Frances looked out across the green lawn that stretched for more than an acre away from her father’s house. This field had been the site of many “capture the flag” games where Frances had ended up the prisoner waiting to be rescued from jail. Her father, the quickest, most agile player of the troops she and Blair were able to round up on a Sunday afternoon, never let her down.
Looking at the lawn, Frances thought of a Christmas long ago, the year she turned ten. By then her and Blair’s holiday routine had been established: Christmas Eve and morning with Aurelia in Manhattan, then a driver transported them to Southampton for the afternoon and night with their father. The emotional disruption had been explained as good fortune. “You get two Christmases,” was the parental line, the assumption being that two was better than one.
“Your present is outside,” her father had said that Christmas afternoon. Frances and seven-year-old Blair had put on parkas over their party dresses and started out across the brown winter lawn, the frozen grass crunching underneath their red Mary Jane patent-leather shoes. Frances remembered holding her father’s hand as she skipped alongside him to keep pace with his lengthy stride. He chatted about how much he loved Christmas and was glad that they were all together, conversation she later realized was meant to distract her, to keep her attention focused on him, to keep his gift a surprise as long as possible. Partially sheltered by a large maple tree was a trampoline with a painted aluminum base and a large black surface.
“Merry Christmas!” Richard Pratt’s enormous brown eyes registered delight at the excitement of his two daughters.
He lifted Blair up over the high railing and set her down on the jumping mat. Frances scrambled up herself, catching her dress on the metal coiled springs. Together they shot up into the air at odd angles like water streams from a swirling hose. Frances’s legs tingled as she pushed off and leapt up. Then, as gravity reversed her, her long hair stayed up over her head to linger one brief moment before following her body back down. Watching, her father beamed.
“We were wondering when you would arrive.”
Frances’s reverie was interrupted. She turned to see Jake. He looked thinner than she remembered, and his pin-striped suit fell loosely from his shoulders. He embraced her stiffly.
“When did you get here?” Frances asked.
“This morning, why?”
“No reason. I’m sorry to hear your visit to your family was canceled.”
Jake retracted his chin and wrinkled his nose, obviously puzzled. “That’s right. I had some work to attend to in the city.”
“Over the holiday?”
“Those of us who aren’t government employees don’t get every holiday. Look, Blair and Lily are loading your father into the limo. We’re ready to go.”
Frances, Blair, Jake, Richard, and his nurse sat in silence as the black-capped chauffeur drove slowly toward the beach. As they rounded the bend from the Fair Lawn Country Club, Frances could see the small brown church up ahead. The parking space directly in front was empty, waiting for them. People milled about on the strip of lawn between St. Andrew’s and the street. Next door to the church, the flag at the Bathing Corporation flew at half-mast. Otherwise life continued seemingly unaffected by the ceremony twenty yards away. Barefoot children with peeling noses and icecream cones loitered by the club’s front steps. An elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat stood supporting herself on her metal walker, waiting for her driver to arrive.
Several of Richard and Clio’s closest friends lined up in a row by the front of the church to usher in the guests. Frances recognized a few familiar faces peppered in the crowd: Jack Von Furst at the front of the line, his hands crossed in front of him, his head down; Aurelia in a dramatic black hat with a lace veil that partially covered her face; Malcolm Morris working the crowd, shaking hands. Standing next to Annabelle Cabot, Penny Adler clutched a small quilted bag. Her chin quivered.
Lily pushed Richard Pratt’s wheelchair. Jake held Blair around the waist, supporting her as she walked behind. Frances, alone, brought up the rear of their small procession as they made their way to the handicapped-accessible entrance at the back of the church. Frances couldn’t look up as the crowd of mourners parted to let them through. She couldn’t bear to see the sympathetic stares. She knew what people thought: The poor Pratts, the pitiful shattered family beset by tragedy once again.
Lily negotiated Richard into the church and found him a place in front. His wheelchair filled the narrow aisle. Blair, Jake, and Frances slipped into the adjacent pew. Frances listened to the organ music and the rustle and murmur of guests as they settled in their seats. She noticed that Lily stood by the back wall in attendance.
Blair, sitting on the aisle, leaned over and closed a button that had come undone on her father’s shirt. Then she took his hand in both of hers and proceeded to rub his fingers gently.
The air was filled with the sweet smell of the many bouquets that the Pratts had received. These arrangements covered every inch of the floor around the altar and pulpit and effectively masked the two rose-filled urns that Frances had selected. That her only contribution to the occasion was superfluous made her sad. Her father needn’t have asked for help.
Frances felt dazed, unable to concentrate fully on Jack Von Furst’s eulogy, the stream of prayers and hymns. She lifted her eyes and searched the crowd. Could Clio’s murderer actually be among these mourners? It was hard to imagine any of the well-coiffed, hymn-singing participants as a cold-blooded killer. As she sat, Frances tried to figure out what she actually knew about Clio’s murder, but the bits and pieces of information she had gathered seemed no more than fragments of a broken kaleidoscope. What had the police been doing? Testing paper cups and interviewing all the dozens of people who happened to gather at the Fair Lawn Country Club last Saturday. Why did she have the feeling that they were off in the wrong direction? And why did she feel a compulsion to find the killer first? She had no experience with homicide investigations and had been told specifically not to get involved.
If someone, anyone, was out of place, I want to know why, and you should, too.
Meaty’s words haunted her.
Frances leaned back against the wooden pew and felt the hard seat underneath her. She wanted to forget about motives and suspects and to concentrate instead on the loss of her stepmother, but if she blocked out the investigation, she felt nothing at all.
Afterward the mourners gathered on the lawn outside the church, intentionally loitering to give Richard time to get home and settled before the reception began. But their wait was longer than expected. Richard remained alone in the church after the service ended to say his private good-bye.
“Fanny…”She recognized him from the way he said her name with the emphasis on the second syllable and a slight inflection. Pietro Benedetti came up behind her. As she turned to face him, he stepped forward, arms outstretched, and embraced her. Her face went into his chest. She felt his warm body and tight grip.
“Fanny, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he whispered, then added knowingly, “For your father.” His arms released and she stepped back, stumbling slightly.
Pietro looked as regal and elegant as the last time she had seen him. He had large walnut eyes, an angular nose, broad brow, and high cheekbones. The auburn highlights in his brown hair glistened in the sun. The double-breasted jacket of his gray linen suit accentuated his long, thin torso and small hips. She recognized his tie, black with gold specks, the last present she had given him. He had remembered.
“You’re nice to come,” she managed to say. She felt beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. “Did you see Mom? I’m sure she will want to say hello.”
“We spoke briefly before the service. She looks well.”
“She pulled off quite an outfit for this morning’s ceremony. The hat’s really something.”
Pietro smiled. “She always was dramatic.”
“And you always were her biggest fan,” Frances replied. She felt disoriented. The rest of the people, the steepled church, the parked cars, and the sandy dunes whirled around her. She had the urge to move closer to Pietro and wrap his arms around her a second time.
“You look good,” Pietro said.
“I appreciate the lie,” Frances said, trying to sound lighthearted. She felt self-conscious and folded her arms in front of her chest as if to cover herself. What did he see as he stood staring at her? She imagined he viewed her as a thirty-eight-year-old matron, the spinster Pratt sister. He had once told her in a moment of candor that she was attractive but not beautiful, then had attempted to ameliorate the insult by telling her repeatedly that she was so special, looks didn’t matter. She had never known exactly what he meant, and the thought had plagued her throughout their relationship.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Obviously Clio’s murder is the top priority. My work’s the same. Plenty of financial crime to keep me busy.”
“And life?”
Why was he asking questions that she didn’t want to answer? She resisted the urge to tell him there were still times that she missed him, but her stepmother’s funeral seemed neither the time nor the place for that conversation. “Good. Life’s good.” She laughed nervously. “How about you?”
“Emanuella and I are expecting another baby. A boy this time.” His eyes twinkled. “Cristina is almost three. She’s not at all pleased about the prospect of a brother.”
“Congratulations.” Frances’s voice was flat. A marriage and two kids. Pietro hadn’t lost any time.
“We’re leaving soon, returning to Italy. Citibank’s finally decided to send me home. They’re transferring me to Milan. We haven’t found an apartment yet, but I’ll let you know when we get settled. You should come visit. I’d love for you to meet the kids. I honestly think you and Emanuella would hit it off. She’s a great girl.”
“You better check with her first.”
“I know what she’ll say.” He smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t come back to the house. I’ve got to get back to the city.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Frances didn’t move. “Take care.”
He turned and walked toward the curb. She watched his broad shoulders outlined against the sun as he left once and for all.
“Come on, Fanny. Dad’s in the car,” Blair said. Then, following her sister’s gaze, she added, “It was sweet of him to come.”
Frances’s eyes burned as she fought back tears. She put on her dark glasses and walked with her sister to the awaiting limousine.
Frances couldn’t think of anything to say to the friends and acquaintances who filled her father’s house following the memorial service. Standing around while others reminisced about Clio made her uneasy, yet the idle, unrelated chatter that took over after a few moments seemed inappropriate. Frances tried to keep track of who wasn’t there, as if absence from their victim’s funeral could shed insight on who the killer might be. There was no sign of Henry or Louise Lewis, although Louise’s parents mingled in the crowd. Miles Adler hadn’t made it back. “He’s so sorry,” Penny apologized for him. Blair confirmed that Beverly Winters hadn’t appeared, either, although her daughter, Deirdre, had sent an overly extravagant bouquet.
As Frances moved to the makeshift bar set up in the sunroom, she noticed a familiar face she hadn’t seen at the church. Sam stood in a corner, holding a glass of beer. He looked different to her in a starched white shirt, striped tie, and blue blazer, but the formality suited him. His gentle eyes fell on her as she made her way toward him.
“What are you doing over here all alone?”
“Well…” He paused. “I didn’t want to barge through all those people to find you. I don’t know anyone else here. I never met Clio, so it’s a little hard to make conversation under the circumstances, and I figured I’d wait until I ran into you. This is a nice enough spot, and I’ve got a very good beer.” Typical Sam. He could make the best out of any situation.
She smiled. “I hadn’t expected you to come.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
Frances took a step closer, wishing for a brief moment he had chosen different words. The waves in his thick clean hair shone in the light. Standing so close to him, she could smell his oatmeal soap. She felt her eyes well with tears for the second time in as many hours. “I wish you could take me home,” she murmured. Then, embarrassed by her own directness, she felt her cheeks flush.
“I can.”
The image of Pietro leaving the church flashed in her mind. It was the same silhouette she had seen walking away from her seven years earlier, when she had broken off their engagement. A final lunch with few words exchanged confirmed the decision she had already made. Outside the restaurant, Pietro had kissed her quickly and turned into Central Park. She hadn’t intended to end up alone, but here she was, trying to avoid acknowledging her own loneliness while craving someone to hold her, to keep her safe. Frances wondered for a moment whether that person could ever be Sam. She tried to imagine resting her head on his chest as he ran his palm over her hair or patted her back. Maybe he could whisper a fairy tale about two semirecluses who found each other living in Orient Point, or he could talk to her about a new garden design as she listened, enjoying the sound of his voice. Temporarily these thoughts soothed her.
“Do you want to leave?” His voice interrupted her daydream.
She sighed audibly, collecting her thoughts. “I better stay. This is one reception I don’t think I can escape.”
“I take it you’ll want to pass on bingo tonight.”
“Yeah. I doubt I’ll be home in time. You go, though. Win for both of us.”
“It wouldn’t be the same without competition from you.”
Frances forced a chuckle.
“Will you call me if you need anything?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
He extended his hand and covered her knuckles with his wide palm.
“Thanks, Sam.”
“By the way, in case no one else said anything, you look really stunning…beautiful.”
Frances laughed.
“I mean it.” He smiled again and headed toward the door.