“It wouldn’t happen today, would it?”

Violet glanced over, surprised to be addressed by a stranger. “What wouldn’t?”

“A grown man spending hour upon hour sketching and sculpting a pubescent girl.” Nat kept her eyes on the bronze statue. “It would be considered perverted.”

“Uh . . . because it would be perverted,” Violet snorted.

“Degas wanted to depict commoners, the real people of France,” Nat continued. “Most artists of the time only featured idealized body types. Heroes or goddesses.”

“Hmm. . . .” The girl sounded dismissive. Nat upped her game.

“When Degas first displayed this sculpture, critics were really cruel. They said the dancer looked like a monkey, that her face was obviously of low character.”

Violet looked at her then. “Are you an artist?”

Nat met her light brown eyes, smiled. “I’m an art student. You?”

“No.” She turned back to the statue. “I just like her. My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

At the casual mention of Violet’s father, Nat felt her stomach twist. But she maintained her cool. “And now you come alone?”

“Yeah,” the girl said dismissively. “My dad’s busy.”

But he’s spending more time with you. Because you’re having emotional problems.

Instead, Nat said, “My dad would never bring me here. He lives in Vegas, for one. And he’d have no idea who Degas was. He’d think he was a rapper. Or maybe a boxer.”

Violet chuckled. “Dads suck. Like most men.”

“They sure do.” They were silent for a beat, and then Nat filled the void. “The little dancer’s father died when she was young. Her mother was a laundress. One of her sisters became a prostitute.”

Violet said, “You know a lot about her.”

“I did a project.” Nat smiled. “It’s all on Wikipedia.”

“I’ll have to read up on her.”

“Now you don’t need to.”

Violet smiled, and their eyes connected for a moment. Nat felt an odd sort of pull. She couldn’t let Violet go, not now. Before she could chicken out, she said, “I’m going to get a coffee in the café. Want to join me?”

Violet Turnmill’s brow crinkled ever so slightly. Was she suspicious? Surprised that a stranger would ask her out for coffee after a two-minute conversation?

And then the younger girl shrugged. “Sure. I could use a coffee.”

35

The Return

The week after Gabe ended his arrangement with Natalie had been hell. He’d returned to Sagaponack, working from home to be close to his wife and daughter. Violet seemed perplexed by his presence, but he explained that he had a light caseload, so he wanted to spend some time with his “favorite girls.” She’d looked at him as if he were speaking Farsi. It would take time to worm his way back into his daughter’s affections, but he would get there.

All the while, his phone nearly exploded with angst and vitriol. Natalie’s texts veered from pleading to raging, with all stops in between. Locked in the master bathroom, he listened to the voice messages begging him to reconsider, negotiating with him to redefine their relationship, threatening to tell his daughter, to destroy him, kill him even. (He could tell Natalie was drunk.) The girl was a fucking lunatic.