The Debutante by Kathleen Tessaro

all right?’
    ‘Yes … well…’ She hesitated. ‘Sort of.’
    A knot tightened in Cate’s stomach. ‘What do you mean, sort of?’
    There was a silence.
    ‘I’ve had a visitor,’ Rachel said at last. ‘A man, wanting to see you. Someone from New York.’

    Driving back to London, they were courteous, formal. Overly polite.
    The inventory of Endsleigh was finished now. All thatremained was for the catalogue to be drawn up and the auction to take place.
    Jack switched on the radio. The delicious tension he’d experienced on the way down, the hope, was dulled by frustration and disappointment.
    Cate sat next to him, stomach tight, mind racing. A visitor from New York. A man. He had stopped in the office, made enquiries; left an envelope.
    ‘What did he look like?’ she had asked.
    ‘Well …’ Again Rachel had paused. ‘Not exactly good-looking but well dressed. Tall. With glasses.’
    ‘Glasses?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh. I see.’
    He’d sent a messenger.
    ‘Do you want me to open it?’ Rachel had suggested last night. ‘I have it right here.’
    ‘No.’ Her answer was sharp, terrified.
    ‘Do you want me to throw it away?’
    Silence.
    ‘Katie? Shall I throw it away?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Cate sighed, twisting round in her seat. She was gone — starting again in another country. So why was Rachel’s question so baffling?
    Jack looked across at her.
    He’d blown it. The only thing he couldn’t work out was if he’d blown it because he hadn’t kissed her or because healmost had. Whatever the answer, she was gone now, far away in the concerns of her own life.
    So they drove home, through the rolling hills, the picturesque seaside villages and national landmarks of this green and pleasant land. They drove without speaking, the radio losing and gaining reception, each occupied with their own thoughts.
    Halfway home, the sky darkened. Jack pulled over and cranked the top up. Almost immediately thick drops fell, lightning seared across the sky. Their progress was slow, windscreen wipers squeaking furiously across the window, sheets of grey rain obscuring the view.
    Cate closed her eyes. Her life seemed as torrential and unfathomable as the storm rumbling around them, slipping through her fingers like water. Automatically, she thought of the shoebox, hidden inside her overnight bag. It drew her, pulling her away from her tangled thoughts; filling the void of her loneliness. She was a thief, stealing fragments of the past from the old house; peering into the private life of a dead woman. More than that, it was dangerous; illegal. She’d taken a Tiffany bracelet; personal belongings from a client of Rachel’s. Part of her dreaded what would happen if anyone found out. And yet to put it back had been unthinkable.
    Was it her imagination, or was the connection she felt to the house, to the mysterious sisters, real?
    The wheels hummed beneath her. In another hour they would be back in London.
    Cate wondered what Irene looked like when she was younger. What perfume she wore; what her favourite song was.
    They crept forward, lorries whizzing by them, buffeted by the wind.
    Suddenly she could see her, sitting next to her new husband as he pulled up the long arched drive of Endsleigh for the first time. It was an early-autumn afternoon; bright and clear. He brought the Daimler to a stop, turned off the engine. Overwhelmed with excitement, Irene climbed out of the car, eyes wide, laughing in amazement.
    She turned to face him, the sea breeze tossing her dark curls around her lovely face. ‘Is it really ours?’
    ‘Yes,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘It’s really ours.’
    He took a set of keys from his coat pocket. And wrapping his arm around Irene’s shoulder, he led her to the front door. ‘We’re going to be happy here,’ he promised, pressing his lips to her forehead.
    ‘Yes. I know we will.’ Her eyes were gleaming.
    Her husband turned the key in the lock. ‘Welcome to Endsleigh.’

Cate walked up