Chapter 15
Six days after Beth’s funeral, the hot weather continued, the air heavy and holding the constant promise of afternoon thunderstorms to cool things off. But the sky never seemed to break; it held the moisture and turned it to steam. Rolling white clouds would form and dissipate without ever raining.
Nicola Corliss had grown up on the first floor of a two-family house behind Mickey’s Pub in Groton, Connecticut.
Her mother, Jean, still lived there, and Nicola had temporarily moved back in.
While her son slept in his portable crib, Nicola sat at one end of the sofa, her mother at the other.
The window air conditioner rattled, failing to cool the room, but Nicola shivered.
She doubted she would ever look at a window air conditioner again and not think of Beth.
A docudrama about the royal family played on TV. Nicola glanced over at her mother, who was raptly watching a reenactment of Harry proposing to Meghan Markle. Her mother loved any show that featured English accents.
When Nicola was young, her mother had told her stories about the girl whose mother sold violets in the snow to send her to Oxford.
The girl grew up to study in the Bodleian Libraries, live in Magdalen College, and dine in the fourteenth-century Old Kitchen Bar.
The girl wasn’t a princess like some of her classmates, but she had her own family tartan, and she was the smartest girl at the university.
From the beginning, Nicola got the point: education would get her out of the neighborhood.
Her mother hadn’t sold violets in the snow, but she’d trained as a pipe fitter and worked at Electric Boat.
Building submarines for the US Navy, she worked third shift so she could take Nicola to school and be there when she got home.
They were Catholic and went to Mass every Sunday.
Most kids from the parish attended Saint Mary’s from kindergarten through high school, but Jean had sent Nicola to the Williams School, a private day school across the river in New London, on the campus of Connecticut College.
It cost a fortune, but she said it was worth it—and when Nicola began to hang out at the Lyman Allyn Museum, also on campus, she was all the more gratified.
Some parents would have wanted their children to gravitate toward business, engineering, science—subjects likely to lead to lucrative jobs—but not Jean.
She had always believed that arts and humanities were the way to a good life.
The people Nicola would meet, the enrichment of mind and soul, were what she wanted for her daughter. What she would have liked for herself.
She rode Nicola hard to make sure she got the grades for acceptance at Yale and every other college she applied to.
After four years at Yale and graduate school at Bard’s Center for Curatorial Studies, Nicola was ready for launch.
She had had the drive, the desire to learn, a curious mind that had led her in fascinating directions.
Yet here they were, two women with big visions, spending a summer day watching trashy television.
Tyler sighed in his crib right beside Nicola and turned toward her, as if he could hear the sound of her breathing.
Dreaming, his tiny fists tightly clenched, he shadowboxed the air.
Nicola thought she would melt from love.
“Is he hungry?” her mother asked.
“No, just sleeping,” she said.
“Should we take him down to the beach?” her mother asked.
“It’s too hot.” Nicola glanced at the window.
Her mother usually kept the thin white curtains open, but this morning Nicola had pulled them closed.
Detective Reid had shown up yesterday. His questions had led Nicola to think about things she wanted to keep buried, and now they were all she could think about.
The detective had knocked on the door, asked if Nicola would be willing to talk to him.
“Does she need a lawyer?” her mother had asked.
“No, not unless she wants one. That’s certainly her right,” he had said.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Nicola said, because she knew she was innocent.
The irony was, when Pete had called her after being interviewed by the detective, she had told him he had to get a lawyer, that he should have done it before talking.
And fortunately he had been able to retain Mac Green, a legend in Connecticut.
She turned to Detective Reid. “Ask whatever you want.”
They sat in the living room. Her mother perched on the footstool beside her like a Drala warrior, a protector deity in the Tibetan art Nicola had studied at Yale.
“When is the last time you saw Beth Lathrop?” the detective asked.
“I’m not sure. I can’t remember exactly,” Nicola said. She’d never been good at lying, and she tried to keep her face inexpressive.
“Well, in general. This summer?”
“Spring, probably.”
“Before the baby was born?”
“It’s hard to remember—it’s been a blur, you know? Taking care of an infant?” she said, practically babbling so he wouldn’t ask any more.
“I see,” he said.
“Do you have children?” her mother asked.
“Uh, no,” he said.
“Well,” her mother said with a small laugh. “You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like. Especially caring for a baby alone. It’s hard to keep track of anything but formula and diapers.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. He smiled and turned his attention back to Nicola. “I thought Pete would be helping more. By the way, I thought you two had moved into Beth’s grandmother’s house.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘moved in,’” Nicola said. “We stay there sometimes.”
“But you’re here. Is there a reason you’re not living together right now?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Nicola said.
“Tell him, Nicola,” her mother said.
Nicola shot her a furious look. Shut up, she thought. Don’t go there; don’t say anything.
“Nicola, what happened?” the detective asked.
“The name of the game is fear,” her mother said.
“Of what? Did he threaten you?” the detective asked. “Or hurt you?”
“For God’s sake!” Nicola said, jumping out of her seat.
“I’m not going to say anything bad about Pete, all right?
There’s nothing to say! He’s completely devastated—his wife was murdered, and I moved out as soon as I heard.
It felt like the right thing to do, to let him be with Sam and grieve, okay?
And I need that too.” She choked up, thinking of Beth. “I loved her.”
“Oh, darling,” her mother said, standing up to hug her. Nicola sobbed on her shoulder. She heard the detective rising from his chair. She glanced over and saw him place his card on the front table.
“Please call me anytime, Miss Corliss,” he had said, and he had let himself out.
Nicola couldn’t stop crying after he left.
She had so many feelings boiling inside: sorrow, confusion, guilt, and the most terrible yearning to go back in time and make everything be okay.
She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes for ten minutes, but she couldn’t relax.
She turned on her side, facing the front window and thinking about looking out.
“I suppose you’re hoping he’s back,” her mother said, watching her.
“Mom, stop,” Nicola said. But she knew Pete had been there early that morning, willing her to see him and come outside, return to him.
Despite what she had told Detective Reid about leaving Mathilda’s house to give Pete time to be with Sam, there were additional complicated reasons that she was afraid to admit, even to herself.
Jean went to the window, pulled the curtains wide open. From the way her shoulders stiffened, Nicola knew that Pete’s car was idling across the street. Jean stared him down.
“Mom, stop looking out.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Jean said, folding her arms and glaring across the street. “He must have watched the detective arrive and leave so he’d know when to station himself right back here in your face.”
Nicola knew her mother wanted Pete to see her angry expression, to feel her displeasure.
It was more than that: Jean hated Pete. At first, she’d been so proud that Nicola was working at the prestigious Lathrop Gallery, but her pride hadn’t lasted.
She blamed Pete for wooing Nicola, getting her pregnant, diverting her from her high-achieving path, stealing her chance for excellence.
Pete hadn’t introduced her to his mother, and Nicola thought it was because Mrs. Lathrop would feel the same way about her—that she had ruined Pete’s life.
Nicola was still a Catholic girl at heart, and she knew that adultery was a sin. She wouldn’t trade having Tyler for anything, but she felt guilty for so much of what she’d done. She believed she would have to pay for it, somehow.
“Pete wants us to work it out,” Nicola said.
“Well, I hope you don’t want that.”
“That’s why he’s here . . . ,” Nicola said.
Her mother didn’t turn around. Nicola was glad, because she didn’t want to see the shame and disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Nicola had fallen in love with a married man and had had his baby. In her mother’s view, Nicola had ruined her life as well as Beth’s and her family’s.
Her mother would never understand how Pete had helped her feel like part of an alien world, how he had taken her under his wing and assured her she belonged, that she was as good as all the rich people who bought art.
He had come from a working-class background just like Nicola’s, and it was as if he sensed every insecurity she had.
He gave her what she needed—a level of acceptance and understanding—even before she knew she needed it.
He was a magician who could read her mind. He had made her feel adored.
“He’s Tyler’s father,” Nicola said.
“Women have raised children alone before,” her mother said, tapping her own chest. “Case in point.”
“I know, and I’m so lucky I had you. But Dad left—he didn’t give you a choice. Pete’s right here. We just have to get through this. It will get better.”