The Last Mrs. Parrish(3)
She finished her lunch and walked through the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she would spend the afternoon before catching an early-evening train back to Connecticut. Over the past two years she had walked every inch of the Met, studying the art and sitting in on lectures and films about the works and their creators. At first her vast lack of knowledge had been daunting, but in her methodical way, she took it step-by-step, reading from borrowed books all she could about art, its history, and its masters. Armed with new information each month, she would visit the museum again and see in person what she had read about. She knew now that she could engage in a respectably intelligent conversation with all but the most informed art critic. Since the day she’d left that crowded house in Missouri, she’d been creating a new and improved Amber, one who would move at ease among the very wealthy. And so far, her plan was right on schedule.
After some time, she strolled to the gallery that was usually her last stop. There, she stood for a long time in front of a small study by Tintoretto. She wasn’t sure how many times she had stared at this sketch, but the credit line was engraved on her brain—“A gift from the collection of Jackson and Daphne Parrish.” She reluctantly turned away and headed to the new Aelbert Cuyp exhibition. She’d read through the only book about Cuyp that the Bishops Harbor library had on its shelves. Cuyp was an artist she’d never heard of and she’d been surprised to learn how prolific and famous he was. She strolled through the exhibit and came upon the painting she’d so admired in the book and had hoped would be a part of the exhibit, The Maas at Dordrecht in a Storm. It was even more magnificent than she’d thought it would be.
An older couple stood near her, mesmerized by it as well.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” the woman said to Amber.
“More than I’d even imagined,” she answered.
“This one is very different from his landscapes,” the man offered.
Amber continued to stare at the painting as she said, “It is, but he painted many majestic views of Dutch harbors. Did you know that he also painted biblical scenes and portraits?”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Perhaps you should read before you come to see an exhibit, Amber thought, but simply smiled at them and moved on. She loved it when she could display her superior knowledge. And she believed that a man like Jackson Parrish, a man who prided himself on his cultural aesthetic, would love it too.
Three
A bilious envy stuck in Amber’s throat as the graceful house on Long Island Sound came into view. The open white gates at the entrance to the multimillion-dollar estate gave way to lush greenery and rosebushes that spilled extravagantly over discreet fencing, while the mansion itself was a rambling two-story structure of white and gray. It reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the wealthy summer homes in Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. The house meandered majestically along the shoreline, superbly at home on the water’s edge.
This was the kind of home that was safely hidden from the eyes of those who could not afford to live this way. That’s what wealth does for you, she thought. It gives you the means and the power to remain concealed from the world if you choose to—or if you need to.
Amber parked her ten-year-old blue Toyota Corolla, which would look ridiculously out of place among the late-model Mercedes and BMWs that she was sure would soon dot the courtyard. She closed her eyes and sat for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths and going over in her head the information she’d memorized over the last few weeks. She’d dressed carefully this morning, her straight brown hair held back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband and her makeup minimal—just the tiniest hint of blush on her cheeks and slightly tinted balm on her lips. She wore a neatly pressed beige twill skirt with a long-sleeved white cotton T-shirt, both of which she’d ordered from an L.L.Bean catalog. Her sandals were sturdy and plain, good no-nonsense walking shoes without any touch of femininity. The ugly large-framed glasses she’d found at the last minute completed the look she was after. When she took one last glimpse in the mirror before leaving her apartment, she’d been pleased. She looked plain, even mousy. Someone who would never in a million years be a threat to anyone—especially not someone like Daphne Parrish.
Though she knew she ran a slight risk of appearing rude, Amber had shown up just a little early. She’d be able to have some time alone with Daphne and would also be there before any of the other women arrived, always an edge when introductions were made. They would see her as young and nondescript, simply a worker bee Daphne had deigned to reach down and anoint as a helper in her charity efforts.
She opened the car door and stepped onto the crushed stone driveway. It looked as if each piece of gravel cushioning her steps had been measured for uniformity and purity, and perfectly raked and polished. As she neared the house, she took her time studying the grounds and dwelling. She realized she would be entering through the back—the front would, of course, face the water—but it was, nevertheless, a most gracious facade. To her left stood a white arbor bedecked with the summer’s last wisteria, and two long benches sat just beyond it. Amber had read about this kind of wealth, had seen countless pictures in magazines and online tours of the homes of movie stars and the superrich. But this was the first time she’d actually seen it up close.
She climbed the wide stone steps to the landing and rang the bell. The door was oversize, with large panes of beveled glass, allowing Amber a view down the long corridor that ran to the front of the house. She could see the dazzling blue of the water from where she stood, and then, suddenly, Daphne was there, holding the door open and smiling at her.