Sadie bites his thumb, scraping his skin with her teeth, teasing him with her eyes.
He smirks. “You’re such a naughty thing. You modern girls ... shameless.”
Sadie rolls onto her belly, arching her back. “You like my shamelessness.”
“Yes. I do. But for your sake, and mine, we must put aside our play for now.” He slides his hand up Sadie’s bare thigh. “Let’s make our parting a sweet one, shall we?”
After they make love, Weston returns to his work with a stubborn single-mindedness, barely glancing up as Sadie fades from view, as she falls back into another life—one that feels less like reality with each passing day.
Chapter 16
August 12, 1925
“I’m sorry, miss. Truly. I meant to give you more notice.”
I swipe at my tired eyes, looking at Melva, her form wavering. I’ve been sleeping even less since parting with Weston. I’m left bereft by his absence. By his denial of my company. “When are you leaving?”
“This’ll have to be my last day. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“My sister needs me. With four little ones ... she can’t work. She’s already found a post for me.” Melva reaches out, squeezes my hand where it sits limply on my knee. “Now, I’ve made a list of all the things you’ll need. You’ll manage just fine, miss. You’ll see. You’ve got Beckett. And Harriet for Miss Thorne.”
Even though Melva’s hasty departure leaves me anxious, I had a feeling this was coming. An ominous telegram arrived two days ago: a mining accident had injured Melva’s brother-in-law in rural Tennessee, and he’d succumbed to his injuries. Initially, Melva took the news with a matter-of-fact manner, but I caught her crying in the kitchen later that day, dabbing at her eyes with a tea towel. I’ve been bracing myself for her notice ever since.
Given Marguerite’s history with help, the chances of replacing the maid are slim. But the morning after Melva’s departure, I phone theFayetteville Daily Democratanyway, and place an ad, hopeful thatsomeone outside the immediate area might fill her post. The thought of keeping this house clean and running on my own seems an impossible task. Thank goodness Beckett can do the cooking.
After I place the advertisement, I go upstairs to check on Marguerite, who’s at work on the portrait of Iris again, adding flourishes of color and detail to the nearly finished canvas. Though a slight tremor often afflicts her hands, when she’s working, her motions are steady and sure. She looks up as I enter her room, giving me a shallow smile. “Good morning, dear. You look very tired.”
She doesn’t mean the comment to be unkind, but it annoys me all the same. I go to her bed and begin making it, smoothing out the sheets and fluffing her coverlet. “I phoned the paper. Placed an ad for a maid.”
“Hopefully something will turn up.” Marguerite swivels in her chair to look at me. “You know, I should paint you sometime. You remind me so much of Claire. You look just like her. All but the eyes and hair. She and Laura had the most beautiful hair in the family.”
My mother’s hair was a brilliant copper that fell to her shoulders in soft waves. She hadn’t a single streak of gray when she died. She looked so young people often mistook her for my older sister. “Yes, Mama’s hair was special, wasn’t it?”
“Like a fresh-minted penny.”
“Yes.” I fluff the duvet and let it settle like a cloud over the bed. “I’m going up to the attic for a while to rest.” I lift the porcelain bell by her bedside. “Ring this if you need me.”
“I will, my dear. Try to get some sleep. I’ll be just fine.”
But though tiredness weighs every limb, sleep is the last thing on my mind. My heart races in anticipation as I climb the attic steps, hoping today might be the day Weston lets me back into his world. I take his portrait from beneath my bed and prop it on the chair behind my dressing screen, then kneel on the floor, touching the surface lightly, craving the feeling of vertigo that accompanies my plunge into this other world, this other place. But Weston’s eyes only mock me, like they have every day since our last tryst. Nothing happens when I touch thesurface of the painting. Nothing at all. I try again, pressing my palm to the canvas. Still, there’s nothing but my longing, my lust, clouding my senses with want.
“Why won’t you let me in?” I say aloud, my voice shaking.
After a few minutes, I finally rise from the floor, dusting off my knees. I’ll try again tonight, once Marguerite is asleep. I’ll try until he finally relents. This can’t go on for much longer. I know he needs me, hungers for me, just as much as I do him. As I slide the portrait beneath the bed, something flickers near the west-facing window. I glance up, startling.
A woman stands there, her back to me, her dark hair swept atop her head, dressed in a simple calico dress. She turns as she feels my eyes on her. I gasp as I take in a face I’ve only ever seen in a portrait. The very portrait my great-aunt is finishing right now. “Iris ...,” I whisper. She smiles, as if we’re sharing a secret, then turns away, fading from view. Only dust motes dance before the window, sparkling in the sun.
The days pass, bleeding one into another, and Weston’s painting—his world—remains closed to me. I vacillate between confusion, resentment, and longing as I become more desperate, begging him aloud in the night to come to me. As August leaps toward its end, I begin to wonder whether our affair was a delusion, much like Marguerite’s recurring delusions of lost children and crying babies. Perhaps Weston was only an invention of my mind that I concocted to cope with my daily responsibilities and my grief. An escape from reality. A way to reconcile my affair with Ted, even. He and Weston certainly are similar in some ways—they’re both dominant, worldly, and charmingly brash. But I’ve never been prone to wild flights of fancy or delusions. I hallucinated a few times during my darkest times after Da died, but not like this. Back then, it was only vague shadows, strange sensations where the world around me felt unreal, but I can think of no other explanation for mytravels into the past with Weston. My mind must have merely played a cruel, if convincing, trick on me.
As for Beckett, he and I have settled into a routine since Melva’s departure, and our earlier friction has diminished enough that we get on with what needs to be done without argument. He really is a marvelous cook—with much more sophisticated tastes than I predicted. When I go downstairs after dusting the pictures in the second-story hall, I find him in the kitchen, stirring onions in a pot with melted butter.
“Whatever you’re making smells delicious,” I say, pouring myself a glass of lemonade.
“Nothing special. French onion soup. Peasant food.”
“Well, I’ve never had it.” I sigh, leaning against the sideboard, watching him. I’ve found that I enjoy watching him cook a great deal more than I should. “I placed another ad today. Hopefully someone will respond soon, although I don’t know how anyone will ever outdo your cooking. You may have missed your true calling.”
