“All right,” Jamie said. In a fit of daring, he took her hand and squeezed it.
She squeezed back, said, “My father likes people who make their own way.”
She wrote directions to Hereford House on a page of his drawing pad and told him to come on Sunday, after lunch, when Mr. Fahey would be home.
* * *
—
The house was bigger than even the grandest residences in Missoula, its equally imposing neighbors kept at a polite distance by walls and wide lawns.
A brass ring dangled from a brass bull’s nose in the middle of the front door, and, after some hesitation, Jamie lifted it and rapped once. Immediately a girl who resembled （but was not） Sarah flung open the door, and an enormous barking haystack of gray-and-white fur came hurtling out from behind her. “Jasper!” the girl scolded, swatting at the animal’s bearlike haunches. Jamie offered his palm, and when the dog paused to sniff, the girl caught him by his collar and heaved him back. She was tall, though not as tall as Sarah, with the same long neck and a longer, cannier face. “I assume you’re Jamie,” she said. “I’m Alice, the next one up. Come in, please. Sarah is here somewhere. Aren’t you tall, though? You’re really only sixteen? No wonder Sarah likes you. No boys are ever as tall as Sarah.”
She ushered him into a square entryway paneled in wood with the golden translucence of honey. A tasseled Persian rug was underfoot, and Jasper lolloped around, panting and peering out from under his disheveled white fringe. A wide doorway with a leaded transom window led into a larger space, also paneled, also with a rug. From there a staircase led up to a balustraded gallery. Though dazed by the opulence, Jamie hadn’t missed the import of Alice’s words. Sarah liked him. He longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Sarah liked him, and what form, exactly, Sarah’s liking took.
From the center of the high, coffered ceiling dangled a cascade of prisms and bulbs. Paintings and drawings of all shapes and sizes crowded the walls, some in elaborate frames. Alice pressed a switch, and the chandelier flared to life. “Daddy likes art,” she said.
“God,” Jamie said, gazing around. “Seems like it.”
Alice tittered. “Daddy likes God, too,” she said, “so you’ll want to watch what you say.”
Jamie, thanks to Wallace and to the public library, knew a good amount about art, enough to recognize, among Mr. Fahey’s eclectic collection, a Remington cavalry scene and an O’Keeffe iris. “You see this one?” Alice tapped the frame of a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman against a dark background. “That’s Mother. John Singer Sargent painted her. Do you know who that is?”
“Was.” Jamie moved to get a better look. The painting was exquisite. “He’s dead. That’s your mother?”
Again she tittered. “Yes. You’ll meet her.”
The woman in the painting had the same small chin and long lashes as Sarah. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips parted as though she were about to offer a retort.
“Father has gobs more in storage, but honestly once you’ve seen this room, you’ve seen the best of it. Patience is not his strong suit. He wants the good stuff to hit you right when you come through the door.”
“I can’t quite take it all in.”
“You’re here!” said a voice from above. Sarah came hurrying down the stairs. “Alice, why didn’t you come get me?”
“I called you,” Alice lied. “You must not have heard. He’s just been here a few minutes. We were talking about portraits. Jamie has promised to draw mine, haven’t you, Jamie?” She looped her arm through his.
“Don’t let her boss you,” Sarah said to Jamie. “Alice is the bossiest sister.”
“I’d love to,” he told Alice.
She released him. “Good. After you finish talking with Father, I’ll sit for you.”
Jamie nodded, then stopped. “Oh—I don’t have my pencils.”
“Then you’ll have to come back,” Alice said. “You should do one of Jasper as well.” She seized the dog’s mop of a face and said to him, “Don’t you think so, Jasper? Haven’t you always wanted to be a muse?”
“Father’s waiting,” said Sarah. She beckoned to Jamie. “Come on.”
She led him deeper into the house. Everywhere were paintings and drawings, far more than he could take in. He found the house in general to be gloomy, cluttered, and close, with not enough windows. The density of artwork added to the oppressiveness, but Sarah seemed perfectly at ease, keeping up a narration as she walked. “This is the sitting room, and this is a room we only use for parties, that’s the music room, that’s the dining room. This clock is very old.” They came to a dark, heavy door, and Sarah whispered, “Just be confident.” She knocked with the back of one hand. In the dimness, as she listened and knocked again, Jamie saw her face in quarter profile, her jaw set with tension.