I think of the conflict and agitation I observed in that room by the sea. Claire’s slightly sanctimonious worry over Florence, my grandmother’s jealousy and distress, Marguerite’s disdainful anger. There was a hard edge to her ire—a flinty look in her eyes that told of her resentment and bitterness. But despite this new insight into my aunt’s past, I still don’t have the answers I’m seeking. Either Marguerite purposely lied to me about Claire going to California, or she’s forgotten it entirely. I’m left with the sinking suspicion that something terrible happened that day. I turn to Iris’s portrait. I need to go back. To see more. I reach out, my fingertips just brushing the surface, when I hear someone come into the library.
Beckett clears his throat. “I couldn’t sleep. I checked your room. Saw you were gone.”
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” I say, turning.
He gestures at Iris’s portrait. “She was my aunt. Iris. The likeness is astounding.”
“Oh? Marguerite never told me she was your aunt.”
“Yes. That’s how my father came to work for Marguerite. Iris was his sister. She married an Englishman and moved away to London.”
I cross to the chesterfield and sit, tucking my legs beneath me. “Come sit with me,” I say, patting the leather seat. “I won’t bite. I promise.”
He sinks down next to me, sighing. “I’m sorry about earlier, Sadie. I am glad you’re back. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t.”
“You were only worried. I understand.” I look around the library, listening to the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel, the hushed whisper of wind outside. Things seem quiet. Peaceful. The quiet feels less comforting than it should, though. As if a tiger is crouching in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“You should phone Louise. Tell her you’re not coming,” he says.
“I will. She’ll be relieved, I’d imagine.” I laugh. “She and Pauline don’t like me. They never have.”
“They seemed nice enough when they were here.”
“You don’t know my family. They’re like shrikes. Sweet and innocent looking, but ready to barb you with harsh words and hidden knives when you least expect. It’s ridiculous.”
He sighs, twisting from side to side, wincing in pain.
“Your back?”
“Yes. It’s been hurting all day. The weather’s getting ready to turn again.”
“Let me help you. Take off your shirt and lie down on your belly.”
“Sadie . . .”
“I happen to be very good at massage. Now, do as I say.”
He unbuttons his shirt, grumbling, but I can see the hint of a smile on his lips as he shucks his undershirt and lies prone on the sofa. The curvature of his spine is more apparent from above, the sideways shift to the left in the middle of his bare back. I rub my hands together towarm them, hitch up my skirt, and straddle his hips, leaning forward and gently pressing the heels of my hands against his skin. He groans as I begin kneading, slowly building pressure as I feel his resistance to my touch lessen. I can’t help the wave of arousal that warms me as I rock back and forth atop him. What we’re doing is undeniably sensual. Even though it’s not my intention to seduce him—I merely intend to lessen his pain—I feel a shift in the room’s atmosphere all the same. The attraction between us is still there. It always has been.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask teasingly, pushing my hands from his tailbone to his neck. He practically purrs beneath me.
“My god, no.”
“I told you I was good. Sit on the floor in front of me, and I’ll do your shoulders.”
He acquiesces, his shoulders pressed between my knees. I knead the firm, knotted flesh until it softens, savoring his groans of relief. After his muscles have relaxed beneath my touch, he stands and stretches. I look away as he pulls his undershirt over his muscled chest, remembering his eagerness when we made love. I push my want and disappointment to the side, go to the liquor cabinet, and pour each of us a finger of whiskey. “This will help your muscles stay loose,” I say, handing him a tumbler. “Sláinte.”
He tips his glass to mine and takes a long sip.
We sit in silence for a long time, watching the flames die in the hearth. “There’s something I never told you about Sybil,” Beckett finally says. “I’m the one who convinced her to come here. That’s why I feel so guilty.”
“How could you have known what would happen, Beckett?”
He ignores my question, as we listen to the embers pop and crackle. “She was just out of finishing school and wanted to earn some money over the summer to go to Hollywood. Become an actress. She idolized Marion Davies. Mary Pickford. The first few months were fine. Marguerite loved her. She brought new life to this place. When thatpainting arrived, we didn’t realize what it was. How it would change her.”
“When it arrived? I thought it had always been here.”
