Maybe that’s true; maybe not. At any rate, Taylor knows it’s only a piece of what really went down at the Knox. There’s no mention of murder, for instance; Graham’s name doesn’t appear in the article. Some things, it seems, will be forever buried. And the Knox itself is mostly spared, maintaining a healthy, notorious distance.
Sam says that Taylor has good stories to tell at a cocktail party, but she’s not ready to hit the Boston party scene. She secures a job as a nurse esthetician at a fancy medical spa on Newbury Street. She thought she’d love it, being able to interact with the high-end clientele, but she doesn’t. She likes being able to try out some of the cosmetic procedures, but the women coming through the door are fussy and entitled, and such complainers. Taylor finds she needs to take a mental snapshot of their outfits before she begins to converse with them, to separate the clothing from the personality.
In fact, Taylor discovers the aspect she enjoys the most about her new job is her walk to and from the clinic, passing the window displays of clothing storefronts. She finds herself critiquing the mannequins, as if they were real models: what Taylor likes, what she would change. Sometimes it’s pairing an entirely different top with a skirt, other times it’s an adjustment on thehemline. Occasionally it’s adding one of her flower embellishments, for which she’s starting to take orders. She has Vivian to thank for that; when Vivian wears them, her customers and friends always inquire where they can purchase such accessories.
“You have an innate sense of style,” Vivian compliments her, to which Taylor jokes, “Yeah, I like nice things.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Vivian says. “Everyone likes nice things. But you have a real nose for fashion. I see it in the things you wear, and your designs. It’s quite remarkable.”
It’s been a little strange to get to know Vivian the person. She’s still intimidating, and Taylor is still in awe. She feels awkward around her and probably acts as such.
Sometimes, when Taylor’s walking along the cobblestoned streets of Beacon Hill, she finds herself almost automatically turning toward the Knox. Once, she stood for a good twenty minutes across the street, staring at the iconic redbrick building’s facade—which remained mostly intact, despite its fire-ravaged insides. The Knox had looked both opened and closed, regal and plain, secretive and ordinary.
A tingle ran through her that she hasn’t been able to forget.
Then there’s that other place in Boston that also had a fire and is also full of secrets. The place on Greenwich Lane where her mother lived. Taylor has yet to visit.
“When you’re ready,” Sam tells her, “I’ll go with you.”
Vivian
Three Months After the Fire
“Good morning,” Michael says, arriving at the store as promised. He hands Vivian a coffee, that day’sNew York Timescrossword puzzle, and a stack of papers. “I had a friend do these CAD drawings of the new space. And the crossword, well, that speaks for itself.”
She flips through the papers, ignoring the puzzle. “These are incredible, Michael.” She peers more closely at them. “Wait, are those the actual pieces of furniture fromthisshop?”
“Yes, as you may remember, I took photos the last time I was here, and they were able to import them.”
“Are those the actual dimensions? The correct ones?”
“Yes.”
She waves the tape measure in her hand. “So you’re saying I don’t need to go around and measure every single piece to figure out what will and won’t fit at the new space?”
“You do not.”
“Thank you. Truly.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he says, and then he turns away, as if her compliment has embarrassed him.
She’s finding she likes his little quirks. She likes spending time with him. She likes the way he cares for her; today, her coffee has the usual splash of milk, but he brought an additional sugar packet on the side, in case she needed a little boost. And then there are the crossword puzzles he brings, ever since he learned they could help with her TBI recovery.
She looks through the drawings, still amazed. “You saved me at least a day of work, if not two, given my brain these days. Now I’ll have time to do this crossword, I suppose.”
“That was my intent,” he jokes.
She’s trying to reconcile Michael the Knox member with Michael the person. They are the same—and they are different. Last week, to her surprise, he offered to do a geomantic divination reading on her behalf. She humored him, asked what she thought was an insignificant question—or at least a foregone conclusion, since she’d already signed the lease:Is the new store space a good one?As he began casting the chart, he became animated, his eyes bright.
“So you really buy into this geomancy thing,” she remarked, and then immediately regretted it when she saw the light snuff out from his eyes like an eclipse.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally responding, “Don’t you believe there’s more in the world than what we can see?”
“I don’t know. You mean, like magic?”
“Magic, mood, aura, energy—whatever you want to call it. Don’t you feel it, sometimes? Whatever ‘it’ is?”
“Do you?”
