The heavens today shine brilliant, as if knowing they call me. My physician says I am to prepare. I no sooner take the pen in my hand than I begin thinking of you, my dearest daughter. Life has cruelly separated us, yet in death there is joy, as I will patiently wait to be reunited with you. I furthermore take solace that in life my faithful Aoife has cared for you like her own.
I have, at my disposal, sizable assets, as my husband has departed before me. I have composed a nominee trust of such assets and a schedule of beneficiaries. As I have made provisions for you in life, so will I do in death for both you and your brother.
Rest be assured, my daughter, that my love for you transcends time and earth. Until we meet again, I remain your loving mother.
Yours,
Margaret
September 28, 1855
Dear Aoife,
I regret to inform you that the mistress Margaret has died. We are in morning. She was a good, kind mistress and so very careful of me. Her son the doctor does not have the same kind heart. Something is not right. He has her body in the basement. There is a paper with a schedule of beneficiaries the doctor has discarded. For this reason I am writing to you since I beleve it was of great importance to my mistress Margaret and pertains to Mercy. I took the paper and hid it in the secretery for safekeeping. Its in a secret compartment there. Please come get it and beware of the doctor.
Respectfuly your loveing cousin,
Sara
Taylor
Taylor’s heart beats wildly against her ribs as she darts through the propped-open entrance to the Lime Street building in the tony Beacon Hill neighborhood.
It’s the address that’s been crazy-glued onto her mind, ever since she saw it in her patient’s medical record: 62 Lime Street. The address connecting to the key in her sweaty palm that she should have returned.
Vivian’saddress.
Jabbing repeatedly at the elevator call button, Taylor prays that the concierge doesn’t suddenly return from outside, where he’s helping to unload groceries from a double-parked car. The elevator takes its sweet time, and perspiration gathers beneath her baseball cap.
When it finally arrives, she darts in, shooting one last furtive look at the still-empty lobby.
Vivian’s apartment is a penthouse, which makes it easy to know which button to press next: the top one. As the cab rises, Taylor removes her hat and leans her slick back against the wall.She tries to slow down her heart, but it’s continuing to behave like she’s drunk three coffees.
So she reminds herself of her justification for trespassing into her former patient’s apartment: What if, Taylor reasons for the umpteenth time, Vivian has a hungry cat that needs to be fed? A dying fish? What if she left her lights on? Food out on the counter that is now spoiled?
Taylor’s been off from work for a stretch of days—the life of a hospital nurse—which means that she’s had far too much time to think. And this is what she keeps contemplating: Vivian’s wedding finger is bare. Her “About Me” poster blank. No one has come to visit her yet, according to Aunt Gigi. So what if there is no one to check on these things in Vivian’s apartment, other than Taylor herself?
The more she says it to herself, the more she allows herself to believe it.
When the doors open on the fifth floor, Taylor steps off into a rich, navy-blue-carpeted—and, most important, empty—hall. She finds the door labeled, simply, 3. Make thatPenthouse 3. What an address.
She inserts the key, and there’s a satisfying click. As she enters, her unease about what she is doing vanishes. Turning on the large crystal chandelier light, Taylor stares. The apartment looks almost unreal, like a movie set. The chandelier sparkles, casting a warm golden hue on the collection of unique, striking furniture. A vintage-looking rug runs the length of the floor, ending short of the marble fireplace. A wall bookcase displays the most carefully arranged books and assortment of trinkets. “Trinkets” is probably not the best word to describe the various small crystal and porcelain figurines and sculptures, but Taylor doesn’t have a sophisticated enough vocabulary to do them justice. Dreamy silkcurtains frame multiple airy windows—Taylor would have zero chance of suffering from claustrophobia here.
In the far corner of the room, Taylor spots Vivian’s desk. It’s a dark ebony lacquered wood with a black leather writing surface flanked by raised panel drawers. There could be secrets about Vivian hidden within. Taylor starts to make her way over but pauses, distracted, to run her hand down a cabinet’s curved legs that end in almost humanlike claws. And then she momentarily sinks into a high-backed deep purple velvet chair with a gold frame that looks—and feels—fit for a queen. She caresses every surface, rubs every texture. It’s almost like a museum exhibit. No, it’s better than that, because she gets to feel and touch and experience the items. For once, Taylor’s not standing behind some velvet rope, or peering from outside a window, but rather immersedinsidethe wealth. And it’s glorious.
She picks up a framed photograph of Vivian with two people who look like her parents, based on the age and similar facial features. Vivian’s mother is pretty but nothing like her daughter. Also, she wears way too much makeup. Another photograph is of a younger-looking Vivian standing, arms linked, with a plain-faced woman dressed in Gap-grade whitewash jeans and a UPenn sweatshirt. A picture from college?
Taylor places the frame down and glances around again. A few feet from the desk, which she has yet to search, is the bedroom door, tantalizingly ajar. Like a fish to a lure, Taylor immediately bypasses the desk to enter the bedroom. She slips off her boots and then her socks so she can sink her toes into the soft sheepskin rug. She opens dresser drawers, riffles through closet hangers, combs through shelves. With every designer accessory she picks up—a Chanel bag, Prada sunglasses, a Christian Dior belt—and every clothing item she uncovers—a Burberry trenchcoat, a Versace dress, a Chanel tweed jacket—she falls a little more in love with Vivian.
And a little more in love with herself. Taylor normally doesn’t like her arms, but in the fine Versace silk, she doesn’t mind them. In fact, as she twirls in Vivian’s full-length gold-framed mirror, her arms look almost shapely. And the Hermès scarf gently tied around her neck elongates her face, slimming it and shifting attention away from her gapped teeth. The three-inch Jimmy Choo crystal pumps create muscles in her calves. It’s as if she’s stepped into one of the collages of fashion magazine cutouts she used to make as a young girl. She feels beautiful in a way she hasn’t in a long time, perhaps since she first started dating Grayson years ago.
She isn’t in a movie set; sheisthe movie set.
In the back of the closet is a set of Louis Vuitton luggage: one large duffel bag, a rolling suitcase, and a garment bag. She runs her palm across the smooth leather, fingers the intact seams. She marvels at their pristine condition and is reminded of an incident that happened years earlier, at her dad’s restaurant: A tourist left behind her Louis Vuitton wallet. Taylor discovered it, after-hours, as she was sweeping crab shells into a dustpan. The wallet was wedged beneath a table, and it felt like a piece of gold in Taylor’s high school–age hands. She wanted it, badly.
The woman’s license revealed she was from Boston, which didn’t surprise Taylor in the slightest. Boston had seduced her mother. It was a city where things seemed to happen. Where history had happened. Of course a sophisticated woman with a Louis Vuitton wallet would be from Boston.
When the woman returned to the restaurant the following day, distraught and fretting about how she had a flight to catch, Taylor surreptitiously emptied the wallet of its contents.
