His attitude only stoked the fire that burned inside her. It flared and leapt, and for once, she gave vent to the pain. “Why wouldn’t I be upset? You hounded me for weeks to prove myself to your board, and then you sabotaged my attempt in order to make yourself look better instead. Are you so insecure after that fire that you would do this?”
“Steady, Lauren. You’re way off base. I had nothing to do with this.”
“I should have known better than to pass my article to you instead of sending it directly to the editor myself.”
“I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but if you hadn’t gone through me, the editor may never have even seen it in time for the printing. You have no idea how busy that man is—nor can you guess how disorganized.”
“You used me.”
“I told you, I never intended for this to happen. I’d never take from you what’s rightfully yours. Don’t you know me at all?”
“If I don’t, there’s only one person to blame for that, and it isn’t me.” Lauren squeezed her eyes shut and rolled her lips between her teeth to end her outburst. She was hurt. She was angry. But she didn’t feel any better for lashing out.
His sigh came through the telephone, and she could picture him easing into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. She imagined the crimp of his lips, a mannerism that matched her own.
“Look,” he said at last, weariness fraying his voice. “I’d much rather speak in person about this, and I’d like to clear the air between us before Christmas. But I’ve got to dash up to Newport in the morning, and it’s going to be a push to make the last train home again.”
Of course. Of course he was leaving again, never mind what day it was. Dad ran. That’s what he did. Mother was right about that.
If Lauren’s expectations hadn’t already unraveled for this holiday, she’d be painfully disappointed that she’d be alone on Christmas Eve instead of sipping eggnog by the fire with Dad, reading aloud Dickens’sA Christmas Carolor listening to Tchaikovsky on the Victrola. Something.
Anything.
Now she was only painfully resentful. Lauren considered that her reaction to this byline was out of proportion to the incident itself, that she ought to hear him out. But he was leaving town again, exactly when she needed him to stay. She wasn’t reacting only to the byline, but to what Dr. Breasted had written, and what Mother had been through, and what she herself had excused for years. For all she knew, he could have been lying to her about Mother keeping him in the dark about her baby brother’s birth.
“Don’t bother catching the late train,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to rush back. Take all the time you need.”
“Are you telling me not to join you for Christmas?”
“Do whatever is best for you,” she told him, “as usual. I’ve learned not to wait.”
“If that’s the way you want it...”
Of course that wasn’t the way she wanted it! What she wanted was for her father to keep his word, to see past the sharp words she’d hurled at him, to see the hurting daughter behind them. She wanted him to insist on coming for Christmas, or to postpone his Christmas Eve errand, or to come over right now, since it was only six o’clock. She wanted him to prove that she was his priority, even when she was prickly as a porcupine.
Lauren hung up the phone and cradled her head in her hands. Skipping dinner, she waited for him to call back or to surprise her by arriving in person. He didn’t make a move.
And since she was apparently as prideful as her father, neither did she.
CHAPTER
22
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1925
when Joe arrived at the Met just before four o’clock in the afternoon, it was empty except for the staff. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and most New Yorkers were hustling to make last-minute holiday preparations.
“Here to see Dr. Westlake?” the ticket salesperson asked as he approached. A small reproduction of a Rodin sculpture stood beside the register wearing nothing but a Santa hat.
“You got it.” Joe showed her his badge, but she waved him through without looking at it. By now, most, if not all, of the Met staff knew who he was and why he came so often.
Enormous fir trees perfumed the Great Hall. Oversized ornaments and giant bows adorned the branches, along with a collection of art-themed ornaments that could be purchased at the sales desk. Red and gold carpets overhung the gallery balcony that embraced the space. Through saucer-shaped skylights, the lowering sun sent its final rays of the day.
Passing between the statuary, he made his way to the Egyptian gallery where Lauren had said she’d be. He paused when he saw her, unwilling to break her concentration. There was something beautiful about seeing her here, surrounded by the objects of her passion. But the scene also embodied a loneliness.
At the Oyster Bar earlier this month, when she’d told Joe that he was richer than she was, he hadn’t been willing to accept that. But when he called her office today and learned what had happened with her father, along with what Dr. Breasted had written, he understood what she’d meant.
While his home was in a flurry, the kitchen steaming with every kind of food you’d want to savor on the most celebrated day of the year, Dr. Lauren Westlake was alone among the relics of an ancient civilization with zero plans with family herself.
