Page 26 of The Gallagher Place
“I don’t think they know what they’re doing at all,” Frank grumbled, watching their car pulling out of the driveway.
That was her father’s endless refrain.They don’t know what they’re doing.He said the same thing about the headmaster of the school where Henry had gotten bad grades, and about the restaurants that took too long with his order. Frank was the epitome of responsibility. The rest of the world was incompetent.
“Well, let’s stay calm; there’s no need to fuss.” Glory didn’t show any frustration, merely resignation. “They’ll get over this morbid curiosity about Nora soon enough.”
“This is Damen Miller’s doing,” Frank spat. “He’s lost his mind all by himself in that house. He’s let it consume him, let it drive him to make senseless accusations. It’s given him an audience in those detectives.”
“You think they told Damen about Harmon’s threats?” It seemed to Marlowe that would be crossing a line, perhaps sharing too much with someone not directly involved in Harmon’s death.
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “I bet they let him ramble. But only fools would take grief and gossip as facts.”
Without a word, Glory headed to the kitchen. Marlowe followed and watched as her mother pulled out onions and carrotsand began to chop them up at the counter. Glory peeled potatoes and dumped them into boiling water. Mashed potatoes were Marlowe’s favorite, and Glory always made them the first night Marlowe was home after a long trip—or sometimes as a quiet apology after they’d bickered over something.
“These questions about Nora,” Marlowe said. “And Harmon—”
“They’re absurd,” Glory said, setting down the knife and stepping forward to hug Marlowe. Glory rubbed her hands up and down Marlowe’s arms before letting go. “Don’t let them get to you.”
Marlowe nodded and brushed at her damp cheeks.
“Go pull yourself together,” Glory whispered.
Marlowe turned and headed downstairs. She couldn’t explain to her mother that Ariel’s questions had felt not like badgering, but more like faith, as if Nora’s disappearance and Harmon’s death were nothing more than a challenging puzzle that, somehow, Ariel believed Marlowe could solve.
In her bathroom, she turned on the sink and splashed cold water on her face. She straightened to face the mirror. She had long ago learned to look at her features with the detached eye of an artist. In graduate school they had taught her how to paint a self-portrait. How to know yourself so completely and yet remove yourself enough to render your own likeness honestly. For once Marlowe didn’t cast an indifferent eye over the crow’s feet or the lines around her mouth or the way the skin along her jaw seemed to sag in profile.
What would Nora look like now? Over the years, Marlowe would sometimes imagine conversations with her friend. She would picture Nora older, more mature, as if she had grown up along with Marlowe and was still around to dole out friendly counsel. At first, it had been easy to imagine Nora’s advice. There were times in high school and college when Marlowe was able to carry out full conversations in her head.
“I love my art classes, but maybe I should do prelaw,” Marlowe would wonder aloud. Frank had high expectations for all his children, and she often worried she wasn’t hitting the mark.
“Are you kidding me?” Nora answered. “Your soul will shrivel up and die if you become a lawyer. You’re too good to stop making art.”
She remembered crossing the quad on a crisp autumn evening, after her first boyfriend told her she needed to open up more. He wanted to talk about their future but claimed Marlowe kept pulling away.
“It’s not me; he’s the boring one,” Marlowe confessed to her imagined friend. “He was easy to talk to when we first started dating, but I can’t help but feel like there must be more out there, someone more exciting.”
“You’re twenty!” Nora cried out. “Get rid of him and live a little.”
Later, it became harder to imagine what Nora would say to Marlowe’s grown-up problems. How to befriend her sisters-in-law. If she wanted kids or not. Whether she should continue illustrating children’s books or consider other artistic pursuits. Eventually, she stopped summoning Nora in her mind.
Marlowe studied her face in the mirror. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure Nora again, not as she would be at thirty-six, but as she once was. Her youthful face appeared in an instant. Her unbrushed blond hair fell about her shoulders, and she gave Marlowe a sly smile. Nora raised her brows at her in the mirror, and her blue eyes danced. She was eager to hear the latest news and weigh in.
“They’re asking about you,” Marlowe whispered.
Nora had a way of lifting her chin and sticking her pert nose up in the air, as if she didn’t care what anyone said—her opinion wasthe only one that mattered. She tossed her head and leaned forward, as if they were gossiping in the hayloft. “Let them talk.”
Marlowe’s eyes flew open.ThatNora wasn’t real. She was gone.
Nora’s ghost was forever on the brink of sixteen, and when Marlowe looked in the mirror again, she was somehow shocked that she was now twenty years older.
A sudden sadness poured through her veins, weighing down her limbs. Staring into her own eyes, she recognized something old and familiar. Heartbreak. Nora had been her best friend. They’d shared every delightful little secret with each other. But Nora had kept one secret to herself. She’d never divulged where she went that night. And she’d left no clues.
Or if she had, Marlowe simply hadn’t been clever enough to follow the trail. Maybe Ariel Mintz was.
When she returned to the kitchen, Frank was back in his study, and Glory had taken Enzo upstairs. Marlowe took the opportunity to open the fridge and slip her fingers around the bottle of white wine that had been opened for dinner the night before. She poured what remained into a mug, then sat by the fire. The shakiness drained out of her fingers, and the riot of emotions began to ebb. Marlowe sighed. Now she could think.
A week after Nora vanished, Enzo had pulled Marlowe aside. It was past eight, but given the time of year, the sun was still up and the tiger lilies outside the kitchen window were swaying in a gentle evening breeze.
“Marlowe, dear Marlowe, how many times have you cried today?” Enzo asked. “Have you slept at all?”
