Page 22

August 30, 1925

In the days that follow, it’s as if the brief frisson of attraction I felt for Beckett never happened. I keep our interactions to a minimum when he comes to the house to prepare breakfast and dinner. I help him with the dishes after, as always, but I otherwise avoid being near him as much as possible as we see to our respective chores. If he notices my coolness, he says nothing about it. There’s hardly time for socializing, on any account. We’ve had no luck acquiring another maid, and so my days have become a blur of domestic activities. Dusting. Sweeping. Gathering laundry and sending it out. I fall into bed exhausted most nights.

But not tired enough to deny myself the enticements Weston offers. He’s forgiven me for my momentary flirtation with Beckett. I’ve come to my senses. After all, Weston affords me the kind of luxury and hedonistic pleasure Beckett never could. He dotes on me, lavishing me with delicious food, wine, and leisurely hours of lovemaking. In his world, I have no cares. No worries.

Last night, we were in Venice as the century turned, fireworks exploding over the Grand Canal. Marguerite was there as well, with the woman called Pia, walking arm in arm, their laughter ringing over the water as we followed them from a distance, then witnessed their kiss on a balcony overlooking the Campo Santa Margherita. In her younger years, my aunt lived a rich life, unconstrained by convention.

How could I want any less for myself? But seeing Marguerite in her prime has underscored just how much she’s faded. Each day, her confusion grows deeper. She barely speaks to me now, and falls asleep earlier each night, sometimes in her armchair next to the radio. Her passion, the verve I admire in these vignettes from her past, has forsaken her. The only time I see her light up at all is when she paints. She sometimes works all day, eating only at my and Harriet’s urging. She’s resumed painting Hugh, her first love. I wonder whether his painting will have the same fantastical qualities as the others, whether he’ll come to haunt this house once she’s finished, just as Weston and Iris have.

I saw her again today. Iris. In the library, where I sat reading the worn copy of Wuthering Heights that once belonged to my grandmother. Harriet and Marguerite were there with me, happily playing a game of rummy. Neither of them reacted as Iris walked past us and through the wall, dissolving from view, leaving a preternatural chill in her wake.

I cannot shake the feeling that Iris is showing herself to me for a reason. That she has something important to tell me.

After Marguerite drifts off to sleep that night, I linger in her room to examine the finished portrait of Iris, propped on its easel, lit by moonlight. I look deeply into this long-dead woman’s eyes, until my own eyes begin to cross. The familiar spinning sensation takes hold. I let out a shaky breath, touching the surface of the painting as softly as a feather. It ripples in the same way as Weston’s, and reality tilts on its axis once more.