“It doesn’t matter.” He stalks toward Sadie, his eyes lit with desire. “I’ll show you the truth, in good time. But for now, let’s forget about all that.” His hand curls behind her neck, drawing her to him. “Time is a slippery thing. All we might ever have is right now, Sadie, and you’re such a delightful distraction.”
Sadie turns her face away as he tries to kiss her, ignoring the way her body wants to curve into his, eager to cede the shaky ground she stands on. She thinks of Beckett instead. Kind. Honest. Hardworking.Real.“No, Weston. You don’t get to have me anymore. This isn’t real. It must stop.”
Weston’s hands tighten, holding her against him. “If it isn’t real, could you feel this?” His tongue traces the sensitive skin below her ear, and she nearly swoons. “You can say what you like, Sadie. But you know I’m real, that we’re both here, in Paris, in 1883, in an apartment overlooking the Avenue Millaud.”
If thisisall an illusion—some voluptuous figment of her imagination—could she smell the scent of spring lilacs filtering in through the open window? Hear the strike of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones below or the shout of a street vendor hawking his wares?
Weston slides his hand down her thigh. “Your body betrays you, my love,” he whispers. “Your blood runs as hot as mine. Give over to it. No one can make you feel the way I do.”
“I hate you,” she says, her last bit of resistance fading, failing. She surrenders, as she knew she would. He captures her lips with a vicious kiss and carries her to bed.
Chapter 22
September 7, 1925
I can no longer trust myself. The weight of what I’ve done follows me as I wrap Weston’s portrait in a length of velvet curtain and carry it downstairs to Beckett, who sits at the dining room table, studying Marguerite’s ledger. He looks at the rectangular bundle in my arms, his right eyebrow lifting.
“Do something with this, please. I don’t care what.”
He crosses to me and lifts the bottom of the drape, frowning at the image.
“He pulled me in again last night,” I lie, biting my lip, ashamed, studying the toes of my shoes. I can’t admit my own will in the matter. Not to Beckett. No matter my initial intentions—to find answers about my family in the past—I sought out Weston. Then fell under his spell once more. “Just take it. Hide it. It’s obvious it can’t be destroyed.”
“I’ll put it somewhere safe,” Beckett says, gently. He takes the painting from me. “Somewhere you won’t think to look.”
“Tonight, after Marguerite’s gone to bed, might we have a cocktail in the library?” I ask. “I’d like to spend some time together. Just the two of us.”
His ears redden, and he stands very still, the painting clutched in his arms. “Sadie ... I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Not sure?” I stammer, taken aback. “It’s only a drink. A nightcap after dinner, like the old folks do. I’ll be on my best behavior. Just don’t tell Harriet. She’s chastised me enough about my drinking.”
“All right,” he says. “One drink.”
“Just one.”
After he goes, I find Marguerite sitting in the parlor, dozing in her favorite chair. I straighten the lace doilies on the mantel, dust the silent radio, and sit to go through the mail stacked on the sideboard. A letter from Rosalie lies on the top of the pile, postmarked Coral Gables. So, their move to Florida must be complete. I put it to the side to read later, when I have more of a stomach for my sister-in-law’s boasting.
I’ve nearly reached the bottom of the pile when a letter falls to the floor. I pick up the envelope, addressed to me in a sweeping, feminine hand. The return address is Springfield, Missouri. I don’t know anyone from there.
I slide the letter open with my finger, no longer bothered about the sorry state of my work-worn hands, and draw out the enclosed letter.
Dear Miss Halloran,
I realize this letter may come as a shock. I deliberated over writing you, but I’m desperate and need your assistance. My husband, as you know, has for many years carried on adulterous affairs. I’d always turned a blind eye to these situations, including his arrangement with you, simply because he provided me with a good life and maintained civil relations with myself and our children. I bear you no ill will. However, most recently, Ted has involved himself in illicit activities that frighten me, and I no longer wish to remain married to him. I have taken the children, and I am currently staying with my sister in Springfield, where it is safe for you to correspond with me by mail without Ted’s knowledge. I would like to meet with you inperson. If you’re willing, please write, so that we might arrange a time to discuss my dilemma in more detail.
Most Sincerely,
Blanche Selby Fitzsimmons
I fold the letter and place it back in the envelope, my hands shaking. Ever since Ted confessed to being married, I’ve fretted about the day when his wife would find out about me. I’ve imagined all sorts of horrific scenarios, but I never imagined this. How on earth did she know where to find me? Louise had mentioned that Ted and Toby were acquainted, due to their membership at the Montpellier Tea Room, but surely Toby doesn’t know Blanche. Louise’s husband would have hardly gone out of his way to put us in touch.
I open the letter from Rosalie next. Just as I thought, it’s full of flourishes and grand proclamations about their new home—six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a full staff, tennis courts, and a swimming pool. And at the bottom, before her sign-off, a single question:Have you found Aunt Marguerite’s will?
Marguerite wakes. She looks around in confusion, and then resettles, falling back into her slumber. She’s been sleeping more and more, and she hardly eats, despite our best efforts. Harriet tells me this is all part of the disease—the natural, slow progression unto the death that will eventually claim my great-aunt’s life. With Marguerite’s condition growing graver by the day, her moments of lucidity will become fewer and farther between. I need to find the deed to the house and her will—if there is one—to make sure that her wishes are carried out when the end inevitably comes.
That evening, I take my time dressing for dinner. I choose a breezy, layered frock made of bronze chiffon and drape the garnet-and-pearl lavalier Marguerite gave me around my neck. I massage my hands withlanolin ointment, trying my best to reclaim some of my former vanity. Even though I’m not the celebrated beauty of the family—that’s Louise—I’ve always managed to turn heads with my easy smile, posture, and my confident way of walking into a room. I lost all that, after Ted.
I think of Blanche’s letter, tucked in my bureau, and wonder about the woman who wrote it. Ted didn’t share much about her, even when I asked, but I know a few things. She is younger than him, but not by much. They have three children—two boys and a girl. Her refined handwriting and polite manner demonstrate evidence of an education.
