Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
I t was a week after Hilary’s trip to New York City, a terrifically sunny day in June that brought with it seventy-eight-degree temperatures and a glittering ocean not unlike the sparkly nail polish that Aria had been obsessed with at age seven and eight.
Hilary was on the veranda of Dorothy Wagner’s estate, taking a water break after six full hours of work, and checking her phone for signs of Renée.
Just yesterday, Renée had called to say she’d decided to come to the estate this week to “check on” Hilary’s progress and see the old place for the first time in nearly thirty years.
Hilary should have expected this, but it irritated her that she had to mentally prepare herself for Renée rather than continue with the interior design project that had fully taken over her life.
Although a full week had passed since they’d met, Hilary still didn’t know what to make of Renée Wagner. But to her, and to Aria, Renée seemed like a ticking time bomb, one with the capacity to make things difficult for them. If she wanted to.
Now that Hilary had the estate mostly to herself, save for the valet slash gardener and maids who maintained the old place (presumably because they’d been asked to in Dorothy’s will), Hilary was having everything of value moved to a storage facility.
The idea was to see the shell of the mansion so that she could truly visualize what would come next.
It had been a part of the plan from the beginning, something Dorothy had been excited about, saying, “It’ll be remarkable to see this place without any sense that I’ve been living here all this time. ”
But what Hilary hadn’t accounted for, in this redesign process, was the library.
After her brief outdoor break, Hilary returned to the library with a renewed purpose.
She hadn’t spent much time in the space but found it astounding, with its thick curtains protecting the books from the harsh sunlight and its mahogany shelves and its perhaps two thousand books.
It was clear that Dorothy had been a big reader through the years, and that was how she’d spent the majority of her time alone.
It wasn’t hard to find the books Dorothy had read and reread, as many of them were dog-eared or stacked on one of the writing desks in the ornate space.
It looked like Dorothy had liked all kinds of genres, from literary to action-adventure to romance.
She’d also read about history a great deal, stuff about World War II and the Civil War that made Hilary’s brain hurt.
It was clear that Dorothy had been a very intelligent woman. But Hilary had known that already, just by speaking with her, just by seeing the light in her eyes.
How she wished she could speak with her again!
Suddenly, she heard her name. “Hilary?” It echoed through the hallways and erupted into the library.
Hilary sprang into action, hurrying down the hall to find Marc in the foyer, removing his shoes and wearing a big smile.
He’d made record time from the Boston airport, surprising her.
Hilary threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses.
He’d left Nantucket Island for San Francisco what felt like months ago, but really hadn’t been much longer than a week. So much had happened.
“How are you?” Hilary demanded. “How was your flight?”
Marc said it was fine. He beamed at her, tracing her head with his hand. The swelling in her heart told her how essential this love was to the story of her life.
Hilary led him into the kitchen to pour him a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.
Together, they sat back on the veranda, watching the seagulls swoop and talking about their time apart.
Marc’s trip to San Francisco had been mildly successful, but he’d probably have to head back West soon.
“I hate leaving you alone like this.” He winced.
“With all this talk of Philip Wagner, it makes me feel like I’m like him.
Leaving Dorothy alone in this big estate. ”
Hilary guffawed. “You’re nothing like Philip Wagner!”
Marc smiled.
“You’re just fishing for compliments,” Hilary teased, taking his hand.
“Never! But tell me,” Marc said. “What’s been going on here? Aria’s still in New York? Renée’s coming to make sure you’re doing your job?”
Hilary wrinkled her nose. “Renée isn’t exactly my favorite person.”
“I got that sense over the phone,” Marc said with a laugh.
“She’s mostly kept to herself in Manhattan, apparently.
Upstairs in her bedroom alone while Aria cleans out the first floor and starts the redesign,” Hilary recounted what Aria had told her.
“But it’s strange, the two of them in that brownstone together.
Aria’s still trying to figure out what went wrong in Renée’s relationship, who she was dating, and why she has nowhere else to go. But Renée isn’t sharing many details.”
“And she doesn’t have any money, I guess?”
“Not until she does whatever it is Dorothy told her to in her will,” Hilary said.
“And one of her jobs is watching you?” Marc asked.
“I guess so?” Hilary groaned. “I can’t help but think Dorothy just wanted to make her daughter leap through a few hoops. There’s a lot of darkness between them. That doesn’t just go away when someone passes, I don’t think.”
Marc wanted a tour of the estate, so Hilary led him through what she’d cleared: the parlor, the kitchen, the upstairs bedrooms, the dining room. Now that all the rooms were emptied and the windows were open to bring in fresh air, the space felt entirely different than it had with Dorothy in it.
“Imagine locking yourself away for twenty-five years,” Marc said, looking miffed. And then he wagged his eyebrows. “Okay. Now I have to ask it. Do you think she had anything to do with Philip’s death?”
“What? No!” Hilary cried, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Dorothy was a wonderful and kindhearted woman. She wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
They reached the library. “It might be my favorite room,” Hilary confessed. “But I think it needs the most work.” She showed Marc her vision for the space: dark green walls and more ornate woodwork for the shelves, Turkish rugs, and better curtains.
“Are you going to get rid of some of these books?” Marc asked. “It looks like some of them are crumbling and moldy.” He reached for one on a top shelf and stopped when it looked like the pages were going to come out of it.
“It doesn’t feel right to throw out her enormous collection,” Hilary said. “She spent all her life collecting these books. In a way, I think they were her friends.”
Marc chuckled. “You’re a softy.”
Marc walked over to one of the writing desks, one that Hilary hadn’t had a chance to go through yet, and tugged at the drawers until he found one unlocked. In it was an old photo album with the year 1981 printed on the cover. Hilary’s jaw dropped.
“What?” Marc asked, pretending like finding this was a typical thing for him. He’d always been lucky.
Hilary hurried over, realizing that her hands were shaking.
“I’m sorry. Ever since Dorothy died, I’ve been so shocked that there are no photographs in this entire place!
And you’re here for like five seconds and find a trove of them?
It isn’t fair.” She laughed and put both her hands on the album.
Something about opening it gave her pause.
“Remember how I said Rachel probably died in the eighties?” Hilary said, her eyes to Marc. “It makes me think that 1981 was one of the last years they had, you know, ‘normality.’ Whatever that meant for the Wagners.”
Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “You said Renée’s on her way?”
Hilary nodded, recognizing his point. If they were going to go through it at all, it needed to happen before Renée arrived. It was hers and hers alone. The right thing to do was to give it to her immediately.
“Are we really going to snoop like this?” Hilary whispered.
“You’ve already gone through her entire house,” Marc reminded her. “Why not this?”
Before she chickened out, Hilary opened the album to the first photograph.
In it were two teenage girls on what looked to be a Nantucket beach.
Their smiles were bright, and their arms were wrapped around one another’s shoulders.
The one on the left was slightly older, maybe age thirteen: Renée.
The other was obviously Rachel, maybe eleven or twelve.
“Irish twins,” Marc pointed out quietly.
Hilary’s knees shook so much that she needed a chair.
Marc hovered above her, assessing the photographs, most of which seemed to be of Rachel and Renée.
Some of them featured Dorothy around age forty, younger than Hilary was now, but always with one of the girls, meaning that the unpictured one had probably taken the photo.
It seemed that Renée was the photographer when Dorothy wasn’t.
Philip Wagner didn’t seem involved at all.
Hilary was pretty sure all the photos were taken on Nantucket. She recognized every restaurant, every street corner, and every beach. Some of them were taken in this very house, with the Wagner girls sprawled on the veranda or playing in the garden or drinking cola in the kitchen, grinning messily.
It was a life Hilary recognized, because it echoed the same love she’d enjoyed within her own family, the same love that she had with Aria. What had gone so wrong?
Suddenly, there was the sound of clacking boots on the hardwood. Hilary bristled, closed the photo album, and returned it to its drawer. Marc gave her a look of surprise. They’d agreed to give the photo album to Renée when she arrived, but Hilary wasn’t willing to part with it yet.
She needed to study it longer. She felt there was something there, something she was missing.
A moment later, Renée’s voice blared through the hall. “Hello? Hilary? They said you’re up here.”
Hilary gave Marc a look of mock-panic and called out, “We’re in the library!”