“This is my favorite place to sit on the whole Preserve. And my favorite time of day,” says Mrs. Van Laar.
Judy nods.
“I imagine the view brings back memories for you,” says Judy.
Mrs. Van Laar pauses, as if thinking. Then she says, “Not really.”
Judy is still shuffling quickly through ideas for an opening when Mrs. Van Laar stands from her chair and sets off toward the main house.
“Mrs. Van Laar,” says Judy, unwanted pleading in her voice.
Slowly, the woman turns. Her expression is still pleasant.
“I just—I haven’t had a chance to speak with you since our first day here,” says Judy. “Is there anything further you’ve thought of that you’d like to add?”
Mrs. Van Laar opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks back over her shoulder, as if making a decision.
Then she says: “Have you had a chance to interview Vic Hewitt?”
The name stops Judy. Hewitt she knows, of course; it’s the first name that’s unfamiliar.
“Is that—” she says.
“Tessie Jo’s father,” says Mrs. Van Laar. “The first director of the camp.”
Judy frowns. Tessie Jo. She scans the notes she just took, searching for what T.J. had said about her father during their interview.
Memory loss, she wrote.
“I didn’t realize he was,” says Judy.
“Still alive, yes,” says Mrs. Van Laar, reading her mind. “Perhaps you should interview him. He’s such an interesting man. And he’d like the company, no doubt.”
“Where can I find him?” asks Judy.
“These days he lives in the Director’s Cabin with his daughter,” says Mrs. Van Laar. “She cares for him.”
Judy shakes her head. “We’ve taken that over, ma’am,” she says. “It’s our Command Post now.”
Mrs. Van Laar looks directly at Judy. “Well, dear,” she says, “I suppose you’ll just have to investigate. Isn’t that what you do?”
She turns and disappears inside the dark, cool house.
VII
Self-Reliance
Alice
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975
Alice, still looking for Bear, took a breath before turning the doorknob to her husband’s room.
• • •
It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been anybody else.
If it had been one of the girls on the grounds that week—an actress or a singer or a model. Somebody young and frivolous, somebody difficult to take seriously.
Or, thought Alice, one of the staff: if it had been one of the temporary staff, she would know with certainty that Peter was simply blowing off steam. He’d never pursue anything further with someone in his employ.
• • •
But it wasn’t an actress or a singer or a member of the staff in Peter’s bed.
Inside Peter’s bed was her own sister. Delphine.
Someone she believed Peter reviled. A woman he considered intelligent—which was, according to Peter’s stated system of beliefs, a waste.
She’d been wrong about all of it.
• • •
She could tell, from their position, that their closeness was not new. Connections and inferences began to form in her mind. Delphine’s familiarity with the staff—her insolent question to Warren, yesterday, about whether he was prepared to accommodate the guests. As if she were the mistress of the house.
Peter’s trips to Manhattan—two or three times a month, always on business, he said. Always to meet with the bank attorney, McLellan.
Her mind reeled. How long had Peter and Delphine been doing this? For years? Since Delphine’s first visit to Self-Reliance, as Alice’s chaperone?
