Arcadia Falls (42 page)

I, too, start to shake. Then I feel myself covered with warmth. Callum’s behind us, wrapping a blanket around both our shoulders, coaxing us away from the edge. I have to close my eyes before I can break the pull of the clove and go with him. But even as I walk down the hill I carry its chill with me, like a lump of ice lodged in my gut.

For the next few weeks every time I close my eyes I see the clove covered in moonlit snow. At night I dream of it. Each night it’s the same: I’m
standing on the edge of the cliff, looking down into the clove. Lily in her white May Day dress stands at the bottom. Instead of a wreath of flowers around her head, her blond hair is rimed with frost. She holds out her arms and another white-clad figure joins her. It’s Ivy St. Clare. She has a wreath of ivy in her hair. The two women link arms and then they both hold out their arms. They’re waiting for the third member of their party—the third Grace—and I suddenly know it’s me they’re waiting for. I feel the pull of their wills dragging me down into the clove, my feet move closer to the edge, my weight leans over … and then I see, to my relief, another figure is joining them.

Thank God, I think, it doesn’t have to be me. But when the third robed figure lifts its head, I see that beneath her cowled hood there’s nothing. The third figure has no face.

Then I fall.

I wake up flinching against the sensation of plummeting downward. Unable to go back to sleep, I go downstairs, creeping softly so as not to wake Sally. Since Ivy St. Clare’s death, Sally has stayed in the cottage with me. At first I was glad to keep her close, but as the days have passed and she’s shown no sign of wanting to go back to the dorm, I’ve begun to worry. Is she staying with me because she thinks I need her? Or because she’s frightened of something? Should we just leave the school altogether? Or would running away only make it worse? I feel as if we’re still on the ridge, clutching each other to keep from falling over the edge. I’m afraid that if I let go we’ll both fall; but if I don’t we’ll never find our way to safety.

I almost hoped in the first few days that the school would close and take the decision out of my hands. After all, it wouldn’t be surprising if parents withdrew their children after two deaths. Then we could all disband, leaving Arcadia to its ghosts and its stories. But that’s not what happened.

I was surprised by how many people came to Ivy’s funeral. I recognized some from the village—Doris from the Rip van Winkle Diner, Beatrice Rhodes, Fawn from Seasons—but there were many more who looked far too stylish to be locals.

“Alums,” Dymphna informed me in a hushed whisper as we stood in
line to file past Ivy’s casket. “And the trustees. There’s a meeting afterward. If you ask me, which no one did, they could’ve waited a day.”

Looking around, I recognized some of the faces of wealthy and influential arts patrons I’d seen in the society columns of the
Times
. Toby Potter, in a Victorian morning coat, told me the names of those I didn’t know. Apparently, many alumni of Arcadia had gone on to become curators, collectors, dealers, and critics. A good many of them had come from wealthy families or had married into wealth and wielded power and influence in the New York art world. A few were artists themselves.

“They must be very dedicated to the school,” I whispered to Toby.

“They probably want to make sure she’s really gone.” Toby whispered back while keeping his eyes on the procession heading toward the open casket. “I think some of them are afraid she’ll pop out of the casket and demand more money for the endowment.”

I shuddered at the image. I found this viewing of the corpse macabre. The few funerals I’d been to over the years had been Jewish ones, all closed-casket. I was dismayed to find myself steered by Toby into the line for the viewing. The last thing I wanted to do was look into her face. I was wondering if I could somehow file past
without
looking, but when I reached the casket, I found it impossible not to. I was shocked then at how peaceful Ivy seemed. Her face, which had been so wizened and lined in life, had relaxed, whether from some trick of the mortician’s craft or because death had released some tension in her features. Still, I couldn’t look at her for long without recalling that look of horror I’d seen on her face as she stood on the edge of the clove. I let my eyes drift down to the collar of her suit, on which I saw the pin she’d always worn in life: the wreath of ivy surrounding the two saints borne aloft on a cloud. I said a little prayer that she had at last found some peace.

At the end of the service the minister asked if anyone would like to say a few words about the deceased. There was an awful silence and I thought that no one would come forward. But Shelley Drake cleared her throat and rose to her feet. She was oddly dressed for a funeral, in a lavender floral print and matching lavender shoes. The chapel felt horribly still and I wondered if I was the only one afraid of what Shelley might say.

“We’ve come here today as a community broken by grief and tragedy,” she began, her voice thin and wavery as the light filtered through the old stained-glass windows. “Many are perhaps wondering if there is a future for Arcadia after the terrible events of these last few months. But I know what Ivy St. Clare would say if she were alive.” Shelley looked toward the open casket. “She would ask, What is the purpose of art if not to offer a refuge in times of loss and disillusionment? These recent deaths, of one who was at the beginning of her artistic career, and one who was reaching the end of hers, are all the more tragic because they are linked to each other. We may never know what really happened, if Ivy St. Clare was guilty of Isabel Cheney’s death, but it’s clear from her suicide that she felt responsible for it and for the death of Lily Eberhardt. She believed her actions would preserve the institution of the Arcadia School. We know that she was tragically misguided, but should we then throw away this refuge for the artistic spirit? We may never understand why Dean St. Clare did what she did, but we can hope that in the years to come the artists who come here, and who are nurtured here, will redeem her sins. After all, what is art but a way to shape and corral the chaos and senselessness of tragedy and disappointment?”

It was a strange speech for a funeral, but I realized it was perhaps meant more for the board meeting that occurred later that day. It must have seemed appropriate to the board, because they unanimously appointed Shelley Drake interim dean.

At the tea and reception that followed the board meeting, I expressed my surprise to Toby Potter. “I wouldn’t have thought Shelley had the organizational skills to run a school,” I said. And then, because I was afraid I sounded too critical, I added, “I mean, her skills seem more artistic than bureaucratic.”

“In other words, you think she seems too flaky to run anything more complicated than a bake sale,” Toby deftly rephrased my reservations about Shelley with a malicious grin. “Don’t worry. I believe the whole ‘distracted artist’ air she cultivates may be a pose. I imagine she’s found it convenient in getting out of unpleasant responsibilities. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns out to be an able and even draconian administrator.”

I was surprised at Toby’s assessment given what he’d told me the first time we met about Shelley’s history of mental instability, but then I remembered how well organized she’d been when she led the search for Isabel. She’d even managed to produce pink bandanas and whistles. “Do you think the board elected her as interim dean because of her organizational skills?”

“No.” Toby rocked back and forth on his heels like a wind-up toy, grinning gleefully. “They elected her interim dean because the Sheldons are the largest endowers of the school.”

“Really?” I looked over Toby’s head to where Shelley stood between a middle-aged woman in pearls and cashmere and a man in a navy blazer, pink pressed shirt, and khaki slacks—a couple who looked like they could have wandered in here from the Greenwich Country Club. Shelley was wearing the same loose flannel dress she wore to the funeral, and I noticed that its floral print was splattered with paint. She had tamed her kinky gray hair into a bun, but stray pieces stuck out like an ill-trimmed hedge. “I remember her telling me that part of the reason she taught at Arcadia was because it infuriated her upper-crust family. But if her family supports the school financially—”

“Then why would her teaching here make them angry?” Toby finished my question, then lifted his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and held up both hands. “No reason at all, I’d say. It’s hard to imagine what family she was speaking about. Her mother, Fleur Sheldon, died in a mental institution years ago. Our Shelley was appointed a guardian by the family law firm and brought up by nannies and boarding schools. No, Shelley might affect the role of rebellious artist when it suits her, but she’s done exactly what her grandmother Gertrude Sheldon would have wanted to do herself: take over Vera Beecher’s role as mistress of Arcadia.”

I looked over at Shelley to see her ducking her head, smiling shyly, and patting down her straying bits of hair. She seemed entirely in her element. Recalling Gertrude Sheldon’s jealousy of Vera Beecher, I had to conclude that Toby was right: she would have been delighted to see her granddaughter take over Arcadia.

In the days and weeks that follow I find that Toby is also right about Shelley’s hidden knack for organization. Or rather, reorganization. She seems to be everywhere, popping unannounced into classes, holding informal sessions in the dorms to see what direction the students want for Arcadia, even invading Dymphna’s kitchen to suggest vegetarian meal choices and lower-calorie desserts.

She even asks Callum Reade to come in to give a talk on campus safety. I attend because it’s mandatory, but I feel awkward and spend the session pretending to take notes so that I don’t have to meet his gaze, which seems focused in my direction whenever I look up.

I didn’t mean to leave things so awkward between us. At first I was so focused on Sally that I couldn’t spare the attention for him. When he came by the cottage, I kept him at the door and explained that Sally was there and that I had to concentrate on her. “She’s afraid that she could have lost me,” I explained, hating the hurt look in his face. “Now’s not the time to introduce anyone new into her life.”

He respected my wishes and stayed away. After a few weeks I began to wonder if they weren’t his wishes, too.

On those sleepless nights that I spent by the fire in my cottage, I told myself I couldn’t blame Callum for staying away. It was probably for the best. Sally doesn’t need to see me with another man yet, and, really, how much do I have in common with Callum Reade?

I’ve nearly convinced myself that I am over him when I run into him on the path to the cottage in the last week of the term. The leap my heart makes comes from being startled.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. It comes out more rudely than I meant it to. He tilts his head and stares for a moment before answering. There are deep shadows under his eyes, but otherwise it’s hard to read his expression. It’s dark here under the pines in the early dusk of approaching winter.

“Dean Drake asked me to have a look at this path to suggest where she should have security lights installed,” he answers after a moment.

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid, as if I’d accused him of stalking me. “Isn’t that a little … I don’t know … presumptuous?”

He laughs. “You mean, don’t I have anything better to do? Yeah, well I thought so, too, but for years I told Dean St. Clare that there should be lights on this path so I figured there was no sense acting proud. Besides, I had another reason for wanting to come out here. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I see,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “About that … I should have told you. I’m thinking of leaving after the winter break. Sally seems unable to get over seeing Ivy fall to her death. She’ll hardly leave my side. I think that maybe it would be better if I got her away from a place with such bad memories. So you see, there’s really no point … I mean … for you and me …”

Throughout this increasingly fragmented speech Callum has stood with his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly content to watch me blather on, making a fool of myself. When I splutter to a halt, he gives me a sad, condescending smile, as if I’m the village idiot.

“I figured you might not come back after the break. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before you go. I need to ask you something about the night Isabel Cheney died.”

“Oh,” I say, hoping the light’s not good enough for him to see me blush. “Of course. What can I help you with, sheriff?”

He seems to wince at my use of his title, but it might just be from the glare of the setting sun, which is slanting low through the pine trees. He shields his eyes and looks away. “You saw Dean St. Clare before the bonfire, right?”

“Yes, in her office.”

“And do you remember what she was wearing?”

“Um, a tunic and slacks.”

“What color?”

“Dark green, I think. Why—”

“And later when we saw her standing in the window, was she wearing the same thing?” Callum’s looking straight at me. The sun that had been in his eyes has lowered, but the amber light reflected off the lower half of his face has turned his eyes a piercing green-gold, their fix on me so unnerving that I have to close my own eyes. When I do, I picture Ivy St. Clare standing in her darkened window.