knew who the artist really was, not her full name or where she lived. No new work had shown up in years.
Harley had started to collect Ariadne’s work. He was researching her for an article, and he was intent on finding her—or him.
The article explained that in Greek mythology Ariadne was the daughter of King Midas. She married Dionysus, god of the sea, after escaping from the island of Crete. The historian’s theory was that the artist was a strong woman who wished to hide her identity behind a goddess who represented an escape from patriarchal society.
Sofie faked a smile, looked up. “None of this makes sense. Greek myth? Art technique? Fake names?”
Bedford touched the top of her hand, stroked her wrist with a featherlight touch. “Sofie, that is the name of the artist whose canvases are sold in the Newboro Art Studio. The article says Newboro has the largest collection of Ariadne’s work. Your mother owned the art studio. I know you know about this. . . .”
Sofie felt her bones soften, collapse into her flesh as though she might disappear. She dropped the newspaper onto the table, closed her eyes and felt the room spin; nausea rose and she stood, ran for the bathroom.
The door safely shut, she leaned over the toilet and retched. Panic ran through her body in a familiar pattern, and then Bedford’s voice echoed through the bathroom. “Sofie, Sofie, are you okay?”
She stood, walked to the sink to wash her face. “I’ll be right out,” she called to the closed door.
She pinched her cheeks, smoothed her stick-straight blond hair back into its ponytail and walked out to face Bedford. “I think the oyster sandwich I had for lunch was bad.”
“Tell me what’s going on.” He hugged her. “I know when you’re hurting. I hate bringing up the subject of your mother, but you have to talk about her death someday. This man”—Bedford held up the paper—“is coming to Newboro to ask questions. You can’t pretend your mother is coming home in two days.” He said this in the quiet voice of a father—or what Sofie imagined a father would say, since she’d never had one.
They walked back to the table. She sat across from him, and he reached his hand out to her; she took it. “Just talk to me. . . . Did your mother know this artist?”
Sofie released the long-rehearsed words she’d prepared for this moment. “Bedford, she’s gone. I can’t ask her if she knew Ariadne. I have no idea who Ariadne is. It was Mother’s studio—not mine.”
He ran his fingers across her palm, over her forearm. She shivered with the familiar desire that rose up in her when he touched her. “I’m really not that hungry. Can we just go now?” she asked.
“I’m starving,” he said, smiled.
The waiter approached and took their order. When the wine bottle arrived, Sofie nodded yes to a glass. She spooned her clam chowder, but didn’t take a bite. Bedford cut into his steak, stared at her. “Why don’t you eat? You’re going to float away soon.”
Sofie was thin—she always had been. She could eat a lot or a little, and her frail frame neither gained nor lost weight. Bedford circled his fingers around her wrist. “Eat.”
She sipped her soup, looked up at him and realized he had no idea, whatsoever, of the fear that lived and moved inside her when she thought of the consequences of telling the truth. Each time she contemplated the possibility of speaking the facts of her mother’s life, anxiety folded over her in a suffocating blanket of silence.
“Well.” Bedford sat back. “You know he’s going to come try and talk to you.”
“Let him. What do I care? I’ll tell him the same thing I’m telling you. I don’t know anything about the artists whose work Mother hung in her studio, where she found them or where they went. I was a child. I didn’t pay any attention.”
Bedford ran a hand through his hair, a familiar and irritating gesture that Sofie often thought feminine. He dropped his hand and
Harley had started to collect Ariadne’s work. He was researching her for an article, and he was intent on finding her—or him.
The article explained that in Greek mythology Ariadne was the daughter of King Midas. She married Dionysus, god of the sea, after escaping from the island of Crete. The historian’s theory was that the artist was a strong woman who wished to hide her identity behind a goddess who represented an escape from patriarchal society.
Sofie faked a smile, looked up. “None of this makes sense. Greek myth? Art technique? Fake names?”
Bedford touched the top of her hand, stroked her wrist with a featherlight touch. “Sofie, that is the name of the artist whose canvases are sold in the Newboro Art Studio. The article says Newboro has the largest collection of Ariadne’s work. Your mother owned the art studio. I know you know about this. . . .”
Sofie felt her bones soften, collapse into her flesh as though she might disappear. She dropped the newspaper onto the table, closed her eyes and felt the room spin; nausea rose and she stood, ran for the bathroom.
The door safely shut, she leaned over the toilet and retched. Panic ran through her body in a familiar pattern, and then Bedford’s voice echoed through the bathroom. “Sofie, Sofie, are you okay?”
She stood, walked to the sink to wash her face. “I’ll be right out,” she called to the closed door.
She pinched her cheeks, smoothed her stick-straight blond hair back into its ponytail and walked out to face Bedford. “I think the oyster sandwich I had for lunch was bad.”
“Tell me what’s going on.” He hugged her. “I know when you’re hurting. I hate bringing up the subject of your mother, but you have to talk about her death someday. This man”—Bedford held up the paper—“is coming to Newboro to ask questions. You can’t pretend your mother is coming home in two days.” He said this in the quiet voice of a father—or what Sofie imagined a father would say, since she’d never had one.
They walked back to the table. She sat across from him, and he reached his hand out to her; she took it. “Just talk to me. . . . Did your mother know this artist?”
Sofie released the long-rehearsed words she’d prepared for this moment. “Bedford, she’s gone. I can’t ask her if she knew Ariadne. I have no idea who Ariadne is. It was Mother’s studio—not mine.”
He ran his fingers across her palm, over her forearm. She shivered with the familiar desire that rose up in her when he touched her. “I’m really not that hungry. Can we just go now?” she asked.
“I’m starving,” he said, smiled.
The waiter approached and took their order. When the wine bottle arrived, Sofie nodded yes to a glass. She spooned her clam chowder, but didn’t take a bite. Bedford cut into his steak, stared at her. “Why don’t you eat? You’re going to float away soon.”
Sofie was thin—she always had been. She could eat a lot or a little, and her frail frame neither gained nor lost weight. Bedford circled his fingers around her wrist. “Eat.”
She sipped her soup, looked up at him and realized he had no idea, whatsoever, of the fear that lived and moved inside her when she thought of the consequences of telling the truth. Each time she contemplated the possibility of speaking the facts of her mother’s life, anxiety folded over her in a suffocating blanket of silence.
“Well.” Bedford sat back. “You know he’s going to come try and talk to you.”
“Let him. What do I care? I’ll tell him the same thing I’m telling you. I don’t know anything about the artists whose work Mother hung in her studio, where she found them or where they went. I was a child. I didn’t pay any attention.”
Bedford ran a hand through his hair, a familiar and irritating gesture that Sofie often thought feminine. He dropped his hand and
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