“In a manner of speaking. One who has a maddening influence on the living—especially young women.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It doesn’t matterwhathe is, Miss Halloran, but I can assure you that his intentions are less than noble. For your own good, you should leave. The sooner, the better.”
Try as I may, though the day shines bright and cloudless, I can’t seem to shake my unease. My early-morning conversation with Beckett niggles like a stubborn hangnail during my walk around the rose garden with Marguerite and Harriet after breakfast. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I can’t explain what happened to me in the studio. I have questions for Marguerite—about my grandmother and Weston Chase. I’ve a feelingthat although Marguerite’s recent memory is a sieve, she guards the distant past like a precious coffer full of jewels.
We settle on the rear terrace after Marguerite has finished her daily inspection of the roses. Harriet covers Marguerite’s shoulders with a crocheted shawl and excuses herself. I regard my aunt from across the heavy wrought iron table. It might be my imagination, but she seems younger today. More vivacious. There’s a gleam in her green eyes, as if she’s been up to something sly. She smiles at me and offers me the plate of delicate pastries Melva set out for us. I wave them away.
“Aunt Marg, now that I’m here, I’m curious about our family history. Grandmother especially. Did she have a beau before Papa James?”
Marguerite shakes her head. “No. Your grandfather was her one and only.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. She was nineteen when he proposed. They carried on the engagement for a year, as was proper in those days. All she could talk about was their wedding. Such a bore.”
“Do you happen to remember a houseguest you had in Kansas City around the time of Grandmother’s engagement? A man?”
Marguerite’s brow furrows. “Oh, we had several visitors. Father’s business associates would often stay with us when they came from out of state.”
“Was there ever a writer?”
“A writer?” Her perplexed look deepens. “I don’t recall.”
I pause, taking a sip of my tea. If she’s lying to me, she’s hiding it well. I decide to try another tack. “The portrait. In the attic ... the one that upset you so. Who was he?”
A sudden spark of recollection alights behind Marguerite’s eyes. “Weston.”
“How did you come to paint his portrait? Was he one of your beaux?”
Marguerite shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. “No. And I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why not?”
“He and Florence. They . . .”
Ah. Now I’m getting somewhere. “What did they do?”
Marguerite clenches her teeth and slams her open palm on the table. “No. I won’t talk about it. I want to go back inside now,” she says, petulantly. “Take me inside, Sybil.”
“Sadie.”
Marguerite’s eyes blaze. “What does the name matter? You’re all the same. You all leave me. Every one of you. Whether Sadie, Sybil, or Amanda.”
“I’m not leaving you. I promise,” I say firmly. I help her to her feet, and wind my arm through hers. “You happen to be stuck with me, Aunt Marg.”
She wilts against me. “You’ll really stay?” she asks. “You promise you won’t leave me?”
“Of course not.” I pat her hand and guide her toward the door, steadying her gait. “Now, why don’t we go inside. I’ll play some music for you if you’d like. Or I could read you a story.”
“Do you play? The piano?”
“Yes. I do. Not well, I’m afraid.”
“I never could, either.” Marguerite smiles up at me, her demeanor softening. “My wrong notes drove Maman batty.”
No. It was my grandmother who had been the accomplished pianist of the family. The great beauty. The star debutante at the top of the Kansas City social register and a paragon of feminine virtue. But what secrets had she kept hidden? Perhaps she wasn’t as virtuous as we all thought. I have a feeling, with enough time spent cleverly coaxing out Marguerite’s memories, I’ll discover more about my grandmother and her sisters than I ever imagined.
