“I should check on my mother,” Ryan said. “See if she’s getting tired.”
“I think she’s out by the pool,” Diane said.
I didn’t have to look hard for Marcy. I found her in the front hall, right in front of the cross-stitch I’d rehung—To err is human, to forgive, divine—holding something wrapped in a white sheet.
“Hello,” I said. “Thank you so much for coming.” I touched her arm gently as she turned to face me. “We’ve got food in the kitchen, drinks in the dining room.”
“I have the painting,” she said, offering what she was holding to me. “I want you to have it. I think it belongs with you.”
“I can’t,” I protested. “Though I would love to take a peek—”
“I insist you keep it,” she said. “It’s what Lexie would have wanted.”
“This means so much to me,” I said. Carefully, I peeled back the folds of the sheet. It was like lifting the edges of a ghost costume, wondering who or what might be hiding underneath.
My sister looked back at me. I was so startled I nearly dropped the gift.
It was a self-portrait of Lexie’s own reflection in the water, about twelve by sixteen inches. Not just any water, but the pool. She had captured herselfperfectly: her blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the smattering of freckles over her nose, her eyes. I had no idea my sister could paint like this. She doodled elaborately when we were kids. In college she’d taken a painting class, but I’d never seen any of her work.
“I thought on my way here, perhaps this image might be… too much so soon?” Marcy said anxiously. “But this was my favorite. And they were all similar, part of a series. Of the pool. Sometimes with her reflection in it, sometimes someone else’s.”
“No, it’s not too much. I love it. What other reflections did she paint?”
“Women and girls. One of them was your grandmother. Another, your mother.”
Now that I would like to see.
“Sometimes people I didn’t recognize.”
“And where are those paintings now?”
“She gave them away. Or sold most of them. I know for a fact that each one in the craft fair sold. It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it?” she said, looking down at the watercolor in my hands.
“Do you know any of the buyers? I’d love to see more of her work.”
“Not offhand. But I’ll ask around and let you know what I find out.”
Aunt Diane joined us. “Have you seen your father—oh my God,” she said, looking down at the picture. “I’ve never seen this one. It’s incredible!”
We looked at the painting together in silence, Lexie holding both of us in her gaze. I covered the painting back up and said to Marcy, “Thank you again for this. It means so much to me.”
“It’s my pleasure, dear. And I’ll be sure to let you know if I find out what happened to any of her other paintings.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
I carried the painting upstairs to my room and laid it down on the bed for safekeeping. My eyes were fixed on Lexie’s, so many questions filling my head. What was she doing out at the pool that last night? What were all the strange coded notes she’d left behind? What had led her to believe Rita’s drowning all those years ago might not have been an accident? One question tumbled into another like a row of dominoes.
I thought of what Diane had said—that we’d never know what had led Lexie out to the pool or what was going through her head in her final days. But I knew that wasn’t true. She’d left clues. Insights into her thinking. I turned and looked at the white cardboard boxes we’d stacked in the corner of my room, full pages of notes, strange codes, journals, and photographs she’d left behind. I couldn’t have my sister back, but maybe if I looked through them, really looked through them, I’d getsome insight into her last days. Maybe I’d find some of the answers I was looking for.
I was taking the lid off the first box when I heard a scream from outside. By the pool. I ran downstairs and toward the kitchen door, then remembered I couldn’t get out that way. I glanced out the kitchen window and saw a small gathering at the edge of the pool, and at least one person flailing and splashing in the water.
I dashed out of the kitchen, through the living room, to the front door, nearly knocking over a few guests. I plowed through the front door, around the corner, and through the open gate.
My father was beside the pool, soaking wet and coughing. Ryan was next to him, on his knees and also soaked. He had his arm around my father; his eyes were focused on the pool. Diane was crouched beside them. “Someone get us some towels!” she ordered. Two women I didn’t recognize hurried past me through the gate.
“Your father fell in,” Diane said, seeing me. “Ryan pulled him out.”
My father stopped coughing. “I’m fine. And I did not fall in!”
