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  "I will stay with you while you eat, Sylvia. Here, there's a place for us at the table." After she sat down, Hanna presented Sylvia with a plate full of food she had no appetite for but began to eat anyway. Hanna disappeared and returned countless times. Bringing in crystal bowls from the dining room sideboard, the same two girls who had cleaned up the broken glass lined the bowls up in preparation to fill them with ice and berries when the time came. Sylvia could hear the earlier shatter of glass every time she looked at them.

  "Are those the strawberries from your garden, Hanna?" Vivian smiled lovingly as she asked. There was something between Hanna and Vivian that was familiar and warm.

  "Of course. Aren't they lovely? I know how you like them. I was thinking for the next party, I'd dip them in the dark chocolate you like from downtown."

  "Perfect, Hanna, you always know just what to do." What to do was clearly whatever Vivian wanted, and Hanna was at ease with that, as if Vivian were a petulant child to be kept from screaming in front of guests. The two girls arranging the fruit were at no time addressed personally, and Sylvia was not introduced to them. They must have been about sixteen, and they were very pretty, but they never showed their eyes, only downcast lashes.

  "Have you checked the wines yet?" Hanna asked the question, although she already knew Vivian had not.

  "Oh, the wines." Vivian stood up and took the list from Hanna's outstretched hand. "Let me take it to the light where I can see." Vivian walked out into the hallway, headed towards a window. She could not see clearly without glasses but refused to wear them.

  The atmosphere in the kitchen relaxed after she left. Before her aunt came back into the room, Sylvia brought her plate to Hanna who was finely chopping some green fragrant herb she could not name. She had not eaten much.

  "So, you don't like our cooking here?" The greenness of the herb bled out onto the wooden board, wet and alive.

  "Oh, no. I do, all the traveling…" Her voice trailed off into confusion. One of the girls bumped into Sylvia in her rushing.

  "Oh, I am so sorry." The maid flushed, and Hanna eyed the girl with displeasure.

  "I’m sorry. I shouldn't be in your way." Sylvia moved away from the center of the kitchen and back to her table. She sat down and watched them work. Pots steamed on the stove, and the air in the room was thick with the scent of onions, carrots, and potatoes boiling. Piles of peelings were being swept up from the floor in the confusion: orange, brown and white, and the thin translucence of onion skins. Longing to have something to do, she asked Hanna if she could help.

  "No, no. You just sit and rest. The party starts at eight o'clock. The early ones will be arriving in an hour. You're fine. Relax. If you'd like, you could take a walk around the yard, see my gardens." Sitting and resting felt like a crime in the face of the activity around her.

  Twilight was about to settle, and the sun modestly gleamed low in pastels. The noise of the sea, while muted in the house, droned in its thrashing. Browsing through the gardens on the opposite side of the house, she felt herself calming. She picked up a bruised strawberry from the ground. The scarlet juice immediately began staining her hands. Unsure of what to do with it, Sylvia allowed it to fall back onto the ground and was tempted to step on it, smearing the life out of it into the dirt. The desire was opposite to her nature, but it enticed her all the same. Pressing the toe of her shoe into the ground, she pushed until the blameless berry was nothing but red.

  Meandering around to the front of the house that faced the turbulent sea, Sylvia and her strawberry stained shoes climbed the steps to the porch. Several flower pots pregnant with red geraniums and an exotic grass were perched on the stairs in a graduated manner. Pausing to look at the red blossoms, she eventually sat down and watched the sea with the rest of the immediate world.

  A noise on the porch caused her to turn. Seated on the lounge chairs was the couple from the beach. The brunette watched Sylvia’s pale face with a dazzling smile, and it hurt to look at her directly. Instead of feeling startled, Sylvia stood and waited for a response.

  "Hello there." The woman's voice, not lilting like her aunt's, was almost hoarse, a low thick string being played. "I suppose they didn't tell you we were here." The smile on her face was a ribbon of pale nude compared to her tanned skin.

  "No, I'm Sylvia." Climbing the remaining steps, Sylvia stood uneasily in front of them.

  "Yes, I know. I'm Catherine." She touched her husband's hand with a type of amusement Sylvia had not encountered before. It was the beginning of a game. "They never tell anyone about us, do they?"

  "No, we're always forgotten." Sylvia felt his gaze without meeting it.

  "Come, sit. This is my husband, Eric." He half rose to greet her, and she finally looked at him. There was an air of dark impersonal brooding around him that calmed her immediately.

  "How do you do?" He met her hand briefly with a certain apathy.

  "Eric is an artist." Catherine pronounced this as if it explained everything. "Vivian and Adam take care of us during the summer months."

  "They're taking care of me this summer, too." Sylvia sat down, feeling the rough wood of the chair against the back of her knees.

  "The party tonight, will you be attending? You must be old enough for parties. How old are you, sixteen or so?" Catherine’s questioning tone disguised her intentions and somehow indulged Sylvia.

  "No, I'm fourteen." The declaration of her age made her flush hotly, as if she had given something away that she did not know she had.

  "Ah. Fourteen." Catherine laughed. "Oh, to be fourteen and young again. You must be miserable. I was miserable when I was fourteen."

  "Sometimes." She felt like entertainment to them, a performer. Audaciously, she suddenly wanted to shock them. "Have you heard my parents are divorcing?" It was the first time she had said the word ‘divorcing’ out loud. Solemnity took over from the mischievous tone between them.

  "Yes, we have. I am very sorry." Catherine reached out and touched her knee, and Sylvia could see the deep line of shadow that ran between her breasts. What was the name for that?

  "My parents separated when I was sixteen." Eric had an accent, but she could not place where it was from. "It wasn't easy, but we all have to learn that love is not perfect. It's just come early for you."

  "I don't think I want to learn that, ever."

  "Maybe you won't have to, then." It was a lie he spoke.

  "You will, if you're to become a woman." Catherine nodded in her direction. "Men know almost nothing of a woman's heart, only enough to break it. They all will, too. Never think a man won't break your heart. It would have saved me a lot of misery if I'd always know that."

  Sylvia wanted to stay with them all night. She felt safe with them and little intoxicated from the conversation; it was a wine sipped too quickly. Just then, Hanna stepped out on the porch with a tray of drinks.

  "Sylvia, you've met Catherine and Eric. How opportune." She placed the tray of drinks on the table between them. Condensation ran down the barrel of the glasses like sweat on a body. "They stay on the third floor, the room above yours, I believe."

  "Bless you, Hanna; this is just what I needed." Catherine took a wet glass from the tray and drank deeply. She appeared so much more bohemian than Sylvia's aunt and uncle. Her dress was looser, easier. She wore heavy gold hoops, like a gypsy.

  "You're welcome, of course. Now, shall I bring you something, Sylvia, or are you ready to retire? The guests will be arriving soon." Sylvia stood up, realizing she was being sent away.

  "I'll go and rest. The trip was tiring." Meeting Catherine and Eric's eyes, she felt lightheaded from their presence. She wanted to touch them in some way but that would not have been appropriate. Instead, she gracelessly backed up and stepped away, listening to the silvery sound of their voices calling out in the blue night, "Goodnight, Sylvia, goodnight." It was as if some part of her walked off the porch and disappeared into the sand and surf, never to be seen again.

  That night, she liste
ned to the party downstairs. The rupturing laughter, indistinguishable music, and clinking glasses journeyed up the stairs to her. She sat next to the door, trying to interpret the muddle of voices. The gaiety sounded too bright and sharp, like the glass shattering in the kitchen.

  Just before midnight, she climbed into the suffocating softness of her new bed. She lay awake a long time as the front door opened and closed and cars crushed the gravel in the drive. A little bit later, she heard them on the staircase, laughing. She recognized the deepness of Catherine's voice, whispering something too loudly. A low soft voice answered, and she knew it was his. Her heart began to beat harder, and she wanted to press her ear to the door but remained frozen in her bed. She heard the sound of their steps ascending the third-floor staircase and disappearing. A few seconds later, she listened to their footsteps above her. A muffled crash echoed down to her, followed by laughter. There was silence then, and Sylvia eventually slipped away into sleep, waking repeatedly.

  CHAPTER 2

  The rising light of the sun crept into her east facing window early. It did not matter, because Sylvia had been up since before the hushed dawn. She had left the window open all night, and it was cold and damp in the room, heavy with the sea.

  When she rose, she made the bed and tried to match its appearance to how she had found it yesterday, when she first entered. She wanted it to be as if she had never been there, but there were already traces of her everywhere. A fine strand of her hair on the dresser startled her, something she would leave behind.

  The hallway was still and silent. On the third-floor staircase, she saw an article of clothing lying on the third step up. She approached it slowly while fully expecting it to move away from her touch. It was a grey cardigan, with soft threads of silver moving through it. Hanging it over the banister, Sylvia stepped away slowly, suddenly terrified of being seen on the third-floor staircase.

  Making her way to the kitchen, she passed the dining room that had been as lovely as a bridal party last night. It looked spent and exhausted, stained and sullied. In the kitchen, there was movement, and she followed the sound. Sylvia heard voices speaking before she entered.

  "She certainly made a fool of herself last night. I can't imagine what has come over her. It's gotten worse every day since she and Adam arrived." It was Hanna's voice, and a lower voice answered in words that Sylvia could not decipher.

  "Well, I know that, but she never wanted that baby." Hanna sniffed in disdain. "I know all about it, let me tell you, but he certainly doesn't." Sylvia breathed as silently as she could, trying not to make a noise. A girl approached her from behind.

  "Excuse me, please." The tone of the girl's voice burned mockingly away from the eyes and ears of Hanna. She looked Sylvia pointedly in the eye and walked past with a tray of silverware. Upon the girl's entrance to the kitchen, the conversation ceased. Sylvia safely entered but remained in the doorframe.

  "Good morning! Dear, you are up early! I suppose you slept through the activities of last night. How I envy the sleep of youth. But, where are my manners?" She turned to the man standing at the counter next to her; he was relaxed, over familiar with the objects in the room.

  "This is Frank, my younger brother." Sylvia nodded to him and remained securely in the doorway, translucent as a pane of glass.

  "How do you do, Frank?" Sylvia asked the question distractedly.

  "Fine, miss, just fine." He straightened his posture. The gossip he had obviously come for would be delayed by Sylvia's presence. "I should get going. Lots of work to do today, as there is here." Hanna kissed his cheek on his way out the door, and then turned back to Sylvia briskly.

  "I imagine you're hungry. I was always hungry when I was your age. How I grew! A proper breakfast will be served at eleven o'clock, so save some room. How about a muffin? Some fruit?" Her hands were constantly busy, as were her lips.

  "Yes, a muffin would be fine, thank you." Sylvia sat back down at her place in the kitchen, arguing with the nausea in her stomach. What she heard could not have been correct. It could not have been about Aunt Vivian. She misunderstood.

  "I'll make you some tea as well. Tea always helps me in the mornings." With her back to Sylvia, she poured steaming water from a copper kettle that was ready on the stove. The cup she poured it into looked too fragile to withstand the heat, but it did. Without asking, she placed two sugars and cream in Sylvia's tea and placed it beside her at the table.

  "You look so beautiful today! All that golden blonde hair and those big eyes. How sad your eyes look. Are you terribly homesick?" Hanna paused and put her hand on her chest. "Bless me, I almost forgot. Your mother called last night to make sure you arrived safely. You were already upstairs, so I promised her you would call this morning. You must call her straight away after breakfast." The news of her mother's call made the queasiness more intense, but Sylvia battled it and found herself slowly sipping the tea and crumbling the cranberry muffin in her hand.

  "I will. Where is the phone?" Sylvia had not seen one yet.

  "Well, there's one in my room, I take calls until all hours of the morning. People will insist on calling without regard to who they're waking. But, there's another phone in the reading room. I'll show you when you're done eating. I'm sure your mother's anxious about you." Sylvia nodded in response, the muffin too dry in her mouth to swallow.

  "How was the party last night?" Hanna smiled as if Sylvia had handed her a gift.

  "Oh, the party was a success. I think my strawberries were well liked! There was not one left. All the women dressed up. Those high-heels they are wearing this season! Oh, my God. I don't know how they walked, five inches those heels stood. You'll never catch me in a pair of those." Hanna paused, looking out the window in the side door. "Mrs. Overbrook, oh! If you could have seen the feathers in her hair, like a great big bird!" Hanna laughed noisily, to calm herself, and added, "But, she did have a lovely corsage of cherries and blossoms. They were all stylishly dressed." Hanna nodded, silently approving of the elegance of the guest list.

  "And Catherine and Eric, did they attend the party?" Sylvia asked the question as innocently as she could, knowing the answer and hiding behind sips of tea.

  "Oh, yes. They always come to that sort of thing. Vivian loves Catherine so much. They were childhood friends, you see. From entirely different kinds of families but the best of friends. Ever since Vivian started elementary school back in New York, the two of them have been inseparable." Hanna's eyes were distant, remembering.

  "Did you stay with them in New York?" The sound of the maids in the dining room clinked and crashed, causing winces to appear and disappear in Hanna's face as she spoke.

  "For a time, I did. But this, this is my home. They found me here when I was just a girl, before Vivian was born, about the time your mother came along. I've been with the family since I was seventeen. They eventually just handed this house over to me, as a caretaker and housekeeper. So, I’ve known them well since I was a girl." Hanna regarded Sylvia over her own cup of tea at the counter. Did she ever sit? "I suppose the only reason we haven't met is that I never travel to New York any more. I don't like the city."

  "I don't like it much either, to be honest." Sylvia had finished her muffin, and Hanna removed the plate, speaking close to her.

  "But, you must want to call your mother. Come, bring your tea along."

  Hanna led the way towards a set of pocket doors a few feet away from the foyer. Opening them with a physical effort against their height and weight, she revealed the library. Vivian had not shown it to her yesterday, and Sylvia briefly wondered why. It was magnificently done as a gentleman's room with traditional dark leathers and ruby fabrics. Underneath the window sat the largest desk Sylvia had ever seen. It spanned well over eight feet in length and five feet in width. Crafted of solid woods with deep carvings, it neatly held a sterling letter opener, ink well, and a phone.

  "Yes, that desk has been in Adam's family for generations. He brought it here one year and decided to dec
orate the entire library around it. It's impossible to move. The phone is, of course, on the desk. Please sit down. I'll give you a bit of privacy." Hanna disappeared, and after she left, Sylvia sat down in the leather chair behind the desk. The smoothness of the leather surprised her, and when she leaned forward, her light body almost slipped off the chair.

  Dialing her mother, Sylvia felt again the beating of her heart. It was something she had never perceived before this week, the unnoticed life of her heart within her body. Surely, she must have detected it before. There was the memory of running as a child until her heart pounded, but never before had she been so aware of its frightening presence in her chest.

  The phone rang and rang until finally, she heard the breathy rush of her mother's voice.

  "Hello?"

  "Mama, it's me." Sylvia tightened her resolve not to worry her mother and controlled her voice as well as she could.

  "Sylvia, oh sweet girl. How are you? You're safe and happy?" Her mother's voice sounded almost panicked on the phone. It was the first time the two of them had been separated.

  "Yes, I'm fine. It's very nice here." While they spoke, scenes flickered up like a light turned on. There was the sound of her mother crying in the kitchen while she and her father sat in the dining room. There had been an initial argument between the husband and wife. Her father had come in late, when they were already eating. Her mother brought his plate from the kitchen. Once they were all seated, the tense silence surrounding the table withered the prettiness of her mother's voice.

  "Where have you been, Peter? Where were you tonight?" Marie's hands had pleated a napkin, furiously trying to tear the cloth held in her lap. Her face was marked with wine-colored blots; her passion always appeared on her face like that, as a pigment.

  "Please, Marie. Let's not do this tonight." Practised exasperation made his voice grating, weary.

  "You act as if it was I who had done something wrong. It's not me, Peter. You were the one who has given us all reason to worry."