The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [141]
***
It was nine p.m. before Alice arrived at the cottage, anxiously wondering if Flora had really fled to Sussex at all. It was only instinct that led her home, and as she paid the driver and dashed to the dark house through torrents of cold rain, it occurred to Alice again that Flora could have been lying about everything, not just the welcoming bosom of their parents.
She could be anywhere.
Struggling to keep her raincoat over her head, Alice banged a few times on the door with the heavy antique knocker, but there was no reply. The windows were gloomy, but the spare key was gone from beneath the window box, and when she peered through the smudged windows, Alice thought she could make out a handbag on the hall table, next to a pile of newspapers and post.
Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.
“Pick up, pick up…” Alice tried calling again as she circled the house, searching for signs of life. But, like the other ten times she’d dialed that evening, Flora didn’t respond. Alice felt her foot sink down into the cold of a puddle and sighed. She just hoped that her stepsister was so deep in the bliss of a massage at a luxury spa hotel that she didn’t notice the calls.
She was almost ready to admit defeat and call for another taxi when she reached the far side of the cottage, a dilapidated extension that housed Jasmine’s studio. The side door was slightly ajar.
“Flora?” Alice pushed inside, blinking at the gloom. The long room seemed empty, cluttered with Jasmine’s various collections and sculpture work, but then Alice caught a glimpse of pale hair in the corner, illuminated by the dim light from the large, rain-splattered windows. “Flora, what are you doing down there?”
She was curled in a huddle on the floor, her back against an old cabinet, so deep in whatever troubles had brought her there that she didn’t even notice Alice until she was standing over her. Even then, for a moment she didn’t muster surprise or embarrassment, just a blank, dazed stare that was so full of misery that it pulled, deep in Alice’s chest.
“Hey.” Alice sank to the ground beside Flora, careful to keep her voice soft. She felt as though she was approaching a skittish animal and that any sudden movements would only prompt fear and a bolting escape. “There you are.”
Flora quickly wiped her eyes. “I was just…” She swallowed. “The storm…”
“It’s pretty vicious out there,” Alice agreed, shrugging off her coat and draping it over Flora’s bare shoulders. She was dressed only in an embroidered vest top and peasant skirt. “Your husband had the nerve to make off with my umbrella,” Alice tried to joke, but she felt Flora flinch slightly beside her. “Don’t worry,” she added quickly. “I didn’t say anything to him. He thinks you’re snuggled up with Dad and Jasmine.”
Flora exhaled. “I’m sorry—if you worried.” She turned her pale face to Alice. “I just…needed to get away.”
“I know the feeling.” Alice cautiously sat back against a cabinet and looked around. “You picked a good hideaway. I almost missed you behind all these things.”
Flora managed a tiny nod. “She never throws anything away.” She wiped her eyes again. “Every time we moved, there would be more art materials than actual stuff in the van.”
There was a long pause, filled only by the downpour outside. Alice felt her tension finally ease. Flora may not be fine, but she was there, safe within arm’s reach beside her. Alice could manage anything as long as she had that much; even her own troubles seemed insignificant beside her sister’s huddled form.
After a while, Alice realized Flora was staring at the far wall. She followed her gaze, to a painting of a country scene, rich with red and orange hues.
“I’ve never noticed that before.” She stared at it, propped on a far shelf against a mismatch of crockery. “Is it one of Jasmine’s?”
Flora shook her head. “Carlos did it,” she said quietly. “One of Jasmine’s old boyfriends. We lived in Spain with him, for a year, when I was twelve.”
“Really?” Alice asked, surprised. “Can you