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 womanmoves. 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 tofinish 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.”
