Chapter 9
That evening, in the brief interlude between dinner and Harriet’s and Melva’s departure, I return to my aunt’s studio. The painting of Weston remains there, uncovered, his eyes boring into mine from across the small space. I approach cautiously, wary of any sound or movement, yet intrigued by the image all the same. I reach out, gingerly touching the surface with my fingertips. There’s no movement, and no feeling of vertigo overwhelms me. It’s only an arresting image, rendered in two dimensions.
“What are you doing?”
I snatch my hand back, turning at the sound of Marguerite’s voice. She stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, her mouth set in a hard line. “You shouldn’t be in here alone.”
“I’m sorry. The door was unlocked. I was just enjoying your work.”
Marguerite stalks past me and snatches the painting off its easel with surprising strength. “You aren’t to look at this one anymore. I’ll have Beckett get rid of it. He can burn it with the lawn cuttings.”
“No!” I shout. The sound bounces off the walls. Marguerite flinches. My adamance surprises even me. I lower my voice. “Please ... please don’t do that. It would be a shame. It’s such a unique piece.”
“You mean amateur and childish. It was my first portrait.”
“Then it’s ever more special for that reason.” I ease toward Marguerite, my eyes on the painting. She can’t destroy it. I won’t let her. It compels me—intrigues me—not only because of its handsomesubject, but because of the uncanny sensations I experienced while looking at it. Was the scene from the past in Kansas City a dream? Or did this painting transport me there? Either way, I mean to find out. I won’t be able to if she destroys it. I gently pry the canvas from Marguerite’s grasp, my heart beating wildly. I set it back on the easel and cover it with the discarded dustcloth. “There. I’ve covered it. I won’t look at it again,” I lie. “Now, let’s go back downstairs. Would you like some chamomile tea before bed?”
Marguerite sighs, shakes her head. “You talk to me like I’m a child. I’m only trying to protect you, Sadie. There’s so much you don’t understand.” The sudden clarity in her words takes me aback. In the past few days, there have been times when Marguerite’s mind is just as solid and lucid as my own. Times when I see aknowingbehind her eyes that doesn’t square with her delusions and confusion.
“Well, I’m not a child, either, am I?” I tug on her arm, coaxing her into the hall. “Now, shall we go downstairs and have some tea? I’ve been thinking. We should get a radio.” One of the only things I miss about Mrs. Dunlop’s boardinghouse is the radio in the lounge. I loved gathering with the other tenants on Sunday evenings to listen to news and music on WDAF.
“A radio?”
“Yes. That way we can keep abreast of the news. And listen to music and stories, too. Good ones.”
I lead Marguerite down the stairs, pausing so she can catch her breath on the landing. “Georgia Merritt has a radio,” she says. “A big one, in a cabinet in her parlor. She’s a bit snooty, that one. She reminds me a little of Florence.”
“Is Georgia your neighbor?”
“Yes. Two houses over. The blue steamboat gothic.” Marguerite tosses me a sly smile. “She comes over sometimes, to play mah-jongg and bridge. You’ll meet her. She doesn’t like me, but she pretends to.”
I sigh, thinking of Rosalie, my sister-in-law. “Yes. There are lots of women like that, I’m afraid.”
We make our way to the parlor. As Marguerite arranges herself on the sofa, I wind the Victrola and choose a recording of French standards. I go to the kitchen and ask Melva to put on the kettle before she leaves, then rejoin my aunt, who has her head tilted back, eyes closed, as the music winds through the room.
“This music reminds me of Christine,” she says wistfully. “There was a club we’d go to, in the early aughts, where it was safe for us to be ourselves. France was more accepting of our sort, all the way around, but it was a comfort to be around others like us at the club. Made our world seem a little smaller in the best sort of way. We’d drink absinthe and dance all night.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“It was. We had some good times together. I came home in 1912—you and your mother visited me here that summer.”
“I remember. You let me have all the warm cocoa I wanted.”
“Yes.” Marguerite smiles sadly. “Christine died the next year. Cancer. It started with a tiny mole on her shoulder. I used to kiss that mole, not knowing it would one day bring her death.”
I’m not sure what to say, and I’m grateful when Melva brings our tea. She hurries out the door a few minutes later, pocketbook latched over her arm, mumbling something about airing out the linens tomorrow. After she leaves, Marguerite pushes the tea to the side. “I’m not in the mood for tea, after all, dear. I need cheering. How about something stronger? There’s a bottle of Calvados in the cupboard under the stairs.”
“Auntie! I’m shocked.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised by anything I do at this point. Now, go get that brandy.”
I find the bottle shoved behind a row of dusty preserves, their contents somewhat suspect, and bring it out, wiping it clean with my handkerchief. It’s old—from 1908—but when I remove the stopper, the unmistakable scent of good, aged brandy floods my nostrils. I find two snifters in the dining room hutch and bring everything back to the parlor.
Marguerite lights up at the sight. “I haven’t had a proper drink in years.”
“Things might get a little wild, then.”
She arches her brow. “They might indeed.”
