Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Present Day
R ose felt more at home in her studio than any place on the planet. There in the paint-dappled and ragged artist apron she’d bought twenty years ago, she stepped away from her stone sculpture, snapped her hands on her hips, and declared it finito. She couldn’t wait to show it off, which was why she decided to invite all of the Salt Sisters over for dinner and drinks that night to celebrate.
She just had to send a text.
Then she had to go grocery shopping.
Everything is falling into place, she thought as she got herself ready to go, jumping into the shower and heading out to her car, her grocery list typed into her phone, her heart on her sleeve.
Had Rose peeled back through time to tell her twenty-one-year-old self that she actually enjoyed cooking now, she was sure her previous self would say, That’s impossible. But it was true. Now that Rose’s time was her own, and nobody had told her where to be, what to do, or how quickly to do it, she loved spending hours in her kitchen, slicing and sautéing and roasting and baking. She loved the look on her friends’ faces when she showed off a new recipe.
Her favorite thing to do in the kitchen was add a bit of Southern cooking flair to her recipes. A bit of spice they didn’t understand around here. It was a way to honor her parents and that world she’d crawled out of. It was a way to remind herself of what she’d lost and what she’d gained.
Hilary and Stella got to Rose’s first that early evening. They brought chilled chardonnay and plenty of questions about Rose’s new project with the Grayson Estate. Stella looked captivated by her, as though she couldn’t believe she’d taken this plunge after everything that had happened.
“It’s like you want to play with fire,” Stella said, swirling her glass of wine in the kitchen sunlight.
Rose waved her hand. “I swear, all the ghosts are gone. Or they’re mostly gone.” She laughed. “Charlie has a few friends in construction. They’re in there now to really make sure everything is sound and ready for a big refurbishment. To make sure it’s safe for me. The last thing I want is to get buried under some rubble in that so-called haunted house.”
“Look at her,” Hilary teased. “Her eyes are bigger than saucers.”
“But you should see what was left behind after the fire,” Rose gushed. “I mean, so much was damaged, obviously. But there’s enough leftover antiques and artwork to blow your mind. The minute Charlie gives me the all clear, I’m going to drag you both in there.”
Stella’s eyes clicked with intrigue.
The other Salt Sisters arrived after that, each with wine and cheese and different perfumes, blowing through the kitchen with kisses and vibrant hellos. Rose fell into easy conversation, answering questions about the Grayson Estate, asking about husbands and boyfriends and work appointments. When a hush fell over the kitchen, Rose announced it was time to go to her studio and look at what she’d been working on.
“Let’s do it!” Hilary cried.
Rose led her Salt Sisters into the studio and lined them up, watching their faces intently, trying her darnedest to comprehend what they felt when they looked at it. This piece had lived in her mind for months now. This was the first time she was showing the sculpture to anyone. She was delirious with excitement.
But each of the Salt Sisters’ faces were dry and loose, as though they were confused.
Rose’s heart lurched. They don’t like it. How could they? I’ve worked so hard on it. I’ve put my heart and soul into it.
Rose twisted around to look at the sculpture herself.
But the sculpture wasn’t there.
Rose’s heart thudded. “What?” she gasped, clenching and unclenching her fists. “What the heck? Where is it?”
“Is it this one?” Ada gestured toward a stack of stones off to the right.
Rose ignored her and blasted across the studio. Was it possible she’d moved it elsewhere? But no. The sculpture was more than two hundred pounds. She could not move it without moving the flatbed upon which she’d built it. And the flatbed was gone, too.
I would have remembered moving that. I would have remembered asking someone to come pick it up.
What happened?
“This can’t be,” Rose muttered. “I don’t understand.”
“Was it stolen?” Hilary rasped.
Rose heaved forward and gripped her thighs. The world spun. Someone ran upstairs to fetch a glass of water, and Hilary put her hand on Rose’s back and ordered someone else to call the police.
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Rose continued to sputter, as though that would make this mess go away.
Hilary bent down in front of her and made a face that reminded Rose of those days twenty years ago when Hilary had been her refuge, her only friend. Hilary cupped Rose’s hands in hers and breathed, “Let’s go upstairs where it’s more comfortable. Okay?”
Rose felt like a child. Hilary guided her upstairs and stationed her in the shade on the veranda with a glass of wine. Dinner was nearly ready, but Rose felt no itch to go tend to it. Ada and Robby ran off to finish it, which was a real shame. The final touches were what mattered on the dish because they were Southern-inspired. Robby and Ada wouldn’t know to do them.
Some things are more important than dinner, Rose thought dully.
Hilary and Stella sat on either side of Rose. Rose felt her heartbeat through the veins of her forehead.
“The cops say they’ll be here soon,” Stella said.
Rose flared her nostrils and filled her mouth with wine.
“Who else have you told about the sculpture?” Hilary asked now.
“All of you,” Rose said. “But that’s all. ”
Hilary pressed her lips together. “You’ll have to talk to the client. Maybe they know something?”
Rose’s heart seized. “Do you think they had it stolen to get out of paying the last installment?”
“Anything is possible,” Stella said. “But most artists have their studios elsewhere, don’t they? Who else knows you have your studio at home?”
Rose gestured vaguely. “All of you.”
“And others, surely,” Hilary said.
Rose sniffed. Maybe she’d mentioned her at-home studio somewhere in an interview. The internet was rife with information about her “artistic” life.
I’m a wealthy person now. I’m a wealthy person whose public information is out there for the taking.
Hilary snapped her fingers. “What about your video footage?”
“Right,” Stella said, nodding urgently as though this would finally solve everything.
Rose winced and burrowed herself into the cushions of the outdoor sofa.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t get the camera fixed.” Hilary grimaced and gave Rose a look that made her think of Mrs. Walden.
Maybe when you’re born wealthy, you will learn how to make that face, Rose thought .
“It slipped my mind.”
Rose’s security video camera had stopped working last autumn, and Rose had had it on her to-do list practically forever to fix it. But she was far from the wealthiest person in Nantucket; she was far from the wealthiest person in the near vicinity. Rose had self-made wealth, which was never as staggering as inherited wealth.
It wasn’t that the thieves had taken anything else. They’d only taken her sculpture. They’d decided to hit her where it hurt.
Oh, it hurts so much.
It felt as though someone had carved out a piece of Rose’s soul.
The police arrived shortly after that to take a statement. Rose showed them photographs of the sculpture and told them what she was selling it for. The police looked vaguely flabbergasted although they were surely accustomed to hugely expensive pieces of modern art in Nantucket.
I used to be one of you! Rose wanted to tell them, perhaps as a way to get them to help her even more. But she knew that once she’d crossed the boundary between the wealthy and the not, she’d ceased being one of them so much that they would never recognize her as one of them.
Well, they would probably recognize her if she lost everything again. But they’d also call her stupid for losing her wealth once she’d earned it.
Catch-22 , she thought now.
One of the cops was a man Rose vaguely recognized from somewhere. It was almost as though he’d lurked in the outer edges of her dreams, as though she’d seen him thousands of times at the grocery store and never remembered saying hello.
The cop’s name was Sean Slagle. He was broad-shouldered and dirty blond with a thick mustache above his upper lip and a way of looking Rose directly in the eye when he spoke to her.
“You’re the woman who just bought the old Grayson Estate,” he said, tapping his pen against his notepad. He said it as though he’d just solved a major riddle.
Rose nodded and searched his face for some clue of who he was or where she’d seen his face before. Sean Slagle. It rang a bell, yet she didn’t know why.
Sean shook her hand before they left. “We’ll keep you in the loop on the investigation.”
“Call me at any time,” she said.
“Will do.”
Ada had salvaged dinner and ordered everyone to sit at the back table to enjoy the fruits of Rose’s labor.
“Y’all should really go home,” Rose said, dipping into her Southern accent, which happened when she was upset. She sniffled. “I’m not much for company right now.”
“Don’t kick us out,” Hilary insisted. “We want to be here for you. We want to help you.”
Rose dragged herself to the outdoor table and watched as her Salt Sisters doted on her, refilling her wine and giving her overwhelming portions of food. Her friends looked at her nervously but tried to keep their tones bright.
“Tell us more about the Grayson Estate!” Nora begged, her fork filled with greasy bacon and brussels sprouts.
“Who did you buy it from, anyway?” Ada asked.
Rose sniffed, telling them the name the real estate agent had given her—Howard Reynolds. It wasn’t a name she knew.
“How did this Howard Reynolds come to own the old Grayson Estate?” Hilary asked.
Rose shook her head.
“He must have bought it. From…?” Robby paused and pressed her lips together.
Rose’s heart seized. It wasn’t like the name was off-limits. It wasn’t like she would fly off the handle the second she heard it.
“He must have bought it from Oren,” Rose finished. She chewed a bite of cheese, watching the waves roll against the dock.
“But when would that have happened?” Hilary asked. She looked incredulous, trying to fit together the pieces from Rose’s past as though she were a female Sherlock.
“Well, it’s been thirty-one years since the fire,” Rose said with a shrug. “Sometime between then and now.”
“Maybe he wanted to fix it up but decided it was too big of a job,” Katrina offered. “Have you looked him up on the internet?”
Rose shook her head and flinched. What does this have to do with my stolen sculpture? She wanted to mope in her bedroom alone.
Katrina pulled out her phone and typed out Howard Reynolds, then furrowed her brow.
“It looks like he’s a businessman,” Katrina said. “Manhattan.”
“What kind of business?” Hilary asked.
Rose flared her nostrils.
“Looks like importing and exporting,” Katrina said.
“Should we contact him?” Ada suggested. “See why he sold in the first place?”
“The important thing is that it’s mine now,” Rose said softly. She felt dreamy and sad, and she longed to return to the Grayson Estate and wander through the hallways and think, think, think. For so many months, she’d been dreaming up the very sculpture that had been ripped unceremoniously from her home. So much wasted time. A piece of my soul was gone.
Rose pushed herself through the rest of dinner and took a stack of plates to the kitchen. She slid them into the dishwasher, trying to eavesdrop on the Salt Sisters out on the veranda. It was clear they were talking about her. Did they think she’d lost her mind for buying the Grayson Estate?
She wanted to tell them: Sometimes, horrible things happen, and it’s up to us to make the best of them.
She wanted to tell them: We are all the authors of our own destiny.
But she felt too exhausted.
Rose leaned against the counter and pressed her face into her hands. Exhaustion made her eyes feel heavy and her shoulders droop.
I’m fifty-two years old, she reminded herself, and for the first time in a long time, I’m afraid.
She wished she could shake it.