CHAPTER FIVE

Annie smiles genially at Mother, but I see the contempt behind her gaze. There is little love between my sister and our mother. I can’t blame Annie for that, but I do wish she would make more of an effort to hide it at family dinners.

“I just don’t understand the point of a career in art,” Mother says. “Artists are never independent. They rely entirely on others for their support.”

“I wonder how many businessmen are as well-renowned as Rembrandt?” Annie asks innocently.

“I wonder how many artists are as nameless as the manager of the car wash your father takes his Mercedes to? At least that manager can pay his bills.”

"Well, as long as you have television, that's all right."

Father, of course, ignores the tension as he ignores everything that interferes with his carefully constructed world. I wonder sometimes if he would have been happier being a bachelor. And so it falls once more to me to be the mediator.

“Annie and I have found a place in the city,” I tell Mother. “It’s near the University, and the subway station is right in front of the building.”

The temperature in the room instantly falls by twenty degrees. Annie stiffens and presses her lips into a thin line. Mother turns her ice-cold eyes to me, the same blue as Annie’s but far sharper. “You’re moving?”

I look between the two of them and stammer. “I… I thought that would be good news.”

“You thought it would be good news to hear that my daughters are living like bohemians in some apartment building near a university?”

“Well… Father won’t need to let us borrow the car, and you won’t have us coming and going at all hours. We’ll still visit, of course, but you’ll have your privacy.”

“You don’t think I care about you.”

It’s not a question. It’s also not the conversation I want to have right now. I try to back off politely. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up right now. Let’s just enjoy our dinner. The food is lovely, Mother.”

“What have I ever done to either of you to make you hate me so much?”

“Mother, that’s not—”

Annie scoffs. It’s a wicked sound, bitter and contemptuous. I am as shocked as Mother. Annie notices our shock and seems to delight in it. “I could talk for hours about that, Mother ,” she sneers. “But I won’t. It would be a waste of time. I’ll only say that Mary and I are moving this weekend, so if you hope to kill us before then, you’ll have to do it before Saturday.”

“Annie!” I cry.

Mother's lower lip trembles once. Then, she stands abruptly and leaves the room. Father finishes the last of his roast, then wipes his mouth and stands. He leaves without looking at us, and my sister calls back to him, "Lovely talking with you, Father."

When the door closes behind him, I swallow and say, “I’m so sorry, Annie. I only meant to smooth things over.”

She nods. “Well, I’m sorry that we just aren’t sensible enough for you.”

I flinch again. Now Annie thinks I’m attacking her? I didn’t mean—”

“You never do. I notice that about you. You do quite a lot of things, but you never seem to mean any of them. So what do you mean?”

“That’s not fair!”

“It never is. That’s another thing I notice about you.”

She stands and beams at me. I feel the ghost of an old jealousy as I look up at my tall, statuesque sister with the crystal blue eyes and the smile that instantly wins the heart of every man who meets her.

“I can’t wait to live with you, Mary.”

She leaves, and I am left alone to wonder what on Earth I’ve done wrong.

***

I open my eyes. My heartbeat is normal and my breathing steady. There’s no sheen of sweat, no trembling in my extremities. The sense of dread I feel tells me I’ve just had a nightmare, but my body isn’t reacting the way it normally does when I wake in the middle of the night.

I sit on the edge of the bed and press my feet into the floor. It's solid, and the carpet is soft. I rub my hands over the quilt and feel the silky smoothness of the hand-stitched material. I am awake.

I sit for a while and try to recall my dream, but the details have vanished. It’s extremely frustrating to me that dreams so rarely remain clear upon waking. I am not fond of secrets in general, and this feels as though my mind is keeping a secret from me. It feels almost like self-betrayal.

Finally, I give up. I sigh and put on my slippers, then head out of the room.

Some would say that snooping is a rude habit of mine, and I wouldn’t argue with them. I would, however, remind them that in my past places of employment, snooping has allowed me to find answers to mysteries. This house is shrouded in mystery, and the more I dwell on it, the more convinced I am that this mystery must be solved.

The logical place for me to look would be the studio, but after yesterday, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to risk that yet. It would be just my luck for Victor to be there and catch me breaking the one rule he’s given me yet again. Anyway, if he’s not in there, it’s probably locked. I can pick locks, but I am not quite prepared to be that disrespectful to my employer.

Instead, I head to the basement. Victor’s description isn’t of a basement but of a sort of beach room with the supplies one would need for swimming. Perhaps, if there’s a flashlight, I’ll brave the path that leads to the cove and see if there are answers awaiting me down there.

I dismiss that thought almost immediately, though. A flashlight beam would be starkly visible against the blackness. All Victor, Celeste or Evelyn would have to do is look out the window to see me. I could claim that I enjoy nighttime walks, but if anything suspicious is going on here, the person responsible would know the real reason for my actions. The same is true if they find me in the basement, but there's less risk with that.

The door to the basement is unlocked. It opens to a long, tile-floored room with four showers spaced every five yards or so. Behind the showers is a shelf with sinks and various shampoos, soaps, conditioners, sunscreens and lotions. A towel rack occupies the far wall, and when I open the tall cabinet on the nearer end of the sinks, I see various swimsuits, some trunks for men and some two piece bathing suits for Celeste. I blush a little and close the cabinet. It seems Victor was telling the truth after all. This is just the room they use to get ready for the beach. At least I know they leave the house once in a while.

I turn to leave, and I’m surprised to see two doors. The first is the door I enter through, but the second one I don’t recognize.

I step to it and test the handle. It opens with a smooth click and swings inward. The space beyond is pitch black. I consider heading back to my room for a light, but curiosity propels me. I feel for a light switch and find one a moment later.

The lights come on, bright enough that I wince. I shield my face with my hand and wait for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I gasp.

The room is full of paintings. Dozens of them, some displayed as though at a museum, some stacked and others left unfinished and tossed insolently on the various tables and even the floor.

These paintings are very unlike the abstract statues in Victor’s living room. I am not gifted enough to know if he would be satisfied with the essence captured by these images—I guess not since they are left forgotten in a basement closet—but they are very real. Some of them are so real that I must look closely to know they are not photographs.

There are paintings of a much younger Victor without the gray hair, wild eyes or deep lines in his forehead. There are paintings of a much younger Celeste. My heart breaks at the bright smile and the laughter in the eyes of this young girl. Time has been unkind to them.

There is a box on the table. Inside are old newspaper clippings of articles about the illustrious artist Elias Blackwood. In one article, I learn that he takes Victor Holloway as his apprentice. This is the mysterious Elias that Victor consults with when he paints.

I turn away and walk deeper into the room. There are many paintings that contain no people but simply studies of the various California landscapes that exist around Victor’s home. There is the ocean at sunset and sunrise, a crowded beach at high summer, a storm cloud on the horizon, and a forest at dusk. There is a particularly charming painting of the neighborhood at night. The homes are decorated with lights, and a couple stands on their porch with their arms around each other, smiling at the children walking along the sidewalk to gaze on the festive decorations.

Two paintings capture my attention above all others. One is of the inlet as seen from the second-floor balcony through the window in the schoolroom. The vanishing point is highlighted with an ethereal glow. The tall cliffs that border the inlet seem to pinch the inlet, towering over as though imprisoning the water while simultaneously pulling the viewer toward that mythical point where Celeste says everyone vanishes. Even without delving into the abstract, Victor’s talent is clear in this painting.

His talent is just as clear in the second and most powerful painting, but I don’t have room to feel admiration for the skill it takes to perfectly capture the curve of a delicate cheekbone, the sparkle in a crystal blue eye or the weightless rays of blonde hair cascading around smooth, creamy skin. I have room for nothing but shock as the image of my sister meets my eyes.

This Annie is not the ghostly apparition I first see in a similar art closet at the Ashford House. The eyes are not empty black holes, and the skin is not gray and translucent.

No, this is no specter. This is my sister, as she was alive and vibrant. This is she as she looked when she vanished from my life never to return.

I take a picture and send it to Sean. His work has proven valid. My sister was here in Monterey. And somehow or another, she knew Victor Holloway.