Rose opens the front door for Taylor—a first, Taylor using the front door—but it’s only because the portion of the house with the back hall is now sealed off to contain dust.
Taylor exits, the door shutting firmly behind her. As she walks down the few front steps and turns onto the street, a woman’s gruff voice startles her. “You with them?”
The woman is sitting on the sidewalk in between two parked cars. She’s middle-aged and looks worse for wear: unkempt, ratty hair, weathered face, a dirty too-big coat. She puffs on a cigarette as she rocks back and forth.
Taylor does what she does whenever she encounters a person likely on drugs: ignores them and walks away. But then the woman adds, “The Knox?” and Taylor stops. She slowly turns around.
“What?” Taylor asks.
“Are you with the Knox?”
“I work there, yeah. Why?”
The woman starts coughing, a deep throaty cough. No, she’slaughing. No, rather, she’s gagging. What on earth is the noise that the woman is making? Does she need medical help? Taylor looks around, but nobody’s nearby. Shit. Is Taylor going to have to help this woman?
But, in the next second—too late—Taylor realizes that the woman has been gathering phlegm in her throat. She hurls a giant wad of spit on Taylor’s Ralph Lauren twill coat. Taylor looks down, horrified.
“That’s for the bad Aunt Emma. You fucking cunt.”
Vivian
February
It’s Friday afternoon, the day after her ill-fated trip to Xavier’s jewelry store.
Vivian’s in her own store, trying to keep busy.
First, she rearranges the shelves on a tall cabinet to make room for the antique vases that will soon be arriving. Then she unpacks the shipments of Herend Rothschild porcelain bowls sourced from her contact in Budapest and breaks down all the boxes. Monday is recycling day, so she’ll put these aside for the time being.
Vivian’s always been able to compartmentalize troubling things, thanks to her upbringing. Waspy families have a way of quietly sweeping disorder under the rug. Yet Rose’s words buzz in her ear like an annoying fly.You’re not the first girl Peter’s brought round and you won’t be the last. You are pretty, but that will fade.
She hopes there’s a simple explanation for why she spotted Peter yesterday in the street. She keeps checking her phone, waiting for him to text her that he never went on the trip, or that it was delayed. She’s waiting for an explanation that is not forthcoming.
Is Vivian a fool for thinking that she and Peter are exclusive, that she might be special?
And what about Xavier? Is he in some kind of trouble? Rachel’s not overly concerned; she thinks the broken glass in Xavier’s shop window was likely just some accident. But then again, Vivian hasn’t shared the warning note she received, nor her suspicions that Xavier is behind it.
She next opens a box of wax candles from a local candlemaker. Noting their pastel colors, she’s reminded that she needs to place an order soon with her Italy contact for Francesca Colombo’s Easter plates; they flew off her shelves last April. Vivian goes to retrieve her notebook of business contacts, but it’s not where she normally keeps it in her desk drawer.
She rummages through her other drawers to no avail. Where the heck did she put it? She tries to recall the last time she used the notebook; it’s been a few weeks. Perhaps she left it at the Chestnut Hill store, though she doesn’t remember bringing it there. It’s possible, though.
Anything feels possible these days. Or impossible. It’s like life itself has swallowed a giant Xanax. What if the Knox is bad news—for both her and Xavier? What if Peter breaks her heart? Deep down, Vivian knows she has done more than just compartmentalize like a WASP. Since Kat’s death years ago, followed by Vivian’s father’s—and now, with her mom’s looming—Vivian’s locked up parts of herself, put them in storage.
She doesn’t know when—or if—she’ll be ready to unearth them.
Taylor
Taylor can’t believe she was justspiton, and by a strung-out, likely homeless woman to boot. She cleans her coat with some tissues she has in her purse, careful not to touch the saliva with her bare hands, given the endless types of germs the woman could be carrying.
A lot of crazy shit used to happen in the ER, sure. Taylor saw enough in her four-month hospital stint to last a lifetime. Drugs, mental illness, rare diseases—things that felt like they belonged in an episode of a hospital drama, only without the perky banter and sexual tension. But she certainly didn’t expect to encounter thathere, in front of a multimillion-dollar building in Beacon Hill. The juxtaposition of it is almost as jarring to her as what the woman did.
Taylor holds the dirty tissues in her pinched fingers, rounding the building to discard the tissues in the construction dumpster out back.
The trucks have doubled; there are now two, with a van parked alongside them. Taylor tosses the tissues in the dumpsterand reads the lettering across the van:Ideal Design Studio. A quick Google search tells her that it’s a highly regarded interior design firm. So, the Knox isn’t just opening the room, they’re redesigning it. What on earth are they making it into? What more could they possibly need, and in a basement of all places?
Jerry suddenly bursts through the back door, his arms pressed tightly across his black leather jacket. She’s never seen him in a coat before. His hair and the tops of his wide shoulders are sprinkled white with dust. He scowls when he sees her.
Hi to you, too, she thinks.
