The Shadow Box(39)

“Edward’s got a Stetson, and I bought a pair of Lucchese boots when we went to Dallas in April,” Sloane said. “It was his idea to get the boots. I love how much he’s getting into this party, and he knows I adore it. Usually he doesn’t care about the details, but this year it’s so different. What do you think that’s about?”

“I’m sure he just wants to make you happy,” I said.

“That’s how it feels,” she said, smiling.

“I’m glad,” I said, having completely forgotten what it was like to have a husband who wanted to make me happy. I hadn’t felt that since my earliest days with Griffin. And with Nate . . .

We sipped our wine and worked in silence. Sloane had stretched and applied gesso to a new canvas, set it up on her easel, and started painting. I was mulling over my next project—inspired by Nate’s recent research, I thought I might travel to Tadoussac, a town on the Saint Lawrence River in eastern Quebec, where humpback and beluga whales gathered. Each fall, humpbacks migrated south from Canada, along the eastern seaboard, through the Anegada Passage from the Atlantic Ocean into the Caribbean.

As soon as I moved out, I would be free to follow the whales. My new shadow boxes would reflect migration—the whales’ and my own. The studio doors were wide open to Long Island Sound, and a warm breeze blew in. I sat at my drafting table, doing a watercolor of the view.

Maybe I’d want to remember it after I left, or perhaps I was just getting into practice painting salt water in preparation for the whales. All I knew was that divorce wouldn’t be a good look for a man running for governor—but Griffin had brought this on himself.

“Oh, look,” Sloane said, gazing out the big north window toward the house. “The boys are here.”

I glanced out and saw Ford and Alexander standing on the terrace. They seemed to be having an intense conversation. Then Ford shoved Alexander, and he stumbled backward, knocking over a wicker chair. I felt a shock. I had never seen them argue, much less push each other around. I stood up, but before I could hurry to the house to see what was wrong, Ford was at the door of my studio.

“Hey, is the bar open?” he asked, spying the wine.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Alexander’s just being holier than thou, as usual,” Ford said.

“That sounds boring!” Sloane said, laughing. “Ford, are you going to use our pool today? I know you love it, and it’s all set for the party on Saturday.”

“Not today, Mrs. Hawke,” he said. “I think my days of swimming in your pool are about to be over.”

“Well, we love having you use it,” she said. “Edward and I need to start swimming more.”

“He’s probably too busy for that,” Ford said. I watched him pace nervously from the open door to the table where I’d put the wine. Sloane and I were using two glasses I’d brought down from the house, but Ford grabbed an empty mason jar I used to soak my brushes, filled it with rosé, and gulped half of it at once.

“You’re right about Edward,” Sloane said. “He works too hard, just like your dad. Lawyers, you know? All those billable hours.”

“I didn’t mean busy with work,” Ford said. “I meant with Sallie.”

“Sallie?” Sloane asked. “Do you mean Sallie Benson?”

“Yep, I do.”

“Well, we’re done with the redecoration,” Sloane said. “She was a great help, especially with the boat, that’s for sure, but it’s over now.”

“No, it’s not over,” Ford said. He looked pale. He pushed his dark hair back, and I saw the circles under his eyes. He downed the rest of the wine. Through the north window, I saw Alexander coming down the hill.

“What’s not?” Sloane asked Ford, smiling.

“Your husband and Sallie,” he said.

Alexander walked into the studio, approached his brother.

“Don’t,” Alexander said, his face in Ford’s.

“She needs to know,” Ford said.

The two brothers stared at each other. Alexander reached out to grip his twin’s shoulders, and there was both tenderness and firmness in the way he held Ford at arm’s length, gave a quick shake.

“Know what?” Sloane asked, approaching the boys.

“Ford loves Sallie,” Alexander said, staring at Ford with incredible angst in his eyes. “That’s why he’s doing this. Telling you. It’s not his fault; he’s just really hurt. Please don’t be mad at him.”

“Mad at him—at Ford? For what?” Sloane asked.

“For what I’m about to tell you,” Ford said. “You need to know about Edward.”

“Christ,” Alexander said, hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Ford, stop it, come on . . .”

“Edward? What are you talking about?” Sloane asked.

“Your husband is sleeping with Sallie,” Ford said, wrenching out of Alexander’s grip. “They meet on your boat. On Elysian. They used to meet at your house, when she was decorating it, when you were at yoga or down here with Claire.”

“Ford!” I said, shocked at his drunken idiocy.

“I’m talking to Sloane, not you,” he said.