“You were close.”
His lips trembled. He let his arms fall to his sides. “Things were great before Frank came along. When Cristina started working here, she had just finished her residency at MASS MoCA. That was a huge deal for her. She was completely self-taught. She’d been clean for two years.”
“I’ve seen her work online,” Maya said. “She was talented.”
“She could’ve been famous. When I met her, she was living out of this little studio she rented. Painting every day. Then she met Frank and he was her new drug. She was obsessed. Started canceling on me all the time.”
Maya’s stomach tightened. He could have been talking about her seven years ago. “Did you ever see them together?”
“They always hung out alone, which I’m sure was his idea. I think he felt threatened by me. Wanted her all to himself. I only saw him the few times he picked Cristina up from work, and always from a distance. He never got out of his car.”
“Did she seem . . . different to you?”
Steven looked around the room as if for a museum patron who might need his help, but he and Maya were the only ones in the silent mineral gallery. She felt a twinge of guilt at making him so uncomfortable, but when he spoke again, the words tumbled from him as if they’d been pent up. They sounded like a confession. “Yes, she changed,” he said. “I saw it happen and it killed me, but I didn’t do anything. I was so afraid of pushing her away that by the time I confronted her . . .” He took a deep breath. “Two weeks ago, there was this day that she didn’t come to work. Didn’t call in or anything, and it was so unlike her—Cristina loved that she got to work at a museum. I drove by her studio that night, and her car was there, but she was gone, and I knew she had to be with Frank. She didn’t come back the next day, or the day after that, but then on Monday, I got to work and there she was. Like she never left. And she never said anything about all the frantic voicemails I had left.”
“Where had she been?”
He shook his head. “All she would say was that she and Frank had gone away for the weekend. She kept her job, so she must have had a better excuse for the boss. I still have no idea where she went, but wherever it was, she got herself a tattoo while she was there. Right here on the inside of her arm . . .” He ran his finger down the soft skin between his inner elbow and his wrist.
“What of?”
“A key.”
Maya’s blood ran cold. “A key?”
“Like a car key or something,” he said. “But with sharp edges. I don’t know what it meant, but I wish I’d asked. I should’ve asked more questions . . .” His voice was heavy. “Instead I got mad. I accused her of being back on drugs. When she denied it, I called her a liar.”
“Do you think she was on drugs?”
“Cristina had a close call two years ago, and it permanently damaged her heart. It’s what kept her clean—she knew that if she started using again, it would kill her. She never would have started again if it wasn’t for him.” Steven’s hands clenched at his sides, a vein throbbed in his neck, and Maya glimpsed how deeply he’d cared about Cristina. “That’s what I think happened,” he said. “I blame Frank for getting her back on meth, putting too much strain on her heart.”
Maya weighed this theory against her own and understood that his appeared to make more sense.
“I knew she was in trouble,” he said. Tears welled in his big brown eyes. “Cristina knew it too. I think she knew that she was going to die.”
Voices approached from a few rooms down, and Steven talked faster, as if he needed to get the words out. “The day before she died, she came over and said that she was sorry for the way she’d been acting. She gave me her newest painting. It was beautiful, different from her usual work. I asked her why she was giving it to me, and she said she was getting rid of some stuff. Cleaning out her place. I got the worst feeling when I heard that.”
The voices were almost in the room with them now, but Steven went on, needing to come clean. “She knew what would happen if she started using again. She knew, and I’m sure Frank did too.”
An elderly couple entered the mineral room. “And so did I,” Steven said, his voice cracking. “I could’ve stopped her from dying, but I didn’t. So yes, I blame him, and I blame her for falling for him, but most of all I blame myself.”
SEVENTEEN
Frank never tells Maya where he’s taking her, and she likes this about him. She prefers surprise to knowing what comes next. Today he’s driven them in his dad’s car onto Thomas Island, which is actually a peninsula dipping down into Onota Lake. Most of the two dozen houses on the peninsula line up along its western shore, each with its own grassy beach and floating dock, many with boats tied to them. The houses have decks. Two-car garages. As they drive, Maya realizes she’s never been here, despite living less than three miles away.
She leans back, savoring the breeze off the lake as they cruise Shore Drive, “Sweet Jane” dripping from the speakers. She has her feet on the dash, and the sun through the window feels like bathwater. The air is alive. She doesn’t know where they’re going, and it doesn’t matter. Today is the day he will kiss her. She’s sure of it. And if he doesn’t, she will kiss him.
They reach the end of the peninsula, then loop back up as if to leave, but instead of driving them back across the land bridge, Frank turns down a narrow, wooded road marked by a dead end sign. A weeping willow trails its leaves over the car as he drives them to the eastern shore of the peninsula. This side is thick with trees. The few houses are large and expensive-looking, set back from the road behind manicured lawns. Frank pulls into an unpaved driveway that disappears into the trees. He slows to a stop.
“What are we doing here?”
His smile is mysterious. “You’ll see.”
He gets out of the car, and she follows. They continue on foot along the wooded drive until they come to a house larger than the others with white colonnades and a wraparound porch. Maya glances at Frank as they cut across the wide lawn, headed for a stand of trees between the house and the lake.
“Whose place is this?” she asks.
“Belongs to a friend of my dad’s.”
He leads them down a footpath, then onto a dock.
Maya’s swum at Onota Lake for as long as she can remember but has never seen it from here. It could be an ocean. The water at her feet mirrors the sky, blue upon blue, clouds floating like lily pads.
Frank lifts the hatch of a large storage box near the end of the dock. Inside are life vests, bodyboards, and a few foam noodles. He reaches inside, runs his fingers along the rim of the box until he finds what he’s looking for. A key. He jingles it on its plastic key chain as he walks over to the classic wood-paneled motorboat lolling by the dock. The boards beneath her shift as Frank steps across several feet of water into the boat.
Maya tenses.
He turns. Offers her his hand.
“Your dad’s friend said you could use it?”
“Anytime I want.”
She relaxes, steps closer to the edge. Takes his hand. His touch is a thrill. He helps her over the gap onto the swaying boat, and for a moment—too short—they hold on to each other for balance. His smell is musky, sun-kissed, his neck inches from her lips. She flushes all over as he turns away to untie them from the dock. She sinks down onto the red leather seat.