Page 29

September 7, 1925

I can no longer trust myself. The weight of what I’ve done follows me as I wrap Weston’s portrait in a length of velvet curtain and carry it downstairs to Beckett, who sits at the dining room table, studying Marguerite’s ledger. He looks at the rectangular bundle in my arms, his right eyebrow lifting.

“Do something with this, please. I don’t care what.”

He crosses to me and lifts the bottom of the drape, frowning at the image.

“He pulled me in again last night,” I lie, biting my lip, ashamed, studying the toes of my shoes. I can’t admit my own will in the matter. Not to Beckett. No matter my initial intentions—to find answers about my family in the past—I sought out Weston. Then fell under his spell once more. “Just take it. Hide it. It’s obvious it can’t be destroyed.”

“I’ll put it somewhere safe,” Beckett says, gently. He takes the painting from me. “Somewhere you won’t think to look.”

“Tonight, after Marguerite’s gone to bed, might we have a cocktail in the library?” I ask. “I’d like to spend some time together. Just the two of us.”

His ears redden, and he stands very still, the painting clutched in his arms. “Sadie ... I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Not sure?” I stammer, taken aback. “It’s only a drink. A nightcap after dinner, like the old folks do. I’ll be on my best behavior. Just don’t tell Harriet. She’s chastised me enough about my drinking.”

“All right,” he says. “One drink.”

“Just one.”

After he goes, I find Marguerite sitting in the parlor, dozing in her favorite chair. I straighten the lace doilies on the mantel, dust the silent radio, and sit to go through the mail stacked on the sideboard. A letter from Rosalie lies on the top of the pile, postmarked Coral Gables. So, their move to Florida must be complete. I put it to the side to read later, when I have more of a stomach for my sister-in-law’s boasting.

I’ve nearly reached the bottom of the pile when a letter falls to the floor. I pick up the envelope, addressed to me in a sweeping, feminine hand. The return address is Springfield, Missouri. I don’t know anyone from there.

I slide the letter open with my finger, no longer bothered about the sorry state of my work-worn hands, and draw out the enclosed letter.

Dear Miss Halloran,

I realize this letter may come as a shock. I deliberated over writing you, but I’m desperate and need your assistance. My husband, as you know, has for many years carried on adulterous affairs. I’d always turned a blind eye to these situations, including his arrangement with you, simply because he provided me with a good life and maintained civil relations with myself and our children. I bear you no ill will. However, most recently, Ted has involved himself in illicit activities that frighten me, and I no longer wish to remain married to him. I have taken the children, and I am currently staying with my sister in Springfield, where it is safe for you to correspond with me by mail without Ted’s knowledge. I would like to meet with you in person. If you’re willing, please write, so that we might arrange a time to discuss my dilemma in more detail.

Most Sincerely,

Blanche Selby Fitzsimmons

I fold the letter and place it back in the envelope, my hands shaking. Ever since Ted confessed to being married, I’ve fretted about the day when his wife would find out about me. I’ve imagined all sorts of horrific scenarios, but I never imagined this. How on earth did she know where to find me? Louise had mentioned that Ted and Toby were acquainted, due to their membership at the Montpellier Tea Room, but surely Toby doesn’t know Blanche. Louise’s husband would have hardly gone out of his way to put us in touch.

I open the letter from Rosalie next. Just as I thought, it’s full of flourishes and grand proclamations about their new home—six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a full staff, tennis courts, and a swimming pool. And at the bottom, before her sign-off, a single question: Have you found Aunt Marguerite’s will?

Marguerite wakes. She looks around in confusion, and then resettles, falling back into her slumber. She’s been sleeping more and more, and she hardly eats, despite our best efforts. Harriet tells me this is all part of the disease—the natural, slow progression unto the death that will eventually claim my great-aunt’s life. With Marguerite’s condition growing graver by the day, her moments of lucidity will become fewer and farther between. I need to find the deed to the house and her will—if there is one—to make sure that her wishes are carried out when the end inevitably comes.

That evening, I take my time dressing for dinner. I choose a breezy, layered frock made of bronze chiffon and drape the garnet-and-pearl lavalier Marguerite gave me around my neck. I massage my hands with lanolin ointment, trying my best to reclaim some of my former vanity. Even though I’m not the celebrated beauty of the family—that’s Louise—I’ve always managed to turn heads with my easy smile, posture, and my confident way of walking into a room. I lost all that, after Ted.

I think of Blanche’s letter, tucked in my bureau, and wonder about the woman who wrote it. Ted didn’t share much about her, even when I asked, but I know a few things. She is younger than him, but not by much. They have three children—two boys and a girl. Her refined handwriting and polite manner demonstrate evidence of an education.

While the prospect of meeting Blanche terrifies me, I imagine how much worse it must be for her—how desperate she must be if she’s reached out to the woman who would have stolen everything that was rightfully hers. It was easy enough to dismiss Blanche when she existed only in my imagination, when I could paint her as the villain, as the uncaring, cold wife who had pushed Ted into my waiting arms. I thought myself special. A heroine of love. How foolish I was. How proud and vain and cruel.

I take out the ring Ted gave me and study its gleaming facets in the setting sun. Light reflects off it and bounces around the attic ceiling. The ring is at least three carats and worth more than all the other jewelry I own, combined. I need to pawn it. But something keeps holding me back. I place the ring in its pouch and hide it in the toe of my oxfords. I think of the young floozy Ted is now gallivanting around town with. I wonder what kind of false promises he’s made to her, and how long she’ll last. She probably thinks herself special, too.

Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll write to Blanche.

When I go downstairs, Beckett is bringing a roasted chicken garnished with rosemary and thyme to the dining room table. I inhale the delicious aroma and take my place between Marguerite and Harriet, who’s been joining us on occasion at the main table for dinner. Even though it’s not the done thing, I’m glad for her company. Harriet is steady and thoughtful and a soothing presence for Marguerite.

After dinner, Harriet helps me dress Marguerite for bed and then prepares to leave for the evening. I walk her to the door. “My husband will be home for winter soon,” she says. “I’ll be able to stay some nights, now and then, to relieve you.”

Relief floods through me. “Would you?”

“I can’t stay every night, of course, but perhaps twice a week. I could use the extra money. And ...” Harriet smiles at me, a knowing glint in her eye. “Perhaps if I’m here, you and Beckett might be able to steal some time away. Go out dancing, or to dinner. I see the way y’all look at each other.”

I dip my chin. “Is it that obvious to everyone?”

Harriet laughs. “Yes. Very. He’s just a little shy, but so was my Bill. Sometimes, you have to be bold with that kind of man. Otherwise, you’ll be waiting around forever. Now, I don’t mean to give advice when it’s not asked for, but it would be good to have someone special in your life. It’s going to get harder with Marguerite, not easier. A little sweetness could lighten the burden. Just think about it.”

She tells me good night, donning her capelet to protect her uniform from the dusty roads. I watch her leave from the porch, amid the drone of cicadas. She secures her bag in her bicycle basket, then waves to me as she rides off down the drive.

I can hear Beckett finishing up the dishes in the kitchen. Instead of helping him like I usually do, I go to the library and slide the doors into their pockets. A rush of air comes through, greeting me with the scent of old books—slightly stale, but welcoming and warm all the same. I switch on the Tiffany lamps on either side of the chesterfield, then take the key from the snuffbox on the mantel and unlock the liquor cabinet. Inside, I find a half bottle of Booth’s gin, Angostura bitters, and a decanter filled with amber liquid. I lift the stopper and sniff. Whiskey, of some sort. Ted would have been able to name the distillery, the year, even the kind of barrel it was aged in with the very first sip. He often teased me about my lack of knowledge when it came to spirits. Looking back now, there were so many things he teased and even shamed me about, all in the name of good humor. But tonight isn’t about Ted. It’s about being bold and giving something new the chance it needs to grow.

We’d moved the Victrola to the library after acquiring the radio, so Marguerite could listen to music here, too. I choose a King Oliver album and put it on the turntable. Beckett strolls in, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His eyebrows lift. “Setting a mood, are you?”

I feel myself blush. I tinker with the Victrola’s settings to avoid his gaze. “It’s been a long day for both of us. I could do with a drink and some good music, couldn’t you?”

He walks over to the liquor cabinet and lifts a bottle from its mirrored top.

“Not much of a selection, is there?” I say.

“No, but we can make do,” he says. “Better than bathtub gin. I’ll fetch some limes from the kitchen. That’ll improve things.”

I cross to the chesterfield and wait for him to return, arranging myself on the sofa in what I hope is a casually unassuming way. When he comes back, I watch as he mixes the bitters into the gin, stirring the mixture with a long spoon before cutting a lime in half and squeezing a bit of the juice into the glass. He carves a thin slice of lime and perches it on the rim, then hands me the glass.

I take a sip. Tart and crisp, with the warmth of the bitters rounding out the bouquet. It’s a bit like summer and autumn, all at once. “It’s good. Thank you.”

He grins at me over his shoulder as he mixes his own. “I had a short stint as a bartender in town, before my father died. I learned how to blend spirits. Sometimes simple is better.”

“It seems you know how to do everything. Truly.”

“Hardly.” He joins me on the sofa, leaving a respectable amount of space between us.

He’s so different from the other men I’ve known. Uncomplicated. Hardworking and loyal. A salt-of-the-earth man with scars that echo my own. Now, without Weston’s seductions complicating my mind, I’m ready to declare my intentions in a way Beckett can’t ignore. I take a deep breath, wetting my tongue with more of my cocktail before I speak. “Beckett, I was being honest with you, the other night, on the porch. I do ... have feelings for you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks straight ahead, where our ghostly reflections mirror us in the glass.

“I wasn’t expecting to feel like this. But I do, all the same.”

“Sadie, I . . .”

I place a hand on his knee, the faint buzz from the liquor building in my blood. Before I can overthink things, before I can talk myself out of it, I lean toward him and press my lips to his. He stiffens at first, then surrenders as I deepen our kiss, my arms tangling around his neck. As his warmth and realness surround me, I think of how right it feels, being in his arms. How it feels like coming home. When we finally break apart, breathless, he shakes his head, wiping his face with his hands. “Sadie, I don’t know if I can do this. I want to—God knows I want to. But I don’t know if I can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Give you what you want.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’ve never ...”

“Never?” I ask in awe.

“No.” His ears redden. “You’ve just blown my world apart. When you were sleepwalking, and you threw yourself at me, I just thought ... well, I knew it wasn’t me you wanted, so I did my best to be a gentleman. I never imagined you would want me ... like this. I never imagined anyone would.”

“Golly.” I look at him, flabbergasted. “Well, I’ve no idea why you’d think that. You’re quite the catch. You can even cook, for heaven’s sake!”

“Sadie. It’s not because of anything I can or can’t do—it’s because of how I look.” His lips press together in a thin line. “And if you’re merely offering your ... attention out of pity, you can stop the charade.”

“Pity?” I sit up, my eyes widening. “I ... Beckett, no.”

“Women like you don’t want men like me. No woman wants half a man. A cripple.”

“That’s not true.” A fierce burning makes its way up my neck, and I realize I’m angry. I take a sharp swallow of my drink to quell it. “You’re not half a man. At all. And if you think I pity you, you don’t know me. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You’re beautiful, Beckett. You are.”

He leans forward, elbows pinned to his knees, the uneven arch of his back on full display. “My condition hurts me. Often. It will only worsen with age. I wear binders and braces, beneath my clothes. Lifts for my shoes. The ointments and balms Doc Gallagher gives me help, but they don’t take all the pain away. On the very worst days, I take morphine, but mostly I’ve learned to live with it, because I don’t want to fall into oblivion.” He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. “I don’t know if I’m even capable of making love to a woman, Sadie. Or fathering children. The doctors ... when I was young, the doctors said sterility was a possibility with my condition.”

“But if that’s the case, we would cope.” I take his hand, press it between mine. “How can you know, if you never give things a chance? I’m willing to try. I want to, because I want you .”

He looks up at me, his eyes glazed and vulnerable. I lean forward and kiss the tremble from his lips, pressing my mouth to his again, and then my body, boldly straddling his lap. I guide his hand up my thigh, pushing my dress over my hips, showing him where my want lives. My desire. My hands tangle in his hair as his lips softly press against my neck, my pulse thudding. I feel his body respond, his hips rising to meet mine, and I smile. “See, we won’t have any problems at all,” I purr, my hand going to his waistband to unbutton his fly.

His head falls back as he relinquishes himself to my coaxing touch. I’ve never felt more powerful, more alive. For all these years, I’ve been claimed and taken by men who asserted their dominance over me, who pursued me, who took ownership of my body. This—this is new. And it is decadent. Heady. Delicious.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoes from the hall. Beckett’s eyes fly open. He pushes me off his lap, hastily buttoning his trousers. “Marguerite,” he rasps, and rushes to the door. I follow him, panic replacing my desire.

But when we get to the hall, there’s no one there. Only the same potted palm little Katie upended the other day, lying on its side once again, dirt spilling across the floor, the pot now irretrievably broken.

“How did that happen?” I wonder aloud. I check the single window in the hall. It’s locked, not the faintest hint of a draft around the sill.

“I don’t know. I’ll go get a broom.”

I remain in the hall, an eerie sense of watchfulness pervading the air. Outside, a soft misting rain begins, gently pattering on the windowpanes. The perfect weather for making love. I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder, brushing aside my hair. I turn, expecting Beckett, hoping to fall into his arms and regain the ground we’ve lost to this strange distraction. But there’s no one there, only an empty hallway, lit with clouded moonlight.