It had been a long time since she hadn’t been working like a maniac. Finishing one installation, already started on another, and looking out for the next. That didn’t leave too much time for fun. It didn’t leave too much time for reflection, either.
Is that why she worked so hard? She loved the work she did. But couldn’t she love it just as much if she wasn’t always under a self-imposed deadline, one that kept her on edge, kept her moving, kept her from wondering.
And now she was plunked right in the middle of the things she’d been avoiding.
There were questions that had been festering inside her for years. All the players were in place who could answer those questions if she could pry the answers out of them. She’d already learned some things. She could learn the rest if she really wanted to. All she had to do was go back to the Muses and demand the answers. Simple. “Who’s for Fisherman’s Den?”
They all walked down the sidewalk to the Den. Paolo and Chloe had paired off ahead of them and Ben and Issy walked comfortably beside each other.
“Just so you know. I always thought your cowlick was kind of cute,” she said.
“I think you may have had enough alcohol for the night.”
“I only had two glasses—oh, and one at the house.”
“More than you’re used to?”
“Yes. But I think I deserve it.”
“Worth the hangover tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“You’ll see your way through.”
“With the hangover?”
“With the situation.”
That was sobering. “I’ve only got another week. If I even want to go back to work.”
“You wouldn’t not go back to work because of what happened to Paolo?”
“I wouldn’t go back because of my family. And that’s a huge mess that I don’t know how to fix.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’ll figure it out. It might not be fun. And it may take more than a week. But you’ll see your way through. And you have Chloe and me; we’ve got your back.”
Ben nixed the Den and Issy knew it was because she was tired. She appreciated the gesture, but she didn’t want the night to end.
They said good night to Chloe, and Ben drove them home.
It was nearly one when Issy and Paolo tiptoed into the old mansion. “Shh,” Paolo said. They stopped in the kitchen, where he made Issy take two aspirin with a full glass of water. Then he poured out a teaspoon of olive oil. “A sure cure for hangovers from my granny,” he claimed. Then they tiptoed upstairs and fell into their beds. Alone.
Fae slipped out the doors of the conservatory and felt her way along the side of the house, until she was sure that Steph couldn’t see her out of her bedroom window. She could feel someone watching her, but she’d waited for Steph to go upstairs, and made sure she didn’t come out again. Even now she checked the darkened window.
She was feeling the anxiety in the house—the anticipation of time running out. She didn’t like that feeling. She scanned the lawn, then made a run for the trees. She didn’t turn on her flashlight. She was taking no chances tonight. The moon was waxing past the quarter and she was careful to avoid its light. In another week it would be full. There would be change.
She stepped on something sharp, a stick. Her feet found the path in the shadows, and she moved silently—or as silently as an old woman in the dark could manage—toward home.
When she could no longer see the mansion looming behind her, she turned on her flashlight, muted its light against her chest. Got her bearings and turned it off again. Darkness enclosed her and she hurried down the path to the light she knew would be waiting for her.
No looking back now. It had begun and the only way to go was forward. At least for one of them.
Jillian adjusted her light-blocking sleep mask. A week ago, if you’d told her she’d be lying in bed alone at the Muses, she would have laughed. But here she was with no prospects. The call to her agent had brought in zip. Only one query as to her availability. And that for a project she’d rather die than accept. There were no other prospects on the horizon. Her agent’s advice was to get her butt back to L.A. and start making the rounds.
She’d happily do that. If she had a place to stay. If she could afford a place to stay or even a friend to stay with. If she had a working credit card. But she had . . . zip. Zip.
Leo pulled the combs from her hair and tossed them on the seat of the convertible. Her hair blew about her face like a whirlwind. She stretched out her arms; they’d just crossed into Connecticut and already she could smell the sea air.
“Oh Lord, I’m so glad we left early,” she yelled over the noise of the engine. “Poor Andy, I feel sorry for him.”
Wes looked over and smiled. Took her hand and pulled her closer. She put her head on his shoulder. Her hair whipped across their faces, and he laughed. “I can’t see a thing.”
She pulled her hair back and held it in one hand just so she wouldn’t have to move away. They were going home.
Chapter 19
Issy, Paolo, Mandy, and Griff were sitting at the kitchen table when Chloe breezed in the next morning.
Issy lifted one eyebrow. Chloe looked . . . great.
Paolo nearly knocked over his chair getting up. This was not like her normally exotic, distant, passionate, funny . . . Actually it was just like him, only better.
“Croissants,” Chloe said. “I didn’t make them, but I did make lunch for you two day campers. Did you have breakfast?”
“Peanut butter toast,” Griff said.
“Paolo made it,” Mandy added. And smiled sweetly at him.
“Alas, it’s the best I could do.”
“Never mind,” Chloe said. “Peanut butter is very healthy. Now chop, chop. I have to get to work. Ben said he’d try to get Al Dunn over to look at the elevator sometime this week.”
“Great.” Issy helped Mandy and Griff into their backpacks while Chloe and Paolo smiled at each other.
The children were out the door in a whirlwind. “Back around four,” Chloe called as she followed them out.
“Whew,” Issy said, sinking back in her chair.
Paolo was still looking out the door, smiling.
“Oh, brother.”
He sat down. “I may be in trouble.”
“Maybe. But don’t mess with my sister from another mother.”
“I never mess with women. I’m a better man than that. Plus I’m Italian.”
“I thought Italian men were notorious.”
“Not when they’re the sons of my mother.”
“Ah. You want more coffee?”
“Please.”
While they were each studying their coffee, Stephanie came in.
“Feel like doing some cataloging with us this morning?” Issy asked her.
Steph reached into the cabinet and brought out a box of cereal. “Sure. I kind of made a spreadsheet that should make it easier to fit in Grammy’s descriptions.”
“Great.” Issy pushed the milk carton toward her. “And this afternoon we’ll go down to the beach and hang. Work and play. From now on, it’s work then play.”
Steph smiled. “What’s up?”
“Well, I realized last night that you have the time you have and you’d better enjoy it.”
Stephanie stopped pouring milk into her bowl and looked at Issy. “Don’t worry, Aunt Issy. You and me. We won’t let them take Grammy away and we won’t let the Muses out of the family.”
“We won’t?”
Steph shook her head. “It’s our family. And we’re special.”
“We are? We are,” Issy said, remembering her talk with Steph about the book. Fae must have reinforced the idea.
“Where is Fae this morning? She’s usually up.”
“She’s talking to Grammy. They said they’d be down in a few minutes and will help as soon as they’ve had breakfast.”
“Let me do that,” Fae said, and took the brush out of Leo’s hand.
She brushed the thinning white hair back from her face and put the brush on the dressing table. “We need to get a few things straight,” she said, looking at her sister-in-law in the dressing-table mirror.
She twisted the tail of hair and pressed it against Leo’s head. “You realize all hell is breaking loose around us, don’t you?”
“Wes will fix it.”
“From the grave?”
Leo’s eyes filled with tears.
Fae let Leo’s hair go and sat down beside her. “I’m sorry, dearest. So sorry.”
She hugged Leo’s thin shoulders and for a second she had the dreaded sensation that Leo was slowly disappearing before her eyes.
“We need you to be here, Leo. There’s a young woman down there who needs a grandmother since her mother is lying in bed acting like a slug and hasn’t said one kind thing to the girl since arriving. Not a touch or a hug. I could . . . well, it’s not for me to do or not do.”
Leo groped for her hand. Took it in hers.
“And three great-grandchildren who may be motherless. They need their Grammy. Issy will try, but there are some things only a grandmother can do and be. Can you do that?”
Leo shook her head.
“Don’t you love them?”
“All of them with all my heart.”
“But you love Wes more?”
Leo’s mouth puckered and Fae hated herself for badgering her. Leo had been nothing but kind and understanding from the first day she’d walked into the Muses. She was good to everyone, but she loved her husband more than anything. And he left her without the tools to master the wayward Whitakers.
Now they were in a pickle. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to help Issy and Paolo catalog this artwork.”
“Why are we doing that?”
“So we know what we have.”
“We know what we have.”
Fae took a cleansing breath. Time to make sure Leo really understood what was going on. “Wes left an estate to take care of the Muses. The house, the grounds, and you and me.”
“He asked Dan to take care of it for him.”
“Yes. And as it turns out, that was a big mistake.”
“Just because Dan missed paying a few bills?”
“Not just a few bills. He’s stolen it all. Every penny of the money Wes left. He’s disappeared. I assume Vivienne went to look for him. I really hope she isn’t party to it. She fired Mrs. Norcroft for stealing artwork, but it was her husband who was stealing it.
“That’s why Issy’s here. Trying to save our butts. And whatever she needs to do it, we have to help her. Agreed? Leo, do you agree?”
Her sister-in-law was staring into the mirror.
“Dammit, Leonore. Do you agree?”
Slowly Leo turned to her. Her eyes were dry; her face was calm. “Agreed. I loved them all. I did. Max is dead. Jillian is a hard, empty woman. George an angry man. I don’t know why he’s so angry. Vivienne so unhappy. And dear Issy, should we send her back to New York? I loved them too much and I’ve failed them all.”
“No, you haven’t. You nurtured them to face life on their own. What their lives became was their choice. And you need to explain this to Issy. Tell her why you sent her away in the first place. I tried and she understands, but she needs to hear it from you. And why you didn’t notify her of Wes’s funeral.”
“I wasn’t thinking about her. I just assumed Vivienne would call her.”
“Well, tell her. Somehow in her nutty Whitaker mind, she thinks you sent her away because you and Wes wanted to get back to your lives and each other, and that you didn’t tell her about Wes’s funeral because you wanted her to stay away.”
“That’s absurd. We loved her. Wes adored her.”
“I know it’s absurd. But she’s a Whitaker. We are masters of absurd. It makes perfect sense.”
Leo laughed quietly. “Bless her. She’ll carry on for us. But what then?”
“Stephanie. She’s a Whitaker through and through, if it doesn’t get drummed out of her.”
“So the Muses will continue?”
Would it? It didn’t look likely. And if it didn’t, what would be their family legacy? “I don’t know, but we can’t guilt Issy into staying or leaving. She has her own life. And she makes her own decisions. And you made that possible.”
“And you and Wes. Is Paolo her young man?”
“Her friend and colleague.”
“Oh, good, I like him but Ben . . . Ben would be perfect for her.”
“Leo, it doesn’t work that way and you and I are staying out of it.”
“What? You think a couple of old broads don’t remember about love.”
Fae shrugged.
Leo laughed out loud. It was a welcome sound. One that Fae hadn’t heard in too long. “Well, you certainly haven’t forgotten. I saw you sneaking off last night.”
“That was you? I knew someone was watching.”
“Yes, right into the arms of your knight errant.”
Fae smiled. “And why not? You don’t lose your libido just because you turn seventy-five.”
“I know, dear. And I understand.”
They hugged briefly and Fae went back to pinning her hair. Would Leo understand when Fae told her she had to leave for good?
Issy and Paolo set up the laptop in the library.
“We started in here the other day but didn’t get very far. Leo had such great stories to tell about every piece. It was fascinating; it takes a really long time, but I don’t want to lose that. We may have to break up the collection, but I hope not. Every object, every painting and drawing is part of the ‘Life of Muses by the Sea.’”
She sighed. “But I just don’t know how to keep it together.”
“You could always apply for a grant.”
“I know I could. But the competition is so stiff. And we would have to figure out a way to open the Muses to the public, which would cost a fortune we don’t have. Millions probably. At least have a curator who can loan out the work. But that sort of defeats the purpose of keeping it together.”
“Well, let’s start inventorying and find out what we have.”
Issy pulled up the file that showed the room’s layout. “We started on the wall. There are so many objects shoved onto every available surface, I don’t know whether half of them are junk or fine art. Not my expertise.
“But I thought if Grammy—Leo—can give us an idea of what, when, where, and by whom, we could research it later. Now, a grant for that would be spectacular.”
Paolo looked around. “You said Leo was telling stories about each piece. How did you record it?”
Issy stopped dead. “We didn’t. It just happened organically. I asked what something was and then the stories started. Steph tried to write most of it down. I am such a fool, I should have been recording.”
She looked around as if she’d find recording equipment among the artwork. Finally pulled out her cell. “Do you think we could get her to talk into the phone. I don’t want her to be intimidated and clam up.”
“Leo? She doesn’t strike me as the type who would be intimidated by a little thing like a cell phone.”
Paolo had guessed that one right, Issy thought, when Leo, Fae, and Steph came into the library and Paolo described what he wanted her to do.
The only thing Leo said was, “This little red circle?”
They spent the morning identifying objects, giving Leo ample rest time, during which Paolo fussed over her and talked art with her, and flirted with her, until her stories became inspired.
“Ah, that is a Vivian Maier photograph. Such an eye for the stark side of Manhattan life. There were a whole group of them, the artists who ‘depicted life.’ They could have fun, though.”
Issy hurried to give the photograph a number and position. Moved to the next item.
“That Murano glass vase was a gift from . . . Louis Pollock. He’d just finished making that movie . . . oh, you know the one, it was right before he wa
s sent before that stupid man’s Un-American Activities Committee. I was pregnant with Max.”
“It was a miserable time. Everyone depressed and some of them sent off to jail. And I was so happy and in love. It didn’t seem right.
“And poor Philip Loeb committing suicide. I don’t want to remember that time.”
Paolo sat by the side of the chair, unmoving. Steph had stopped typing and was listening, though Issy didn’t know how she could know about the Red Scare. The only reason Issy did was because it was discussed in an art history course she once took at Columbia. She didn’t remember any of her regular history courses covering it with more than a passing paragraph. But that was history for you. And that’s why what they were doing today was important.
This was history, too.
“Well, don’t remember it,” Fae said. “Fortunately for us, they seemed to attack the theater and Hollywood people more than artists. Now, that tacky flamingo on the shell is a lamp; if you turn it over, there’s a little tab to push. Remember that, Leo?”
“From Palm Beach; Wes and I went down to stay with the Kleinhoffs. We took the children. Wes bought this for them on the boardwalk one night. For a night-light. I don’t know how it got down here in the library.”
“You probably put it here to be with the photograph,” Issy said. “Stephanie, come take a look at Grammy in a swimsuit.”
Steph came over. She laughed. “The suit’s a little weird, but you were hot, Grammy.”
Leo’s eyebrows dipped. Then her expression lightened. “Thank you, my dear, I think.”
“I think it’s time for a little break,” Fae said. “Lemonade?”
Steph nodded. “It’s getting hot already. I’ll go help.”
“Humidity,” Fae explained. “We’ll probably get a shower later.”
“Not before I work on my thirty-minute tan, I hope,” Paolo said.
“Bring back a dustcloth,” Issy called after them. “I think we missed a few places the other day.”
Paolo shut off the phone and began talking to Leo about life in New York and what he did at the museum. “Though I plan on staying for a while to help Issy, if that’s all right with you?”
The Beach at Painter's Cove Page 21
