Page 9 of One Last Secret

I can’t ignore this any longer. I screw up my courage and knock on the door.

He instantly goes silent. No speaking, no moving. I tense a little, but there’s no other reaction. I clear my throat and call, “Victor? Are you all right?”

There’s a half-second of pause, then heavy footsteps. I backpedal and nearly slip down the stairs, only just catching myself on the banister.

The door flies open, and Victor stares at me. I flinch at the sight of him. This is not the awkward but charming artist I meet last night, nor is it the irritable homeowner who greets me wondering who’s interrupting his rest. This is the face of someone caught in the grip of an anxious mania.

His eyes are wide and bloodshot. His hair—unkempt when I first meet him—is now wild and damp with sweat. The lines in his forehead are sharp cracks, and his lips work as though muttering something silently, even while staring at me.

He seems to loom over me, towering like one of his statues downstairs. “What are you doing here?” he barks. “I told you the studio is off limits!”

“I… I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Get out of here!”

He slams the door, causing me to flinch again. I turn and rush down the stairs, not stopping until I reach my room.

I sit on the bed and catch my breath, staring at the door, as though if I turn away, Victor might come bursting through, claws and fangs extended like a vampire.

My first impression is shattered. The peace I hope to find here vanishes in a puff of smoke. It’s clear to me now that there is a rot in this house, one that may be greater than I can heal.

I remain where I am for over an hour before I have the courage to head downstairs. The living room is empty, and I return to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. Behind me, the statues loom, their mocking judgment echoing in my ears.

Leave now, they seem to say.Before you vanish.

CHAPTER FOUR

I just set the last of the dishes to dry when I hear Victor’s voice, “Ah, Mary! There you are!”

I spin around, startled. Victor regards me with the same charming smile he wore last night. He has one hand behind his back and one arm on Celeste’s shoulder. Celeste stares at me with the flat, wide-eyed expression with which she greets me before.

Because she is here, I choose not to mention the encounter I have with him earlier in the afternoon. I only return his smile and say, “Hello. I was washing my dishes from earlier. Celeste and I enjoyed tea together after school.”

“Ah, how wonderful. I forgot we had tea. It was a gift from a gallery owner in New York a few years ago, but I don’t drink tea, so I just stuck it in the cabinet and forgot about it. I’m glad someone’s using it.”

“Yes, Celeste and I both quite liked it.”

“Good, good.” He leaves Celeste and heads to the kitchen. His eyes move everywhere but me as he opens cabinets and mutters to himself. “We can do the pork roast—no, no, the beef. We’ll serve rice on the side… Hmm, the pork roast after all. Rice and maybe steamed broccoli.”

“Celeste is a very bright young woman,” I interject, watching him flit about. “I believe she will have no trouble earning a scholarship in mathematics. Or perhaps you have connections to art schools that she could take advantage of? I hear she’s inherited your talent.”

He smiles briefly at me. “Yes, she’s very smart. Good artist too. If we serve pork, should I go for a spicier wine, perhaps? A Malbec or a Syrah? No, no, no, a white. It will be roasted with herbs. A Condrieu.”

I feel a touch of irritation. If this is how he behaves all the time, as though Celeste were an afterthought, then it’s no wonder she feels neglected. “She’s agreed to show me some of her work,” I tell him.

That does cause him to stop. He turns to me, a somewhat thin smile on his face. “Yes. I apologize for earlier. I know I was short with you. Ididwarn you that the studio was off limits, though.”

I hadn’t meant to bring that up. “Of course,” I reply. “I only meant to say that I’m enjoying getting to know your daughter.”

“Yes.” He gives Celeste a smile, and I’m encouraged to see his face soften. “She’s wonderful.”

I turn to Celeste, but instead of the gratitude or perhaps awkward shyness I expect, she is tense. Her shoulders are taut, and her gaze turned away from both of us. I have pushed too far.

“She is,” I say, then change the subject. “As for dinner, if you intend to roast the pork with herbs alone, then a condrieu is the perfect choice. If you intend to serve the pork with any kind of sauce, I prefer a Syrah. It is more peppery than a Malbec and not so heavy.”

“No sauce, no sauce,” he says, flitting around the kitchen again. “Condrieu it is.”

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to cook for you.”

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