“Molly wasn’t an illegitimate love child.”
“Ezra was courting her,” he says.
“Exactly,” I say back.
“So maybe the symbol represented his affection.” Jude and I pause at the curb as a minivan drives past. “He loved Molly, just like he loved thewoman in the portrait. Who could still very well be one of your ancestors. Or maybe she’s not an ancestor. Maybe she’s just a lookalike.”
“Jude—”
“I did some research. On doppelgängers.”
My jaw drops.
“Not the supernatural kind. The biological kind. Twin strangers. They’re rare, but they exist.”
“According to Ezra’s journal fragment, the woman he painteddidn’texist. He, himself, didn’t know who he was painting. How do you explain that?”
“The same way Maggie explained it. Ezra struggled with mental illness. Maybe he forgot she existed. Maybe he lost her, and the grief of it drove him insane.”
I take a deep breath, grasping for patience as we cross the street. “At what point does your obsession with logic turn into something illogical?”
“It’s no more illogical thanyourtheory. Which is what, exactly? He paintedyou?” He pushes a short huff of breath from his nose. “How is that possible? And why?”
“I don’t know, but I think those answers could be found in this mysterious revelation he mentioned in that journal fragment. He said it was written by his own hand in the year of his son’s birth. And he suspected it was about me.”
“Selah,” Jude says, both syllables filled with exasperation.
“Fine, not me. The girl in the portrait wholooks exactly like me. He thought I—shemight end his suffering.”
“The man is dead. His suffering has ended.”
“But the painting is still here.” I stop and face him, my hand held up to my forehead like a visor against the sun. “I know I sound crazy. But the portraitiscrazy. And yet, it exists. I don’t know about you, but I have to know why.”
18
UNLUCKY IN LOVE
On Saturday, Jude travels to Charleston to meet with his family’s legal team regarding matters of the estate.
Twig and I finish editing our latest podcast episode, then spend an additional hour planning the finale of our second season. Afterward, I meet Naomi and Harper at The Lucky Penny. We peruse the racks, try on a few things none of us need, then grab ice cream at Frozen Joy.
The whole time, they pummel me with questions about Jude. I keep the answers vague, which frustrates them to no end. It’s better than going into detail. If I did, they’d probably side with him, insist the portrait must have a logical explanation, and that would send me over the edge.
On Sunday morning, I go to church with Dad.I keep checking my phone, an annoying compulsion I can’t seem to control. I saw Jude return last night in their black Mercedes Benz. I stayed up for an hour later than I should have, waiting for him to text or call.
He never did.
I slide my hands beneath my knees as a gentleman in front of me yawns. Pastor Tim spent the hour talking about impossible things, illogical things—life through death, glory through suffering—and nobody scoffed. Nobody even batted an eye.
After the benediction, we filter through the exit—Mrs. Calloway and Kate in front, Twig and me in the middle, Dad and Mr. Calloway taking up the rear. We shake Pastor Tim’s hand, then step outside to weather that’s cloudy and chillier than it ought to be in September. I pull my jean jacket tight when Twig gives me a nudge with his elbow.
I follow the direction of his nod, and my breath catches in my throat.
Jude sits on a bench outside St. Oswald’s. Not on the seat, but atop its backrest with his boots on the bench and his elbows on his knees. He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark wool overcoat with a high collar. He holds a book, and while he’s too far away to make out the title, I can tell he’s moved on fromCrime and Punishment.
His eyes meet mine.
I run my hand through my hair, then excuse myself from Dad and the Calloways. As I approach—perhaps a smidge too eagerly—I can’t help but smile at his latest literary selection.The Turn of the Screwby Henry James. “I’m rubbing off on you,” I say, nodding at his book.
