We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(37)

“Kind of,” she says.

“He’s my father, Holland,” I say. “I came here invited. Kingsley wants me here. You don’t get to just show up and try to lay claim to him. He’s a private person and this is a private home and you’re intruding on someone you don’t even know by pretending you want to be friends with his kid. Don’t you see how obnoxious that is?”

She steps back, startled at my burst of anger. “Look, I went about this all wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry. Really. I should have just asked you about Kingsley. I should have asked if I could come over.”

“Ya think?” I’m about to shut the door in her face, but she puts her hand against it and looks me straight in the eyes.

“Matilda. Seriously. Listen.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a dolt and a wench and I’m not even going to bore you with the whole story of why I acted like such an idiot in this particular situation, but can I talk to you like a person for a minute?”

I don’t shut the door on her. “Okay. Say what you want to say.”

“This man means something to me. Kingsley Cello. Not the same thing he means to you. Of course not. But the paintings—they talk to me, somehow. About myself. About feelings I can’t express. About my messed-up family. He’s painting stuff that feels like it goes down into the core of me, and that’s the honest truth. I’ve wanted to come here for a good long while. And it kept not being possible. But now I’m here, and I promise I’m not gonna steal a painting, or photograph any secret ones and put them on the internet. I know he’s out of town and I don’t think you’re gonna introduce me to him, ever. Ever. I just—it would mean so much to me if you would let me in to see the house. And whatever paintings are easy to show me. Then I’ll leave. Is there any possibility of that, or do you fully and totally hate me?”

“Fine.”

“Really?” A smile spreads across her face.

“Fine,” I say again. “Come in.”

I say yes because what Holland says about Kingsley’s paintings is what I feel about them, too. Like he’s talking to me, impossibly and also maybe inevitably. Like he’s putting the way I feel about being human into images. Showing parts of me to myself.

I know June would want me to turn her away, but I don’t really care what June wants anymore. She pushed me to leave and she hasn’t been around all week since then. I’m responsible to Meer, and I don’t think he’ll mind at all.

I walk Holland through the dining room, the living room, and eventually the kitchen and the breakfast room. She’s full of nervous, friendly energy, rattling off a nonstop barrage of questions.

Who’s the artist of the mobile?

Why hasn’t my dad come home?

Who all lives here? Do I have any cousins?

Is my brother home? When do I expect him back?

She knows I said I don’t date girls, but everyone’s a little bit bisexual. Don’t I agree?

Tell about the selkie painting.

Tell about the Odysseus painting.

What’s in the various towers? Have I been to Kingsley’s studio?

Do we really not have regular use of a car? What is this being unplugged about?

In the breakfast nook, Holland zeroes in on Cliffside Gothic. The Cinderella painting. She stops talking abruptly.

Then she sits down heavily on a bench. I realize she’s on the verge of tears.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“You okay?”

She takes a deep breath. “Oh god.”

“What?”

She puts her hands over her face for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Then she looks at me again. “I should explain something.”

“Go ahead.”

“My family—the family stuff I was talking about in Edgartown. That kept me busy all week. That was the Sinclair memorial, actually.”

“They’re your family? The Sinclairs.”

“Yeah. My granddad’s brother Harris owns Beechwood Island,” says Holland.

“Harris who was married to Tipper,” I say, remembering that Meer knew Harris’s late wife.

“Mm-hm. My mom used to visit Beechwood in the summers.”

“So the kids who died—”

“They were my second cousins, I guess, technically. Plus this boy who was their friend. I knew them all from summers here, or sometimes we’d get invited to Beechwood for a weekend. My mom is still close with her cousins.” She wipes at her eyes. “Anyway. The memorial for Johnny and Mirren was the day after I got here. And I was so stupid, Matilda.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought somehow that I’d put on a black dress and do this mourning ritual with my mom and everyone, and that would be it. Like, I thought that after the service, I’d feel better. And it would be completely easy to spend the last part of summer in the rental house with my girls, just partying and lazing around before college starts. But it turns out not to be easy at all. I keep crying. At unexpected times. And my extended family has been up in Edgartown for weeks now, and they keep having dinners. They want me to come, so I go. I want to go, because they’re all so freaking wrecked. And I’m wrecked, too. But my friends don’t understand. They’re mad I keep leaving them. And taking my car, because that means they don’t have the beach pass and whatever.