The Last September: A Novel

“Sometimes guests have children,” he said.

We walked back to the stairs. Sarah protested as I insisted on holding her hand going down the steep eighteenth-century staircase. At the foot of the stairs, she broke away and pulled open the drawer to the occasional table, the one Daniel had led me to all those years ago. There it still sat, the little leather envelope. Sarah opened it and examined Sylvia’s picture solemnly.

“Lady,” she said. Then she snapped it shut and held it over her head to show us. “Lady,” she said again.

“Sarah,” I said weakly. “Don’t open drawers.”

“It’s quite all right,” Daniel said. He smiled at her, and it didn’t look like an obligatory smile. It looked genuine. Sarah returned the picture to the drawer and slid it closed with intense concentration. Daniel asked me, “Does Ladd know you’re here? Did you tell him you were coming?”

“No,” I said.

“I’d better go ahead and do that, then. I think he’s in his cottage. Why don’t you take Sarah down to the beach?”

Sarah and I left the house through the sliding glass door that led to the back deck. The morning sunlight had given way to thick gray clouds, bringing with them a salty, autumnal scent, the slightest chill. Lightfoot skittered out ahead of us, then paused to wait for Sarah. The two of them had adopted a funny way of moving in concert, Sarah swaying back and forth, Lightfoot running in little circles around her. To avoid holding my hand, Sarah descended the beach steps by sliding on her butt from one to the other, one at a time, all the way down.

On the sand, Sarah and the dog both broke into a run toward the water. It was low tide, the tide pools swept away, the beach strewn with gray foam and pebbles and seaweed. I ran after them but they stopped at the shoreline, Sarah kneeling down to inspect water that ran over her little white sneakers, soaking them. Lightfoot let out three short, sharp yaps of protest, and I started. The dog, I realized, had barely made a sound since I’d found her huddled under the sunporch.

I knelt down. Lightfoot turned and battered her little body—cold and soaked from the waves—against my chest, leaving a damp blotch on my shirt. The dog knew what had happened to Charlie. If only I could ask her, reach the information stored in her little head. As obvious a suspect as Eli might have been, there should have been other obvious suspects. Like me, or Ladd, or Deirdre. And of course there could be others, people I didn’t know about, people Charlie kept secret. Some man, some husband, whose wife had fallen madly in love like the rest of us. Maybe it was Deirdre’s boyfriend, back in the picture and wildly jealous. Or maybe just some crazy person, happening by the neck and stumbling upon Charlie, killing him, leaving him for Eli to find, and me.

Some crazy person. A different one, not our own. That new headache of mine, sharp but malleable, like a squiggly piece of mercury, rattled behind my eyes. If I let my brain work hard enough, I could turn this into a murder mystery. I could be the plucky wife, taking on my own detective work, finding the real murderer, saving Eli. Or else, finding Eli, and turning him over.

From down on the beach, a figure approached as mist gathered. A tall man in a blue rain slicker, with a mop of unruly curls. Sarah sprang to her knees, her gaze serious and intent, looking out toward the bluff.

“Arooo!” Sarah called, at the top of her voice. Who knew a false elephant trumpet could sound so musical? Up above the skies broke open, dumping rain as if a faucet had been turned on. Lightfoot jumped off my lap and I stood. The rain tried its best, without luck, to tamp down both Sarah’s curls and those of the man who approached us. Sarah lifted up her arm, her hand rolled into a fist, and waved it through the air, a fluid motion from her shoulder through the elbow.