Rare Objects (26 page)

We both fell silent

Outside, the awnings across the street flapped forlornly in the wind.

“Did you ever marry again?” I asked after a while.

He shook his head. “I was offered a chance to teach, in Philadelphia. So I left. It's amazing how lonely a place where you were once happy can become. They say America is the place to begin again—
die
g
oldene medina
, ‘the golden country.' But I think there is only one golden age in every man's life. Vienna was mine. A brief moment when I thought I was the master of my own destiny.”

Mr. Kessler got up, ran his hand over the elegantly matched surface of the cherry table, the beautiful grain of the highly polished wood spread outward from the center like an ornate inkblot, perfectly mirrored on both halves. “This was made in Vienna in 1840. The style was a great favorite with the rising middle class—the perfect marriage of form and function. And it was a very good way to tell the rest of the world who you think you are,” he added.

He held his hand down, pressing it against the wood as if feeling for a heartbeat.

“There is a word in Hebrew—
nitzotzot
. It means ‘divine sparks.' It refers to the infinitesimal fragments of godliness that inhabit everything—all of creation, both animate and inanimate. When something is used as it was divinely intended, these sparks are said to be ‘liberated'; they shine, become a reflection of the face of God himself in this transient world.” He looked up. “Do you see how this shines, Miss Fanning?”

I nodded.

“My father would have appreciated this. He never went anywhere, never was much of a craftsman, lived his whole life in the
shtetl
. But I believe he would have seen God in this.”

“I'd almost given up on you.”

I turned round, surprised.

It was early evening, just after six. I'd stayed behind to finish Mr. Kessler's monthly accounts and was just locking up the shop. I had an arrangement to meet Diana at our regular haunt. But here was James Van der Laar, leaning against a parked car, hat cocked over one eye, smoking a cigarette. He was the last person I expected to see loitering outside.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to show you something.” Tossing his cigarette into the gutter, he held out his arm. “It's just around the corner. I want your opinion.”

I looked down the street. “Is Diana with you?”

“No. Why?” A slow smile spread across his face. “Do you require a chaperone, Miss Fanning?”

He had the same disquieting effect that he'd had the last time, irritation and excitement playing tug-of-war in my head. I didn't like being taken by surprise, but at the same time, I was intrigued.

I dropped the shop keys into my handbag. “What makes you think I have time to be abducted by you, Mr. Van der Laar? Don't you ever ring ahead? Or do you make ambushing people a regular habit?”

“So I'm ambushing you, is that it? Then I apologize. But this really is a business-related matter.” He held out his arm again. “And it won't take long.”

I thought of Diana, waiting for me at our regular table. “A business-related matter.”

His smile widened. “You're not afraid of me, are you?”

“Should I be?” I took his arm. We began to walk, threading through the side streets, heading in the direction of the Common.

It was odd to be so close to him again; our last encounter had ended awkwardly, but now he strolled beside me as easily as if nothing unusual had happened. “Have you been well?”

“Cracking. And you?”

As we crossed the street, he changed sides so that I was farthest from the traffic. It was a common courtesy, but one that suddenly felt calculated and self-conscious.

“I understand I missed quite an evening the other night,” he said.

I felt embarrassment rising; he was referring to his gift—a gift I'd never thanked him for. The money that had been so easy to take was now quite difficult to acknowledge, especially with my arm in his. “It was very kind of you, Mr. Van der Laar—”

“James,” he insisted. “Call me James.”

“Yes, James,” I corrected myself, “very kind and unnecessary of you to pay my debts. However, I appreciate it just the same.”

“I feel responsible. I shouldn't have left without seeing you home.”

A uniformed nanny pushing a large baby carriage trundled toward us, and he pulled me in closer to make room. I recognized the dusky sweetness of his cologne, felt the certainty of his guiding hand on my elbow. It was the same sense I'd experienced when dancing with him, of being steered. I couldn't decide if I liked it or not.

“It was very kind of you.” My words sounded stiff and disingenuous.

“I'm the kindest man you'll ever meet, May.” He laughed. It was obvious I was struggling with pride. “May I call you May?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You see, I'm a bit old-fashioned. I believe a girl like you shouldn't have to pay for anything.”

“A girl like me?” I looked at him sideways. “Am I a princess now?”

“You shouldn't have to be in order to be treated well. For example, you shouldn't have to work for a living.”

“I couldn't agree more. But what if I like working?”

“What is there to like about it? Answering to someone else's beck and call? Waking early, coming home late? And for what?”

“Money. And there's the challenge, the chance to learn something, to be independent.”

“Independent from what?” His gaze was unflinching. “A man who loves you and would look after you? Is that independence or mere stubbornness?”

Why was he having this argument with me?

“I'm afraid there aren't enough of those men to go around. Besides, not everyone wants to be kept.”

“You sound like Diana. The two of you are quite close, aren't you?”

“Why?”

“I just wondered how much you knew about her.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “She's not always what she appears to be, that's all. It's a good idea to be careful.”

“What happened to the protective older brother?”

“I'm still protective. But I'm not naive. Not everything she says is true, May. Especially about our family.”

“Like what?”

He didn't elaborate but instead asked, “How many people has she introduced you to? How many of her other friends? You're from out of town and don't know anyone here, right? But I'm willing to guess she hasn't helped you to meet anyone . . . Am I right?”

His words hit close to the mark.

He translated my silence. “See? That's Diana for you! She collects people, takes over their lives. But she lives in a world of her own creation. Sometimes it's harmless. But other times it has terrible consequences. Do you remember what they used to say about Lord Byron?”

I did, but I didn't like this conversation. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Oh.” He gave me a strange look. “You're
loyal
!”

He said it as if he'd just discovered I was another species, one perhaps that he'd read about but never actually seen.

“She's my friend,” I reminded him.

“That's to your credit,” he admitted. “Just don't follow her down a rabbit hole. That's all I'm asking. I for one would hate to see you disappear.”

We'd arrived at a large brownstone house on Marlborough Street. He took a key from his jacket pocket and, walking up the steps, unlocked the door.

“What's this?” I followed uncertainly. “What are we doing here?”

“This is a little house I was thinking of buying.” He swung open the door, held out his hand. “Come inside and let me know what you think.”

The “little house” was in fact a four-story mansion with eight bedrooms, a library, and its own ballroom overlooking a private walled garden in the back. The entrance hall and marble staircase were the finest examples of Italian stonework on the East Coast, he said. It was being remodeled, with updated kitchens
and plumbing. Empty save for some ladders, tarps, and paint supplies left behind by the renovation crew, its gracious rooms echoed with grand possibilities; they seemed to be waiting for guests and parties and public occasions.

As we toured the ground floor, I felt a mounting sense of exhilaration, a giddy uncertainty that put me on edge. It was all I could do not to stare with my mouth open at the vast excess of beauty and space. Why was he showing it to me?

“It's all lovely,” I said, a monumental understatement of my true feelings. “But why do you want my opinion?”

He turned to face me across the wide expanse of the drawing room. He was undeniably attractive, more attractive than I'd given him credit for. “Men like to have a woman's opinion, especially in domestic matters.”

“I'm sure they do. But why me?”

“Well, this whole thing would need to be furnished in style befitting its age,” he pointed out. “Do you or do you not work at an antiques shop?”

“Oh, I see.” I was glad I'd restrained myself from gushing with enthusiasm. Almost everything he did or said was some sort of convoluted trap. But if I could sell him even a few pieces of furniture, it would be a coup.

“Well”—I scanned the room, as if calculating its dimensions—“If you're asking if we have enough furniture to fill it, the answer is no. Not yet, at any rate. But we could find it, I'm sure.”

“So”—he took a step closer—“what do you think? Will it do?”

“That depends on what you want it for.”

“Only time will tell.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “A home? A place to raise a family someday . . .”

“It would be best if you consulted the woman in question, then.”

He was staring into my eyes, as bold as Napoleon, Alexander,
Charlemagne, or any man who'd ever invaded and conquered the world. “What makes you think I haven't?”

The question hung in the air between us.

“This house suits you.” He came closer. “You look good in it.”

“You make it sound like a dress.” I turned, wandering through to the hallway, putting some distance between us. The light was dim now, the late-afternoon sun fading. Outside, an evening chorus of birds had begun, a sound one didn't often hear in the North End. But in this neighborhood there were trees, gardens—space. The song echoed hauntingly off the marble stonework, as delicate and hopeful as the pale light draining from the sky.

“I'm not here very often.” He followed, stood in the doorway. “I'm leaving for New York again tomorrow. I'll be gone awhile.”

Again, I wondered why he was telling me. But I only said, “You must let me know what you decide about the house. I will be glad to assist in any way.”

“Will you think of me while I'm gone?”

He was so perplexing, so forward. This was another trap, I was sure. I tossed his words back at him. “Only time will tell.”

“Give me something to remember you by.”

“What? A lock of hair?” I laughed. “A poem?”

He came closer, drew me to him, kissed me.

I pulled away.

“Tell me you'll think of me,” he said again.

My heart was pounding with fear or anticipation, I wasn't sure which. “Why?”

“Because. Because I want you to think of me as much as I think of you.”

He reached for me again. And this time, I didn't move.

By the time I arrived to meet Diana, I was late and out of breath from running. The place was full, bustling with the first dinner service.

She was in our usual booth, chin in one palm, building a pyramid out of sugar cubes. Judging from its height, she'd been there some time. She didn't bother to look up when I sat down across from her.

“I'm so sorry!” I panted, trying to catch my breath. “A customer came in as I was closing, and wouldn't leave.”

She balanced another sugar cube carefully on the final tier. “I've been waiting almost an hour.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“A customer, right?”

“Yes.” I pulled off my gloves. “God, it's crowded! What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Only I went by the shop, and it was locked. I didn't see anyone.”

I hadn't anticipated that. “They wanted me to look at something. To value it. In their home.”

“How extremely unusual.” She finished her masterpiece off with a little flag made from a book of matches. “What was it?”

I hesitated. “A table. Look, I'm sorry. I've never had to do that before, but Mr. Kessler was out, and I didn't want to turn away a sale. Why are you so angry?”

“I hate waiting.” She looked up. “I especially hate waiting for people who don't show!”

“Well, I'm here now.” I was beginning to lose patience. There was only so much penance I was willing to offer. “Why did you bother to stop by the shop in the first place?”