Page 71 of The Light Between Worlds

“No, thank you,” I tell Millie coolly. “I’ve got too much to do here in England. I can’t think of gadding about overseas.”

I feel guilty enough that I went so far as to send an application to an American college. I knew, even as I was doing it, that it wouldnever be more than a lovely idea. There is too much holding me back. And that idea became just another disappointment when an acceptance letter arrived. I did what I had to, crumpling it up and tossing it into the bin.

One of the girls jokes that I’ve become quite a snob since the war, but Millie only gives me a worried look.

After dinner, she corners me in the dormitory stairwell, her red-brown hair put up in rollers and a stack of bath towels in her hands.

“I meant what I said,” she tells me, purposely pitching her voice not to carry. “About you being welcome at my family’s place in Boston anytime.”

I cross my arms and lean back against the wall, turning myself into a picture of indifference. “Of course, darling. And I meant what I said, about having too much to keep me here.”

Millie sets her bath towels down on the steps. When she looks at me again, it’s with a seriousness I’ve never seen her show before. “Phil. I know why you don’t want to leave. All the girls do. Do you think we can’t see? We know what Evelyn’s like, and we’ve watched you break your back over her for five years. I talked to everyone, and we all think you need to get away. You’re wearing yourself out, and it’s just not fair.”

I straighten and fix Millie with a stare meant to make grown men cower. I should be better, should be kinder, but when it comes to Ev, my heart is an open wound. “Walk. Away. Do not speak to me again. You know nothing about my sister and me, and you never will.”

American to the core, Millie doesn’t falter. “Phil—”

“Go.” The word’s a command, and reluctantly, she starts back up the steps with her towels in hand.

“If you change your m—”

“Are you really still speaking to me?”

She vanishes at the top of the stairwell. A moment later, Evelyn appears in her place, as if summoned by my unhappiness. I sit down on the steps, and Ev sits beside me. She says nothing, but rests her golden head on my shoulder. I put one arm around her and we sit until lights-out, just the two of us together against all our worlds.

51

I LIVE IN A REALM OF LIGHT AND SHADOW. BY DAY,there’s the brightness of the Gallery—of learning the workings of the Conservation Department, and willing myself not to flush each time Jack favors me with his quiet smile. That’s all I get from him, though—smiles and courtesy and kindness. No more kisses in the park. No invitations to dinner. But I don’t push. I’m afraid of my own capacity for damaging things.

By night, there’s the darkness of Evelyn’s empty bed, which serves as a constant reproach from the other side of the room. I stay as late as I can at work, and ride the bus for hours after I have to leave. Even when I get home, I slide under the covers and lie awake, unable to avoid thoughts of what might have been.

But spring cannot be stopped and the weather grows warm. Soon I no longer have to wear a long coat on the ride to work, and settle for soft cardigans instead. One afternoon I’m drooping over my fair copying in the chair across from Presswick when she glances up.

“Hapwell. Stop yawning and take a break. Go out to the squarefor once to have your lunch—I’m tired of you leaving bread crumbs on my desk.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s no gainsaying Presswick, so I grab my sweater and lunch and go.

Gathering my courage, I head down the dimly lit and tumbledown hallway that ends in the staircase up to the restoration studio. There are a few other restorers there, bent over worktables, and I notice with a tightening of my throat that every painting on the wall depicts a forest. Bruegel’sAmbush in the Woods. Monet’sOlive Tree Wood in the Moreno Garden. Van Gogh’sTrees and Undergrowth. Worst of all is Klimt’sLakeside with Birch Trees. Serene as the meadow and the white trees and the still water appear to be, all they remind me of is the birch ring outside St. Agatha’s, and Evelyn’s trail gone cold on the riverbank.

I stop next to Jack’s table, where he’s doing what looks like an incredibly fiddly bit of inpainting, not on theWoman Bathing in a Stream, but on Gainsborough’sView of Dedham. A forest again. More whispers without words.

“Do you always restore paintings according to subject matter?” I ask, pitching my voice low so it won’t carry across the quiet room. “It’s just, that seems a very strange way to work.”

Jack takes a moment to finish what he’s doing and sets his brush aside. Then he peers at me like a puzzled owl. “Sorry, what?”

I gesture to the paintings on the walls. “Look. They’re all of woods. Isn’t that odd?”

He looks at the walls as if seeing the paintings there for the first time. “You’re right. It is. I don’t think it’s been done on purpose, though?”

“And when I came in the first time, don’t you remember—every picture in here was of a stag.”

“Oh. Yes, I did find that funny at the time.”

I can feel a frown creasing my forehead. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

Jack wipes his hands on a damp cloth and puts it away. “Coincidence, no. Providence, yes. Are you going to lunch?”

I’d nearly forgotten the paper bag I’m holding, and the reason I came up here in the first place. “I am. Presswick’s tired of me, so I walked up to tell you I’ll be out in the square for the next half hour.”