Charlotte’s Story by Laura Benedict Read Free Book Online Page A

in pink for Eva, who sat at my feet, her hand resting on a stuffed white peacock wearing a gold crown. I hadn’t wanted it in the painting, but Press’s friend J. C. Jaquith had had it sent from F.A.O. Schwartz in New York, and it pleased Press that it was a peacock and that Eva loved it, so I had relented. I didn’t like the way its head was tilted, as though its sharp orange beak were about to strike our daughter on the knee, but Press had laughed and said the artist was just having a joke.
    Why had Olivia wanted it here in the hall, rather than in the salon or in one of the sunnier rooms? She’d never said, but had hadit hung while I was out of the house, in time for a dinner party she was giving in honor of the painting’s completion. She’d had me dress Eva in the dress from the portrait, even though it was, by then, a bit too small. Press had beamed, holding Eva like a prize, as we stood beneath the painting for the assembled guests. Eva had smiled placidly and even clapped her hands along with the guests. I was anxious, not liking the attention, the stares of Olivia’s Historical Society friends and bridge partners and their husbands.
    Now I wondered if I could bear to look at the portrait every day. As I passed it in the afternoon sunlight, I ran my fingertips over the edge of the frame. It was hung too high for me to touch the textured paint strokes that made up my daughter’s face.

    I found Marlene in the kitchen making bread for our dinner. She had twisted her hair into its usual chignon, and wore a full white apron over her dark gray dress.
    “I’d like all the funeral flowers removed, Marlene. Have any more notes arrived?”
    She looked up, startled, the half-smile I’d seen on her lips before she’d heard me fading into a look of surprise.
    “No, Miss Charlotte. Mr. Preston may have met the postman on his way into town. There’s been no mail delivered here today.”
    Both Marlene and Terrance called Press by the familiar Mr. Preston , and referred to me as Miss Charlotte at, I suspected, Olivia’s original direction. It had occurred to me to ask them to start calling me Mrs. Bliss, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for them to. And since I’d seen Olivia on the day of the funeral—for certainly it was Olivia—it also felt strangely presumptuous.
    “Mr. Preston won’t be here for dinner tonight.”
    “Yes, ma’am. He mentioned that.”
    I left Marlene and went to the dining room where all the peacock eyes seemed to watch me. The thought that Olivia might be watching as well made me feel strangely shy.
    Moving past the enormous cabinet filled with the silver pieces that Terrance was forever polishing, I went to stand exactly where I’d seen Olivia behind the glass. Outside the window, the October sunshine beckoned, but I closed my eyes against it. Olivia and I hadn’t been close, but we shared a love for Press and the children, and she was always kind to me. Though I hadn’t had the chance or inclination to explore them yet, she had specifically left all of her personal belongings—the contents of her bedroom and morning room—to me.
    Did it feel just a bit cooler here than in the rest of the dining room? There had to be a reason why she wanted me to see her. I was certain that I would have heard immediately if anyone else had caught sight of her. Bliss House was notorious enough that anyone who had direct experience of some strange occurrence there was unlikely to keep it a secret. God only knew, they must have still been talking about the deaths of the Heasters in the drive.
    I thought that perhaps I already knew the reason Olivia had appeared only to me. She was here to help me keep Eva close, perhaps even guide me to her.
    “Olivia.” I whispered so that Marlene wouldn’t hear. “Help me.”
    I opened my eyes. Outside the doors, a breeze ruffled the delicate blood-red leaves of the miniature Japanese maples Olivia had planted as accents around the patio. How odd, that provincial