by Ella Carey
The woman’s eyes darted about the empty street.
“I’m an editor in a publishing house in New York,” Tess went on, keeping her voice deliberately calm although she had to clasp her hands together to stop them from shaking visibly. “The sketches I have belong to someone who I think used to know her when she was young . . .” she said. “In Australia. There is something else.”
“Go on.” But the girl still didn’t make eye contact.
“The owner of the sketches is writing a novel about his love affair with the girl who did those sketches, sketches that look exactly like Rumer’s work. The girl had dark, swinging hair. She liked to wear red.”
The girl’s chest heaved in her dress.
“She favored red berets and red dresses,” Tess whispered. “Her mother worked as a seamstress in a boutique in Melbourne.”
The girl’s glance tore from side to side as if she was scouting the street for eavesdroppers.
“Listen,” Tess said. “There are several problems. If the novel is released, and if Rumer is indeed . . . Rebecca Swift . . .”
The girl clenched and unclenched her delicate fists.
“Then,” Tess went on, “Rumer is going to hear about the book. I know how hard Rumer has worked to keep her life private from the world. I know what happened to Rebecca Swift in Australia. She fell from a rock into the sea and drowned. But if Rumer’s two lives are about to collide, then the explosion is going to be huge unless she takes things in hand. I sense that you know what I’m talking about,” she said.
The girl glanced up the street.
“Can I ask what your name is?” Tess went on. She felt like a snake charmer. It was not something she was proud of, but she had come so far now . . .
Her companion hesitated. Her gaze was still off in the distance when she spoke. “Sunday,” she said, almost as if challenging Tess. “It’s Sunday.”
Of course it was.
Tess understood the walls that Rebecca’s daughter—because that was who she undoubtedly was—must have lived with all her life. And Tess understood that those walls were going to be as tough as stone to break down. She had to convince Sunday that she, Tess, was not a threat, that she was on their side. That she understood something of what Rebecca had done and that she even knew about hiding, whether it was from yourself, or the world, or your family when you were not comfortable being who you were. She understood about putting up walls now, but if she’d come to realize one thing, it was that walls did not fix any problem. Eventually things had to be dealt with; eventually things would always come to a head.
“Does the name Edward Russell mean anything to you?” Tess asked, her words seeming to linger in the lamplit street.
Sunday remained stock-still.
“He is writing the most searing, poignant love story about Rebecca—a novel,” Tess said. “I think she will want to know about it because it’s set for international release.”
Sunday’s mouth worked. “Nobody knows about this. No one. It’s the only way she’s survived.”
Tess resisted the overwhelming temptation to reach out and touch Sunday on the arm. “I’m the only person who has read the manuscript. So far. As Edward Russell’s editor, it’s just my job. I haven’t done anything or said anything, and I won’t until we’ve spoken to Rebecca.”
Sunday wrapped her arms around her waist. “You have to promise that you won’t try anything ever again like you did tonight in front of all those people.”
“I’m sorry. I had to find her or it would have haunted me, just as your mother is haunting Edward. It seems we can’t let go of some things, no matter how hard we might try to push them out of our lives.”
Slowly, Sunday opened her bag and pulled out car keys on a leather key ring. “You’re going to have to talk to her. I’m just . . . you’ve stunned me. But you’ll need to come with me now.”
Sunday turned and clipped down the street, her head up.
She stopped at a station wagon. Opened the passenger door. Tess climbed into Sunday’s car, pushing aside doubts about safety, trusting her instincts that this was okay. They both had to trust each other.
So she trusted the girl who drove her out of town, first toward the beach, then along the road north that snaked past the pitch-black sea.
Rebecca stood on the balcony that overlooked the ocean. The sadness that sat inside her these days was even more poignant than her own tragedy—something that she had painted out of herself for forty years. But now, what seemed insurmountable in the inky darkness was this question: was Sunday, too, destined never to love and be loved?
Rebecca knew that it was her fault. If there was one thing that she had wanted to do in this life, it was to provide a stable home for her daughter. The shades of her own childhood haunted her, and she had been so determined that her daughter would have the support she’d lacked when young. But marrying Sunday’s father had only been some vain attempt to stamp the past out.
What hope had she had when she’d only ever loved one person all her life? No one was going to measure up to him. She was better off on her own than inflicting her shipwrecked heart on any other man. Her past wasn’t fair to anyone else.
At least she could put on a facade. And that was what it was, her life, the life that she had supposed to be ingrained in truth. All those ideas they had shared together only existed on some distant shore. At least there was still her art. At least there was kindness. She could live by that. And there was love, love between herself and her daughter. It was enough. She knew she was still lucky.
Rebecca knew that.
When the flare of Sunday’s headlights shone into Rebecca’s eyes, she stood taller in surprise. This was unlike Sunday, but she could tell by the sound of the approaching engine that the car was her daughter’s. A visit, now, when she’d been worrying about her? The yellow headlights obliterated Sunday’s face as she made her way past the eucalyptus that bordered the driveway. Rebecca was struck with the thought that something was wrong.
She gathered her cardigan around herself and made her way down the wooden steps from the balcony as Sunday pulled up in the driveway. And brought her hand up to her mouth. As Sunday opened the door, light flashed onto another face. Someone unexpected was in the passenger seat. This was not something they did. Sunday and she had held a tacit understanding for years and years. Bringing strangers home was not part of it. Rebecca tried to make eye contact with Sunday, but her daughter looked at the ground.
The girl in the passenger seat climbed out and moved toward the house, as if in slow motion now. Her eyes were almond shaped. She wore blue jeans, a pale blue T-shirt. Rebecca tried to calm her racing thoughts.
Tess held out her hand. Rebecca’s face was exactly as Edward had described it, and her hair still hung loose around her shoulders as it had in the book. She wore a pair of cream trousers and her white shirt looked to be made of silk, with buttons wrought of delicate pearls. Over it she wore a cream cardigan of cashmere or angora wool. Tess smiled at the thought that Celia would be somewhat miffed at Rebecca’s material success.
Rebecca was silent as Sunday talked to her mother in low, fervent tones. But Tess’s heart skipped about in double time. Her eyes darted up to the luxurious, modern, understated house.
Finally, Rebecca turned to Tess, brought her hand to her mouth, let out a sob, and ran back up the stairs to the house.
Sunday inclined her head to indicate that Tess should come inside. Tess followed Sunday up the stone steps, her eyes appreciating the fruits of Rebecca’s obvious success when she stepped over the threshold. Such tasteful furnishings—simple, pale sofas almost floating on polished floorboards, rugs decorating the space with its view out at the black ocean—where else would Rebecca Swift live? During the daytime, she suspected the whole room would appear to drift high above the sea.
“Mom,” Sunday said, but Rebecca was halfway across the living room toward the kitchen. Finally, she faced them, standing behind the kitchen counter. As if it wer
e protection. Rebecca remained perfectly still. Tess couldn’t tear her eyes from Rebecca’s still-beautiful face.
“Rebecca.” Tess stumbled on the word.
Rebecca slid down onto a bar stool.
“Mom. I’m sorry, I had to bring Tess to you. You need to talk to her.” Sunday moved toward her mother and ran a hand over Rebecca’s back, her fingertips drawing circling patterns as if to soothe her in some old time-honored way.
But when she spoke, Rebecca’s voice was steel. “Who are you?” she asked, glaring at Tess. “What is it that you want?”
Sunday made a small, protesting noise. “Mom.”
Rebecca turned to her daughter. “Sun, I think it would be better if Tess and I talked alone.”
Silence.
A few moments later, Sunday leaned down and kissed her mother on the cheek; the two dark heads, one still dramatically beautiful, one slightly more delicate, were close for a moment.
Sunday looked to Tess. “I’m going to let Mom hear you out alone. I think it’s best. And, please, Mom, just let Tess talk to you.”
When Sunday clicked the glass front door shut, Rebecca stood up. But her hands shook as she reached up to her cheek. It was an instinctive movement, clearly, but Tess couldn’t hold back the shudder that formed in her chest. That cheek. Mrs. Swift. Her heart went out to Rebecca.
“I am going to make coffee.” Rebecca’s tone was ice.
Tess took in a shuddering breath. What if Rebecca had changed over the years? What were the chances she’d want anything to do with Edward’s story? What if she tried to stop it from being published? Rebecca began moving around the kitchen, pulling out mugs, grinding coffee beans. The noise shattered the otherwise silent space.
Finally it was quiet again, and Rebecca handed Tess a steaming mug. She tipped a jar of chocolate cookies onto a solid earthenware plate, letting them scatter like a pack of cards. Then Rebecca made her way across to one of the large sofas by the fireplace.
Tess hovered. Her eyes darted out to the blackness.
Rebecca waited, watching her. “Who sent you here?” she asked, seeming a little more in control now. “You can sit down, if you like.” She waved at the sofa opposite her, but the motion was vague.
“No one. I came of my own accord.” Tess placed her coffee mug on Rebecca’s glass coffee table. A handful of select art books sat on it, along with several ceramic works. Tess perched on the edge of the sofa.
Rebecca waited in silence.
“Edward Russell . . .” she managed to say. This was ten million times harder than she’d anticipated. Tess’s throat was constricted and her breathing was too fast, no matter how hard she tried to slow it.
Rebecca stood up in a sudden movement, sweeping across to the fireplace and standing there, reminding Tess of Edward standing at the fireplace in the library in Haslemere, dressed as a country gentleman. It seemed Rebecca was the one running everything now. Their situations had been reversed, and yet was either of them happy?
Tess found her eyes darting around the room in order to avoid staring at Rebecca, and she was struck suddenly with the fact that everything in this house was undeniably modern; nothing was old or timeworn. Rebecca’s gorgeous home must only be a few years old too. The way Rebecca dressed was entirely up-to-date. Nothing harked back to the past.
Rebecca was still a modernist then. But the fact that there was no hint of nostalgia here gave Tess a sense of unease. She shuddered at the thought that Rebecca might have ended up anything like her Mrs. Swift or Celia, who had both been pros at pushing everything that mattered aside. Tess felt more determined than ever to get through to the woman who she knew was deep inside.
“Edward’s wife died recently,” Tess said. “He found himself haunted by the past. He’s writing a book about you, about your love affair with him. I am his editor, from New York. The only way he can deal with his memories of you—of your tragic love affair—is to write about them. I’ve found his work incredibly moving, and to be honest, that is quite something for me. I usually edit . . . thrillers, you see.”
Rebecca stared out at the darkness.
Tess gathered herself. She had to keep this succinct. “Rebecca, the fact is, he showed me some of your sketches. My father owns two early Rumer Bankses. They were too similar. So. Here I am. I’m sorry. I just had to find you. The way he writes about you, the love you shared. The stories of Heide and the modernists. You were onto something so strong. I can’t stop thinking about it. Rebecca, he knows you so well that he’s writing you back to life.”
Rebecca stiffened.
“His novel is beautiful,” Tess whispered. “I am completely struck by the love he clearly had . . . for you. For the love he still has, Rebecca.”
Rebecca turned then, and for one split second it was as if her face softened back into the face of that girl whom Edward had described with such clarity in his book. The one Tess felt she knew so well. But Rebecca’s eyes looked more alone and lonely and haunted than ever.
“No one knows who I am,” she said. “No one. The fact that you do is the only reason I am listening to what you have to say.”
Tess leaned forward in her seat. “Yes, but your choice not to seek publicity is in line with the modernists. Entirely. It didn’t take me long to place the strands together.”
Tess hesitated, but then she opened her bag. Slowly, as if coaxing a timid animal, she pulled out her photographs of the sketches and held them out to Rebecca.
Rebecca flew back to the sofa. She reached out her hand, which shook violently as she took the images, grabbing them as if she were starved. She flicked through them, her eyes running over the images as if satisfying some long-lost thirst, darting sylphlike as she took in her own brushstrokes.
“He kept them, still, after all these years?” Her hand shot up to her mouth, as if the notion were impossible.
Tess leaned forward. “Do you think he could ever part with them?” She could not contain the break in her voice. “You and I both know that Edward would never view art as a commodity. We both know that for Edward art is something to keep, to treasure for generations to come. And the fact that you created these pieces . . .” She thought of her father and his “we’ll enjoy it for a while then sell it” attitude to everything, found herself repulsed, then felt her jaw set tight. If Edward embodied authenticity, then how did she, Tess, appear to him?
“Edward is living in Rome,” Tess managed to say.
Rebecca’s dark head shot up but she clutched the photos to her chest. “Rome?” she said.
Tess nodded.
“But what made you come here?”
“You. Edward.” Tess felt a glimmer of hope that this might just work out . . .
“So, why not just publish the news that I am Rebecca? You are a businesswoman. Why bother to warn me?”
Tess’s fingers were cold when she laced them together.
“Rebecca,” she whispered. “You know the answer to that. I came because Edward thinks you are dead.”
Rebecca stood up suddenly, moving across the room to the picture window, her back to Tess. A breeze blew in from the sea, throwing the trees outside into strange shapes. “You see, Sunday Reed once reminded me that when catastrophic things happen in life, we have three choices: to go forward, involving risk and reinvention; to go backward; or to stay stuck in one spot. To remain in Australia would have been unbearable. I like to think that I moved on, you see. I took a risk. I came here.”
“Except Edward clearly still loves you.”
“I don’t want to see him.” Rebecca changed tack, cut her off. “I don’t want you to tell him that you have found me. Let him write his book. Let it go out there. I would never stop him from writing from the heart, if that is what he is doing. But I want you to promise me that you will never tell him I’m alive. You will keep this secret, or I swear, Tess, I will take you to every court in the country. You have to promise. Everyone thinks I am dead. My mother died thinking I was drowned. I ran away, and in do
ing so, I hurt people—Sunday Reed, family, friends, Edward. If you reveal this, then my entire life, and Rumer’s, becomes a sham.”
Tess took in a sharp breath. “But what if you could reunite with Edward and make amends with your past? What if Rumer the artist and Rebecca the person could be one and the same instead of two separate people, one of them only a distant memory, and one of them running from everything that you, Rebecca, believed to be true? After all, you’ve been forced into a hermetic existence because you don’t want to reveal your true identity. Isn’t this the perfect chance to come full circle and unite your past with your present for good? You are successful now; in no way are you anyone’s inferior. You can be entirely yourself. Edward would never expect you to give anything up for him—he never treated you that way. He always treated you with the utmost respect.”
But Rebecca’s voice, when she spoke, was edged with flint and steel. “It was Edward who had a choice,” she said. “No matter what he’s written in his book, the fact is, he did not choose me. And the only way I could deal with that was to write my own ending. Which I’ve done quite well, it seems.”
She laughed, uncertainly, and waved her hand around at the trappings of her success.
“What about Sunday Reed? Couldn’t she have helped if you’d stayed?”
“I was ashamed that I had lost Edward. I would never have been able to live the life Sunday had.”
“Did she stage her exhibition of your work?”
Rebecca brought her hand up to her throat before nodding, a slow, steady movement. “That was why I was so surprised that Edward has my sketches. I would have thought that he would have given them to Sunday after I was gone, for her exhibition. Gotten rid of them as he got rid of me.”
“We both know he’d never do that.”
Rebecca cut her off. “But he did.”
“Was it his family?” Tess whispered.
Rebecca let out a heavy sigh. “Life got in the way. And ultimately, he made his choice—I was simply a choice for him.”
“And the fact that he still loves you?”
“I believe in love,” Rebecca said, “because I felt it. So I know that it exists. I still feel it. But Tess . . . I never want to see him again. Because he turned me away. And as I said, if you tell him who I am—”