The Last September: A Novel

THE NEXT DAY SARAH continued her search for photographs. I followed her groggily from room to room as she opened and discovered the little leather frames. “Lady,” she would say, while searching and upon discovery. She would slide a drawer open, reach her hand in to fish inside it. If there was not a photograph she would say in a distinct tone that sounded almost British: “No lady.” When she did find one, she would hold it above her head and declare “Lady!” before dropping it back into the drawer.

In the midst of her scavenger hunt, someone knocked gently, just loud enough for me to hear, on the front door. Since my arrival, it no longer stood open as it had for years. When Daniel had left an hour before on some unnamed errand, he had shut and locked it behind him, as propriety would dictate, when a killer was on the loose. Still, I didn’t peer through the glass at the side of the door, but just swung it open, while Sarah and Lightfoot stood a foot or two back.

It was Rebecca, Ladd’s mother, looking pale, her eyes full of water and sympathy. She wore a bathing suit and cover-up, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Brett,” she said. “Darling. I’m here to take the baby.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t Ladd say? Take the baby, your little girl. To our house for a swim. So you can rest.”

I stepped back from the door so she could enter. As soon as she was in the hall, she put her arms around me.

“Poor Brett,” she said. “You poor thing.”

She smelled of sunscreen and expensive shampoo. I had seen Rebecca many times since Ladd and I broke up, and she’d always been understandably cool toward me. It took this, my husband’s murder, to remember her old fondness. I found myself patting her back until she released me and turned her attention to Sarah, who had inched closer, and was now reaching up toward the hat that had been knocked slightly askew during our embrace. Rebecca immediately handed it to her, then knelt down, her long and elegant limbs folding themselves up with ease. She squinted at Sarah, examining her very closely.

“She looks like her grandmother,” Rebecca said. “Let me take her so you can get some rest.”

She didn’t have a car seat so I gave her the keys to my station wagon, then walked back through the empty house. Mrs. Duffy was back at her cottage resting, so I was alone there for the first time. And I found myself doing what Sarah had, opening drawers, looking for pictures of Sylvia. Each one was different, a new image of her strong-boned face, brilliant in addition to beautiful. I had applied to Harvard as both an undergrad and graduate student and been rejected both times. It seemed odd to feel jealous of a woman who cut such a tragic figure.

If I had died instead of Charlie, how would people be taking care of him? Probably they would be bringing him casseroles, lasagnas wrapped in aluminum foil for the freezer, never mind that the main thing he knew how to do was cook. Charlie, it struck me, would have stayed in his father’s house. He would not have pictures of me tucked away in drawers forty years in the future. I opened an envelope, a close-up of Sylvia with her hair brushed off her forehead. Not smiling, she looked almost stern. Why are you thinking of what Charlie would do? What about what you will do? Charlie is the one who died.

Charlie was the one who died. He was gone. And still I found myself thinking that he didn’t love me enough, not as much as I loved him—instead of thinking about the pictures I had. Would they be scattered in drawers throughout my home decades from now? I thought of the framed wedding picture back at the Moss house, which I had walked right past, even while gathering the things that were most important to me.

Sometimes in the morning I would wake, and emotion would grip me before the details descended. In my fog, I would feel anguish and loss for a split second before recalling the reason. The same thing had happened in the weeks following my discovery of Deirdre.