by Nancy Geary
“Did you or Clio know Henry Lewis? Did you know anything about him?” Frances realized that she had an easier time confronting her father’s unacceptable bigotry than she did understanding why he felt the way he did. She looked at her father, old and infirm beyond his physical years.
He nodded, then bit his lip. She could see his nose twitching.
“Your opinions, Clio’s. How she treated people. It’s all important for me to understand,” she said. “Although I wish it weren’t the case, it seems possible that you, or Clio, may have made someone extremely angry by taking the positions you’ve taken. Don’t you see that?”
Richard didn’t look at her when he asked, “Do you ever experience shame?”
“Shame?” What does that have to do with anything? she wondered.
“You won’t understand what I’m about to tell you if you don’t understand the term.”
“Embarrassment? Guilt? Self-loathing?” Frances searched for words, hoping to find one that would satisfy her father and allow him to continue. He didn’t acknowledge the adequacy of her synonyms.
They sat in silence for what seemed an interminable period before Richard began to speak. “Clio was a more complex person than you or your sister gave her credit for being. I know what you thought of her. I know you weren’t fond of her, but you didn’t know her. Clio lived with a lot of demons.”
“I was—” Frances stopped, as her father’s knowing look prevented what was sure to be a disingenuous rejoinder.
“What I’m going to tell you may not make sense to you. You’ll have to step outside your own sense of morality and try for once to empathize.” Frances felt the painful jab of his words, but she didn’t stir. “Clio developed a condition, a medical condition, something serious and debilitating although, unfortunately, not the type of condition that generates much sympathy. Cancer would’ve been easier in many ways. People feel sorry for cancer victims. They show compassion.” He closed his eyes momentarily, then continued. “It started shortly after Justin’s death. She believed Henry knew about it. She felt ashamed, and that made her vulnerable. She didn’t trust him.”
What was he talking about? There was nothing wrong with Clio. The medical examiner would’ve found any sign of disease.
“It became significantly more serious after my stroke. Clio had a very difficult time, as anyone would. She was convinced that something awful would happen to her. First Justin, then me. In her mind, she had lost us both. She developed fears. At first they were minor, passing nightmares, that didn’t interfere with her day-to-day life, but they escalated until she became certain that the slightest headache was a brain tumor. Back pain was bone cancer. Someone who was late for a visit had been killed on the highway. She seemed to look for disaster, to expect the worst. It was irrational. I didn’t pay much attention at first.”
Richard lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth and wiped away spittle with his palm. As his fingers dragged across his face, they pulled on his lips. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his words were clearer. “I had my work. I was busy. Later, when Clio got much sicker, I had my own physical problems to distract me. Still do. I thought Clio needed attention, but I couldn’t give it to her. As time went on, though, I realized something was horribly wrong. She wept constantly, came in to show me every lump, bump, and freckle that she claimed had just appeared. Each mole was a melanoma, each bruise a sign of a fatal blood condition. She wasn’t sleeping. She lost weight. I was unable to help. It was difficult to watch.” Richard gazed straight ahead at the glass in front of him. “Finally, I spoke to Marshall Bancroft. He’s been a dear friend, a constant visitor. From where I am, it’s hard to get help, but I figured Marshall might be able to give me some advice. He did. He spoke to Henry Lewis, his son-in-law. Henry recommended a psychiatrist. Clio was very reluctant to see anyone, any mental health professional. She was suspicious. She’s a very private person. She never liked to talk about her emotions. Not like your mother.” He paused. His reference to Aurelia hung in the air, and Frances wondered why he thought of his first wife at this particular moment. “I was suspicious, too, but I had seen the transformation come over her, and I was worried. Marshall assured me that this doctor was a first-rate professional, not a quack. He helped Beverly Winters when Dudley died. He also explained that the doctor used medication to manage a lot of anxieties.”
“Did Clio ever talk to Marshall Bancroft herself ?”
“No. In fact, when I first told her about Marshall’s suggestion, she was furious that I confided in him. She viewed my disclosure as a huge betrayal, but I knew it would be all right. Marshall is discreet. He’s also a very dear friend. I finally convinced her to go see this psychiatrist. The office was out of the way. She wouldn’t run into someone she knew on 168th Street. Not like the risk of a midtown doctor.”
“Was the doctor’s name Prescott?” Frances asked, remembering the prescribing physician listed on Clio’s bottle of Nardil.
“Yes. Prescott….” Richard rolled the name around in his mouth. “Clio started seeing him once a week, sometimes more. He put her on medication. She was more herself. She went out, saw friends. She got involved in Pratt Capital. She almost seemed happy at times. Again. She looked more radiant than ever.”
What did all this have to do with shame? Frances wondered, recalling the origin of this conversation.
“Even though the doctor was a positive experience, Clio remained extremely nervous about anyone finding out. She was convinced that Henry Lewis knew about her situation. That was why she didn’t want Henry anywhere near her, or anywhere near her friends. She was afraid he would gossip.”
“Did Henry know how she felt?” Frances asked, disoriented by the slow pace and difficult cadence of his speech, plus the candor of their conversation. She had never before heard her father talk so openly about his wife.
“I’m not sure Henry even knew the referral was for Clio. I never talked to him myself, and Marshall never said a word to me again. It’s quite possible he asked Henry for advice without ever identifying Clio.”
“Why do you think it mattered to her, all the secrecy?”
“You didn’t know Clio well, but you had something very much in common. You’re both very private people. She didn’t want anyone to get too close to her, to become too intimate. It scared her. Her past scared her, and the future scared her, for different reasons. Emotional distance was her protection. Just as it is for you.”
His sudden turn of the conversation startled Frances. She searched his sad eyes, but they seemed blank.
“Clio and I were married for thirty years. She never did a single thing to hurt me. I hope if asked, she would’ve said the same for me. I was never happier.”
Frances couldn’t discern whether he was comparing Clio with Aurelia or simply proclaiming his love. Ultimately, she supposed, it didn’t matter.
“Even though Clio knew at a rational level that this doctor was good for her, she was filled with fear, worry about what she perceived to be a terrible weakness, a failure, an inability to solve her own problems. A part of her hated herself for losing control of her emotions. Even as her irrational fears subsided, she started exerting her power, controlling situations for the simple sake of empowering herself. Like Pratt Capital. She spent hours trying to master everything that was going on with the company, challenging Miles, making decisions for herself. And the addition she built for me. She worked day and night on that, on every detail. She wanted me in a bubble, a self-contained space with round-the-clock nurses to keep me safe because she couldn’t face that I was going to die.”
Frances thought she saw tears forming in her father’s eyes. She looked away. He sniffled.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with shame.” Frances spoke softly.
“Shame is a debilitating quality. It means you can’t accept who you are. Clio couldn’t accept who she had become, the emotions she developed because of the way her life transpired. It’s hard to imagine, I
know. She always seemed so pulled together, so beautiful, so poised, but underneath she had so much ambivalence about herself.”
“And this happened since Justin’s death?”
“Dramatically, yes. But the seeds of her emotional turmoil were there long before. Look at the relationship she had with you girls. She wanted to love you, but, well, you know better than anyone the nature of your relationship.”
Was this passing comment her father’s justification for years of Clio’s behavior? Although Frances knew her opportunity had arrived to have the conversation with her father that she had envisioned since her childhood, she didn’t know how to respond. The questions that had ruminated in her mind for so many years seemed to evaporate. Come on, Frances, she urged. Ask him why Clio didn’t show an iota of genuine affection. Ask him why she hated two little girls who hadn’t done anything wrong.
Before she could muster her courage, Richard announced unexpectedly, “I’m tired.”
As she stood up, Frances felt dizzy. Her leg was numb. “I should go. But thank you, thank you for telling me what you have. I’m sorry if I’ve—”
“Think about what I said,” he interrupted.
She nodded, though his remark was unnecessary. His words would haunt her for many nights to come.
The ship’s lantern on the front door of Blair’s cottage in Sag Harbor was lit. It looked welcoming as Frances drove up, exhausted. “Oh, come for dinner. Jake’s not here, but there’s someone I want you to meet,” Blair had said on the telephone. Her cheerful voice and enthusiasm promised a pleasant atmosphere. Frances actually looked forward to the evening, a possible reprieve from the many questions that buzzed in her mind.
Blair came out onto the front step as Frances approached and waved. She wore a loose linen dress. The light shining behind her illuminated her silhouette, her trim figure. Behind her stood a tall man with long dark hair, a tanned complexion, and a turquoise shirt opened almost to his silver belt buckle.
“Fanny, Fanny, we’re so glad you’re here!” Blair turned. “This is Marco. He’s the fabulous sculptor I was telling you about. Marco, meet my sister, Frances. Everyone calls her Fanny.”
Frances stepped forward and shook his hand. His fingers were warm and long, and he gripped her hand tightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. His enormous eyes were magnetic, and she forced herself to look away.
“The pleasure is mine.”
“Blair says you’re from Argentina.”
“That’s right. But now I’m from Brooklyn. I’m not sure whether that’s considered an upward move or not.” Frances noticed he spoke with hardly any accent. Blair giggled.
“Come inside,” Blair said, pushing Frances forward. “Marco will get you a glass of wine. We’re sampling various Spanish reds tonight.”
They went into the kitchen, an open area with an island in the middle. Several bottles of uncorked wine were on the counter, along with a dish of olives, a wedge of hard cheese, and slices of crusty bread. Frances reached for an olive.
Marco had turned his back to them and stood stirring the contents of several skillets with a wooden spoon. The kitchen smelled of garlic and tomatoes.
“Marco’s making a Portuguese recipe,” Blair said, smiling flirtatiously.
“It’s swordfish. I hope you’ll like it,” he added.
“I’m sure I will,” Frances said.
“I’m going to take my darling sister out to the deck. Holler if you need anything,” Blair said, kissing Marco’s shoulder. She filled her glass from one of the wine bottles and led Frances outside.
“What do you think?” Blair whispered as soon as she and Frances settled on two lounge chairs.
The evening was cool, and Frances felt a slight chill, surprising for July. She pulled her knees to her chest.
“He’s a fantastic cook, too. You’ll see.” Blair looked truly radiant, her white teeth shining behind her gloss-glistened lips. Was this happiness a result of Marco or newfound wealth? Frances wondered. She tried not to think about it. She didn’t feel like being jealous of her younger sister, but it was hard not to envy her apparent joy.
“And Jake?”
“Not my favorite subject,” Blair replied.
“I hadn’t understood things between you weren’t working.”
“I guess you could say that.” Blair laughed. “I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but, well, it’s just that Marco’s everything Jake’s not. Charismatic, sexy, talented.”
“Is this because of your financial problems?” Frances asked.
“Oh, Fanny. You’re so unromantic,” Blair said, smiling. “Although I admit that the disaster with the gallery was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Jake’s too dependent, too needy. I feel like I always have to be the one in charge, the one that solves our problems. Sometimes I just want a man to take care of me.”
Frances nodded. The thought was appealing. “Does he know about Marco?”
“No. I tell him we’re out here marketing. Actually, it’s the truth, or part of the truth. I’m introducing Marco to potential clients. If they fall in love with him, which everyone has, they’ll want to buy his art when we give him a show in October. Jake actually seems to think it’s a great idea. We also have millions of decisions to make for the new showroom. Since the space is for Marco’s work, he should be involved in the build-out, design, lighting. He knows better than anyone what works with his art.”
“I heard you mention the new gallery to Penny Adler. You must be excited.”
“Long-term, if Jake doesn’t dig us out of our financial mess, the gallery will be forced to close, but at least for now our expansion plans are possible. Daddy’s paying the lease, and all the work to get the new space up and running. It’s bigger and better than our current one.”
“When did Dad agree to this?”
Blair eyed her sister over the rim of her wineglass. “Why does that matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
Blair pursed her lips, thinking. “Jake insisted that I talk to Clio about it a month or so ago. She claimed to have discussed it with Dad. They said no back then, or at least that’s what she said, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, we had a terrible lunch. She made me beg for the money, knowing full well that she had no intention of giving me any. I don’t know why I bothered to ask her in the first place. I actually amaze myself. I continued to give her the benefit of the doubt until the day she died, and all I got was disappointment, insult, and sometimes downright cruelty. If it had been up to her, our gallery, and everything we’ve tried to build, would have gone right down the drain. She didn’t care.”
Frances lay back in her chair and took a sip of wine. She wanted to turn off her brain. “So how did it come about now?” she asked automatically.
“What?”
“Dad’s infusion of cash. The change of heart.”
“I guess Jake and I are lucky Clio disappeared from the scene when she did.” Blair smiled again. “Actually, I made up my mind to go ahead with the project with or without the help of Pratt Capital. I hired an architect to draw up plans and did a business proposal to try to get financing. Several banks were considering it, although I had no commitment. Then, when Clio fortuitously dropped dead, I thought there was nothing to be lost by asking Daddy again. I talked to him last Sunday, when I was over at the house all day helping him with things for the memorial service. He apologized for not giving us the money sooner. If Clio hadn’t been such a roadblock, it all would have been done in June, and we’d be ready to open in September. As it is now, unless our contracting crew does an incredibly fast job, which I don’t see happening in August in New York, the space won’t be ready until October. But that’s okay. At least we’ve got it.” She sighed. “Jake seemed to be stuck wringing his hands.”
“Where was he over the Fourth, anyway?”
Blair furrowed her brow, then waved a hand at her sister dismissively. “You don’t honestly think that Jake had anything to do with Cl
io’s murder, do you? Please. Jake doesn’t have the balls to have bumped her off.” Blair laughed. “Believe me, I wish he had. At least I could be proud of him for accomplishing something.” She took a sip of her wine. “No, Jake wasn’t doing anything so dramatic. He canceled his trip to Ohio because Pearl and Bartlett Brenner, this couple in Scarsdale we’ve sold to before, were interested in two lithographs. Shows how desperate he was. Calls off a trip to his family for what would be, at most, a ten grand sale.” Frances must have looked skeptical because Blair added sarcastically, “I can give you the Brenners’ number if you want to check.”
“That’s okay,” Frances said in an effort to dispel her suspicions. Blair was her sister after all, and they were talking about her brother-in-law. Didn’t she know him better than that?
“Fair Lawn must have been a nightmare on the Fourth,” Frances mumbled aloud.
Blair glared at her. “Do we have to talk about that? I’ve tried very hard to put it out of my head.”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
The two sisters were silent for a moment.
“I shouldn’t even have gone,” Blair said finally. “But every muckety-muck attends the tournament. I thought it would be good to go and mingle. I’d gone as Deidre Granger’s guest. I was going to ask Clio to let me come on Dad’s account, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of coming up with some reason to say no.”
“Did you see Clio?”
“I saw her out on the tennis court, but not to talk to.”
“Did you see Mom?”
“Briefly. I think I saw her leaving. I can’t remember. We didn’t talk long. Just long enough for her to chastise me for not coming to visit. I promised to bring Marco over, which I haven’t. But it’s not like it’s been exactly quiet around here.”
“Did you know she started playing tennis again?”
“She wore whites and carried a racket, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. I deduced as much. Now, could we change the subject to something more exciting, like your love life?” Blair reached over and poked her sister’s arm.