Page 8 of One Last Secret

I sip my tea to hide the way my lip curls upward. “People are people everywhere. There are good people and there are bad people.”

She nods. “I would like to visit England one day.”

“We shall plan a summer trip. I’ll take you to see the places I loved most when I was a girl.”

“Oh, Dad would never let me go. He says it’s dangerous outside of the house.”

I feel a slight chill, though I can't explain why. "Why does he say that?"

She shrugs. “He says people vanish.”

This is the second time she’s brought up vanishing. “What does he mean by that?”

She looks out the window toward the ocean and doesn’t answer. When she speaks again, she says, “The tea is really good.”

My curiosity is burning. I am desperate to know what this vanishing point is and who has been lost to it that it should so seriously have affected both Victor and Celeste.

I don’t push any further, though. Celeste has closed the door, and if I hope for it to open again, I must not pound on it. “Thank you. It’s Earl Grey. It’s my favorite.”

“Are you supposed to dip the toast into the tea?”

“You may drink it any way you like. But no, that’s not how it’s usually done.”

She takes a bite of the toast, then sips the tea. “Do all English people drink tea?”

“Everyone I’ve ever met.”

She nods and sips more of the tea. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

It might be my imagination, but beneath the flat politeness of that statement, I detect a hint of real gratitude. I smile at her and say, “Thank you, Celeste. Tea is far better when drunk with a friend.”

There's no mistaking the smile that comes to her lips now. It's small, barely there, but they are all the same. A moment later, she catches herself. The smile vanishes. She finishes the last of her toast and takes a hearty sip of tea to wash it down. "I'm going to go draw now," she tells me.

“Of course. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She nods, then rushes up the stairs. I watch her, the smile still on my face. She is unsure and a little frightened, perhaps, ofhow quickly she opens up to me, but she has responded well to my overtures. That’s all people really need is kindness.

I finish my tea and clear the dishes. As I wash them, I hear a cry of frustration above me. It’s faint, but noticeable. I pause and listen. A moment later, it comes again, followed by a muffled thump.

I set the dishes in the sink and shut off the water. More noises filter down, so I head to the stairs and climb slowly.

As I climb, the noises grow steadily louder. When I reach the second floor, I realize the voice is male. This is a relief to me at first. If Celeste had retired to her room to have some sort of mental break, I would be greatly concerned for her health.

That relief fades when I reach the third floor and hear the anger in Victor’s voice. My first impression of him is good, but now that I think back, myveryfirst impression of him is his rude greeting when he opens the door and doesn’t realize who I am. His awkward charm after that greeting endears him to me, but what I hear now isn’t endearing at all.

I reach the fourth floor. It ends in a small landing with a single door. I pause in front of this door and listen.

“Damn it, it’s notthere!It’s notthere!”

This is followed by a heavy sigh and the sound of footsteps as Victor moves around the studio. “It’s not justrealitywe must capture, Elias! Reality is a façade. The true essence of art is underneath. I must strip reality away and get to the truth!”

I feel a confusing array of emotions at this. On one hand, this impassioned rant is par for the course with artists, particularly successful artists. The stereotype is accurate in this case.

On the other hand, the nature of his comments disturb me, especially after what Celeste has told me about him keeping her inside. To say reality is a façade and art must capture essence is perhaps trite, but not alarming.

To say reality is a façade while neglecting your daughter and also refusing to let her leave your home for fear she might vanish isveryalarming. It is not the behavior of someone who is well. After my tea with Celeste, I don’t believe she is unwell, but her father’s behavior is clearly affecting her. She looked out at the “vanishing point” with an almost religious somberness.

“I have to capture theessence,” Victor mutters. “I have totranscendreality. I must, or I will vanish like the rest.”

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