Page 7

July 20, 1925

Beckett and I do our best to avoid one another in the days that follow. It’s not difficult, busy as he is with maintaining the grounds. I don’t know how the man can endure this relentless, cloying heat. It pervades everything. In the front parlor, I lift one of the heavy window sashes, then open another across from it, bringing in the faintest cross breeze. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the side of my hand and sit on the sofa next to Marguerite, who I helped dress in the scantiest clothing propriety allows. I skim my thumb over the scab forming on my knee. Luckily, a skinned knee is the worst of my injuries, apart from my pride. Though Beckett’s words vexed me, they have also spurred me to action. In the last few days, I’ve doted on Marguerite, determined to prove to him—and myself—that my motives for being here are pure.

“This heat reminds me of the canicule of ’11,” Marguerite says, fanning herself with a rattan fan.

“Pardon?”

“In France. The heat killed thousands that year. Christine and I fled Paris. Went to Antibes. Let a villa by the shore.”

I settle in with my glass of iced tea, crossing my legs. “Who’s Christine?”

Marguerite lifts an eyebrow. “If I tell you the truth, it will make you blush.”

I laugh. “Try me.”

“She was my lover. For many, many years.”

I nearly drop my tea in my lap.

Marguerite smiles. “I told you I would shock you.”

I’ve heard the rumors about Marguerite, of course. My grandmother shook her head at the company her youngest sister kept, judging her against their rigid Catholic upbringing. Shameful and shameless, I remember Grandmother saying after she read one of Marguerite’s letters. She crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it in the wastebasket. I took it out later, smoothed the paper, and read it. I saw nothing more scandalous than a recounting of a day spent on Lake Michigan with a group of her friends. I didn’t understand what my grandmother meant at the time. But now ...

Marguerite watches me with steady eyes. “Would you like to see her?”

“Who?”

“Christine.”

“She’s here?”

Marguerite grunts softly. “In a manner of speaking.” She lifts herself from the sofa. “Come along. I’ll show you.”

Marguerite leads me upstairs, to a snug, closed-off room—no larger than a dressing room. I imagine its original purpose was to be a nanny’s room or the housekeeper’s quarters, situated as it is at the end of the second-floor hall, near the interior stairwell. Every surface is littered with artistic detritus. In the gloom, I can make out the shadowed forms of several easels, some standing, some stacked against the walls. Marguerite goes to the only window and draws open the heavy velvet curtains, letting in a blinding blade of sunlight. Dust flies, sending me into a brief coughing fit.

“I haven’t been in here for over a year,” she says. “This used to be my studio. Did you know Vermeer painted with light from a single high window just like this? It’s how he got those marvelous deep shadows and catchlights in the eyes.” She points to one of the easels. “That’s her. Over there, I believe. Christine.”

I wend my way across the cluttered floor to the painting and remove the dustcover. It’s a portrait of a woman—one in her middling years and regal, with a saucy tilt to her chin as she reclines on the sand in an old-fashioned bathing costume. She has a large striped parasol anchored on her shoulder, shielding her from the sun. As I study the painting, a feeling of vertigo washes over me. The energy in the room shifts, and I can almost hear the sea in my ears, waves softly breaking over sand. Then suddenly, the woman moves . Her elbow lifts, ever so slightly, and the parasol spins. I step back from the painting with a gasp.

“She . . . she moved.”

Marguerite comes to my side. “What did you say?”

“That lady. Christine. She moved.”

Marguerite laughs. “Are you sure you didn’t add some tipple to your tea, my dear?”

“No. I’m certain she moved.” I step back to the painting, drawing Marguerite with me by the hand. “Look.”

But nothing happens. There’s only paint on canvas, artfully applied. Marguerite reaches out, tenderly stroking the line of Christine’s jaw with her fingertip. “She was my last love. I didn’t know that, at the time. I had other affairs after her, of course. But none like Chris.”

“Just how many lovers have you had, Auntie?”

“I’ve had my share of flings, my dear, but I’ve only had three true loves.”

I almost laugh. “That many?”

“What? Do you believe true love to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing? That’s only the case in fairy tales.” Her voice falls, growing solemn. “Something you realize, when you’re older, is that you can and will fall in love more than once, and every lover you have teaches you something. About the world. About yourself. The lessons aren’t always pleasant. Or easy. And you won’t always understand why things happened the way they did, until much, much later.” She turns back to the painting and sighs. “It didn’t end well for us. Christine wanted more than I was able to give. She begged me to give up my home here, move to France. But I still cared too much about what people would think. What my family would say. If I’d gone to live with her, it would prove the rumors about me true. Your grandmother Florence already suspected and judged me for it.”

I remember the letter from Marguerite that my grandmother read scornfully and discarded, all those years ago. “I think you’re probably right. About Grandmother.”

“Bitter as the day is long, that one.” Marguerite shakes her head. “She punished me for her unhappiness. With Florence gone, I can finally be who I am, but I wish things had been different between us. She was difficult. Domineering. But I secretly ached for her approval. I wish we could have found a way to make peace with one another.”

“She loved you. She did,” I say gently. “She told me such fond stories of your childhood together. About Claire, too.” It’s a bit of a lie—Grandmother had very few kind words in her repertoire about either one of her sisters, but rehashing their differences won’t soothe Marguerite’s regret.

“Claire ...” Marguerite looks down. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. How did you know Claire?”

“She was my great-aunt, just like you are. I never met her, though.”

“That’s right. I remember now. You’re Sybil, aren’t you? Or is it Susan?” Marguerite shakes her head in confusion. “No, that’s not right.”

It’s stunning how quickly Marguerite’s recollection of who I am fades. I take her hand. “Sadie. I’m Sadie.”

“Yes. Sadie. I like that name. It’s a bit feisty.”

I laugh. “It suits me, I think.”

Marguerite covers the portrait of Christine, and motions to another easel. “I believe that’s my portrait of Hugh, over there. I still need to finish it. I found it the most difficult to paint ... my emotions got the better of me. Hugh was my first love. Things ended tragically for us. I don’t like to think about him too often. It makes me sad.” She moves to the painting and pulls away the cloth covering it. My eyes widen. It’s the man I saw in the attic. The stranger. I recognize him immediately—his crisp jawline and that tumbling, dark hair falling over his brow. A face so handsome it’s almost cruel.

“How?” Marguerite’s voice drops so low I can barely hear the words. “I burned this one. I’m sure I did.”

“Is that Hugh?”

“No,” Aunt Marguerite says, her voice quaking. “Not Hugh. My Hugh was good.”

“Who’s this man in the painting, then?”

“My biggest regret.” She crumples in on herself, hiding her eyes with her hand. “Cover it, please, Sybil. Cover it up.”

I pick up the cloth and throw it back over the painting. As I do, I swear I see the faintest smile lift a corner of the man’s mouth.

In the wee hours, after the house quiets and Marguerite falls soundly asleep, I decide to go back to the studio. I can’t resist. The mysterious portrait calls to me. Who was the nameless man? Who was he to my aunt? If he was one of her lovers, their affair seems to have ended badly. And if he’s a real person from the past, that means I’ve seen him—or his ghost—a troubling thought that chases me as I light an oil lamp and pad down the hall to the studio.

I slowly turn the knob and push open the door, its hinges creaking faintly. Between the undrawn curtains, trees sway in the indigo darkness. The air, even inside the house, is thick with the promise of rain. My lamp casts eerie shadows over the walls and shrouded easels as I set it on a small table near the man’s portrait. I stand there for a moment, staring at the veiled painting, a tremor of anxiety at one with my curiosity as I remember the way his lips tilted in that insolent half smile. It might have been my imagination. But the same thing happened with Christine’s portrait. Iris’s as well. Each figure moved. There’s something uncanny about my aunt’s work. Otherworldly.

The hall clock chimes twice, startling me.

“Oh, Sadie, stop being ridiculous.” I take a half step forward and gently pull on the dustcover. It falls away. The man stares out at me, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to desire. My head goes woozy as I study him. He sits in a wooden chair, one arm propped on the back, the light etching his face with shadow and carving away any softness. He’s dressed simply, in a white shirt unbuttoned below the collarbone and black trousers with no jacket.

I step closer, my eyes roving over the surface of the painting as I examine Marguerite’s brushwork. There’s a difference compared to the other two portraits—her brushstrokes are more primitive, as if she made this painting when she was much younger, her talent nascent and still emerging. The swirls of paint are hypnotic, undulating across the canvas.

The wobbly sensation returns, my head spinning. I suddenly feel faint. I reach for something, anything, to steady myself as the edges of my vision begin to blacken. Before I can lower myself to my knees, the floor tilts at an odd angle, a strange, whining roar floods my ears, and I’m falling, the darkness reaching out to embrace me.