Chapter 8: The Sketch Under the Paint

The Penhallow Gallery was full by eight o'clock.

Critics, collectors, two television crews, and half of the ballroom crowd who had laughed at me were drinking Beatrice's wine under her lights.

Bridget's painting hung alone on the long white wall, with a spotlight on it and a velvet rope in front.

Skylight.

My sister stood beneath it in a white dress, with my mother at her side in emerald silk.

People kept coming up to kiss her cheeks.

"So brave," one woman said. "To paint something so personal."

"Thank you," Bridget said, with her eyes already wet.

I stood at the back with my sketch in a flat black portfolio under my arm.

Ethan was a step behind me in a dark suit Beatrice had found for him, and he looked like a man who had been born in one.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

"Good. Then it will be honest."

Beatrice climbed the three steps to the little podium by the wall, tapped a glass with a pen, and the room went quiet.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "Before I introduce tonight's artists, I would like to ask one question."

"Who painted Skylight?"

Bridget laughed, a soft, nervous bell.

"Aunt Beatrice, I did."

"Then you will not mind," Beatrice said, "if my niece shows us what she saw."

Every head turned to me.

My mother's face did not change, but her hand tightened on her glass.

I walked up the aisle between the guests with my heart in my throat.

At the wall I opened the portfolio and took out the pencil sketch, which Beatrice had already framed.

I set it on a small easel directly beside Bridget's painting.

Beatrice stepped down and slid a printed card under it.

The card read: Drawn in February, mailed with a postmark. Signed C. Penhallow.

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