the Great Neck housewife’s list of social outings, which might include soccer games, bar mitzvahs, lunch at the Americana mall, or a trip to the pedicurist. It wasn’t that women in Great Neck didn’t spend a fortune on their clothes, but if youdidn’t work you could make do with a pair of well-tailored chinos, a pair of Tod’s loafers, a Burberry quilted jacket, and whatever expensive bag was in style at the moment. But then I recall that I bought a lovely floral print dress at Anthropologie for Sally to wear to Lexy’s Sweet Sixteen last summer. Sally declared it lame after wearing it once, but I hadn’t been able to throw it out. She looked so pretty in it. I’ve lost so much weight that I can probably fit into it now.
“I think I have something,” I tell Dymphna.
She looks relieved. “Well, I should hope so. A pretty lass like you. You can change when you bring Miss Vera’s papers back to your cottage for safekeeping. Don’t forget. Dean St. Clare will have your head if anything happens to them.”
But I’m not able to get back to the cottage right away. By the time I’ve finished discussing my wardrobe shortcomings with Dymphna, I have only ten minutes to get to my Senior Lit Seminar. Unfortunately, it’s in another building—Briar Lodge. So I tuck the heavy hatbox under my arm and take it with me.
The walk to Briar Lodge proves longer than the campus map led me to believe. It’s on the western side of the apple orchard, on the edge of the woods below the ridge where I’d gotten lost last night. It was Virgil Nash’s residence and studio when he came back to Arcadia. This is where he was living when Lily died. When I get to the Lodge I see that there’s a path that starts beside the building and goes up into the woods. It must lead to the ridge trail that I inadvertently took last night. I wonder if Lily took that trail to meet Nash on the night she died, and fell into the clove just as I almost had. The memory of how close I came to meeting the same fate she did makes me feel a little light-headed.
When I walk into the first-floor parlor where the class is to be held, the feeling only intensifies. Designed to take advantage of the southern exposure, the room feels like it’s made out of light, from the wide plank oak floors to the vaulted ceiling. Most striking of all are the paintings. When Dymphna Byrnes told me that Vera Beecher had ordered Nash’s painting removed from the Dining Hall I had assumed that all of his paintings had been purged from Arcadia. But that was not the case.
Three large oil paintings hang over the couch at the end of the room. They’re in Nash’s “late style,” when he was moving away from the traditional society paintings from which he’d made his living. Instead of posed, formal portraits, these are stark and vivid renderings of a woman. The center painting is a close-up of her face. Framed by lank blond hair, pale blue eyes defiantly stare straight at the viewer. The painting on the left shows the same woman standing nude in a doorway of a barn. Strips of light coming through gaps in the barn wall ripple over her body, but her face is in shadow. The last painting is of a naked woman lying on grass beneath a tree, her body dappled with late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves. From the color of her hair and the angularity of her figure, I guess it’s the same woman as in the other two paintings, but since she’s turned away from the viewer it’s impossible to tell for sure.
“Lily has that effect on everybody,” a dark-haired young man seated on the couch says. “That’s why I’m sitting under her, not facing her. I’d never be able to concentrate on what you’re saying…. no offense.”
“No offense taken,” I say, taking a chair opposite the couch and putting my book bag and the purple hatbox on a low oak table. “These are amazing paintings. I’ve always heard that Nash’s late portraits of Lily were remarkable, but I’ve
“I think I have something,” I tell Dymphna.
She looks relieved. “Well, I should hope so. A pretty lass like you. You can change when you bring Miss Vera’s papers back to your cottage for safekeeping. Don’t forget. Dean St. Clare will have your head if anything happens to them.”
But I’m not able to get back to the cottage right away. By the time I’ve finished discussing my wardrobe shortcomings with Dymphna, I have only ten minutes to get to my Senior Lit Seminar. Unfortunately, it’s in another building—Briar Lodge. So I tuck the heavy hatbox under my arm and take it with me.
The walk to Briar Lodge proves longer than the campus map led me to believe. It’s on the western side of the apple orchard, on the edge of the woods below the ridge where I’d gotten lost last night. It was Virgil Nash’s residence and studio when he came back to Arcadia. This is where he was living when Lily died. When I get to the Lodge I see that there’s a path that starts beside the building and goes up into the woods. It must lead to the ridge trail that I inadvertently took last night. I wonder if Lily took that trail to meet Nash on the night she died, and fell into the clove just as I almost had. The memory of how close I came to meeting the same fate she did makes me feel a little light-headed.
When I walk into the first-floor parlor where the class is to be held, the feeling only intensifies. Designed to take advantage of the southern exposure, the room feels like it’s made out of light, from the wide plank oak floors to the vaulted ceiling. Most striking of all are the paintings. When Dymphna Byrnes told me that Vera Beecher had ordered Nash’s painting removed from the Dining Hall I had assumed that all of his paintings had been purged from Arcadia. But that was not the case.
Three large oil paintings hang over the couch at the end of the room. They’re in Nash’s “late style,” when he was moving away from the traditional society paintings from which he’d made his living. Instead of posed, formal portraits, these are stark and vivid renderings of a woman. The center painting is a close-up of her face. Framed by lank blond hair, pale blue eyes defiantly stare straight at the viewer. The painting on the left shows the same woman standing nude in a doorway of a barn. Strips of light coming through gaps in the barn wall ripple over her body, but her face is in shadow. The last painting is of a naked woman lying on grass beneath a tree, her body dappled with late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves. From the color of her hair and the angularity of her figure, I guess it’s the same woman as in the other two paintings, but since she’s turned away from the viewer it’s impossible to tell for sure.
“Lily has that effect on everybody,” a dark-haired young man seated on the couch says. “That’s why I’m sitting under her, not facing her. I’d never be able to concentrate on what you’re saying…. no offense.”
“No offense taken,” I say, taking a chair opposite the couch and putting my book bag and the purple hatbox on a low oak table. “These are amazing paintings. I’ve always heard that Nash’s late portraits of Lily were remarkable, but I’ve
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