The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone Read online

  “You’re glowing,” I said.

  That’s when she told me she’d spent the entire day with Lincoln Reed.

  ZACH FRATEPIETRO: I wanted to come to her party because it made sense for me to attend. It was my mother’s house! And if Addison was there, too, so what? We were all grown-ups. As long as she didn’t have any plates to hurl across the room, right? Sure, I had a natural curiosity about seeing her. I always did.

  As I was getting dressed, my mother had the nerve to call me. “Zachary, I am instructing you as your mother: do not attend this event. Addison Stone is in no state of mind to see you.”

  “Sure, Carine.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I mean it, too.”

  My mother was very concerned about Addison, and she wanted to have a look at her. She was also angling to purchase Bridge Kiss once it was complete. So that night, contrary to reports that I was there, and even though I’d been known in the past to ignore my mother’s warnings, I stayed away. Took some of my buddies out for dinner, and we all were having a great evening. Until Alex called.

  MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: Briarcliff is Carine’s house on the Hudson. It’s hideously splendid. Or maybe it’s splendidly hideous? First of all, it’s still got all the wretched original chimneys and creepy turrets, and a pond surrounded by weeping willows. A vampire palace. My eyes are never used to being dazzled and horrified by it.

  Addison had never been there, not even when she was dating Zach. She was fidgety in the car, and she kept checking her phone.

  “Lincoln might come,” she told me one point. But she said nothing was certain.

  I was surprised about all of it. Surprised they’d spent the day together, surprised they’d made a date for that evening. I’d thought Lincoln and Addison were over. But I didn’t say anything. I could tell she was hopeful about a reconciliation. She was like a little Fabergé egg perched next to me in the car.

  We were a bit late. The sun was just starting to fade. So there were already plenty of other guests, and caterers passing out the champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and there was a jazz trio on the lawn, and my instinct was, “Oh, everything looks perfect, Addison will get over her jitters, she’ll forget about Lincoln. If he shows up to this or not, it won’t matter.”

  We walked through the courtyard and inside through this gilded entranceway. And bang, there it was. Like a hostess to greet us. Addison was right beside me, so the painting was also the first thing that she saw. I could feel her, close on my side, just completely freeze up.

  CARINE FRATEPIETRO: Yes, I obtained the last piece of art that Addison Stone completed. Bloody Sophie is a portrait of the actress Sophie Kiminski. It’s a gorgeous piece of art. At the time, the buyer had wished to remain anonymous. But let me put the rumors to bed. It’s mine. I bought it.

  I would have been a fool not to.

  MAUREEN STONE: The very last time I ever spoke with my daughter—the night she died—she phoned me from that party. I was at my sister’s house in Princeton. As soon as I saw Addison’s number come up, well, I had to excuse myself from the table.

  Later I learned that Addison had been compulsively talking on the phone to everyone, it seemed—Charlie, me, her friends, her doctors. She couldn’t stop. It was apparently an indicator of her psychosis, but nobody knew that she was talking with so many other people, so nobody was really putting the pieces together. I just thought she was lonely. On the phone, I simply couldn’t make sense of what Addison was saying.

  “Addison, slow down!” I kept saying. “Whatever is the matter?”

  All I could gather was it had to do with a painting.

  Then Jennifer came into the study. So I kept passing the phone to her, and then she would try to soothe Addison, and then she’d pass the phone back to me, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of what was really wrong. It was frustrating.

  And Jennifer kept whispering, “Tell her you will talk when she’s calm.” And eventually I did say that. Of course I wish I hadn’t taken Jennifer’s advice. Not that I’m blaming my sister, I’m not. Addison was always dramatic.

  You cannot fathom my regret, that such a strange and bothersome call from Addison would, in fact, be the last time I’d hear her voice.

  LINCOLN REED: We’d been together all that day of the 28th. That morning, I’d flown in and come right over from JFK to her place. Too many people had texted me and emailed me, wanting me to look in on her. It was the first thing I did. Just sent a note I was coming over, and I came over.

  “Your apartment looks like a raided terrorist cell,” I told her.

  She’d been hard at work for I don’t know how long. She told me Marie-Claire was coming over later and dragging her off to this party. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay in and work.”

  “So stay in and work.”

  “I’m the guest of honor. I think everyone wants to check up on me, actually. I’ve been so buried in Bridge Kiss. I probably need some release. So why don’t you come?”

  “Why don’t I drop my stuff, take a nap, swing by here later, and then after the party we go to Sag Harbor?”

  Call it my rescue instinct. We both wanted to be together. At the same time, I didn’t want to be in her world. I wanted to get away with her. Out of the city, out of the scene, even though I knew it would be a struggle for her to detach from the work, which was hypnotic and beautiful.

  “Bridge Kiss is us, right?” I asked her. “It’s got something to do with our first kiss at the top of the Manhattan Bridge? Right?”

  She got shy. “I don’t know. It’s art. It’s that and three hundred million other things.”

  There are people—Marie-Claire, Erikson, Lucy—who always assure me that she was different around me. Her best self, they always say. But that’s not enough for me. I should have seen her better. I should have been my best self. I stayed a while, ordered us some avocado sandwiches and fruit salads, then watched while she ate. And I promised her I’d go to the party.

  “Listen, Lincoln, I’m getting through tonight on reserves,” she said. “I’m burning out. I need you. All I’m holding onto is that I get to escape with you at the end.”

  I kissed her. I left her apartment. I went back home, showered, took a nap, went on a bike ride. I was feeling good, hopeful. When I drove up to Briarcliff, at about eight, I saw Addison standing outside. She was in a long white dress against the deep green lawn. She looked beautiful but deeply frightened. She’d lost some of the serenity of the afternoon. I didn’t know why. Not at the time. It was, of course, because she knew I’d see the painting.

  “Stay out here,” she said when I reached her. Her voice was strained and overly chirpy. “The food and music is out here.”

  “Why, what’s inside?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something.”

  “No, nothing. Stay out here with me.”

  “Why do you want me to stay out here?”

  “Just because!” She was tugging at my arm. Gripping it. “I want to dance with you is why.”

  Addison was always a terrible liar.

  Eventually, I shook her off. I could feel her watching me, as I left her.

  In the shock of seeing it—the painting was hanging right in the foyer so you couldn’t miss it as you walked into the house—I had this scrambled idea that I’d been brought to this party just for the express purpose of seeing it. My next thought was that it was such an incredible painting. And then I also saw it as the proof of all those nights that Ads had worked on it in her studio, but never copped to it. How it had become more important than me.

  I couldn’t decide which was worse; the way portrait-Sophie stared me down, or the way real Addison was looking at me when I came back outside. Her eyes unblinking and filled with unspilled tears.

  But I didn’t say anything. I just left.

  MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: My heart was pounding fear. I knew this was bad. Alexandre Norton did, too. Which only upset me more, because I’d mentioned to him earlier that I
thought Addison and Lincoln might be getting together again. Every cell in my body was willing Addison to try to stay in control of herself, after Lincoln left.

  That’s when Alexandre came up to me, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “See that?” he said. “See Lincoln? He was so pissed. The proverbial nail in the coffin.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Over one stupid painting? You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alex,” I said.

  ZACH FRATEPIETRO: I got a call from Alexandre. He told me that Lincoln finally saw Bloody Sophie and that he had just taken off. And so had Addison. But not together.

  Honestly, I had no idea. No idea that my mother had purchased this painting. I was in the city at P.J. Clarke’s, having beers and burgers with some friends.

  “Go to her,” Alexandre told me. “She needs you. It’s always been you and Addison. This is it. You’ve got to be there for her.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  I’ll admit, I was shaky about it. Seeing Addison wasn’t what I’d planned to do that night. I finished my burger. Had another beer, and then chased it with a bourbon. Alexandre sent me a text. Go to her.

  So I did. When I got all the way downtown, it was pretty late. I stood outside Addison’s apartment building thinking, The fuck am I here? I wasn’t sure if she’d let me in. But she did.

  “I wasn’t sure I should have come,” I said. I was kind of overwhelmed to see her again. Plus I was maybe slightly drunk. Not in fighting shape. I was just so glad to see her. So, so glad, her presence overwhelmed me in waves. She was wearing this long white dress, and she looked like an angel. But when I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, it was ice-cold, like a corpse.

  “Shh. Ida’s here,” she said, like that explained something. I didn’t know if she meant that Ida was inhabiting her or what.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, she picked a bad time.” I said. Joking, kind of. I didn’t want to get into her Ida world. Freaked me out.

  “Your mom either has a terrible sense of humor, or she is clueless,” she whispered, sort of laughing, but sort of strange and disconnected and unhappy, too.

  “Aw, Addison, it’s only a painting. You made it, and you sold it. My mother’s a fan. That’s always been her worst crime.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She smiled at me. My heart, damn. Just looking at her again.

  I’d always believed that we’d find a way back to each other. We’d just gotten ourselves into a really bad patch. Addison had been mine, and then we were forced apart, and we played it out in the press because we both have that kick for drama. It was never as bad as everyone made it out to be.

  “Listen, Addison,” I said, “maybe we should give us another shot. Isn’t Zach-and-Addison what everyone wants, anyway? We’re the couple who sells the magazines. Sometimes there’s wisdom in the majority.”

  But I could tell she wasn’t really listening to me. She was lost in other thoughts. She’d crawled deep inside her own head. I couldn’t have the conversation I wanted to have with her. But she invited me in, and we sat together at her kitchen bar, and it was friendly. She let me poke around, look at her paints and her paintings. She reminded me of other days, better days, when I’d watch her standing at the sink in her Chelsea studio, washing her brushes.

  I pretended not to notice that it looked like a tornado had hit her apartment. We’d been angry with each other for so many months. It was amazing to be hanging out with her in a decent, pure way.

  Addison’s paints/Addison painting, courtesy of Zach Fratepietro.

  Except that she wasn’t normal, obviously. Something was off. It was the Ida factor, I figured. I’d never bought any of that bullshit, the haunted-girl stuff. But that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Addison was gripped by something so forceful that, yeah, it almost felt like another presence in the room.

  We hung out for a while, she brewed us some tea, and then she tried to ease me out. “Zach, I’m glad you came to see me. But now you’ve got to go. I need to get my measurements, I need to get all the measurements, I need to finish Bridge Kiss, and I need to listen to Ida. I never should have left the apartment tonight.”

  “Imaginary Ida who tried to make you kill yourself? You need to go back to listening to her? Don’t be insane, Addison.”

  “Don’t be insane,” she repeated. Then she laughed. “The problem is, Ida is the only person who knows me,” she said. “She hears me, she speaks to me. She reminds me that the work is the only thing. The work is all that matters. So I’ve got to get up there. Bridge Kiss is an installation, and it has to go up tonight.”

  “Up where?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “It needs to be perfect. I can do it without the Lutz boys. I can get to the bridge all by myself.”

  When I realized she was talking about climbing around on a bridge at night, I was like, “Nope, sorry. Whatever that’s about, no way. You’re not in any condition to go anywhere, Addison.” And then I reached out, and I just took her harness. It was right there, on the coat peg. I shook it at her—I felt like I had to give her some kind of a warning.

  “You should go to bed. I’m tucking you in, okay? And I’m taking this to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

  She just shrugged. She wasn’t bothered by me at all. “You think I need that harness? That’s a funny joke, Zach. I wear that harness to be friendly. I wear that so other people think that I care.”

  I decided that she was bluffing. We finished our tea, and I tucked her in. I guess she was just playing me, but I didn’t realize that. I told her I was taking this night as a truce. “Let’s get breakfast together tomorrow. I miss you, baby.” It was the last thing I ever said to her.

  When I left with the harness, I’d gotten her into bed. Even if she hadn’t changed, she looked peaceful, with her eyes heavy, like she was about to drop off to sleep. Of course I didn’t think she was heading out. If I’d thought that she’d leave the apartment, I’d never have left. If she’d tried to get even close to the bridge, I’d have chased her down.

  Why would anyone in her right mind do what she did? Right, I know that answer. She wasn’t in her right mind. And I’ve probably said too much. But whatever, I’m innocent. Taking the harness—that wasn’t to goad her. Yes, I was with her that night, but there wasn’t one thing that I said that provoked what she did next. Not one thing.

  LINCOLN REED: After the party, I drove around to cool my head. In the end, I found myself down on Front Street. I parked and stayed in my car a while. But then I couldn’t deal with it. I watched the light from her apartment. I thought about calling her. Then I had a sense that she wasn’t alone up there. Cheba, I figured. Or Zach.

  I fell asleep in my car. When I woke up an hour or so later, maybe around midnight, I saw that she’d been calling me. My phone kept lighting up over and over like a firefly. I figured whoever had been with her must have left.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t pick up. I was still angry, maybe. But less so.

  She kept calling. Again and again and again. By the time I did answer, she was on the scaffold above the bridge. But she didn’t tell me that. She sounded so close in my ear. I heard sirens and the usual white noise. I figured she was just out on her roof or fire escape. She always liked to find the outdoor space.

  “I had to run away from the party,” I said.

  “Me, too. I couldn’t deal. I’m so sorry you had to see that portrait that way. Or any way.”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

  “It’s not, Lincoln. It’s not.”

  She was saying all of this to me from on the scaffold, which—every time I think about it, makes it all so hard to process.

  “I love you, Lincoln Reed,” was the next thing she said. Plain and simple. You want to know something? It was the first time she ever said it.

  I couldn’t say it back. I mean, not on a phone. I should have. Why didn’t I just say it? I loved her so much. She was the love of my life. But I didn’t.

  Th
e cops believe I must have just hung up when she fell. So if she screamed, I wouldn’t have heard. I would never have forgotten the sound of that scream. So I’m glad I never heard it. I know without a shadow of a doubt that it was an accident. But if I’d told her I loved her, if I’d said I was coming to join her up there, I know in my heart it wouldn’t have happened.

  I guess I will always have to think about that.

  LUCY LIM: Ida Grimes had such a profound impact on Addy’s own life, and yet she was so outside everyone’s reach. She wasn’t alive, and there was so little information about her. It always itched at me, I was always digging for something, some little nugget about her.

  But it wasn’t until the summer, after Addison had died, that this nice old lady who worked at the Providence chapter of the New England Historical Society found the newsprint of the death notice, and I learned that the Grimes family lived about ten miles away from North Lyn. The article also said that Ida used to take art lessons from Calliope Saunders. This was likely the “Miss Cal” who’d lived at Addy’s grandparents’ house.

  Attached to the clipping, there was a picture of a girl, posed in exactly the position that Addison had always sketched her.

  Ida Grimes photograph. Photo credit unknown; courtesy of Lucy Lim.

  MICHAEL FRANTIN: Ginny and I had been married just the year before. We were in New York City for our one-year anniversary. We went back to the bridge, and we were standing right on the pedestrian path. Just holding hands at the very spot where I’d proposed.

  GINNY FRANTIN: It was a warm night, with only a breath of a breeze. The girl came spiraling down out of the darkness like a falling star. She must have been all the way up on the scaffolding above us before we even got to the bridge. Suddenly a body was flying down and past us, like Peter Pan. Until she hit the water, I figured it was a daredevil jump, you know? A bungee jump, or that kind of a thing. She was silent, too. Which made it seem more on purpose.