“He said no? But he has a painting of her in his house.”
“Oh, yes.” Claire’s mouth twisted ironically. “The shrine. I keep telling him to take that down. I hope you’re not falling under her spell,” Claire added, her light blue eyes anxious. “Don’t fall in love with Suze, Miranda. We need to let Suze go. Especially after what just happened.”
“I know.” I could sense how much Claire wanted this terrible, interminable chapter of her son’s life to finally end.
Claire drew a huge ring of keys out of her apron pocket. She dropped them on the counter in front of me with a clatter. “My house keys. The paintings are in the attic.”
A chilly breeze blew through the tree branches as I walked up the hill to Claire’s house. When I reached the stockade fence, I called out to her dogs and, just to be safe, to Owen, too. He was still staying here for now, though Claire had told me he’d be out on a job all day. I remembered how cold he’d gotten when I’d mentioned visiting Suze’s grave, and I didn’t think he’d like me looking through her old work. I still had to do it.
Inside the fence, Claire’s dogs crowded around me, all eager noses and wriggling hindquarters. Even Ferdy was out with the big dogs, barking his playful puppy bark. Eventually, I pulled myself away and went inside, though I let Ferdy in after me when he begged.
On the second floor, I found an old door that opened to a staircase so narrow that the walls almost touched my shoulders. Even Ferdinand hesitated before he decided to squeeze through the door.
At the top of the stairs, a single attic window let in a faint wash of gray light. Boxes were stacked in neat clusters, with labels scrawled on the cardboard in Claire’s big, looping handwriting: dog toys, Christmas lights, cookie cutters (Halloween). I paused at a box labeled Owen—Baby Pictures, and smiled to myself before I walked on.
Across the attic, I tugged open the door to the closet. Just as Claire had told me, packages of all different sizes, tightly wrapped in brown paper, were laid out carefully on the floor.
I knelt down and pulled the first one towards me. Taking a deep breath, I peeled the brown paper off to reveal a pretty little meadow. I rewrapped the painting, set it aside, and pulled the next one forwards. This one turned out to be an old and lovely Colonial house. It was nice, but it looked like an early effort. I slid it to one side and got up on my knees to pull out another.
This time, my hands didn’t reach for the closest one to me or for the biggest, but for an average-sized painting on the left. I pulled it towards me, my fingers tingling. Ferdy, lying on the floor next to an old lamp, thumped his tail optimistically.
Tearing the paper off, I lifted it up and stood it on the floor in front of me. This painting was crammed with blood-red flowers, each harshly outlined in black. The flowers crowded up to the edges of the frame as if they’d been suddenly trapped under glass. I stared at them, taking in the odd, mismatched sizes of the petals, and wondered if this was what I was searching for. I didn’t really know what I was searching for, but I didn’t think it would be this.
A footstep sounded on the stairs leading up to the attic. I tensed—but it had to be Claire, since Owen was at work all day.
“Mom, is Ferdinand up here with you?”
Owen.
Damn it—how could he be here? I would never have done this if I thought he’d come home. I had a sudden rush of anger at Claire for telling me the wrong thing, but just as quickly the anger turned towards myself. I shouldn’t be doing this. He was going to be furious.
I grabbed the painting as if I were going to rewrap it, but even if I had enough time to put this one away, I didn’t have time to put away the rest. Filled with dread, I listened him walk up the rest of the stairs.
Owen turned sideways and bowed his head to squeeze through the tiny doorframe. As soon as he looked up, he saw me sitting in the middle of a circle of paintings. All the blood drained from his face.
“Miranda? What are you doing?” His gaze fell to the painting in my hands. “Are those Suze’s paintings?”
I could pretend that I was just curious about them or interested in her artwork, but I knew he’d see right through it. And I didn’t want to lie to him.
“I thought… That painting of Scott was so revealing,” I said, in barely more than a whisper. “I thought she might have more. I thought there might be clues…about what happened to her.”
He flinched as if I’d hit him. “I don’t understand. I thought you believed me.”
“I do! Owen, I swear I do.” I set the painting down, scrambled to my feet, and started towards him, my hands outstretched, but he took a sharp step back towards the doorframe. I was afraid he would walk away from me, the way he had that night at the Widow’s Walk, and this time, he would never come back.
“I trusted you,” he said slowly. “You said you believed me.”
“Owen, please listen,” I pleaded, sick to my stomach. “I’m not looking for proof that you’re innocent. I already know that.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“I just—I don’t want you to have to go through this anymore. I thought—”
“You thought you could solve a murder that happened seven years ago?” His tone turned bitter, scornful.
I winced, ashamed of myself. “I know it’s crazy, but I feel like Suze is here, watching over us—”
“That is absurd.” His tone was cold, but his face was deathly pale, his dark eyes pained. I realized suddenly that if Suze truly were watching over him, then she’d let him suffer through two years in jail, five years of gossip and death threats, and, finally, the pipe bomb, for nothing. She had tortured him for seven years.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He was shaking his head. “I know this is rich coming from me, but you have to let it go.”
“But it’s so unfair.” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “You shouldn’t have to live like this, with people thinking you did this terrible thing—”
He ran his hands through his hair, exhaling hard. “And you thought the solution was to go digging up Suze’s memory?”
“I…” I bit my lip, abruptly upset with him. “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s not like Suze’s memory is at rest. The whole town is obsessed with her, and you—you have that portrait of her in your house—”
“That’s different!” Owen snapped.
“How is that different?” I demanded. “I feel Suze’s presence here, and yeah, maybe that makes me crazy. But you try telling me you don’t, when you’ve made Suze a shrine. Try telling me you don’t go in there to be with her. You probably still play the cello for her!”
His mouth opened, closed again, and I knew I was right. Whether he still played or not, he spent time with her in that room the same way I used to spend time with my mom at the graveyard. Except that loving my mom didn’t stop me from loving anyone else. Didn’t force me to live in the past, didn’t turn my present into a prison.
“You’re more obsessed with her than anyone,” I said, hugging my arms to my chest. “You’re still—you’re still in love with her, even after seven years.”
He shook his head slowly, but he didn’t speak, and I couldn’t help feeling I was right about this, too. I was a fool. I’d fallen for a man who was in love with a ghost.
“I know it was stupid to think that I could help, or even learn anything,” I said. “But she was this huge part of your life, and she still is. I want to understand her—and you. Everything that happened to both of you.”
“You can’t do this, Miranda. You can’t ask me to go through all of this again. I can’t watch you play detective about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I wanted to argue with him. I knew it was stupid of me to think I could shed any light on what had happened, or even come to any kind of peace with it. I knew that. And yet I felt that nudge, that whisper, go on, go on, that force driving me forwards the same way I had when I’d looked in Scott’s room. I coul
dn’t help it, or explain it. I’d never felt anything like it before. There was something about this place, or maybe something about Suze, that made me believe in the impossible.
“You have to accept that this is the way things are,” Owen said quietly. “There’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. And…” His face grew even paler, wearier. “If you can’t accept that, then we can’t be together.”
I felt like all the breath had been pressed from my body. “Owen…” I began, my voice breaking. “Please…”
“I have to go,” he muttered. He ducked back out through the doorframe.
My fingers clenched, as if I could have grabbed him and held him back, but instead I listened to him jog down the stairs. A moment later, I heard the front door slam.
I stared at the empty door in numb, shocked horror. What had I done?
Slowly, I sank to the floor in the circle of paintings. Ferdy nuzzled my neck, and I looped my arms around him, burying my face in his fur.
I could chase after Owen. I could promise I’d never bring up Suze’s death again, throw away that portrait I’d started of her, try to accept playing second fiddle to her forever.
But I’d already tried to yield to her role in his life. This whole time, I’d tried it, and I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t enough for me. I deserved so much more. I deserved a man who could love me as much as I loved him.
And Owen, too, deserved to be happy, to be free, finally, after all this time. But he could never be free of the prison he’d made for himself if he didn’t want to be.
I drew back from Ferdinand and kissed the top of his head. Wiping my eyes, I wrapped up all the paintings and put them all back in the closet. Except one. The squashed, strange flowers. I wanted a piece of Suze, too.
Chapter 27
Ferdy followed me down the stairs and into Claire’s kitchen, whining as if I’d taken away his favorite toy.
“What is it?” I asked him finally, turning to him. He sat down in the middle of the kitchen and barked at me. His adorable, hoarse bark somehow made me feel worse. Such a happy sound only amplified my own sadness.
“I can’t play with you,” I told him. A tear slid down my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
I had to go home. I had to decide if I could stand to stay on the island even though Owen was furious at me. Even though he didn’t love me.
Or, even worse, wait for Owen to make my decision for me by moving to California. The thought was unbearable, torturous.
Ferdy got up, nosed the painting under my arm, and barked again.
“I’m just borrowing it,” I said stubbornly. “I’m not stealing your mom’s stuff.” Even if I did steal it, I didn’t think Claire would mind.
He nosed the painting again. With a sigh, I set it on Claire’s kitchen table and sat down in one of her chairs.
After the bombing, Owen had stood beside me while I sat in this same chair. He’d tucked my hair behind my ear, his strong fingers trailing across my cheek, and he’d looked at me as if I were special.
I didn’t think either of us wanted it to be over. But I could no longer see how we could be together. I couldn’t share him with Suze forever. And I couldn’t accept being banned from his past, even though I understood how badly he wanted to let it all stay buried.
I glanced down at the painting lying unwrapped on the table. The numbness pervading my body gave it a strange clarity, as if I’d paused a dramatic scene in a movie. It was such an odd painting, so unlike Suze’s other work. It looked as if she’d thrown it together in an afternoon in a frenzy. She hadn’t even taken the time to frame it properly. A corner of the canvas was folded over. The imperfection was fascinating, because I’d have bet any amount of money that Suze had been a perfectionist about her paintings, like Owen was about his woodwork. The two of them had both been brilliant, both consumed by their art.
I found myself turning the painting over, laying it facedown on the table. My fingers plucked at the clasps holding the frame in place. I lifted up the backing, expecting to see only the back of a sheet of canvas. Expecting it to be blank, of course, because what else would it be?
It wasn’t blank. On the back, there was a full, finished painting. It was clearly one of Suze’s, with her usual signature, SUZANNA, at the bottom right, but it was…different. Not frenzied like the flowers, but more photorealistic and less colorful than her usual impressionism. It looked almost noir.
The painting showed Suze dressed to the nines in a black cocktail dress and shimmering jewelry. She was standing just outside the door of a red brick restaurant on a city street. A single streetlight illuminated her conflicted, longing expression as she gazed back over her shoulder. The light trickled across her skin to the steps of the restaurant entrance, where a man stood in the shadows, watching her, as he lit a cigarette.
I peered more closely at him. I couldn’t make out his features, but he had dark hair and a firm jaw. Something about the way he stood suggested effortlessness, an easy, graceful charm.
No—it couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. There was no way they could have known each other.
I ran back upstairs, taking the steps three at a time. Inside the attic, I yanked the door open and whisked each painting out of the closet, tearing the paper off each and every one, examining them all, front and back, until dust motes glittered in the air like the smoke that comes after fireworks. None of them—the little houses and barns, the pine forests and dewy meadows—were right. None of them answered the question screaming inside my mind.
Finally, I picked up the last painting, my heart slamming, my body trembling. I unwrapped it to see not flowers, this time, but big, blue tears, outlined in black, jammed oddly into the frame. I turned the painting around and lifted up the backing. This one was not blank.
I knew what had happened to Suze.
Chapter 28
Kaye dropped a stack of dirty plates onto the counter and glanced sidelong at me. She gave me a slight nod.
I nodded back, biting my lip, and stepped out of the kitchen into the crowd at the bar. I’d convinced Bill to roll out a few more appetizers and tap some new kegs, and it had brought in even more people than I’d hoped.
I caught a glimpse of Officer Lacroix in the crowd, his gaze fixed on me. He’d been waiting for me to come back out onto the restaurant floor, waiting for me to do what I’d promised—or threatened—to do, days ago.
I straightened my shoulders and crossed to my new table, my pulse pounding.
“What a delightful surprise.” James Emory smiled up at me, as distinguished as ever in a navy tie and shining cufflinks. No blonde companion was with him this time. It was now or never—before I lost my nerve. Before Owen left the island forever.
“Your usual?” I asked.
He inclined his head slightly. “Please.”
A moment later, I brought him a Manhattan, courtesy of Andy, who was bartending tonight. I also brought Kaye’s camera.
I hadn’t told her why I’d needed to borrow it. I hadn’t told anyone the details, apart from Lacroix. Not even Owen. Especially not Owen.
“Perfect, as always.” James sipped his Manhattan. “What do you have there?” he added in a tone of polite interest, nodding at the camera.
For a moment, consumed by fear of what I was about to do, I couldn’t speak.
All around us, the bar went on just the same: a group of people laughed; a song ended on the overhead speakers, and another began; someone dropped a dish and Andy called out that he’d get it.
With shaking hands, I switched the camera on. “I have something to show you.”
“Of course,” James said graciously.
I loaded the photos I’d taken and scrolled to the painting of Suzanna standing on the city street and the man watching her from the shadows. I turned the camera’s screen towards him.
He gazed down at it, but his expression didn’t flicker. “What’s this?”
“It’s a painting. One of Suzanna White’s. And this man here
, in the doorway, looks quite a lot like you.”
James shrugged. “You think so?”
I knew so. I could see it with my own eyes. But I tried a different tack, scrolling to the second painting: the seascape of the setting sun, from Mrs. Gautier’s gallery. “This is another Suzanna White. The mate to this one was lost in the fire at the Artist’s Lodge.”
A woman at the high-top table to my right glanced quickly over her shoulder, her expression perplexed. She looked back at the woman with her, and I thought she might have mouthed: Suzanna White?
James gave no sign that he’d noticed. “No idea,” he said lightly.
This time, wordlessly, I showed him the painting I’d found behind the big, blue tears. It showed James standing on the bow of a small but beautiful yacht, gripping the high, metal railing and casting a dashing smile down towards the dock. He looked like a catalog model, but the sky was ominous and dark, spattering rain across his buttoned-up shirt. In comparison to James’ cheerful expression, the mood of the painting was tortured.
I had always assumed Suze fell from a little fishing boat. There were tons of them around the island, after all. But the boat had never been found. What if it hadn’t been a little fishing boat after all? What if it had been a yacht—small enough for just one man to captain, but big enough to go a long way out into the stormy sea at nighttime?
“I have no idea what this one is, either,” James said, his voice hardening. “These have nothing to do with me.”
“You aren’t familiar with your own ex’s portraits of you?”
He did not respond, did not react at all.
“Let me help you remember,” I said. “You met Suze through her art, and started seeing her in secret.” I switched back to the seascape, painted a year after its mate. “Your affair continued for about a year, but then—I wonder if Suze wanted to go back to Owen. To be faithful to him, like she’d promised.”
Set Me Free Page 21
