Jinco is lying. He’s waiting to go back into town and drive drunk late-afternoon tourists back to the cruise ship before it sets sail at dusk. He can charge extra. Martia says he makes good money on ship days. She had to pay him extra out of Mother’s stash just to ensure he’d take us out today, at the last minute. I heard her negotiating with him.
“Come on.” Jinco knows I heard him. This is my game.
I make a show of paying for Kammi at the gate. It’s the money Martia pressed into my hands as she sent us off this morning. But Kammi doesn’t know that. Maybe she thinks I’m being nice.
The staff lets us feed a baby ostrich. Kammi stretches out her hand, and the bird’s long neck curves over as it takes some pellets in its beak, carefully, as if it’s been trained.
“Does your mother ever come here?” Kammi asks.
“My mother?”
“Yes, does she?”
“No. She doesn’t. She doesn’t like animals. Why do you care?”
Kammi pulls her hand back and pours more pellets into it from the plastic container. The ostrich stares at her hand, then pecks more food. Kammi holds her arm steady. She doesn’t even blink when the ostrich’s beak taps her palm. “I want her to like me.” She says it fiercely.
“Why? She’s going to be your stepmother. Don’t you believe all those tales about stepmothers?”
“No. Dad said—”
“Do you do everything he wants you to do?”
“No.”
“I bet you do. Dad wants you to paint with watercolors. Dad wants you to get along with my mother. Did he tell you to be nice to me, too?”
Kammi blushes. “He said I couldn’t win you over. He said I shouldn’t try.”
I laugh. “But you are trying.”
Kammi doesn’t look at me, but the ostrich turns to me and blinks. I don’t know if my dad was right about ostriches. This bird looks pretty stupid to me. It listens to my voice, cocks its head, as if trying to figure out what laughter is about. Then it pecks at Kammi’s empty palm, searching for more. She snatches her hand away. If ostriches are so smart, like Dad said, it should go straight for the plastic bin where the pellets are stored and not look for handouts from strangers.
Chapter Twelve
MARTIA OPENS the door for us before Jinco has even driven away. She’s been waiting, keeping dinner warm. Kammi goes straight to her room. I wait in the hallway as Martia tiptoes up the metal stairs to Mother’s studio and knocks. The door opens, closes. I listen but I can’t hear anything.
I’m the first to sit at the table. From here I can see the mail Martia has stacked on the sideboard. Facing me is a postcard. I reach over and pick it up. The scene is familiar. Ponte dei Sospiri. Bridge of Sighs, Venice. Only this isn’t just a postcard. It’s a print of a painting of the famous landmark at dusk. I can make out the shadow of a gondola going under the bridge, away from the artist. A grayish, ghostly couple sits in front of the gondolier, facing forward. The postcard reminds me of another gondola—the small framed painting in Dad’s drawer.
I turn the card over. The loopy handwriting addressing the card to Mother in care of the Dutch owner looks familiar. Philippa. Postmarked from Italy. I can’t help reading it. She writes that she painted the scene and made it into postcards for souvenir shops. She’s won a commission to paint all the major bridges of Venice. She writes that it’s good luck for a couple to sail under the Bridge of Sighs.
Kammi wanders into the room, scoots her chair close to the table at the far end, and stares at her plate. She hasn’t said anything to me since the ostrich farm. Maybe I hurt her feelings. I’m not sorry if I did.
Mother comes downstairs slowly, too, as if she still has a headache and the echo of her footsteps on the metal staircase sounds loud to her own ears.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“A postcard. You’ll never believe who it’s from.”
Mother looks pale. “I don’t feel like playing a game, Cyan. Just give me the card.”
I hold it up for her to see the front. Kammi, too.
“Recognize it? It’s Venice. Know anyone there?” I ask.
Mother stares at the picture.
“Give up?” I ask. “It’s from Philippa.”
“Who’s that?” Kammi asks.
“One of Mother’s best art students. Her last one, actually,” I answer. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother says, then presses her lips together in a thin line.
“Philippa says she has a commission to paint the most famous bridges in Venice. This is her first one, the Bridge of Sighs.”