Kate nodded. They started at opposite sides of the room, taking down every frame, looking behind the paintings. Conor lifted the antique rugs, checked the umbrella stand, went through the upright compartments in the third-floor storage room. He moved slowly, taking his time, meticulously gazing at the art.
“Could someone have painted over the original painting, to hide it?” he asked.
“Pentimento,” Kate said. “Theoretically, yes. But I can’t imagine Pete would have that done with a picture that valuable.”
“‘Have that done’?” Conor asked, jumping on the phrase.
“Pete’s not an artist. He would have had to hire someone.”
“Well, he must know a lot of painters. What about Nicola?”
“She’s an art historian, not an artist. She wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
“Then someone else?”
“Who’s going to desecrate Moonlight, then not come forward after hearing Beth was murdered?”
“You’d be surprised what people do,” Conor said.
Kate couldn’t disagree with him. She thought of her father. Her gaze was pulled to the basement door. When she dreamed about what had happened to her family down those stairs, she always saw her mother and father dissolving away. They had turned into memories.
She drifted away from Conor back to the partners desk and sat in her sister’s chair. Beth’s absence felt as real and solid as the furniture. It was an actual, physical force. Her sister had been flesh and blood and kindness and humor—and now she was gone. Now Beth was a memory too.
Kate stared at the top book in a tall pile, a volume about the flag paintings of Childe Hassam. Beth had flagged many pages with yellow Post-its, each covered with her neat handwriting. Kate read: Hassam was the only major American Impressionist to paint the home front during World War I. Between 1916 and 1919, he produced his flag series, over thirty paintings of flag-draped Fifth Avenue. Stars and Stripes/British Union Jack/French Tricolor—celebration of the allies, Armistice. Exhibition—next July 4th? Dedicated to Mathilda? Discuss with Katy.
Kate moaned softly, her shoulders curved forward. She felt actual pain, seeing her name in her sister’s handwriting. Childe Hassam and his World War I paintings had been a favorite subject of Mathilda’s. She had been moved by his patriotic dedication, the way it had emboldened his primary colors and broken brushwork. It was incredibly poignant to think of a gallery show to honor their grandmother.
Kate’s heart broke to know that Beth had wanted to talk to her about the exhibit and that she would never have the chance. She was glad Mathilda wasn’t here anymore. She would never have to bear what had happened to Beth.
She began opening drawers. Each one seemed to contain a gift from her to Beth. Whenever she traveled, she always picked up souvenirs, the tackier the better, and brought them home for her sister. She’d found a slot machine key fob from Las Vegas, a teddy bear wearing a straw hat from Miami, an Eiffel Tower–shaped pen from Paris, a beer stein pencil holder from Munich. She reached into the drawer for the small box she’d bought at Liberty in London last April. Covered with deep-red William Morris print cotton, it was an uncharacteristically serious present, something she’d thought Beth might actually use, instead of only making her laugh.
She took the top off and looked inside. It seemed empty. She and Beth had always loved boxes and bags with hiding places, a legacy of their grandmother. She pried open the silk-covered rectangular false bottom that had made the box irresistible to her and was shocked to the core by what she saw.
There was a key, a slip of paper with a phone number, and a small beautiful charcoal drawing of a nude woman. The subject of the drawing stood looking out a window, completely unselfconscious, hair cascading over her shoulders and full breasts. The artist had signed it JH.
The woman in the drawing was Beth. Kate could hardly breathe. The artist had captured her sister’s beauty, gentleness, and spirit. There was such intimacy in the work—who had drawn it? Who had Beth posed for?
Kate glanced across the room. Conor was standing by a tall bookcase, looking through coffee table–sized art books, apparently waiting for Moonlight to fall out from between the pages. She knew she should show him the box’s contents, but she couldn’t, not before she knew more about her sister’s secrets. When she was sure he wasn’t watching, she slipped the drawing, key, and paper into her jacket pocket and pretended to keep searching her sister’s side of the desk.
17
Sam’s phone rang. She looked at the screen—it was her dad, and the sight of his name made her stomach flip. She wanted to kill the call, but finally she answered.
“Hello,” she said, forcing her voice to remain flat.
“Sammy,” he said. “How’s my girl?”
She did not reply because anything she would say would come out in a scream.
“Not so great?” he asked. “Me neither, honey. It’s just unbelievable. God, I miss your mother. I just want to see her again. You doing okay at Kate’s?”
“Fine,” she said.
“You sound mad,” he said.
“Dad, what do you think?”
“At me?” he asked.
Her blood simmered, nice and low and constant, just like lava in a volcano before it blew. She fought not to.
“I didn’t say that,” she said.
“Well, you sound it. I’m suffering just like you, missing her, and . . .”
“You miss Mom?” she asked, the simmer starting to really bubble. “Because it honestly didn’t seem that way when she was alive.”
“Sam! Don’t you talk to me that way. I am devastated about your mother. Beyond that—I am destroyed. You can’t even imagine. We were trying to fix everything. The new baby, all of us together.”
“But you’re still with her, aren’t you?” Sam asked. “You’re with them right now, Nicola and Tyler, right?”
Silence on the line. She could hear her father breathing—wait, was he turning on the tears? “Dad?” she asked.
“Mom is gone,” he said. “I’m your dad, Sam. I am here for you. That’s all that matters to me right now.” Then he started to babble. Here come the waterworks without the water.
Sam held the phone away from her ear because if she had to listen to her father faux weep, she would start to scream.
“Dad, please stop,” she said, her voice shaking.
“I wish I could, honey,” he said. “I’m so sorry to upset you.” She heard him trying to swallow a sob. She really couldn’t take it.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Let me come pick you up,” he said.
“You don’t sound great to drive. It’s okay if you get me later,” she said.
“Oh, Sammy. Thanks for understanding. Things are just really hard right now,” he said. “They’ll get better.”
How the fuck? Sam wanted to ask. But instead she just blew a kiss into the phone and said goodbye.
After hanging up, she closed her eyes. She didn’t like the way he always brought pity out in her. She hated herself for thinking that sometimes he faked crying. Her mother had always said what a rough life he had had. Born without money, always wanting it, his father dying young, his mother working just to put food on the table. Sam had never really understood how bad it was.