Chapter 18

Once, I asked David about the stranger near the pond. We were inside the kitchen of the main house, cleaning up after a private birthday party for one of the guests, the beauty queen of Erie County, a fussy and pretentious, but remarkably beautiful on the outside, but not so much on the inside, Miss Alexandra Carla Mass.

“Who are you talking about? What man by the pond?” he replied.

I didn’t know what he meant by that, confused. “The artist by the pond. The one who comes and visits. He sets up his easel and paints. He’s been out there numerous times. Haven’t you seen him?”

He provided me with a glassy and bemused look: upturned eyebrows and nose, wrinkles on his forehead. So much confusion on his face. So much uncertainty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

How strange I found his answer, baffling. How unexpected. I blinked numerous times, halting the action of drying dishes near the quartz counter. “You’ve never seen him?”