“Yes, I was there,” Suzanne said. “So aren’t you curious?”
“Not at all,” Kate said. “I know it’s not Conor. Belinda was a liar, a very troubled soul. She was just stirring things up.”
“Don’t say that about Belle,” Suzanne said. She was gripping the neck of the champagne bottle tightly, and Kate flinched because she felt Suzanne wanting to swing it at her.
“Your mother, you mean?” Kate asked, and Suzanne laughed.
“Come now, ladies,” Darla said. “Let’s stop the squabbling and drink our champagne ... We have things to discuss. Food is coming, along with a treat.”
The door opened again, and Maeve walked in carrying a silver tray filled with canapés—foie gras on toast points, smoked salmon on brown bread, crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms, and a bowl overflowing with artistically arranged crudités.
“Very good, Maeve,” Kate said. “Just like at my gallery. You were always so adept at planning receptions for exhibition openings. People always wanted to buy the paintings after you’d warmed them up with food and drink.”
“I learned here, Kate. I was well trained,” Maeve said.
“Did you hear what she said?” Suzanne asked Maeve. “She called Belle my mother.”
“Enough of this,” Darla said. “Kate, we have a surprise for you. Relax for a moment, and Maeve will get it.”
“Oh, come on,” Suzanne said, sounding exasperated.
“I’ve had enough surprises,” Kate said. She stared at Maeve and felt an ache in her heart. She had really cared for—even loved—this young woman. She had considered herself Maeve’s mentor, and she had felt an almost familiar bond with her. Now, looking into Maeve’s eyes, she felt as if she had never known her at all.
“You look sad, Kate,” Maeve said.
“I am,” Kate said.
“About your wedding?”
“Right now, I’m sad about you,” Kate said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re someone I loved and thought I could trust,” Kate said.
“Boo-hoo,” Suzanne said. “Hear that, Maeve? She feels so sad for herself that you betrayed her.”
“No, not for me. I’m sad for Maeve,” Kate continued.
“Why?” Maeve asked.
But Kate just stared at her, saying nothing.
“Silent communication,” Suzanne said. “How meaningful. This is getting a bit too fraught for me.”
“Maeve, would you like to get the surprise for Kate?” Darla asked again.
Without another word, Maeve went to a closet across the room. Caroline was sitting very still beside Kate but lightly nudged one of Kate’s feet with hers. Kate glanced down and saw that Caroline was very discreetly pointing toward the window.
The view from the classroom was of the long lawn sloping down toward Narragansett Bay. There were clusters of trees, but the blue water was visible through branches and leaves. As Kate gazed out the window, she saw Sam’s head pop up. Their eyes met, and Kate caught her breath. She tried not to give anything away, terrified that Sam could get caught.
Maeve now turned from the closet, holding a large rectangular-shaped object covered with a sheet. Kate noticed that Maeve had an odd expression in her eyes—not quite triumph, not quite pride, but a combination of both. She stood in front of Kate.
“This is why we poured champagne,” Darla said. “To celebrate Maeve being able to get this done so quickly. We’re having a reception in honor of that—and other things.”
Maeve unveiled the painting. It wasFoggy Night, the oil by James Suydam, that Belinda had nearly destroyed. Kate leaned close to examine the work. The canvas had been expertly glued, and the frame had been repaired, gold paint dabbed onto the broken places. The ring around the moon that Kate had noticed at Fernando Harris’s studio was still there.
“I wanted to take that circle—that ring—out of the painting for you,” Maeve said softly. “But I was overruled. You get the symbolism, don’t you?”
