Last Day (33 page)

“I love you both; is that okay?” Sam asked.

“Thinking about the time,” Julie said, her voice muffled by the tablecloth.

“What time?” Sam asked.

“Before the dying, before your mother went to heaven.”

“Julie!” Isabel said.

“Yeah. I think about it too,” Sam said.

Julie poked her head out. She actually met Sam’s gaze and nodded.

Eye contact was really rare. Julie’s face, always pale, was scrunched up with worry and looked translucent, almost bluish. She was obviously really upset, giving Sam a serious needle in her heart. Julie’s so-called friends bullied her. They weren’t patient, and they teased her.

Once when Sam and Isabel were at the beach with Julie, they overheard Cammie Alquist bullying her.

You don’t look different, but you ARE different, hahaha,
Cammie had said, and Isabel had grabbed Cammie by the back of her neck and said,
Different is better than shitty like you
. Seeing Isabel defend Julie had made Sam wish she had a sister—someone who had her back, while Sam had hers, just like her mother and Aunt Kate.

“Bad dream,” Julie said.

“You had one?” Sam asked.

“She has nightmares,” Isabel said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sam wanted to stay and hear more of what Julie was talking about, but she could tell that Isabel had lost her patience and seemed ready to explode.

“Foley’s?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

They took the long way around, the road that looped along the marsh. They were beach girls and walked barefoot, the tar warm and soft beneath their feet.

“What’s bothering Julie?” Sam asked.

“I can’t tell, exactly. She’s very upset about your mother, obviously,” Isabel said, glancing at Sam. “But I think it has more to do with your father.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, he came over to pick up my dad the day they left, and we all talked to him. Julie hears everything, and she knows he’s a suspect.” Again Isabel looked at Sam. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry; I’m aware of it,” Sam said, knowing she sounded stiff. Every time she thought of her father killing her mother,
she
wanted to die. It wasn’t possible. He wasn’t the greatest dad sometimes, but he would never do that. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

“Julie’s just scared. That cop came to talk to me about the dumb book. Why my mother had to mention it to him I have no idea. It was just a thriller my mother picked up at the library book sale. I read it, and then my dad did, and I guess he gave it to your dad.”

“What book?” Sam asked.

“
Meat Locker.
This restaurant owner kills his business partner and hides the body in a refrigeration unit to slow the decomposition of the body. I mean, there’s more to the story than that, but that’s the part the cop wanted to know about.”

“I don’t remember seeing it around our house,” Sam said. “And you never mentioned it before.”

“Well, I forgot about it,” Isabel said. “Mom’s the one who called the detective to tell him about it.”

“Your mom?” Sam asked, shocked that Mrs. Waterston would get involved, would say anything that might implicate her dad. “How could she do that?”

“Well, she’s worried about you, Sam.”

“I’ve lost my mom, and now she wants to help them take my dad away too?” Sam asked.

“No! She just wants . . . to do what’s right. For everyone. For your mother. And you too, of course. I mean, if your dad did it, it could be dangerous. Sam, don’t be mad!”

Sam started walking faster, and they didn’t talk the rest of the way. Foley’s was a general store, set in the midst of Hubbard’s Point. Only locals went, or even knew about it. It stocked basic food and supplies
along with beach toys, and in the back, it had a snack bar with the best lemonade and grilled-cheese sandwiches in the world. Isabel and Sam sat at one of the old scarred oak tables. Generations of kids had carved their initials into the wood, and it was not only allowed but encouraged.

“Ha, look,” Isabel said, pointing at her parents’ initials: SB & NW. “Hello, hypocrites. Is this that different from graffiti?”

“Well, it’s allowed here,” Sam said.

“Where are your parents’ initials?” Isabel asked. “You’ve never shown me.”

“They didn’t grow up in Hubbard’s Point,” she said. “So they’re not here.”

“Maybe you should carve them. To commemorate . . .”

Everything Isabel had said on the way here reverberated through Sam like seismic waves. People thought her dad had killed her mom. Did Sam think that? She told herself no. But right now, despair bubbled up and boiled over.

“To commemorate the fact that my father basically lives with someone else? And has a kid with her? I think my mother had a boyfriend too.”

“Really?” Isabel asked. Sam could see it came as a shock—everyone thought her mother was pretty much a saint.

“I’m almost positive. He’s this guy we knew from New London. I didn’t think about it before she died, but now, looking back, she was happy when she was around him.”

“That must suck, thinking that,” Isabel said.

“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “It should, right? As Julie would say, ‘It’s weird; it’s strange,’ but for some reason, it doesn’t suck. I’m just glad my mother was happy.”

“You have to quote my sister?” Isabel asked.

“Come on. You know I love Julie. She’s the only one who tells it straight. Everyone else is so polite and walking on eggshells around
me. Not wanting to upset me. I know they talk about it when I’m not there.”

“Are you grouping me in with the polite people?” Isabel asked.

“No,” Sam said. “You’re my best friend. But to be honest, it fucked me up to hear about the book just now, and you talking to the detective. I mean, I know he’s interviewing everyone, but I still hate it.”

“How do you think I felt?” Isabel asked. “Having to talk about how my best friend’s dad might have killed her mom?”

And then, because she just couldn’t take it anymore, Sam ran out of Foley’s and left Isabel sitting there.

40

Sam returned to school just before Labor Day, and Kate took a leave of absence from Intrepid Aviation. Nearly two months after Beth’s death, she began spending days at the gallery. It was just a quarter mile from Black Hall High, so she and Sam could drive together from New London.

Being at the gallery made Kate feel closer to Beth. She sat at her sister’s desk, Popcorn lying at her feet. Time was passing, and still Beth’s killer hadn’t been caught. Conor seemed sure Jed hadn’t done it. Her thoughts veered wildly between still believing it was Pete and starting to wonder if it really had been an art theft. And a sexual assault. She thought of the horribly torn underwear beside Beth’s bed—and what it had been used to do to her.

It was all unthinkable. She tried to get the picture of Beth lying on her bed out of her mind, the marks around her neck, her blankly staring eyes. Her fingers trembled as she paged through a thick black ledger Beth kept of all the paintings that came through the gallery. It calmed and soothed her to think of the things Beth had always loved, had been good at. After a few minutes, she lost herself in Beth’s notes.

Kate had always been informed about the most important acquisitions and sales. A few key paintings stood out; Beth had written about them, filled paragraphs with question marks and red arrows, words that
were circled or boldly underlined. She’d been searching for clues, more information than the previous owners had been able—or willing—to supply. Works of art were a mystery—their meaning, provenance, and authenticity—and to study them, one had to become a detective and an academic.

Kate examined the small oil on a display easel beside Beth’s desk. Beth had determined that the landscape, unsigned, was by Ben Morrison, the same artist who’d painted
Moonlight
. Could there be any significance to Beth’s having had it right next to her desk?

It had been found with over fifty other paintings in the attic of a saltbox on Sill Lane. Edith Peck, a ninety-five-year-old recluse who had never married, had collected works of the American Impressionists who had painted in the Black Hall Art Colony. Morrison had lived there from 1898 to 1905. After Peck’s death last December, it had come to light that she had two great-nephews in Bangor and a great-niece in Rochester, none of whom had any interest in owning the paintings.

Miss Peck’s family wanted the Lathrop Gallery to sell the paintings on consignment, but Beth had asked Kate to agree that the family purchase them outright.

Beth worked out a price, and Kate concurred. Edith Peck’s family had felt it was fair, and the deal was made. Pete objected. He thought they were paying too much.

“They’re not Metcalf caliber,” he’d said. “We’re talking about a couple of LeBlancs, a Potter, a Giddings, and a few unsigned that
might
be Morrison? What you’ve got is a bunch of barely-knowns.”

Pete was correct about the fact that the works Miss Peck had collected—other than the possible Morrisons—were by artists not terribly sought after, but the passion of collectors had always escaped him: the thrill of discovering a new artist; the love of beauty; the deep satisfaction of owning a picture done over a hundred years ago, outdoors on local hills or riverbanks, of scenes that still existed today.

He would never comprehend the role the gallery played in creating reputations. Artists represented by the Harkness-Woodward—now Lathrop—Gallery
became
sought after. Once they secured the gallery’s imprimatur, the value of their work went up substantially. Many artists who showed here later had work acquired by museums from the Farnsworth to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Pete might have done well in another field; he would never understand that soul was more necessary to the art business than a calculator.

Kate examined the painting at hand, the one Beth had attributed to Morrison. The canvas was 8 by 12 inches. It depicted a brook in spring. The water’s strong zigzag and diminishing diagonal drew the eye back and forth from the foreground into the distance. Light glinted on the surface and through pine needles, a wash of gold-green and clear pale blue. Claude Monet had said, “Nature does not stand still.”

Kate was thinking of those words when she suddenly recognized the brook: it was on the island, running down the hill from where Jed had pitched his tent. She recognized the rock contours and the serpentine of water flowing toward the distant blue river. She had observed that exact scene the day she’d found the sonogram.

Was that the reason Beth had the painting propped up where she could see it at all times? Because it reminded her of Jed and the island? The painting was undeniably lovely, idealistic, and romantic. Could that pine grove by the brook be where she had conceived Matthew?

Lost in thought, Kate heard the discreet bell that rang only upstairs in the office, announcing that someone had entered the front door. She heard footfalls on the bare wood floor, and Popcorn loped downstairs to investigate. Kate’s fists clenched—an involuntary reaction to the sound of footsteps in the gallery. After all these years, that sound reminded her of the day the intruders had come. The bell had rung upon their entrance as well.

“Hello,” came a familiar voice.

She walked downstairs to see Conor bending down to pet Popcorn. He wore what she’d come to realize was his uniform: gray slacks, a white broadcloth shirt, a striped tie, and a rumpled blue blazer. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, sparkling with warmth.

“I drove by and spotted your car,” he said. Then, “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I thought you’d be flying.”

“I’m taking time off,” she said. “I thought I’d spend some time at the gallery. It’s been neglected since Beth died.”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“It’s complicated—not all one thing.” She paused. “It’s practically my home. I’ve been coming here as long as I remember. A lot of memories. And some ghosts.” She thought of the Morrison painting.

“Your mother.”

“And Beth,” Kate said.
My sister with her lover,
she thought. Had Beth chosen that spot by the brook to be with Jed because of the Morrison painting? Had she let art guide her?

There was another ghost too: the girl Kate used to be. Her gaze went to the basement door. She had walked down those stairs one person, and when she’d come back up twenty-two hours later, she’d been someone else entirely.

“Are you okay?” Conor said, taking a step closer to her.

Kate nodded. She felt light headed.

“You look pale.”

Now he was inches away. She could feel waves of energy between their bodies.

Her skin tingled. She realized Conor was attracted to her. Maybe he had a hero complex, or perhaps it was the smell of her hair. Was she mistaken, or did he want to kiss her? For weeks now, she had sensed him nearby, watching her, even when he didn’t let himself be seen.

She never had these instincts—she’d been frozen solid, and the ice had started to form right here in the gallery when she was sixteen. What would happen if she touched him? She tried it, just one finger at first, tracing the back of his hand. Her skin burned.

“You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Did you follow me?”

She watched him staring at her. Electricity tingled through her body, taunting her to collapse, to quit holding it all together, to give in to something sublime and terrible. She felt overcome with desire. Was this how Beth had felt when she’d gone to the brook with Jed?

“Yeah,” he said. “I did follow you.”

“Are you supposed to be doing that?” she asked.

“I was concerned,” he said.

“About what?” she asked.

“About Pete. He lost face with anyone connected to the gallery; you’re letting his girlfriend and son stay in your family house. He might be very angry.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, but now, in contradiction to her words, the pressure of her finger on his hand was stronger; she was holding herself up, balancing with one fingertip on Conor Reid. Blood was rushing in her ears, a roaring brook, melting the ice in her body.

“I’m messed up,” she said out loud.