Bobby Hutchinson - Past Lies

Good one, Mom. Neutral, uncomplicated.

“Dad says he’s a natural.” And how come you’re asking me? Don’t you ever talk to Dad about anything besides the plumbing and the bank balance?

“His younger sister, Becky, is taking my class. She wants to be a model.”

Ivy’s instinctive reaction was to shake her head. She fought to control her reaction, saying in a neutral tone, “You think she’s got what it takes?”

Frances tipped her head to one side, considering. “She’ll have to lose a lot of weight. She does have the height, and that unusual ethnic look is hot right now.”

“So what look was hot when you were in the business?” Ivy didn’t really care, but it seemed a pretty safe thing to ask. Touchy areas with her mother were any discussions involving Tom, the need for makeup, a decent wardrobe or dicey situations encountered during flights. And Frances’s childhood—now there was a real no-go zone.

“Exotic All-American farm girl?” Frances gave her characteristic little Gaelic shrug. “I really don’t know. I was lucky, because whatever it was, I seemed to have it.”

“You sure did.” Ivy thought of the stacks of fashion magazines carefully filed away in protective plastic, each featuring her mother on the cover. The incomparable Francesca, one photographer had labeled her. She’d been one of the first fashion models to become so famous they were recognized by just one name—and their beauty, of course. Francesca was one of the first supermodels.

Sally served their lasagna, and they ate hungrily for a few moments.

“You ever miss it, Mom? The…the glamour, the excitement?” It was something Ivy had often wondered but never dared ask, which was ridiculous. Her mother had made it clear early on that she didn’t want to discuss certain aspects of her life, and Ivy was never sure what they were.

And when she was younger, Ivy had been scared that questions like this one would send Frances spiraling back into the depression that had ruled their household during Ivy’s childhood. Frances was better now, but the painful memories were still there for Ivy.

Why her mother had chosen to leave her modeling life to marry Tom and live in Alaska had always been a mystery to Ivy, and probably to most of the inhabitants of Valdez as well. It was a small town, and nobody’s private issues were usually sacred. That one, however, seemed to be.

Frances didn’t respond right away, and Ivy figured she probably wasn’t going to. Her mother had turned her head and was staring out the window. Her wide eyes were unfocussed, so she probably wasn’t seeing the dozens of fishing boats in the harbor or the spectacular peaks of the icy glaciers that cradled the town.

Ivy buttered a chunk of sourdough bread and chewed stoically. One small misstep on my part, one giant silence on hers.

And then Frances actually answered. “It’s not the glamour or excitement I miss—they’re highly over-rated in the world of high fashion,” she said slowly. “A lot of it’s grueling hard work, freezing your butt off modeling swimsuits in January, roasting to death wearing layers of winter clothes in July.”

Ivy had always suspected as much, but Frances had never explained it before.

Frances’s voice was thoughtful. “I think what I miss sometimes is the sense of being at the epicenter of everything—fashion, publishing, knowing ahead of time what a certain designer is going to feature in his next show, who the current darling of the art world is, what’s happening to hemlines, shoulders, what era is in vogue. I get lonely for things like that, for haute couture.” Frances glanced around the crowded room before leaning in. “And also for a suitable place to wear it.”

Even Ivy, style challenged as she was, knew that Valdez wasn’t the fashion capital of the western world. She didn’t know one designer from another, and she certainly didn’t care about hemlines or shoulders. In her opinion, the Alaskan environment provided art for free—glaciers, northern lights, mountain lakes in the summer dawn. As for clothing, well, she did have more clothes than the average woman, only because Frances had always insisted on Ivy having what she called a basic wardrobe.

That always included a black dress, a classic wool coat, well-cut pants and matching jacket, several lined wool skirts, a stack of cashmere sweaters and various silk, cotton and linen pieces for summer.

For years, Frances had consistently given Ivy one or two such useless items every birthday and Christmas, even when what Ivy really wanted were leather jackets, heavy boots and billed caps.

The clothing, expensive and timeless, took up space in the back of Ivy’s closet and filled several dresser drawers, ignored for the most part. She only yanked them out when she needed something to wear to a wedding, a funeral or a christening—one of those rare events in Valdez when jeans and a T-shirt or flannel shirt just wouldn’t cut it.

Frances must have recognized the bemused expression on Ivy’s face, because she laughed, a low, rich sound that made several people turn their way and smile in appreciation.

“Sure, I miss New York,” Frances confessed. “The sophistication, the mistaken but pervasive belief that it’s the hub of the world. Attitude, I guess you’d call it. I miss New York attitude.”

Ivy drawled, “So, you figure we ain’t got attitude up here in the 49th?”

“Plenty of it. Just not the same type.” They ate for several moments and then Frances said, “What would you miss if you moved away from Valdez, Ivy?”

Ivy thought about it for a moment. She also thought what a strange conversation this was turning out to be. Normally she and Frances talked about the weather, food, recipes, the latest news item. Which was pretty limited and meant that they quickly ran out of things to say.

“I can’t even imagine moving away. Oh, from Valdez, maybe, but not ever from Alaska. It’s where I belong, it’s in my blood.” Curiosity got the better of Ivy. “Is that how you felt about New York, Mom? That it was in your blood?”

“No.” This time Frances didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never had that feeling about anywhere I’ve lived.”

“Not…not even your hometown?” Frances had grown up in a small town in southern Ohio, but that was about all Ivy knew. Frances never spoke of her childhood, except to say that her parents were dead and she had no relatives she wished to contact. “Didn’t you miss Brigham Falls when you left?” As soon as the words were out, Ivy realized she’d gone too far.

“Never.” Frances bit off the word as if it burned her lips. She pushed her plate away even though she wasn’t finished. “Now, are we going to have dessert?” Without waiting for a reply, she motioned Sally over.

Ivy felt heat rise in her face at the rebuff. She felt like a child being reprimanded. Smack. End of discussion.

You’d think by now she’d know better than to ask Frances anything really personal. But for a few minutes there she’d been seduced into thinking that she and her mother were communicating.

The hurt was nothing new. Except now Frances no longer retreated to the bedroom for days or sometimes weeks, while Ivy berated herself for making her mother sick.

“I’m having lemon meringue pie and coffee, please, Sally. What would you like, Ivy?”

“I have to take off. I have to do some stuff at the office and then I need to pick up my clients.” Ivy pulled her wallet out and tossed several bills on the table beside her plate. She avoided looking at her mother.

“Please, Ivy, lunch is my treat.” Frances tried to hand the money back. “I invited you.”

“Next time.” Which might be when the Columbia Glacier melted away to nothing. Ivy got up and shrugged on her jacket. “See you, Mom.”