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agreed he could go to Hampton Day School. Now he’s at Deerfield.”
    “Why were they so against education?”
    “The usual reasons. They felt that rote learning stifled creativity and that they could do a better job. I think it was a mistake. They didn’t do my husband any favors.” She gave an anxious glance at the house. “I’d better go wash up. Sure you won’t stay?”
    “Maybe tomorrow.” I opened the van door thoughtfully. No one had mentioned an au pair.

 
    C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    O N F RIDAY MORNING, I decided to take a break from Nate Erikson’s work and catalog the illustrators that had been his inspiration. I felt like Howard Carter exploring King Tut’s tomb, the treasures were that amazing. Howard Pyle’s Book of Pirates. The Yearling by N. C. Wyeth, a first edition Moby Dick by Rockwell Kent. I lingered long over the work of Maxfield Parrish. These artists were dead now, and the tradition of beautifully illustrated classics was dying too. What effect would that have had on Nate Erikson’s career?
    It was not even noon when Bianca knocked and stepped inside. “We missed you the past couple of days.”
    “I had errands,” I apologized insincerely.
    “That’s understandable. But we’ll see you today? We want to talk about the memorial tomorrow night.””
    “Sure. Thanks.”
    O VER CHICKEN M ARSALA, the family speculated about who would be attending the memorial.
    “I don’t know why they didn’t have it in August, when more people were out here,” Claude complained. “The season is almost over.”
    “Sweetie, your family’s not the Kennedys. It’s on a Saturday night, after all.”
    Lynn’s comment earned her a scowl from Mama. “We may not have been the Kennedys, but we founded Springs!”
    “Well, Krasner and Pollock were already here,” Claude conceded.
    “ Them. ”
    “I suggested doing something at Guild Hall because I wanted to honor Dad’s memory. His legacy. But this feels like it’s turning into a circus.” Bianca frowned at her lunch as if it were somehow to blame. “Everything’s always about him anyway. No one remembers that my little girl died too.”
    “Oh, we remember.” Claude’s knife slid off the chicken breast and screeched onto the plate. “How could we forget when she caused it all?”
    “You don’t know that! You weren’t there. Anything could have happened. Maybe she saw that Dad was in trouble and tried to pull him out.”
    A harsh laugh from Puck. He raised his eyes to heaven. “Morgan as lifeguard? That’s a new one. That brat wouldn’t have saved an ant crossing her path. If you hadn’t brought her into this family . . .”
    Bianca gasped and Lynn dropped her knife. “That’s enough .” Lynn turned on Puck. “What’s wrong with you? She was an innocent little child.”
    “Not so innocent that—”
    “Enough!” Claude echoed his wife. “Puck, you’re way out of line.”
    “Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way.”
    Mama watched the fireworks complacently.
    Rosa stared down at her plate.
    Were they really talking about a four-year-old child they had all been related to? How mean did you have to be to call a dead child a brat? At least Lynn and Claude had protested. But what kind of grandmother sat there as if listening to a discussion of a neighbor’s unruly dog? If Lynn hadn’t spoken up, I would have had to.
    I turned my head to look at Bianca, who was fighting to not cry. I reached out and put my hand over hers, pressing hard.
    Puck put down his fork and sighed. “Sorry, Bee. It was just a stupid joke.”
    “Never mind,” she said finally.
    “It’s this damn memorial that has everyone on edge. I don’t—”
    His apology was interrupted by a smart rapping at the front door.
    Claude jumped up. “I think it’s for me.”
    “Psychic now?” Puck raised his eyebrows.
    “He’s expecting something from Japan,” Lynn explained to the table.
    After three or four minutes Claude returned with a scowl, carrying a