Page 28 of Saltwater Secrets
Marc walked over to one of the writing desks, one that Hilary hadn’t had a chance to go through yet, and tugged at the drawers until he found one unlocked. In it was an old photo album with the year 1981 printed on the cover. Hilary’s jaw dropped.
“What?” Marc asked, pretending like finding this was a typical thing for him. He’d always been lucky.
Hilary hurried over, realizing that her hands were shaking. “I’m sorry. Ever since Dorothy died, I’ve been so shocked that there are no photographs in this entire place! And you’re here for like five seconds and find a trove of them? It isn’t fair.” She laughed and put both her hands on the album. Something about opening it gave her pause.
“Remember how I said Rachel probably died in the eighties?” Hilary said, her eyes to Marc. “It makes me think that 1981 was one of the last years they had, you know, ‘normality.’ Whatever that meant for the Wagners.”
Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “You said Renée’s on her way?”
Hilary nodded, recognizing his point. If they were going to go through it at all, it needed to happen before Renée arrived. It was hers and hers alone. The right thing to do was to give it to her immediately.
“Are we really going to snoop like this?” Hilary whispered.
“You’ve already gone through her entire house,” Marc reminded her. “Why not this?”
Before she chickened out, Hilary opened the album to the first photograph. In it were two teenage girls on what looked to be a Nantucket beach. Their smiles were bright, and their arms were wrapped around one another’s shoulders. The one on the left was slightly older, maybe age thirteen: Renée. The other was obviously Rachel, maybe eleven or twelve.
“Irish twins,” Marc pointed out quietly.
Hilary’s knees shook so much that she needed a chair. Marc hovered above her, assessing the photographs, most of which seemed to be of Rachel and Renée. Some of them featured Dorothy around age forty, younger than Hilary was now, but always with one of the girls, meaning that the unpictured onehad probably taken the photo. It seemed that Renée was the photographer when Dorothy wasn’t. Philip Wagner didn’t seem involved at all.
Hilary was pretty sure all the photos were taken on Nantucket. She recognized every restaurant, every street corner, and every beach. Some of them were taken in this very house, with the Wagner girls sprawled on the veranda or playing in the garden or drinking cola in the kitchen, grinning messily.
It was a life Hilary recognized, because it echoed the same love she’d enjoyed within her own family, the same love that she had with Aria. What had gone so wrong?
Suddenly, there was the sound of clacking boots on the hardwood. Hilary bristled, closed the photo album, and returned it to its drawer. Marc gave her a look of surprise. They’d agreed to give the photo album to Renée when she arrived, but Hilary wasn’t willing to part with it yet.
She needed to study it longer. She felt there was something there, something she was missing.
A moment later, Renée’s voice blared through the hall. “Hello? Hilary? They said you’re up here.”
Hilary gave Marc a look of mock-panic and called out, “We’re in the library!”
A moment later, Renée appeared. She looked better than she had last week, her hair sleek and styled, her posture straight and evoking boarding school training and many years in socialite circles. Her purse was a designer brand that Hilary had never even touched with her own two hands before.Why doesn’t this woman have enough money to get her own place?she wondered. Although it was probably the same old story: wealthy child of wealthier parents, squandering the money she had because she’d been too spoiled to understand what money meant.
Renée looked at Marc with active interest, as though she wanted to flirt with him. Marc, being kindhearted and open, shook her hand. “My name is Marc Halton. It’s a pleasure.”
Renée held his hand a little bit longer than was necessary and fluttered her eyelashes. Hilary wanted to laugh but held it in. This woman had no shame.
“Hilary and I were recently married,” Marc explained a moment later.
“How wonderful,” Renée said, her voice stiff.
“You have quite a place here,” Marc complimented. “Did you grow up here?”
“Sort of,” Renée said.
Hilary’s mind’s eye filled with the photographs they’d just seen: snapshots of hundreds of gorgeous afternoons. It was so clear that Renée and Rachel had loved it here in the estate with their mother. Why hadn’t they spoken in thirty years?
Renée shifted her attention to Hilary. “You cleared everything out.”
On the phone, Hilary had already told her she’d done that. “Yes.”
“It’s quite a difference. Is everything safely stowed away?”
“Yes. I have people I trust,” Hilary explained. She’d prepared a long list of previous clients for Renée, just in case she wanted info on the innumerable members of elite society, all of whom trusted Hilary with their things and their environments. Maybe Renée hadn’t called anyone. Perhaps she hadn’t even looked at the list.
They left the library and went out onto the veranda to talk. Marc was magnanimous, bringing Renée into a warm and inviting conversation. They poured white wine and watched the water. Hilary kept tabs on Renée’s expressions, hoping she would betray an emotion that gave Hilary some information about what had gone on here.
