“That sounds good to me,” I say. “Martini for me, dry, two olives if you’ve got them.”
“Coming right up.”
I sink into the couch and it feels like heaven to relax and settle in. Except that the nagging feeling that assailed me when I first walked into the house still lingers. It’s as if I know something about this place, even though I’ve never seen it before in my life.
I stare around the room, and I’m only half listening as Cammie regales me with updates on her life while she sets the table. Something about school and riding lessons and the unreasonable length of her summer reading list. Stirling hands me a drink and crosses over to the kitchen with his own to help Margot, who has already poured her first glass of the Riesling.
As I take a sip of my drink, my eyes travel over the night scene in the back yard through the windows. Twinkling string lights hang from the frames of the trellis and are reflected in the breeze-rippled pool. I could stare into it for hours, but Cammie says something, and I turn my attention to her.
“Hmm?”
“I should put a wine glass for you, right Aunt Amanda?”
“Yes please, thanks sweetie.”
“You grown-ups sure are drinking a lot tonight,” she laughs.
I laugh too, and start to reply that it’s a holiday weekend, and that she’ll appreciate holidays and alcoholic drinks more when she’s an adult, when my eye catches the painting on the dining room wall. I turn to look at it more fully and realize that’s it. The strange feeling I’ve been having is from the artwork in this house.
I get up and walk with my drink to the hallway where a series of three vertical rectangular abstract paintings hang. The colors are warm, inviting for the most part. But there’s a smattering of disturbing strokes of black and red. It’s almost as if they don’t belong for a moment, but then they blend with the movement of the other shapes. An edge, a warning, perhaps, that even in warmth there is danger.
Do I know this artist?
I lean in closer to look for a signature—there is none.
I dart back into the main room. Stirling is adjusting the flame in the gas fireplace, and Cammie is drizzling something over a platter of food, while Margot pulls a large pan of something undoubtedly delicious out of the oven. The aroma floods my nostrils and it ought to be enough to make me go over to the kitchen and steal a bit of whatever it is, like I’m sure I’ll do tomorrow with the turkey.
But it’s not enough to draw me away from the painting in the dining room. It’s an abstract of pale greys with splashes of rose and blue. It’s a bit more cubist in nature, with some angles formed in thin, black lines. But it’s the bold lightning bolt of deep purple-blue that cuts diagonally across the painting that almost stops my heart. Again, the disruption of calm, the jagged edge of emotion that disturbs the peace of the composition. And still no signature.
Then another insistent, pounding energy from behind impels me to pivot and I’m nearly brought to my knees at the sight of the massive painting on the living room wall. I don’t know how I missed it before, or why it wasn’t the first thing I saw when I first sat down on the couch. I guess the magic of the backyard night lights distracted me. Or maybe hunger and travel fatigue. But I see it now.
A rendition of pure pain, the gigantic black metal frame holds a white canvas almost entirely covered with an amoeba shape in crimson red that can only be representative of a heart. I know this in my core without understanding why.
A giant perfectly-round dot of black is painted at the center of it, and jagged silver lines, like the edges of a serrated knife, score the shapes in different directions. A few black lines of the same type appear closer to the edges of the painting. I don’t have to look too closely to know that there’s no signature. It takes my breath away.
“It’s really something, isn’t it?” asks Margot, reading my mind.
“Um, yeah,” I say, and turn my back on the painting. As if that’s going to do any good. “It’s powerful.”
“So are the other pieces in the house. You should see the one in the master bedroom,” says Stirling. I definitely donotwant to see that. “The owner has great taste in art and design.”
I just nod and walk over to the table.
“Why don’t you sit here?” Stirling indicates the chair between the one at the head of the table, which I assume is his, and the one next to it, which is where my sister will probably sit. No doubt Cassie will take the seat across from mine, to Stirling’s left. “I’ll take that, I can always make you a fresh one later.” He takes my half-finished martini, and I sit down.
Dinner is a beautiful spread, so much so, that I wonder how much more grand tomorrow’s barbecue will be. Cammie had been pouring citrus vinaigrette as it turns out, over the platter which is full of fresh cut fruit, another salad of supergreens, macadamia nuts, and dried figs, a braided loaf of homemade bread, and warm minted pearl couscous. As Margot spoons a pile on each plate, she passes it to Stirling, who lays a generous portion of miso and teriyaki glazed salmon over it that Margot had broiled in the oven. Stirling hands me the first plate, and I add some of each of the salads. Just as Margot is handing him the second plate, the doorbell rings.
“Who in the world could that be at this time of night?” says Margot.
“I’ll get it—” But before Stirling can get up, she’s already down the hall.
Cammie peers over my shoulder and Stirling looks toward the front door with a concerned expression too. Frankly, I’m too tired to care who it is. I’ll let my sister deal with it. Without standing on ceremony, I stab a piece of salmon on my fork and eat it. I close my eyes but my reveling in how delicious it is, is interrupted by Margot’s voice. I can’t make out everything she’s saying, but she sounds distressed.
“What…I can’t believe…why are you here?”
First Stirling pushes his chair back from the table and charges down the hall, then Cammie scampers behind him. I sigh and take a huge gulp of wine before I follow them. This is clearly someone they know, and the least I can do is go to the door and offer whatever social niceties I can.
I make my way down the hall, and as I step into the foyer, the reason for my anxiety—the immaculate design of the house, the stunning artwork—it all crystallizes for me in one horrible instant. Cammie and Stirling move aside as I step up behind my sister to face the man standing in the doorway.
