Page 18

August 8, 1925

“Sadie. Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

I lift my head, focusing on my brother. He looks so much like Da. Same dark hair. Heavy-lashed blue eyes. “I’m sorry. Could you say again?”

“Rosalie and I are moving to Florida. We’ve sold Mother’s house on Charlotte Street and we’re going to put the town house on the market this month.”

“I’m tired of the cold winters,” Rosalie says. “It never snows in Florida.”

I ignore her. I think of Mama’s little yellow house, her trim lawn, her cozy furniture. “You sold Mama’s house without telling me?”

“We needed the money to help finance the builders.” Felix shrugs. “Besides, I’m the one who bought it for her.”

Yes, with the money Da had meant for both of us to share. That house could have been mine, were it not for my brother’s greed. “Where in Florida?”

“Coral Gables. We’re very excited,” Rosalie says, smiling too brightly. Everything is too bright about her, from her hair to the outlandish orange frock she’s wearing. She grips Felix’s hand, squeezing until his knuckles turn white. When I don’t return her smile, her painted lips purse. “Are you all right, Sadie? You seem a bit off .”

I lift my teacup, squinting against the afternoon sun. “I’m feeling fine, Rosalie. Only a little tired.”

“We were both surprised when we found out you’d come here,” she continues.

“I’ve surprised everyone, it seems.” I direct my attention back to my brother. “Did you bring my allowance, Felix?”

“Oh yes. Of course. And I’ll continue to send the monthly stipend to you from Florida, so don’t worry yourself over that.” He leans close to me, his sharp bergamot cologne making my eyes water. “Have you spoken to Marguerite about the estate?”

“She’s not out here. No need to whisper.”

“I’d like to see the deed to the house, if you have it.”

“I don’t. But why?” My hands tighten on the chair arms.

“Marguerite doesn’t have any children. Her estate needs to be in order before the inevitable happens.”

Rosalie smiles. “Felix is always planning ahead.”

“I can see that.” Even through my sleepless haze, I know they’re circling, like hungry lions, eager for blood. “Doesn’t probate require the proceeds of an estate to be equally divided among all living heirs?”

“It does if a person dies without a will. That’s why we need to make sure Marguerite has a will, so her wishes can be carried out. As I’m the oldest male relative, I should be the executor of her estate.”

“Yes. Just like you were with Da and Mama. You made sure that was all in place. Felix the Fixer. That’s what your clients call you, isn’t it?” I narrow my eyes, noticing Mama’s best pearls wrapped around Rosalie’s long, turkey-thin neck. “Will I get anything from the sale of Mama’s house? And the Troost Avenue town house? I remember what Da’s will said, Felix.”

Felix suddenly looks uncomfortable, as if my words have caused a bout of indigestion. “I’ve invested your share of Charlotte Street on a parcel of land in Florida. I plan on selling it later, at a higher price, and sending you the proceeds.”

“I see,” I say coolly. “How thoughtful of you.” I already know I won’t see a dime of that money. It’ll all go to finance Rosalie’s gaudy wardrobe.

“It’s called buying a binder,” Rosalie says excitedly. “You purchase a parcel of land and resell the binder later, at a much higher price. We’ve bought three parcels so far. We’ve already sold the first at two hundred percent.”

Felix nudges Rosalie. Shakes his head.

“Sounds a bit like highway robbery,” I say flatly. I couldn’t care less about their real estate ventures. I want them to leave so I can make time with Weston in our Parisian hideaway before Harriet goes home.

“Truly, Sadie. You don’t look well. Have you eaten anything today?” Felix’s forehead creases with mock concern.

I lift a tea biscuit to my lips with a trembling hand. “There. I’m eating,” I say, crumbs tumbling from my mouth. “Where are the boys? I thought we’d get to see them.”

“They’re at home with our nurse,” Rosalie simpers. “We like to get away, from time to time. Just the two of us.”

“How nice,” I say. Now leave. Please. “Will you be spending the night?”

“We’re staying at the Crescent. No need to go to any trouble.” Felix rises, buttoning his sport coat. “If you happen to run across the deed, phone me, won’t you? I don’t trust the fellow who drove us here from the station. He seems a bit opportunistic. We need to get a proper will drawn up as soon as possible.”

I rankle at my brother’s insinuation. “He’d never take advantage. Beckett cares deeply about Aunt Marg.”

“I’m sure he does,” Felix says, smirking. “That’s quite a car he gets to tool around town in.”

“Well, Aunt Marg doesn’t drive, and neither do I, so someone must. He told me the two of you were friends when we were children. He remembered you with fondness.”

“How funny. I don’t remember him at all.”

Of course not, because in Felix’s eyes, someone like Beckett was unimportant. A mere servant. But wasn’t I just as judgmental and suspicious of Beckett at first? I stand, my knees wobbling. I feel rumpled, out of sorts, every movement like treading water. “You should come say goodbye to Aunt Marg before you leave.”

They follow me into the library, where Marguerite and Harriet are sitting. Harriet’s knitting needles click steadily as Aunt Marg dozes, her head tilted back against the leather chesterfield. My eyes drift toward the scarlet-bound book that hides the lever to the door to the room where my lover waits for me.

If only Felix and Rosalie would leave .

I clear my throat. Marguerite startles awake, eyes flashing. “What—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing at all. Felix and Rosalie were just leaving. They wanted to come say goodbye.”

Felix goes to Marguerite’s side, taking her hand. “It was nice to see you again, Auntie. So sorry to rush off. Now that Sadie’s here, I’ll be visiting more often. We should have a chat about a few things the next time I come.”

“What sort of things, Duke?”

“Felix.” He scratches his head, flummoxed by Marguerite’s confusion. “Oh, it’s nothing important. We can save it for another day.”

I clear my throat again. “Yes, you most certainly can save it for later, Felix. I’ll fetch Beckett, have him bring the car around. He won’t mind driving you to the hotel.” They need to go. The sooner the better—before Felix starts going through cupboards and drawers. My brother hasn’t always been greedy. He went into law because he wanted to help people, like Da did. He grew up in Hell’s Half Acre and often represented the underprivileged pro bono. Due to the charity of Father Bernard Donnelly, Da was able to get an education and raise himself out of poverty, but he never forgot where he came from. Felix wanted to be just like him. Now, though, Felix is nothing more than a grifter, bent on opportunity and profit, driven by his wife’s gluttonous ambitions. He took Mama’s property out from under my nose, slick as an eel. And now he wants this house. I’ll need to find that deed and a local attorney who can fix things in such a way that there’s no question to whom this house belongs after Marguerite is gone.

Rosalie bends to kiss Marguerite on the cheek, and Marguerite draws back. “Who are you again, dear?”

“Rosalie, ma’am.”

“That’s right. Your father is a plumber, isn’t he? I sat next to him at your wedding supper.”

“Yes,” Rosalie says, her features pinching as if she’s sucked on a lemon. “He was. He’s retired now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making a living in the trades, dear. Plumbers are vital. You shouldn’t be ashamed of him.”

“Of course not,” Rosalie says. She latches onto Felix’s arm, her chin high. “We should be going, darling, shouldn’t we?”

I trail them to the front door. Beckett already has the Duesenberg parked in the circle drive, polishing the fenders with a chamois cloth. He glances up at me. “Could you please take my brother and Rosalie to the Crescent?” I ask. My head swims as I grip the banister, easing myself slowly down the steps.

“Sadie, are you all right?” Beckett asks. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Suddenly, everything feels too warm and cold all at once. “I’m fi—”

But I’m not fine. At all. Beckett rushes forward to catch me as the ground tilts to meet me.

The bespectacled doctor lifts my wrist, taking my pulse, Harriet hovering behind his shoulder. “Dehydration. Common enough with this heat. Steady pulse. Pressure 150 over 85. A little high, but that’s due to the dehydration.”

I sit up, my head swimming. “I’m all right. I just need something to drink.”

“Shall I get her some orange juice, Dr. Gallagher?”

“Yes, Harriet. Good thinking. She’s probably hypoglycemic.”

Harriet brings the glass to me quickly, pressing it into my hand. A memory washes through me, of someone handing me a glass of whiskey after I found Da, long ago. I close my eyes, letting the sweetness of the cold juice linger on my tongue. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Have you had anything to eat today, Sadie?” Beckett rumbles from behind me.

“Just a tea cookie. With Felix and Rosalie.”

I look around for my brother and his wife, but they’re gone. Outside the library windows, the sky has turned a murky, violet dark, our images reflected in the glass, like actors on a lit stage.

“Where’s Marguerite?”

“In bed with a headache,” Harriet says. “She’s very worried about you, miss. We all are. I’m spending the night.”

“But your children . . .”

“My husband is home this week. He can see to them.”

I think of Weston, of how it will be impossible for me to go to him tonight with so many people in the house. “I’m fine, really. You don’t need to stay.”

“Sadie, lie down,” Beckett says, his voice firm. “She’s staying the night. And so am I.” He eases me back onto the sofa, propping a pillow beneath my head. “I’ll go make you something to eat.”

Dr. Gallagher kneels at my side. “I’ll check on you tomorrow on my way to Tin Mountain. Get some rest, young lady. And make sure to drink plenty of water in this heat. It can get ahead of you before you know it.”

Harriet places a cool washcloth on my head and urges me to drink more juice. I comply, trying my best not to think about Weston. He and Paris will have to wait. For now.

Later, I swim up from sleep, to the sound of low voices from across the room. I lie still, eyes closed. Listening.

“It’s happening again, Harriet,” Beckett says. “Just like it did with Sybil.”

“It does seem strange, how quickly this came on.”

“Have you come across that painting? It’s not in the studio.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“If you find it, tell me.”

Beckett’s words fade as sleep pulls me under once more. He’s wrong. I’m nothing like Sybil. As soon as I’m able, I’ll hide Weston’s portrait in a place where Beckett can’t find it. Where he can’t take my love from me.

Early the next morning, I creep up to the tower to retrieve the painting and hurry back to my attic room.