Page 20

August 12, 1925

“I’m sorry, miss. Truly. I meant to give you more notice.”

I swipe at my tired eyes, looking at Melva, her form wavering. I’ve been sleeping even less since parting with Weston. I’m left bereft by his absence. By his denial of my company. “When are you leaving?”

“This’ll have to be my last day. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“My sister needs me. With four little ones ... she can’t work. She’s already found a post for me.” Melva reaches out, squeezes my hand where it sits limply on my knee. “Now, I’ve made a list of all the things you’ll need. You’ll manage just fine, miss. You’ll see. You’ve got Beckett. And Harriet for Miss Thorne.”

Even though Melva’s hasty departure leaves me anxious, I had a feeling this was coming. An ominous telegram arrived two days ago: a mining accident had injured Melva’s brother-in-law in rural Tennessee, and he’d succumbed to his injuries. Initially, Melva took the news with a matter-of-fact manner, but I caught her crying in the kitchen later that day, dabbing at her eyes with a tea towel. I’ve been bracing myself for her notice ever since.

Given Marguerite’s history with help, the chances of replacing the maid are slim. But the morning after Melva’s departure, I phone the Fayetteville Daily Democrat anyway, and place an ad, hopeful that someone outside the immediate area might fill her post. The thought of keeping this house clean and running on my own seems an impossible task. Thank goodness Beckett can do the cooking.

After I place the advertisement, I go upstairs to check on Marguerite, who’s at work on the portrait of Iris again, adding flourishes of color and detail to the nearly finished canvas. Though a slight tremor often afflicts her hands, when she’s working, her motions are steady and sure. She looks up as I enter her room, giving me a shallow smile. “Good morning, dear. You look very tired.”

She doesn’t mean the comment to be unkind, but it annoys me all the same. I go to her bed and begin making it, smoothing out the sheets and fluffing her coverlet. “I phoned the paper. Placed an ad for a maid.”

“Hopefully something will turn up.” Marguerite swivels in her chair to look at me. “You know, I should paint you sometime. You remind me so much of Claire. You look just like her. All but the eyes and hair. She and Laura had the most beautiful hair in the family.”

My mother’s hair was a brilliant copper that fell to her shoulders in soft waves. She hadn’t a single streak of gray when she died. She looked so young people often mistook her for my older sister. “Yes, Mama’s hair was special, wasn’t it?”

“Like a fresh-minted penny.”

“Yes.” I fluff the duvet and let it settle like a cloud over the bed. “I’m going up to the attic for a while to rest.” I lift the porcelain bell by her bedside. “Ring this if you need me.”

“I will, my dear. Try to get some sleep. I’ll be just fine.”

But though tiredness weighs every limb, sleep is the last thing on my mind. My heart races in anticipation as I climb the attic steps, hoping today might be the day Weston lets me back into his world. I take his portrait from beneath my bed and prop it on the chair behind my dressing screen, then kneel on the floor, touching the surface lightly, craving the feeling of vertigo that accompanies my plunge into this other world, this other place. But Weston’s eyes only mock me, like they have every day since our last tryst. Nothing happens when I touch the surface of the painting. Nothing at all. I try again, pressing my palm to the canvas. Still, there’s nothing but my longing, my lust, clouding my senses with want.

“Why won’t you let me in?” I say aloud, my voice shaking.

After a few minutes, I finally rise from the floor, dusting off my knees. I’ll try again tonight, once Marguerite is asleep. I’ll try until he finally relents. This can’t go on for much longer. I know he needs me, hungers for me, just as much as I do him. As I slide the portrait beneath the bed, something flickers near the west-facing window. I glance up, startling.

A woman stands there, her back to me, her dark hair swept atop her head, dressed in a simple calico dress. She turns as she feels my eyes on her. I gasp as I take in a face I’ve only ever seen in a portrait. The very portrait my great-aunt is finishing right now. “Iris ...,” I whisper. She smiles, as if we’re sharing a secret, then turns away, fading from view. Only dust motes dance before the window, sparkling in the sun.

The days pass, bleeding one into another, and Weston’s painting—his world—remains closed to me. I vacillate between confusion, resentment, and longing as I become more desperate, begging him aloud in the night to come to me. As August leaps toward its end, I begin to wonder whether our affair was a delusion, much like Marguerite’s recurring delusions of lost children and crying babies. Perhaps Weston was only an invention of my mind that I concocted to cope with my daily responsibilities and my grief. An escape from reality. A way to reconcile my affair with Ted, even. He and Weston certainly are similar in some ways—they’re both dominant, worldly, and charmingly brash. But I’ve never been prone to wild flights of fancy or delusions. I hallucinated a few times during my darkest times after Da died, but not like this. Back then, it was only vague shadows, strange sensations where the world around me felt unreal, but I can think of no other explanation for my travels into the past with Weston. My mind must have merely played a cruel, if convincing, trick on me.

As for Beckett, he and I have settled into a routine since Melva’s departure, and our earlier friction has diminished enough that we get on with what needs to be done without argument. He really is a marvelous cook—with much more sophisticated tastes than I predicted. When I go downstairs after dusting the pictures in the second-story hall, I find him in the kitchen, stirring onions in a pot with melted butter.

“Whatever you’re making smells delicious,” I say, pouring myself a glass of lemonade.

“Nothing special. French onion soup. Peasant food.”

“Well, I’ve never had it.” I sigh, leaning against the sideboard, watching him. I’ve found that I enjoy watching him cook a great deal more than I should. “I placed another ad today. Hopefully someone will respond soon, although I don’t know how anyone will ever outdo your cooking. You may have missed your true calling.”

“They’re related, cooking and gardening.” He smiles over his shoulder. “I enjoy both. How are you sleeping?”

“Better,” I say. And I have been sleeping a bit better this week, now that my days have fallen into routine out of necessity and my nocturnal trysts with Weston have come to an end.

“I’m relieved to hear that. I didn’t want to tell you this ...” He looks away from me, then back. “But I saw you again before Melva left, wandering the grounds at night. Talking to yourself. And I’ve seen you do other things, too.”

I blush at the innuendo in his voice. “I didn’t know ... how embarrassing.”

“Marguerite is worried, too.” He turns back to the stove, adds a sizzling splash of water to the pot. Steam clouds the air. “Your brother even mentioned how oddly you were acting when I drove them to the station after their visit.”

Irritation flares beneath my skin. “The only thing Felix is concerned with is who will get this house when Marguerite dies. And he’s very concerned you’ll be that person, if you must know. He doesn’t trust you.”

Beckett stills. “Do you trust me, Sadie?”

“Of course I do. I stuck up for you, with him.”

He smiles. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I thought we were past all that.”

“You mean you no longer think I’m a gigolo, seducing Marguerite with my devious charms?”

I laugh. “Heavens no.”

“Your brother has nothing to worry about from me. And I know I questioned your motives for coming here, at first ...”

“You did.”

“But try to put yourself in my shoes, Sadie. You hadn’t visited Marguerite in years, and all of a sudden, you turn up. Wouldn’t you be suspicious?”

“I suppose so. I had plenty of suspicions about you. I thought you were trying to drive me away. Frighten me into leaving with your scary stories about Sybil and the Blaylock murder.”

He slides the pot to the back of the stove, then takes a step toward me, his eyes softening. “Only because I was worried. I don’t want you to leave. I’ve grown rather used to having you around. We’re managing things quite well, the two of us.”

“I think so, too.”

As he stands there, looking at me, I’m softened by his earnestness. I feel any remaining suspicions I had about him dissolve ... only to be replaced by another feeling, something that Marguerite had hinted at. Attraction. Nascent and unexpected, but undeniably there, all the same. Perhaps it’s been there all along, under the surface, and our shared sense of duty toward Marguerite has brought it to the fore.

“What are you thinking about?” He smiles that fox-like smile.

I’m thinking about what it might be like to kiss him, to lose myself in those marvelous eyes, but instead, I turn away, my cheeks blazing. Only two weeks have passed since I last saw Weston. Whether our times together were an illusion or not, I hardly need to complicate my life with another affair. Instead, I need to focus on finding the deed to this house, or a will, if one exists. Romance isn’t the priority. Caring for my aunt and her household is . “I should go check on Marguerite.”

I rush from the room, my emotions a torrent. Perhaps I’m only imagining the crackling energy between us. If I had followed my reckless impulse and kissed Beckett, would he have returned my kiss, or rejected me? A foolhardy impulse at this stage could wreck my chances at a stable future. A stable life. There’s so much at stake, with Marguerite declining more by the day, and my brother and his greedy wife snapping at my heels.

That evening, after a tense dinner spent avoiding Beckett’s gaze, I tuck Marguerite in, then go up to the attic and light a single candle. I need to put one lingering question to bed, once and for all, for the sake of my sanity. Tonight will be the final time I try to enter Weston’s world. If he doesn’t let me in, I’ll know it was all an illusion. I’ll return his portrait to the studio, lock the door, and do my best to move on.

I take out Weston’s portrait and sit before it, fixing my eyes on his. “If you’re real, show me. Show me the truth.” I reach out, touch the painting’s surface. It ripples invitingly, and with a soft whoosh and that familiar sensation of falling, I’m back in his world.