The Girl In The Glass by James Hayman

Finally, the dress and a single strand of antique pearls around her neck.
    Aimée examined herself in the mirror one last time. Practiced the smile in the painting until she was sure she had it right. Turned her head this way and that. Adjusted a blonde curl that seemed out of place and looked again. The final touch was the earrings. An exquisite pair of deep blue teardrop sapphires, each surrounded by two rows of diamonds set in gold dangles. They were the only things Aimée would wear tonight that weren’t in the painting. Her great-­great-­grandfather had purchased them in New York at the old Tiffany’s on Union Square West because, according to family legend, the stones almost matched the deep, nearly violet blue of the first Aimée’s eyes. He had planned to take the earrings to the island and surprise her with the gift. But it never happened. She was murdered first.
    Finally, when everything was truly perfect, Aimée took a cut-­crystal highball glass from the tray she’d instructed Anna Jolley to leave for her. She dropped in a handful of ice cubes, retrieved the bottle of Ketel One she kept in her bottom drawer and poured herself a good four ounces. Raising the glass, she toasted the image in the book. “To my inspiration, the first Aimée,” she said. Then, turning her attention to her own image in the mirror, she added, “And to me, Aimée again.”
    Taking the drink with her, she rose and went to the door. Opened it silently. Looked both ways. Seeing no one on the landing, she moved into the shadows at the top of the stairs, where she could watch her father speaking in front of the big stone fireplace without being seen herself. She waited, certain the wait wouldn’t be long. Edward Whitby enjoyed being the center of attention as much as either of his daughters did. He also enjoyed being prompt. He invariably stuck to schedule.
    A scant two minutes later, she watched Daddy nab a delicate flute of Perrier-­Jouët from a passing waiter and position himself at the center of the fireplace. He took a few sips, waiting until he felt the timing was right.
    “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he finally called out. “I’d like as many of you as possible to please join me here in the living room. Please, everyone, this way. I have a special treat for you all.”
    Prodded by the waitstaff, guests began to move. More than a hundred managed to squeeze into the large living room. Another hundred and some clustered outside on the stone patio, where they could watch Whitby’s image and listen to his words on two large CCTV screens set up for the occasion.
    Aimée looked past her father to the painting that hung, covered with black baize cloth, above the mantel. She’d only seen reproductions before and hadn’t realized how big the original was. At least five feet high. Three or a little more across. She was sure the size of the painting would heighten the effect. For ­people looking up at it from the floor, her great-­great grandmother would appear to be very nearly the same size as her living namesake.
    “Ladies and Gentlemen, graduates and parents, friends,” Edward Whitby began. “Let me start by welcoming you all here to our humble . . . well, perhaps not so humble . . . summer cottage on Whitby Island. For those of you who’ve been here before, welcome back. For those who haven’t, please know that, for tonight at least, mi casa es su casa .”
    The guests applauded. Aimée sipped her vodka on the landing and waited. With his back to the large stone fireplace, Daddy raised his champagne flute. “We’re here tonight to honor not just my two beautiful daughters.” He turned a palm toward Julia, who had positioned herself up front. “Julia.” Jules nodded her thanks. Daddy looked around the room for a few seconds more and not seeing Aimée, he continued, “One of whom seems not to be here at the moment. Rare for Aimée to miss a moment like this. Ah, well. We’re also here to honor all the other