Chapter 40
Sam returned to school just before Labor Day, and Kate took a leave of absence from Intrepid Aviation. Nearly two months after Beth’s death, she began spending days at the gallery. It was just a quarter mile from Black Hall High, so she and Sam could drive together from New London.
Being at the gallery made Kate feel closer to Beth.
She sat at her sister’s desk, Popcorn lying at her feet.
Time was passing, and still Beth’s killer hadn’t been caught.
Conor seemed sure Jed hadn’t done it. Her thoughts veered wildly between still believing it was Pete and starting to wonder if it really had been an art theft.
And a sexual assault. She thought of the horribly torn underwear beside Beth’s bed—and what it had been used to do to her.
It was all unthinkable. She tried to get the picture of Beth lying on her bed out of her mind, the marks around her neck, her blankly staring eyes.
Her fingers trembled as she paged through a thick black ledger Beth kept of all the paintings that came through the gallery.
It calmed and soothed her to think of the things Beth had always loved, had been good at.
After a few minutes, she lost herself in Beth’s notes.
Kate had always been informed about the most important acquisitions and sales.
A few key paintings stood out; Beth had written about them, filled paragraphs with question marks and red arrows, words that were circled or boldly underlined.
She’d been searching for clues, more information than the previous owners had been able—or willing—to supply.
Works of art were a mystery—their meaning, provenance, and authenticity—and to study them, one had to become a detective and an academic.
Kate examined the small oil on a display easel beside Beth’s desk. Beth had determined that the landscape, unsigned, was by Ben Morrison, the same artist who’d painted Moonlight. Could there be any significance to Beth’s having had it right next to her desk?
It had been found with over fifty other paintings in the attic of a saltbox on Sill Lane.
Edith Peck, a ninety-five-year-old recluse who had never married, had collected works of the American Impressionists who had painted in the Black Hall Art Colony.
Morrison had lived there from 1898 to 1905.
After Peck’s death last December, it had come to light that she had two great-nephews in Bangor and a great-niece in Rochester, none of whom had any interest in owning the paintings.
Miss Peck’s family wanted the Lathrop Gallery to sell the paintings on consignment, but Beth had asked Kate to agree that the family purchase them outright.
Beth worked out a price, and Kate concurred. Edith Peck’s family had felt it was fair, and the deal was made. Pete objected. He thought they were paying too much.
“They’re not Metcalf caliber,” he’d said. “We’re talking about a couple of LeBlancs, a Potter, a Giddings, and a few unsigned that might be Morrison? What you’ve got is a bunch of barely-knowns.”
Pete was correct about the fact that the works Miss Peck had collected—other than the possible Morrisons—were by artists not terribly sought after, but the passion of collectors had always escaped him: the thrill of discovering a new artist; the love of beauty; the deep satisfaction of owning a picture done over a hundred years ago, outdoors on local hills or riverbanks, of scenes that still existed today.
He would never comprehend the role the gallery played in creating reputations.
Artists represented by the Harkness-Woodward—now Lathrop—Gallery became sought after.
Once they secured the gallery’s imprimatur, the value of their work went up substantially.
Many artists who showed here later had work acquired by museums from the Farnsworth to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Pete might have done well in another field; he would never understand that soul was more necessary to the art business than a calculator.
Kate examined the painting at hand, the one Beth had attributed to Morrison.
The canvas was 8 by 12 inches. It depicted a brook in spring.
The water’s strong zigzag and diminishing diagonal drew the eye back and forth from the foreground into the distance.
Light glinted on the surface and through pine needles, a wash of gold-green and clear pale blue.
Claude Monet had said, “Nature does not stand still.”
Kate was thinking of those words when she suddenly recognized the brook: it was on the island, running down the hill from where Jed had pitched his tent.
She recognized the rock contours and the serpentine of water flowing toward the distant blue river.
She had observed that exact scene the day she’d found the sonogram.
Was that the reason Beth had the painting propped up where she could see it at all times? Because it reminded her of Jed and the island? The painting was undeniably lovely, idealistic, and romantic. Could that pine grove by the brook be where she had conceived Matthew?
Lost in thought, Kate heard the discreet bell that rang only upstairs in the office, announcing that someone had entered the front door.
She heard footfalls on the bare wood floor, and Popcorn loped downstairs to investigate.
Kate’s fists clenched—an involuntary reaction to the sound of footsteps in the gallery.
After all these years, that sound reminded her of the day the intruders had come.
The bell had rung upon their entrance as well.
“Hello,” came a familiar voice.
She walked downstairs to see Conor bending down to pet Popcorn. He wore what she’d come to realize was his uniform: gray slacks, a white broadcloth shirt, a striped tie, and a rumpled blue blazer. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, sparkling with warmth.
“I drove by and spotted your car,” he said. Then, “I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I thought you’d be flying.”
“I’m taking time off,” she said. “I thought I’d spend some time at the gallery. It’s been neglected since Beth died.”
“How does it feel to be back?”
“It’s complicated—not all one thing.” She paused. “It’s practically my home. I’ve been coming here as long as I remember. A lot of memories. And some ghosts.” She thought of the Morrison painting.
“Your mother.”
“And Beth,” Kate said. My sister with her lover, she thought. Had Beth chosen that spot by the brook to be with Jed because of the Morrison painting? Had she let art guide her?
There was another ghost too: the girl Kate used to be. Her gaze went to the basement door. She had walked down those stairs one person, and when she’d come back up twenty-two hours later, she’d been someone else entirely.
“Are you okay?” Conor said, taking a step closer to her.
Kate nodded. She felt light headed.
“You look pale.”
Now he was inches away. She could feel waves of energy between their bodies.
Her skin tingled. She realized Conor was attracted to her. Maybe he had a hero complex, or perhaps it was the smell of her hair. Was she mistaken, or did he want to kiss her? For weeks now, she had sensed him nearby, watching her, even when he didn’t let himself be seen.
She never had these instincts—she’d been frozen solid, and the ice had started to form right here in the gallery when she was sixteen. What would happen if she touched him? She tried it, just one finger at first, tracing the back of his hand. Her skin burned.
“You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Did you follow me?”
She watched him staring at her. Electricity tingled through her body, taunting her to collapse, to quit holding it all together, to give in to something sublime and terrible. She felt overcome with desire. Was this how Beth had felt when she’d gone to the brook with Jed?
“Yeah,” he said. “I did follow you.”
“Are you supposed to be doing that?” she asked.
“I was concerned,” he said.
“About what?” she asked.
“About Pete. He lost face with anyone connected to the gallery; you’re letting his girlfriend and son stay in your family house. He might be very angry.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said, but now, in contradiction to her words, the pressure of her finger on his hand was stronger; she was holding herself up, balancing with one fingertip on Conor Reid. Blood was rushing in her ears, a roaring brook, melting the ice in her body.
“I’m messed up,” she said out loud.
“No, you’re not.”
She pulled herself away and walked across the room.
She sensed him right behind her. He wasn’t touching her, but she felt warmth pouring off him.
Now his hand was on her shoulder. Her hair was pinned up, and he brushed a tendril aside.
She was numb. Would he notice? Would the ice really melt? Did she want it to?
“Kate,” he said, and his breath was warm on the back of her neck. She felt more than just a breeze, movement of air. He was going to kiss her. She felt everything he wanted, as if her own desire had become his.
She turned to accept the kiss. His lips nearly brushed hers. She bowed her head, shook it hard.
This doesn’t happen to me. I don’t do this, she said, but only to herself, not out loud.
She took one step away from him, then another. As she did, the longing that had rocked her a moment ago felt more like a dream; it wasn’t real. The sound of the blood in her ears, the rushing brook, stopped.
She took a deep breath. She knew she had to be brave—face what had happened here twenty-three years ago, here and now, if she wanted to move on with her life. She walked to the basement door, pulled by the force of the past. She turned the knob and walked down the stairs.
In the late 1800s, the basement had had a dirt floor, but Mathilda had redone it with concrete. Despite that improvement, this was New England, and basements were often damp, so chill and a musty smell hit her when she opened the door.