“We found your credit cards and license and cash, but nowallet,” Taylor had said. “I can put these in a plastic bag for you, if you want?”
The woman had eyed Taylor, almost in disbelief, but she’d taken her items and gone on her way.
For years the wallet was Taylor’s most coveted possession. She used it all the time. Only later did she realize it was nearly worthless. The lining was deteriorated, ripped even; the leather discolored, the edges peeling. She felt foolish with the realization, but it was a good lesson. Condition of designer items matters; it is why they have protective cloth bags.
On a mirrored jewelry tray, Taylor now picks up a bottle of perfume. Chanel N°5. She sprays it on her wrist, deeply inhales. Then she places it back on the tray, beside a bottle of OPI nail polish whose color she takes note of (Malaga Wine), and some jewelry, including a casually strewn diamond tennis bracelet, a pearl necklace, a “V” initial gold pendant, and a pair of gold-and-emerald drop earrings. This woman sure likes her emeralds, but Taylor supposes that if she, too, had magnificent green eyes, she’d be drawn to that color—though she’d obviously have to make do with glass- and gold-plated versions.
No wonder Taylor’s patient access was restricted. Is Vivian some sort of royal heiress?
Taylor’s phone pings with a text message, and she jumps, startled. It’s Sam, her neighbor:
Hey, thought you were coming by the salon? I’ll hang around for a few more mins…Lmk.
Shit.Sam kindly offered another after-hours cut and told her to swing by at 7:30 p.m.
She’s shocked to see it’s already 7:48 p.m.
How long has she been here? Outside, the sky is pitch-black; the winter day has closed like a curtain. She quickly types back a response:
Omg so sorry…I can’t make it. Something came up. Happy to pay you a cancellation fee.
She isn’t happy to do that at all; she can’t even afford a regular cut from him, let alone a fee for one she never received.
Luckily, his response is:No worries.
She looks around at the pile of clothes heaped onto the paisley bedsheets, the shoes scattered on the floor. The absence of the hungry cat, the nonexistent dying fish—the scene pokes holes in the thinness of her justifications for coming here. What was she thinking?
She works quickly to put everything back. With each passing minute, she grows more anxious. What if the concierge or someone else comes by to check on the apartment? What if Vivian’s Gap-wearing friend from the picture is making her way there at this very moment?
With the bedroom back in order, and just a lingering waft of perfume in the air, Taylor hastens to the main room, toward the door. But then she stops, turns to look at Vivian’s desk.
Just five more minutes, she thinks. Besides, leaving will be far easier than coming. She can just stroll by the concierge on her way out as if she were visiting someone in the building. Still, time presses in on her. Taylor thrusts open the drawers, moving in a swift, clockwork fashion. There’s the normal desk spread: a tiny stapler, a roll of stamps, pens, and a pair of readers. A wallet-size school picture of a little girl who looks kindergarten age. Embroidered on the left side of her navy-blue jumper are the words“Locust Prep” over a school shield with a Liberty Bell. Who is she to Vivian?
Taylor digs deeper, finds a stack of plastic cards bound with an elastic band that reveal that Vivian is a member of The ’Quin (Boston’s exclusive social club that Sam wants to join), the Atheneum (a private library in Beacon Hill), and a yoga studio called Mission Hill Yoga. There’s another stack of cards, business ones, for a place called Storied Antiques. And what do you know, Vivian is listed on the card as the owner.
Taylor slips one of the business cards into her pocket. She is about to close the drawer—the last one she’s gone through—when she spots a hint of cream paper. She extends the drawer; a small, folded slip of paper is wedged at the back. Reaching in, she retrieves it and unfolds it. There’s a single sentence, written in black ink:PLEASE STAY AWAY
The room darkens further as dusk settles in, and it’s followed by a loud knocking noise that startles Taylor. Is someone at the door? She freezes, holds her breath. But then she realizes the sound is simply the boom of the old-fashioned wall radiator.
She looks again at the note; there’s an upward arrow at the end of the sentence, directing where it is one should stay away from. Her eyes travel to the top of the stationery, to the embossed graphic: a top hat with a flower on its band.
She gasps. She’s seen this symbol before: It was on the last letter her mom wrote her from Boston.
Vivian
Early February
The lights in the Knox parlor are dimmed for the masquerade ball, and a sultry, intoxicating air suspends, almost like smoke from a cigarette. The men are in crisp tuxedos, the women in long-sleeved corseted ball gowns or elegant, slinky floor-length dresses. Everyone is masked, even the waitstaff, as if it’s some sort of entry requirement. Vivian supposes it is. Some masks cover only the eyes, some are full-face. A few guests wear the creepy plague doctor kind, with the beak-like nose.
It’s the type of party where one can blend in, disappear. At the very least, steal away for a while, which Vivian plans to do at some point. She needs to find that secretary, the one named in the letters. If they are to be believed, there’s a hidden document naming her ancestor as heir to the realty trust for the Knox building.
Vivian feels, appropriately, a bit naughty in the dress she sourced from her mother’s trusty closet: a high-necked, sleeveless, sexy black gown that hugs her figure. The top consists of leather straps; the bottom is made of see-through feathers. In the wrong circumstances it could border on gaudy. The back is open,perfect to accommodate Peter’s hand, which is cupped there—and of which she is acutely aware.
“Do you want another?” Peter asks.
Does he mean another pill, or another drink? He offered her a pill earlier in the night, but she declined. When she hesitates, he nods to her martini glass. Empty except for two olives.
“I might need to slow down.”
