to deal with your favorite client,” he whispered.

“Oh, God, is she here already?” Holly broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of what she was about to face. “Is Bronson Junior with her?”

“Thankfully not,” replied Sam, who shared Holly’s relief.

Holly was of course referring to Mrs. Bronson’s offspring or, as Holly tended to view the baby, her latest fashion accessory. Holly might not be an expert in maternal matters, but each time she saw Mrs. Bronson with her son it brought to mind a precocious child playing with a new kitten. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her client had turned up with the poor child peeking out of one of her oversized handbags.

“Onward and upward,” Sam told her, directing her up the stairs to his private office.

The meeting with Mrs. Bronson went better than expected. Holly had two fully worked-up designs to show her client, but there was only one that she felt able to put her heart into and fortunately for her it was the one Mrs. Bronson opted for. It was a spiraling form, depicting not just a mother cradling a baby in her arms, but a whole series of figures below them, symbolizing past generations swirling up through the black stone base toward the two white figures. She would still need to complete a scaled-down version first for Mrs. Bronson to sign off on, but for Holly the hardest part was now over. She had managed to create the concept and she was as happy with it as she could be under the circumstances, and given the struggles she had put herself through.

The bell above the door of the gallery settled into silence and both Holly and Sam breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs. Bronson disappeared into the distance.

“Well, that went well,” Holly said cautiously.

“Don’t sound so surprised. The design is beautiful. Well done, you. I know it can’t have been easy.” Sam knew Holly better than most and he knew all about her troubled childhood. “I did wonder if it was the right thing for you to take on, but you pulled it off. I don’t think I could have bluffed my way through it. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

“What do you mean, ‘bluff’?” Holly demanded. Although she knew exactly what he meant.

“Holly, I love you dearly, but, well, you’re not exactly into motherhood, are you? To pull off an art piece of this scale takes some insight into all that mother-and-child nonsense and I’m afraid you’re just as bad as me: clueless on the subject.”

“New home, new life. Who says I’m not mother material?” Holly argued. She could feel the color rising in her face. A week ago she would have agreed wholeheartedly with Sam; they’d had similar conversations before. But now, with Libby’s face appearing like a watermark over everything she saw, Holly didn’t want to hear it.

Sam laughed and hugged her to him. “Maybe you’re right, and I hope you are. Just promise me one thing …”

“What’s that?” Holly asked suspiciously as she unraveled herself from his embrace.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t bring it with you when you come visit. What’s made in the country, stays in the country.”

“I promise!” laughed Holly. “Now enough of this, let’s get down to business. How am I going to replenish your stock?”

Although she loved the idea that her work was becoming sought-after, she wasn’t prepared to simply churn out sculptures on a conveyor belt to meet demand. Taking on Mrs. Bronson’s commission had been bad enough. Sam was persuasive, however, so she went through some ideas with him and promised to get to work on them if time allowed, once her studio was up and running in the next week or so. In truth, a heavy workload was going to be a welcome distraction during Tom’s absence.

Sam did his best to persuade Holly to stay longer, but she was on a mission. She had one more job to do before she left for home. Holly said her good-byes and then weaved her way back across London, heading for the British Library, where she hoped to get some inspiration for the type of stone she would use in Mrs. Bronson’s sculpture. At least that was the reason she kept giving herself.

The library was vast and Holly would have felt lost if she hadn’t already spent countless hours, if not days, searching through its obsessively stacked and indexed treasures. She wasted no time in tracking down the reference books she needed and even less time on deciding which type of stone to use. Holly closed the last book she had been leafing through and stacked it up with the rest on the reading desk she was occupying. She tapped her fingers distractedly on the stack of books. She hadn’t fooled herself. She already knew she would choose black marble for the base of her sculpture; it was the obvious choice, and the upper section would be formed from clay.

A man at the next table cleared his throat and stared meaningfully at Holly. Her hand froze midtap. She didn’t realize she had been tapping so loudly. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

Holly returned her books and asked a library assistant for help looking up any records of Hardmonton Hall. It wasn’t the Hall that interested her as much as it was the origins of the moondial. Her desire to find out more about the dial had nothing to do with her hallucination, she told herself. She was simply doing research on what was a very interesting, if not mysterious, centerpiece in her garden. It took Holly quite a while, with the occasional direction from one very patient and helpful assistant, to gather all of two books on the subject.

Sitting back at her reading desk, Holly opened the first book. It was a collected history of English architecture, specializing in Tudor manor houses, and Hardmonton Hall was listed in its index. Holly flicked through until she came to the relevant section. There were only a handful of pages devoted to the Hall, most of which were illustrations and plans of the buildings and grounds. It was in a plan of the ornate gardens that flowed from the back of the Hall that Holly eventually found evidence of the moondial. It was, or had been, located in what appeared to be a large stone circle. The circle was divided into four segments with an inner circle where the moondial would have been situated. From this centerpiece, four wide stone paths led outward, separated by flower beds of some sort.

The second book was a wild-card and Holly held out little hope that it would uncover any more of the dial’s history. It was a book on great archaeological expeditions in the nineteenth century and although there was no reference to the Hall itself, there was a reference to one of the previous Lord Hardmontons. Leafing through the book, Holly found the chapter she was looking for. She frowned as she skimmed through page after page of text. Charles Hardmonton had been a renowned explorer involved in expeditions all over the world and, as interesting as this local history was to Holly, she could feel frustration building inside her.

Her impatience grew as she tracked Lord Hardmonton’s adventures from one side of the globe to the other, and she prepared herself for disappointment as she turned each page. In a fit of pique, she skipped through to the last paragraph. Lord Hardmonton’s career as an explorer had come to an abrupt end when he fell out of favor with his sponsors during his last recorded expedition to central Mexico in search of the temple of Coyolxauhqui, the Aztec moon goddess.