A Bungalow For Two. Carole Page Gift

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СКАЧАТЬ questioning their talent. But it hadn’t happened to her. At least, not for several years. Not since…yes, she remembered now…not since her mother’s death seven years ago.

      For two years after her mother died, she hadn’t been able to create a thing. She was seventeen at the time, fresh out of high school and just beginning her freshman year at San Diego State. Majoring in art, of course, as she had always planned. But every time she thought of creating something—a painting, a drawing, a vase or a piece of sculpture, she felt a knot of pain in her heart.

      It was as if the idea of creation, even producing something as mundane as an object of art, signified a birth. The paradox was that her heart was deluged with the reality of death. But at last, praise God, when she began her junior year of college she experienced a breakthrough. Her creativity returned in a rush. She changed her major from art education to fine arts and completed her B.A. two years later.

      And in the five years since then, her skill and reputation as a sculptor had grown. She was even teaching a night class at San Diego State…and the commissions were coming often enough that she had bankrolled a tidy sum in her savings account.

      Yes, her life these days had been good, very good. Even though her evenings were devoid of romance, her routine had been satisfying and stable…. Until the last few weeks, when Frannie’s world turned topsy-turvy—the day her father brought home his new bride and stepdaughter. Since then, nothing had been the same.

      Take today, for example. In the past (B.J.—before Juliana), Frannie would have risen at seven and fixed her father’s and Brianna’s breakfast. The three of them would have sat around the table chatting about their plans for the day. They would have held hands and prayed together before going their separate ways.

      But now that Brianna was married and setting up housekeeping in her own country estate, Frannie was lucky to see her once a week. And Cassie, with her new baby, stopped by even less often. Even when her sisters dropped in to visit, they chatted only about their happy new lives and then were quickly on their way. They were so busy and preoccupied, they were totally unaware that Frannie felt lonely and left behind.

      It wasn’t that the house was empty now. Frannie could have tolerated that. She had never minded long periods of solitude. The silence sometimes even stirred her creative juices. Peace and quiet were welcome friends.

      But, in fact, the old Rowlands’ homestead wasn’t silent; it was as bustling as ever. It reverberated with noise and voices and music and laughter. But except for her father, the sounds belonged to strangers, not to the people Frannie loved.

      In truth, even her father was different now. The dynamics had changed. He was a man absorbed with pleasing his wife. Where Frannie’s happy home had once comfortably contained a father and three daughters, now her father was half of a newlywed couple occupying the premises. And each had a daughter. To complicate matters, Frannie and Belina were virtual strangers and had no desire to be anything more.

      These days, Frannie’s home was filled with Juliana’s laughter and songs. In her youth, Juliana had performed on the New York stage and in the opera houses of Europe. Now her full, lilting soprano wafted through the Rowlands house a dozen times a day…as Juliana cooked and cleaned, as she taught voice lessons to eager children and led a women’s Bible study twice a week in the parlor. Juliana was obviously determined to become the quintessential minister’s wife—a fact Frannie resented.

      But if Frannie begrudged the way Juliana had taken over her home, she was equally disturbed by the stealthy comings and goings of the mysterious Belina. The aloof, raven-haired girl was like a ghost, flitting through the house noiselessly, rarely speaking or making eye contact. She spent most of her time alone in her room doing who knew what.

      Frannie was just as glad that she didn’t have to make polite conversation with the strange young woman. What would they talk about? They had nothing in common…except that Belina’s mother was married to Frannie’s father.

      Every morning, when Frannie awoke, she told herself, Maybe today things will be different. This will seem like my home again. I’ll feel comfortable around Belina and Juliana. We’ll begin to be a family at last.

      But as quickly as she made her resolves, they were shattered by some minor event that caught Frannie unawares, that brought her up short and reminded her she was living in a vastly different household. It happened again today, the last week of July, just over two weeks since her father had brought Juliana home from their honeymoon.

      This morning was the last straw for Frannie, because the incident involved someone dear to her heart. Ruggs, the family dog, an ancient, longhaired mongrel, had tracked mud all over Juliana’s freshly waxed floor. Juliana chased him out the back door with a broom. Frannie had never seen the old dog run so fast or yelp so loud. The sound nearly broke Frannie’s heart.

      The problem was, Juliana just didn’t get it. She considered Ruggs a scroungy old dog that was always getting in the way. She didn’t understand that he was as much a member of the family as anyone. When Juliana shooed Ruggs out the door, it was as if she had shooed Frannie out, too.

      Ten years ago, Brianna had found the scrawny, abandoned puppy on the street, hungry and shivering. She had brought him home and nursed him back to health, the way she nurtured everyone she came in contact with. And for ten years Ruggs had been king of the castle. There was no way Juliana was going to convince him he was just a mangy mutt.

      The incident with Ruggs had left Frannie feeling more resentful of Juliana than ever. How dare that woman take over Frannie’s home and chase her dog outside? The trouble was, these days Frannie felt as unwelcome as Ruggs in her own house. No wonder she wasn’t in the mood to sculpt Longfellow’s bust.

      Even as she sat in the sunroom contemplating the mountain of clay on her worktable, Frannie could hear Juliana bustling about in the kitchen, crooning the lyrics from some Italian aria. Frannie worked with the clay for a few minutes, dipping her hands in a container of water and wetting down the gray mound. It still wasn’t taking shape the way she wanted. It was as if the stubborn mass refused to relinquish the form hidden within.

      Usually Frannie could work her artistic magic. A mysterious connection formed between her mind and hands; they worked together in a way Frannie herself couldn’t comprehend. It was as if some secret force within her recognized the shape inside the mass and freed it, then she molded it until it came to life under her fingers.

      That was the way it was supposed to work. But not today. In exasperation, Frannie pounded the clay with her fists, then tossed the wet cloth over it and went to the deep sink to wash her hands. If she couldn’t sculpt anything worthwhile, she might as well go help Juliana in the kitchen. She emerged from the sunroom just as Juliana hit a high note that rattled the crystal on the buffet.

      Frannie ambled over to the kitchen sink where Juliana was scouring a black kettle, and said, “Looks like you could use some help.”

      Juliana whirled around and clasped her hand to her ample bosom. “Oh, dear girl, you startled me!”

      “I’m sorry. I was going stir-crazy in the sunroom. The Longfellow bust—it’s just not working for me.”

      “Oh, what a shame. Give it time, dear. It’ll come.” Juliana’s rosy lips pursed together, forming a tiny rosebud of sympathy. She extended a graceful hand and touched Frannie’s cheek with long, tapered fingers, her perfectly manicured nails a bright vermillion. “I have had many times when the music would not come, when I had to labor for every note. The arts do not give away their secrets easily. We must stretch and strain for every victory. But to create something beautiful is worth all the pain. It is like giving СКАЧАТЬ