An Illustrated Death by Judi Culbertson Page B

and posing in a group with Eve at a picnic on the beach. The last board held pages from the Life magazine story Bianca had mentioned, photos of a younger Nate in his studio and walking the grounds. One photo showed the whole family around a table, drawing. An adorable Puck, no more than two, held a fistful of crayons up to the camera.
    I didn’t see my sister or any of the Eriksons in the lobby, so we continued into the John Drew Theater and found our seats in the fourth row. The auditorium was opulent, with a silky tan and brown ceiling and a crystal chandelier. A grand piano, shrouded in canvas, was discarded on one side of the stage like somebody’s aunt. Looking around, I located Eve shifting restlessly between Bianca and Claude, fingering her program like a small child forced to sit still in church. Lynn, wearing a ruffled black dress, was beside her husband. Rosa on her left looked half asleep.
    Oddly, there was an empty seat between Lynn and Rosa, as if the family did not want to be identified with her. Then I realized it was not odd at all. The empty seat was the one they were saving for Gretchen. She must be still in the lobby talking to old friends. Claude stood up then and scanned the room as if looking for her. His oversized tuxedo hung from his shoulders like a jacket draped on a scarecrow. I was certain that it had been Nate’s, that by wearing it Claude was hoping to be the man his father had been.
    I stared down at my program feeling the weight of Colin beside me. I looked calm but was churning inside. I had no doubt he did love me. But why did Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle come to mind?
    A chime trilled three notes, and the rest of the audience wandered in gracefully. When everyone was seated, a smiling dark-haired woman approached the side podium. She was dressed in an ivory silk suit, perhaps to show that she was a member of the staff and not a guest.
    “ ‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ ” she said softly. “But a wise man once reminded us that there is a season for everything. For living, and for dying. We are in mourning for this great artist who was taken from us so tragically. Yet we are also gathered here to celebrate his extraordinary talent and life. Nate Erikson did not live in vain.”
    Briefly she described how he and Eve had come to Springs in the early 1970s as a young married couple, raised a family, and helped to develop an entire artistic community. “They called their home Adam’s Revenge and it was indeed paradise on Earth. Only the privileged were allowed inside. Their presence in the community triggered the migration of other artists, especially to Amagansett and Springs. And all of this before the Hampton Jitney.”
    A ripple of surprised laughter.
    “Nate Erikson will be remembered most for the illustrations that enriched the lives of readers the world over. Tonight we are privileged to have an exhibit of his landscapes as well as the work of his daughter Regan, a talented artist in her own right. Most excitingly, unlike our museum exhibits, these works are available to collectors,” she finished demurely. It reminded me that the money from the tickets, besides any commissions from sold artworks, went to benefit Guild Hall.
    The speaker introduced Regan next, and I sat up to get a better look at the sister that everyone hated. Her fair hair had darkened to chestnut and tumbled over her shoulders like a stream breaking on rocks. Her silky dress of beautiful patchwork colors was either an expensive designer creation or a vintage store offering. There had been nothing like it at Veterans’ Thrift or I would have snapped it up.
    “I grew up before the term ‘dysfunctional’ was applied to families,” she began.
    There was an intake of breath around me. At last people would be hearing the true story of what went on behind those garden walls.
    “But it wouldn’t have mattered. My childhood was an idyllic one.”
    A release of disappointed air.
    “My father,