'Did you ever paint her again?'
'No. She died not long after our little bonfire. Contracted septicemia at her boarding school in Davos.'
He took a step closer to the portrait as if to examine the mirror-cameo more closely. 'She had been dead almost two years when I attempted this painting. I missed Brigid. I included her as a—I suppose your term would be guardian angel. I did feel her spirit around me at the time, her wonderful, free spirit. I was tor-tured. I suppose even angels can lose hope for those they try to protect.'
'Tortured? Why?'
'I said that she died of septicemia. The result of a classmate's foolhardy try at aborting Brigid's four-month-old fetus. And, yes, the child was mine. Does that disgust you?'
After a couple of blinks Echo said, 'Nothing human disgusts me.'
'We made love after we ate our marshmallows, shedding little flakes of burnt canvas as we undressed each other. It was a warm summer night.' His eyes had closed, not peacefully. 'Warm night, star bright. I remember how sticky our lips were from the marshmallows. And how beautifully composed Brigid seemed to me, kneeling. On that first night of the one brief idyll of our lives.' 'Did you know about the baby?'
'Brigid wrote to me. She sounded almost casual about her pregnancy. She said she would take care of it, I shouldn't worry.' For an instant his eyes seemed to turn ashen from self-loathing. 'Women have always given me the benefit of the doubt, it seems.'
'You're not convincing either of us that you deserve to suffer. You were immature, that's all. Pardon me, but shit happens. There's still hope for all of us, on either side of heaven.'
While she was looking for a bottle of the Chateau Petrus '82 that Ransome had suggested they have with their dinner, Echo heard Ciera talking to someone. She opened another door between the rock-walled wine storage pantry and the kitchen and saw Taja sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. Echo smiled but Taja only stared before deliberately looking away.
'Oh, she comes and goes,' Ransome said of Taja after Ciera had served their bisque and returned to the kitchen.
'Why doesn't she have dinner with us?' Echo said.
'It's late. I assume she's already eaten.'
'Is she staying here tonight?'
'She prefers being aboard the boat if we're not in for a blow.'
Echo sampled her soup. 'She chose me for you—didn't she? But I don't think she likes me at all.'
'It isn't what you're thinking.'
'I don't know what I'm thinking. I get that way sometimes.'
'I'll have her stay away from the house while you're—'
'No, please! Then I really am at fault somehow.' Echo sat back in her chair, trailing a finger along the tablecloth crewelwork. 'You've known her longer than all of the Ransome women. Did you ever paint Taja? Or did you toast marshmallows over those ashes too?'
'It would be like trying to paint a mask within a mask,' Ransome said regretfully. 'I can't paint such a depth of solitude. Sometimes . . . she's like a dark ghost to me, sealed in a world of night I'm at a loss to imagine. Taja has always known that I can't paint her.' He had bowed his head, as if to conceal a play of emotion in his eyes. 'She understands.'
ELEVEN
The Knowles-Rembar Clinic, an upscale facility for the treatment of well-heeled patients with a variety of addictions or emotional traumas, was located in a Boston suburb not far from the campus of Wellesley College. Knowles-Rembar had its own campus of gracefully rolling lawns, brick-paved walks, great oaks and hollies and cedars and old rhododendrons that would be bountifully ablaze by late spring. In mid-December they were crusted with ice and snow. At one-twenty in the afternoon the sun was barely there, a mild buzz of light in layered gray clouds that promised more snow.
The staff psychiatrist Peter had come to see was a height-disadvantaged man who greatly resembled Barney Rubble with thick glasses. His name was Mark Gosden. He liked to eat his lunch outdoors, weather peritting. Peter accommodated him. He drank vending machine coffee and shared one of the oatmeal cookies Gosden's mother had baked for him. Peter didn't ask if the psychiatrist still lived with her.
'This is a voluntary facility,' Gosden explained. 'Valerie's most recent stay was for five months. Although I felt it was contrary to her best interests, she left us three weeks ago.'
'Who was paying her bills?'
'I only know that they went to an address in New York, and checks were remitted promptly.'
'How many times has Valerie been here?'
'The last was her fourth visit.' Peter was aware of a young woman slipping up on them from behind.
She gave Peter a glance, put a finger to her lips, then pointed at Gosden and smiled mischievously. Mittens attached to the cuffs of her parka dangled. She had a superb small face and jug-handle ears. In spite of the smile he saw in her eyes the blankness of a saintly disorder.
'And you don't think much of her chances of surviving on the outside,' Peter said to the psychiatrist, who grimaced slightly.
'I couldn't discuss that with you, Detective.'
'Do you know where I can find Valerie?'
Gosden brushed bread crumbs from his lap and drank some consomme from his lunchbox thermos.
