A Sound Among the Trees (14 page)

Adelaide hadn’t been to the studio since the month after Sara died, when she and Carson opened it and realized Sara hadn’t completed much of anything. There had been a dozen different projects, all in various stages of creation, but none of them finished.

“What Sara found beautiful was actually the act of hatching an idea, not executing it. She wasn’t in the habit of finishing anything, you know.”

Marielle smiled. “No. I didn’t know. I wondered why there was nothing in the house that she had done.”

“The butterfly painting that hangs in Brette’s room was nearly finished when she died. A friend of hers finished it for her so that Brette could have it.” Adelaide looked up and met Marielle’s gaze. “Brette doesn’t know anyone else touched it.”

“Oh. I won’t say anything. Ever.”

She looked back to her hemming. “Thank you. There were a few other pieces that needed just a bit of attention. Carson put up one of her wall hangings in the library. It’s not signed or anything, so you wouldn’t know it’s hers. It’s that strange one with all the fabric and colors and slivers of mirror going every which way.”

Marielle nodded. “Yes. I know the one you mean. It’s very beautiful. Reminds me of the desert at sunrise, actually.”

“Well. That’s nice to know. And I have one of her sculptures in my bedroom. It’s a blossom coming out of a human hand. Rather odd. But she made it, so it is precious to me.”

“Sure.”

Adelaide set the pants down on her lap and cut the thread from the needle. “What’s left in the studio are all the bits and pieces of stuff none of her other artist friends could use. What I’m saying is, it’s a bit of a mess in there. And no doubt full of spider webs and dust.”

Marielle shrugged. “I’d like to see it anyway.”

“You’d like to have it cleaned out, perhaps?” Adelaide tied off the hem.

“Maybe. Yes, probably. Can you think of a reason why it shouldn’t be cleaned out?”

“Well, the kids know it belonged to their mother …”

Marielle tightened her crossed arms. “But you just said it’s full of spider webs and dust. Do you think
that
image is good for the kids? What if we turned it into something they could actually use? Like a playroom or something?”

Adelaide snipped the tied threads. Marielle was right. “I hadn’t thought of that before. You’ve got a point. I don’t suppose you are thinking of making any changes today …”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t take anything out of there until I could talk to Carson about it. But I would like to see it.”

“The key is in there.” Adelaide nodded toward the library across the foyer, where Carson had his desk and computer. “Bottom drawer of Carson’s desk. In the Altoids tin.”

“Thanks, Mimi.” Marielle uncrossed her arms. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you before I go outside?”

“No, dear. I’ll be fine.”

Marielle turned to leave, and Adelaide called out her name.

“Yes?”

“Be careful, dear,” Adelaide said. “Some of Virginia’s spiders have a nasty bite.”

Marielle smiled, nodded, and was gone.

The next hour and half passed quickly as Adelaide finished the pants, then set to work on piecing the next jacket. By eleven thirty she still hadn’t heard Marielle return from the studio. The woman had been down there for nearly two hours—longer than it should take to peruse Sara’s odd, artistic remains.

Adelaide set down the pieces of the collar she was working on and went to the window. The garden’s foliage, in full midsummer bloom, blocked her view of the old slaves’ quarters. She couldn’t see the door unless she went upstairs and looked out her bedroom window. Adelaide headed for the stairs and ascended them carefully. At the top of the stairs she walked down the long hallway to her bedroom and stepped inside, then moved to the window that overlooked the garden. She could see that the door to the studio was ajar. But the paned windows were too clouded with dirt and too far away for her to see inside. And since it was daytime and no need for Marielle to have a flashlight, there was no bouncing luminescence to indicate that Marielle was still there. What on earth was Marielle doing in there for two hours? She said she wouldn’t start cleaning out the studio until she talked to Carson first. Had she changed her mind? Had she lied?

Adelaide turned from the window. She’d have to go see for herself. She walked back to the stairs and took the first half. At the bend she switched hands and reached for the railing on her left. Her eyes suddenly met Susannah’s in the portrait as she grasped for the railing. The visual connection startled her. Susannah’s gaze was tight on her, her mouth an even line, impossible to describe. Adelaide stepped back involuntarily and wavered on the step. She again reached for the railing, unable to take her eyes off Susannah.

Her hand felt only air.

Adelaide tumbled forward. Her outstretched arm met the step below her, and she heard the miserable sound of cracking bone and felt a fiery pain in her wrist. The remaining photographs on the wall were a chaotic mosaic of rectangles zooming past her as the rest of her body pitched forward. She smacked her head hard, and as she tumbled down the rest of the stairs, an inky blackness swallowed her.

Then she heard a far-off voice in the darkness, speaking her name.

A cold fog embraced her, and she heard her name a second time.

And the swishing of a skirt.

Part Three
THE STUDIO

hen Holly Oak was newly built, Carson had told Marielle, its row of slaves’ quarters numbered half a dozen stone-and-timber cottages that featured real glass windows—a luxury not afforded the laborers on the Pembroke sheep farm outside of town. The Holly Oak quarters were as cozy as a slave could expect to have.

Each one had a stone fireplace for cooking, evening chats, and to keep the winter chill from seeping into weary bones. Two of the larger cottages—gone now—had separate sleeping rooms. The two that remained were single-roomed units that shared a common wall and a common history. But as Marielle made her way across the grass, the only commonality she saw now was the weathered exterior. Inside one were a hutch and a rabbit. Inside the other, echoes of her new husband’s first wife.

She’d decided not to tell Adelaide she was poking about the studio for Susannah’s letters. If she found them, she wanted the discovery to be a surprise for Adelaide. If she didn’t, she didn’t want the embarrassment of having naively supposed they were in there.

Marielle climbed the three stone steps that led to Sara’s studio. The key slipped into the lock, definitely a newer mechanism, and the handle turned at her touch. The hinges squawked a weak protest as she opened the door and stepped inside the half-shadowed room.

The air was tinged with the odor of dust and age and mouse droppings. Sunlight cutting through the haze of stale air revealed messy
mosaics of disintegrating cobwebs. She could make out shelves on one wall and a collection of empty fruit crates and closed boxes along another, two tables with pitched tops for drawing, and another table with a flat surface sporting tall and squat shapes. An easel stood at attention, covered in a canvas tarp. She reached along the wall to see if the place had ever been wired for electricity but found no light switch.

Marielle took another step and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the room. Sara couldn’t have worked in here in such darkness. She must have had battery lamps or a generator. Even with the sun reaching higher into the midmorning sky, Marielle couldn’t see how Sara could’ve found inspiration in such a dull, lifeless room. She pushed the door fully open behind her to let in more light and then stepped farther inside. Marielle lifted the canvas tarp on the easel and peered at what lay underneath—a rectangular stretch of nubby fabric and the beginnings of a woman’s face outlined in thick black paint: only brows, a dot for the mouth and a brush stroke for the nose were visible on the face’s oval outline. She replaced the tarp.

Marielle moved to the drafting tables, empty except for cups of pencil nubs, rusty X-Acto knives, and dull metal rulers. On the flat table she saw a cookie tin containing shards of colored glass, a basket of long strips of curling leather, and a nearly empty bolt of netting, gray with filth. A tall unfinished sculpture—a tree, perhaps—rested near one edge of the table, a half-completed basket made of torn and lacquered cookbook pages rested on the other.

On the shelves, various-sized containers of metal buttons, door pulls, and keys rested next to each other. She looked behind each tray and those just like them on the lower and upper shelves, looking for a cigar box or hat box or some other compartment someone might use to stow old letters inside. Nothing.

She pulled the tarp off the easel and spread it on the floor by the
boxes, checking for spiders as she sat down and gingerly opened the first one. Inside, old crafting magazines, art show fliers, and paint-spattered smocks lay in disarray. She checked the next box, and the next, finding more magazines, half skeins of yarn and twine, spools of wire, and opened bags of glass beads—some holding only a solitary example of what the bag originally contained.

Sara had been a bit of a pack rat. That surprised her. In the half-dozen conversations they’d had about his deceased wife, Carson had made it seem like Sara was a textbook only child, organized and efficient. Marielle stood and reached for the last box on the top shelf, tearing away a weave of webs that seemed to hold it fast like Gulliver on the Lilliputian beach, tiny bands stretched with stoic but flawed intentions.

The box, made of wood and stained ebony, had been decoupaged with emptied flower seed packets. Sara had painted her name in one corner. It was the size of the felt-lined box her mother kept the good silverware in; bigger than the greater Phoenix phone book, smaller than a suitcase.

Marielle brushed her hand across the top, dislodging the airy remains of webs and dust, and sat back down on the tarp. She waited before opening the box, sensing that she had uncovered something that probably didn’t contain old brochures and paint smocks.

It seemed the kind of box Marielle might’ve hidden letters in if she’d had some she wanted to keep secret. Made of permanent material with a tightly fitting lid, it had been tucked away from eyes and hands that might’ve come across it in the house.

She lifted the lid.

Guidebooks to the Smithsonian, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and other art galleries lay in a subdued, glossy pile.

Marielle frowned. No wonder no one had bothered with this box when the usable art supplies had been removed after Sara died. She
picked up the guidebooks, all at least fifteen years old, revealing a plain-covered book with just a hint of gold embossing on its edges. Definitely not a museum catalog. A journal perhaps? She lifted it and found another. And still another. Intrigued, Marielle pulled the three volumes out of the box to see if a bundle of old letters had been stashed underneath the journals. But her hand met only the wooden surface of the bottom.

No letters.

She opened the first plain-cover book, revealing pages of loopy handwriting, swirling with arcs and sweeps—the kind of script she’d expect an artist to have. She leafed through the second and third one. Each entry was dated, some going as far back as twenty years. Some, only six.

The pages were full of poems and bits of prose, all of them signed with a fat, swirling capital S.

Sara.

A tremor wiggled its way through her as Marielle realized Carson probably didn’t know these journals existed. Surely if he did, they wouldn’t have been left in the studio among useless remnants of Sara’s past, miscellany that no one at Holly Oak treasured and yet which no one had been able to scrape away.

And if Carson didn’t know the journals were in the studio, perhaps he didn’t know they existed at all.

Was it disrespectful to read them? Obviously Sara had kept them in a place where she expected they would be safe. Secret. And the journals weren’t mere high school scribblings kept back for sentimentality. Some of the poems had been written just a few years before she died.