She eyes the building in front of her. It’s stately and tall: four stories, which is one level higher than nearly all the other buildings on the street. She smiles as she thinks of Michael not needing to duck within these entrances—unlike at her own store. But as her eyes sweep down the front bricks and over the double-length drapes covering what is likely their parlor room, a chill travels through her. The drapes are halfway parted, and for the life of her she can’t see what’s on the inside. Instead, the window glasssimply reflects the sidewalk trees behind her. A mirrored film on their windows, likely, but it makes the building feel soulless. There’s an imposing feel to the structure, a do-you-dare-to-enter vibe. Even the metal grilles on the garden-level small windows end in sharp, chiseled points.
It’s suiting, she supposes. The Knox is Boston’s most elusive secret society.
But then there is the other story about the Knox, the one that belongs only to Vivian’s family. The story that has been buried for generations, just like her mother has always wished. But her mother’s preferences hardly matter, at least not anymore. She won’t know the difference; her mind has deteriorated into nearly a blank slate, the dementia having swiftly wiped her memories like a whiteboard eraser.
Except for that goddamn La Mer cream.
Vivian smooths any potential strands that may have escaped from her low bun and then brushes up the steep stone steps to the front door. She never cared about the family lore, either. Not until a few days ago, when she found her life completely different—something that belonged to someone else: a person who suddenly needs money.
Using the antique brass knocker, adorned with flowers she cannot place, she raps several times on the wooden door. There’s no buzzer.
She supposes the Knox doesn’t get random visitors.
Staring at the door, she counts to five before she starts knocking again.
Finally, a woman, tall—nearly as tall as Vivian—and thin, opens it. “Yes?” the woman says curtly. Her light blue eyes bore, laser-like, into Vivian’s.
“I’m looking for Michael,” Vivian says.
The woman pauses, runs her tongue over her teeth. She takesso long to respond that Vivian wonders if she’s having some sort of mini stroke. She does look like she has a good twenty years on Vivian.
“Who are you?” the woman finally says, almost reluctantly, as if realizing that Vivian is not going away.
“I’m Vivian. I own Storied Antiques, on Pinckney Street. Michael had sent the carousel horse to me for repair a few weeks ago.”
Why is Vivian prattling on to this woman? Who is she, anyway? She seems like she works there rather than belonging as a member, given her faded blue jeans and white turtleneck top. She makes Vivian look like she’s stepping off the Bergdorf Goodman runway, though to be fair, Vivian always looks that way. Today she is dressed smartly in a navy-blue pantsuit beneath her wool camel-hair coat. A trait she inherited from her mother: the compulsive need to be the best dressed in the room.
“Is it fixed?” the woman bluntly asks.
“It is.” Vivian puffs up slightly; even though she didn’t like the thing to begin with, she’s proud of the masterful repair job she’s facilitated.
“I’ll let Michael know, and he’ll follow up with you.”
The woman starts to close the door, but Vivian inserts her foot in it. “Wait!”
Sighing, the woman pulls the door back open. “Yes?”
“Let me give you my card.”
Obviously, Michael has her number and knows where the store is; Vivian’s stalling for time. She’s not ready to be dismissed and is hoping to get a glance inside, hoping for any way into this place that may just be the answer to all of her problems.
She fumbles with her orange Hermès wallet as she extracts a business card, while at the same time trying to peer beyond the woman’s shoulder, into the entrance of the Knox. But thiswoman’s got a death grip on the door—she’s strong, for being likely in her sixties—and the entrance alcove is small, boxy. Vivian can barely make out the widening of the room behind it: a sliver of a grand winding staircase with a paisley carpet runner. It’s dim, too. You’d they think would light up this place like a Christmas tree.
But then, suddenly, a silhouette appears, quickly descending those stairs.
“Rose, do we have a visitor?” a man’s voice calls out. He sounds almost amused.
The woman—Rose, apparently—stiffens slightly. “Yes, Mr.Wales. A woman is here about the carousel horse.”
Rose opens the door now completely—though a bit reluctantly—as the man approaches. He smiles at Vivian and nods, as if he somehow recognizes her—but she would certainly remember had they previously met. She feels a flush come on as she manages to smile back. He’s her age, or slightly older. Ruggedly handsome: salt-and-pepper hair, deep grooves in his face. Eyes colored blue in an easy sort of way, like a cloudless sky.
“Hello, I’m Peter. Peter Wales.” He reaches out to shake her hand, and she’s glad he does, because she feels a little dizzy.
“Hi, I’m Vivian. I have the antiques store, over on Pinckney Street.”
They continue to clasp hands, even though they’re done with formalities. Rose has disappeared. But everything has disappeared. Vivian feels like a cartoon character with hearts spilling out of her head.
“Storied Antiques,” he says with a nod. She’s surprised he knows the name of her store. “You didn’t want to ride the horse back to its home?” he asks.
