The Black Painting. Neil OlsonЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      Last night she dreamed of the house on Owl’s Point. Waning sunlight bathed the old brick face, and waves pounded the rocks below. Her cousins were there. James, whom she loved, and his sister Audrey, whom she despised. James tried to warn her of some threat hidden in the pines, but his sister only laughed. Audrey was grown-up, looking as she had at her wedding. Disheveled and slightly mad. James was the child he always was in her dreams, never older than eleven. As if his life had stopped there. Though the dream disturbed Teresa, there was nothing odd in the fact of it. At her grandfather’s request she was returning to Owl’s Point for the first time in fifteen years.

      The train car swayed gently. Connecticut coast swept past the window. Rocky woods gave way to broad swaths of gray water and the dark smudge of Long Island. Streams ran through acres of marsh grass, and an egret took flight, white wings pumping. Sometimes it felt like Teresa had spent her life on this train. Going back and forth to school. Later to visit friends and professors still in New Haven. Before that, long before, were the trips to her grandparents in Langford. The house and grounds were a vast and beguiling world where she and her cousins burned countless hours, outside the normal flow of time. They built a tree fort in the big oak. They explored the inlet by the bridge in their canoes. They played epic games of hide-and-seek. There was no beach, but Audrey—against all warnings—would leap from the black rocks into the surf. Just as she would climb the tallest trees, or slip out an attic window to crawl around on the slate roof of the mansion. No punishment or injury deterred her, and that recklessness continued into adulthood.

      It was Teresa and James who discovered the indoor secrets. The dumbwaiter that ran from the cold cellar to the master bedroom—by way of the kitchen, where you could fling open the door and scare Jenny, the cook. The hidden closet under the stairs, where they fell asleep one afternoon and threw the house into a panic. The unfinished room in the attic, the crawl space in the wine cellar, more places that she had since forgotten. Only Grandpa’s study was off-limits. Teresa looked forward to the trips to Owl’s Point for weeks beforehand. They were the highlight of summer, or any season. Until they abruptly stopped.

      No one else left the train at Langford. The platform was short and broken. Only eight cars were in the lot, none of them her grandfather’s green Jaguar. Teresa remembered that he no longer drove, so she looked for Ilsa. Had they forgotten she was coming? That seemed unlikely, but ten minutes passed without any sign of a ride. She reached for her phone, then stopped. If she had ever known the Owl’s Point number, it was lost to memory. She could call her mother, of course, but she would rather drink paint thinner. It was two miles to the house, more or less. On a narrow and twisty lane. Teresa sighed. Then she slung her bag, walked past the coffee shop, bank, jewelers, and up the slope of Long Hill Road.

      “There is absolutely no need to go there,” she heard her mother say, an echo of last night’s argument.

      “He’s asked all the grandchildren,” Teresa had replied, though Miranda knew that. “Kenny and Audrey and James have agreed.”

      “That’s their choice. You can make a different one.”

      “Mother.”

      “Whatever he wants to say he can put in a letter or a telephone call.”

      “Do you know what he wants to say?”

      “For goodness’ sake, how would I know that?”

      “Because he’s your father.”

      Miranda treated the fact as an accusation, and the conversation went downhill fast. Trudging up the steep and tree-shrouded lane, Teresa pictured her mother in the West Village apartment, bought when there was still family money. Tending her exotic roses or painting in her studio. Flitting about in those bright Indian shawls with her artsy friends. Clueless about the real world.

      “Stop,” Teresa said aloud. Only the trees as witnesses. Just stop. Stop being angry with your mother, with everyone.

      A car was rushing up the hill behind her. She could hear the high performance motor straining through the steep turn. They all drove too fast around here, and of course there was no sidewalk. Who would walk anywhere in Langford? She stepped off the road into a mass of saplings and early fallen leaves. Praying not to be hit. Or that at least it should be a quick death from a very expensive car.

      It was a red Lexus convertible, which missed her by several feet. She saw a blur of blond hair and sunglasses, then the car slowed immediately, pulling onto the scant margin forty yards ahead. The driver jumped up in the seat and turned, calling out merrily.

      “Tay-ray!”

      Dear God in Heaven. Audrey.

      “Well, don’t just stand there,” her cousin shouted.

      At least she would not have to walk the rest of the way. Dutifully, Teresa marched toward the vehicle. Like a condemned man. To her horror, Audrey leaped out and swept her into a hug. She smelled musky. Some combination including sandalwood, vodka and sweat. She carried a few extra pounds, though in all the right places. Audrey stepped back to survey her younger, skinny, dark-haired cousin.

      “Look at you all grown-up,” she gushed.

      “I was twenty years old at your wedding,” said Teresa.

      “Yeah,” Audrey conceded. “But there were, like, four hundred people there. And I was completely wasted.” Teresa had to laugh at the admission, and Audrey flashed a peroxide smile. “Get in. I guess we’re going the same way.”

      Teresa climbed in and buckled up as Audrey gunned the engine. With hardly a glance either way, she shot back onto the road.

      “When did you get this car?” Teresa shouted over the wind and motor.

      “In the divorce,” said Audrey, matter-of-fact. “Piece of crap, but I’m broke right now, so I’m stuck with it. What do you drive?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Seriously?”

      “New York has excellent public transportation.”

      “Socialist,” Audrey jeered. “This ain’t New York. Why were you walking?”

      “Because