“When I was eleven years old, the architect Gilbert Joseph—” He pauses as she nods; everyone has heard of the late New England architect. “Gilbert came to our town to do a conversion of an old textile mill building into a hotel, and I used to go there after school to watch. Sometimesinstead ofschool.” He grins roguishly. “Anyway, one day he finally noticed me. And asked me what I thought of the lofts they were creating, and I said, ‘You need a climbing wall for kids if you have ceilings that high.’ And you know what? He did it. Room 428 at the Lodge still contains a climbing wall.”
“That must have been pretty cool to experience as a child.”
“It was.” Peter looks wistful. “Meeting Gilbert Joseph literally changed my life. He became my mentor. Put me through The Bartlett—the architecture school at University College London. Closest thing to a father I ever had. He’s the reason I’m here, at the Knox.”
He must mean Gilbert Joseph was a member. Vivian had done a fair amount of internet sleuthing on the Knox the past couple of days but was surprised to find barely anything. Just some vague mentions in previous issues ofBoston CommonandBoston Magazine.It’s like the internet had been scrubbed.How many members are there?she wonders. There’s so much she wants—needs—to know, but she must tread carefully.
There’s also so much she wants and needs to know about thisman sitting in front of her. Like, when he raises his cup of tea to his mouth and the sleeve of his shirt pulls back, revealing a wrist tattoo, what is it of? Does he have others beneath those fine Italian clothes he’s wearing? What women have seen them?
And what kind of broken childhood did he have?
Peter opens his mouth as if he’s about to ask something but then decides against it. For some reason this makes her laugh.
“Go ahead, ask,” she says.
“Ask what?”
“Whatever you were going to.”
“I don’t even know what I was going to ask. A million things. Some probably I shouldn’t.” His gaze rakes over her face, as if he’s trying to memorize it.
She, too, is locked on him. She couldn’t look away if she tried.
Then his eyes flicker beyond her, over her shoulder. “Here’s a question for you: What do you think about that painting? The one with the woman on the bus?”
She turns to see. It’s an oil painting of a woman sitting in a row of seats on what appears to be public transportation. The woman’s back is mostly turned, so there is just the slightest glimpse of her profile.
“It could be a train, not a bus,” Vivian points out.
“Hmmm. Maybe.”
Vivian doesn’t love the painting. It’s certainly not of the same caliber as the other artwork in the room, for instance that Andy Warhol–Jean-Michel Basquiat collaboration they passed when they first entered. If truly an original, that one painting could more than solve all her problems.
Christ, what kind of person is she turning into?
“The frame is crooked,” she finally says.
“Really?” He tilts his head. “Now that you mention it, you’re right.”
A young, stout man with close-cropped hair approaches. He’s dressed in black trousers and a tight black shirt. “More tea?” he asks.
“Please, Jerry,” Peter replies, and waits for Vivian to put her teacup down first on the tray so it, too, can be topped off.
The waiter’s hands are big, burly, like the rest of his body. But he’s overall short and has an almost squashed appearance, with a thick neck and crooked nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once. He’d fit in better on a wrestling mat.
“I can always tell when a painting is off-kilter,” Vivian remarks to Peter. “It’s my superpower.”
“That is impressive. Do you see it or sense it?”
“Good question. Both, probably.”
“Thank you, Jerry,” Peter says, when the man is done, and Jerry nods.
“Thank you,” Vivian adds.
“We just got the painting. Graham—he’s the head of the Knox—just purchased it. I can’t decide what I think of it, and I feel like, based on the way you avoided answering, you are also undecided.”
“I’m not undecided. I’m just diplomatic.”
