The Book of Someday (33 page)

Farther down the street is a store that appears to belong to a decorator. A shop with a dark green door recessed between a pair of wide, multi-paned windows. While Livvi is walking toward the store she’s noticing, in one of the windows, an Aubusson carpet draped over a stately Federalist sideboard.

In the other window, there is a delicate Venetian-glass vase filled with out-of-season peonies. And just behind the vase—there’s a painting. A full-length portrait. The style and colors are clearly from another era. A card tucked into the frame identifies the subject of the painting as a young heiress named Miriam Moran and the year of the painting’s completion as 1922.

As Livvi is coming closer to the window.

And to the painting.

She’s horrified.

Everything is there. The dress shimmering like a column of starlight. The high-heeled shoes fastened with a strap at the instep, each strap, anchored by a single pearl button. The glittering bracelets. The chestnut brown hair styled with a C-shaped curl on each of the woman’s cheeks. And the lips that are fiery red.

Livvi is experiencing an upheaval that’s racing from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.

The woman in the pearl-button shoes is no longer an apparition haunting the dark of Livvi’s nights. She is a reality. Existing in the cold clear light of Christmas day.

Micah

Boston, Massachusetts ~ 2012

The cold reality of what she’s doing is hitting Micah like a blast of Arctic air. She wants to be rid of this man hovering at the foot of her bed, in his dark-rimmed glasses and black Savile Row suit. The bed is draped in layers of orange-hued cashmere and snowy Egyptian cotton. He looks like a vulture in a flower garden.

His voice is sharp with irritation as he’s reminding Micah: “My clients made it clear there was a deadline on this.” He glances at Micah’s assistant Jillian, who’s sitting in a chair near the head of the bed. “There have been countless telephone conversations. Countless emails.”

He returns his full focus to Micah. “It’s unfortunate you’ve delayed things to the point where we have run out of time and I’ve been forced to come here on Christmas morning—to take possession on a delivery that should have been made months ago.”

Even though Micah knows the purpose of this meeting, even though she reconfirmed its terms late last night, even though up until this very moment she fully intended to give the man what he has come to take, Micah is now deciding she can’t do it.

To go through with this transaction would be a self-serving sin.

“You can’t have her.” Micah’s voice is faint. She’s weak; so ill she can barely speak.

“Her…?” the man asks.

Jillian gives Micah a pain pill and a sip of water, then tells the man: “In the contract, the print is called ‘Photo Number 101’ but Miss Lesser refers to the piece as ‘The Woman’…‘The Woman in the Pearl-Button Shoes.’”

The man is ignoring Jillian—looking at Micah as if she’s out of her mind. “Miss Lesser, this new museum will house the world’s premiere collection of photographic images. The main gallery will bear your name and have your finest work on permanent display. For generations, people will come to the Micah Lesser Pavilion to see Micah Lesser’s art—art made by a master photographer. And the centerpiece of that, the Holy Grail, will be ‘Photograph Number 101.’ An image that has become a legend. Without that photograph we will not honor our contract with you.”

He fixes Micah with an icy stare. “If you refuse to relinquish this photograph, you will be turning your back on immortality.”

Micah’s thoughts are traveling to the spa in Newport—to Christine. The first person Micah betrayed on her clawing journey to immortality. Micah is hearing herself say to Christine,
“As good as you were, I was better. I’m the one who deserved to make history.”

Now Micah’s memory is returning her to the house on Acorn Street…
and
she
is
twenty-three. The photograph propped up on Miles Gidney’s desk is the photo of the woman in the pearl-button shoes. With one hand Gidney is pulling Micah’s blouse open to reveal her breasts. He’s shoving his other hand under her skirt and plunging his tongue into her open mouth. While Micah is staring into space. With a smile in her eyes. She’s picturing her name in headlines—right beside the word “Famous.”

Then Micah is remembering herself, again, in that same house. A short time ago. Telling Gidney’s son Eric,
“I was betraying something sacred when I showed your father that photograph. But I did it anyway. Because I was so greedy I was evil.”

And the man in the black Savile Row suit is asking: “What’s it going to be? Do I leave here with the photograph or not?”

Micah isn’t answering him. She’s returning to the moment in which the photograph was created…
she’s feeling the weight of the camera in her hands and the brush of her eyelashes against the viewfinder. The camera shutter is clicking, and the words “Oh my God” are coming out of her mouth. Because she’s startled. Overwhelmed by the indescribable, haunting beauty of the image she has just captured—and by how passionately she loves the woman on the other side of the lens.

And the man in the Savile Row suit is announcing: “Without ‘Photograph Number 101,’ there will be no Micah Lesser Pavilion. By not allowing us to have that photograph, you are walking away from the pinnacle of your creative fame.”

Micah—who has always hungered, who will always hunger, to have her talent held higher than anyone else’s—is struggling to sit up straight. Grappling for strength. As she’s telling the man hovering at the foot of her bed: “Go away. It’s over. You can’t have her.”

Jack

Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986

Jack is fighting to keep from falling facedown onto the freshly mounded earth of AnnaLee’s grave.

The sun is at the edge of the cemetery. Fading and golden-low. Jack is alone. The only remaining mourner. A late summer wind is beginning to scatter flowers from the bouquets that were laid only a few hours ago—at the conclusion of AnnaLee’s funeral. When Jack was watching her coffin being delivered into the ground.

Jack is staggered with grief, snatching at wind-blown petals and blossoms that are sailing beyond his reach. He’s losing his footing, his balance. And as he is being brought to his knees, he’s noticing something he hadn’t seen before—two uniquely different objects that have been left on AnnaLee’s grave. Tucked in among the flowers.

The object closest to Jack is a sheet of lavishly thick paper containing a set of brush-stroked Chinese characters: each of the strokes precise and flawless. The other item is near the foot of the grave, glinting like a jewel in the setting sun. A delicate, copper-wire cross.

The attendance at AnnaLee’s funeral was sizeable—large numbers of people crowded the church and the graveside. Jack has no clue as to where these two offerings have come from. But he knows he somehow needs to find a way to take them home and keep them safe.

It will be dark before he’ll be able to succeed in grasping each of the items and maneuvering it into a coat pocket.

His shoulder is broken—his hands, clumsy with bandages.

***

The drapes are tightly closed. The only intrusions into the almost total darkness are three slim fingers of moonlight. Coming from the spot where a drapery panel has been torn away from a terrace door—and there are narrow gaps in the pieces of plywood covering the door’s shattered glass.

In a corner of the darkened room, a male voice is announcing: “Arrests have been made in connection with the murder of a young mother who died at her Glen Cove home during a burglary last week.”

Jack is huddled in an old leather chair. Staring blankly into the bluish glow of the television. While the man on the screen is saying: “This is the news for September 3, 1986. I’m Anthony Sasso.”

Jack’s bandaged hands are limp in his lap. His feet are about eight inches apart, planted flat on the floor. He is in the same rumpled suit he wore to AnnaLee’s funeral. Dirt from her grave is dusting the tips of his shoes and caught in the cuffs of his pants. His hair is uncombed. He has the deadened look of a refugee waiting to be taken to a prison camp.

The reporter’s face has disappeared from the television screen, replaced by footage of three handcuffed individuals being hustled into a police station—a thin, heavily tattooed man in his mid-twenties, a slightly younger man with spiked orange-colored hair, and a cold-eyed teenage girl. The reporter’s dispassionate monotone continues to drone on. “Being held in connection with the murder is twenty-five-year-old Marco Brigante…twenty-two-year-old Sean Thomas…and eighteen-year-old—”

At the sight of these people, Jack, with his feet still flat on the floor, moving only his upper body, has leaned over the arm of the leather chair and vomited. The vomit has landed in a bucket—the slowly filling receptacle into which he has been vomiting for hours.

Now there’s footage of Jack’s neighbor, a beefy middle-aged dentist, a former football player, looking into the television camera and explaining: “My wife and I were out back having a glass of wine. We heard shots coming from next door.” The man pauses, flushed with emotion. “Jack’s a hero. The first thing I saw when he was coming toward me—asking us to call for help—was that his face and both of his hands were bleeding. He was banged up like you wouldn’t believe. He put up one hell of a fight trying to keep those punks from murdering his wife. AnnaLee. Her name was AnnaLee…”

“…her name was AnnaLee,” Jack murmurs.

He is imagining—in ghastly staccato flashes—what must have happened in the last few seconds of her life.

…AnnaLee coming down the stairs in her dazzling, shimmering dress, the costume from the gala.

…Someone—the man with the tattoos or the fellow with the orange hair or perhaps the girl—in the kitchen doorway. Raising that matte-black gun. Aiming it at AnnaLee’s heart.

…AnnaLee in terror. Inching along the wall. Trying to make her way to safety. To the living room. To the place where Jack is.

…The BANG. The fired bullet.

…AnnaLee’s flesh tearing open—a steel bolt exploding in her chest.

…AnnaLee sliding down the wall, helplessly watching a shape emerge from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs—the shape of something she thought was safely tucked away.

…Then AnnaLee’s lips—her beautiful, beautiful lips—slowly parting. Preparing for a scream she won’t live long enough to utter.

The
shape
emerging
from
the
shadows
is
Bella.

Jack believes that what he is imagining is exactly what happened. Because he knows Bella was upstairs, asleep, when the trouble began. And he also knows that when he came back into the house with the police, after AnnaLee was dead, the first thing he saw was Bella. Crouched at the bottom of the stairs.

And while these horrific visions of Bella—and AnnaLee, and AnnaLee’s death—are flashing through his mind, whatever in Jack that was clean is turning to rot. Whatever was whole is breaking. Whatever was honest is being forever corrupted. Whatever was alive is dying.

Livvi

East Norwich, New York ~ 2012

Images of the shimmering dress and fiery-red lips are still flashing through her mind, transforming whatever certainty there was in Livvi into chaos.

It happened over twelve hours ago—plenty of time for the shock to subside. And for Livvi to have calmed down. After seeing the woman’s portrait in that store window, in Oyster Bay. But the shock is steadily growing stronger.

A fantasy in a nightmare has become reality.

And the eeriness of it, the fright of both the nightmare and the reality, have taken Livvi’s thoughts into the past. Into those nights when she would wake up screaming. And her father would already be on the other side of her doorway. In the dark. With a look that was soft like sadness then harsh like the sharp edge of a stone.

The memory of that look—the sorrow and the stone in her father’s eyes—is the thing that has now compelled Livvi to find him. And confront him, before it’s too late.

The cell connection is bad. Calista’s voice sounds thready and distant. She’s asking: “Do you need me to repeat the address?”

“I have it,” Livvi says. She’s looking at the note she’s just made. The numbers and letters seem to be swimming on the page.

Livvi is afraid. Afraid of the woman she sees in her nightmare—and of the woman she saw in the portrait—and of what the explanation for their existence could possibly be.

She’s tightening her grip on the phone to steady herself as she’s ending the call—saying to Calista: “Tell my father I’m coming to see him.”

When Livvi puts the phone down, she’s turning toward David’s grandmother. “I need to ask you a question, Evelyn. How do I—” Livvi stops, takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want Grace to see how upset she is.

Grace, in this moment, is happily content. She’s wearing the pink butterfly wings sent by Santa, and delivered by Evelyn, early this morning; and she has Granger, Livvi’s little dog, snuggled in her lap. Grace is at Evelyn’s kitchen table, with David. Eating ginger cake and playing checkers. Using a red felt-tipped marker to keep score—on the back of a Christmas card.

And while Livvi is watching the two of them she’s struck by how accepting David is of Grace’s presence in his grandmother’s house, how unquestioning and welcoming he has been.

As if he senses Livvi’s gaze, David looks up and smiles at her. Grace’s attention remains on the checkerboard—focused on her next move.

Livvi glances in Grace’s direction and quietly tells David: “You’re a remarkable man…being able to be so nice. To a perfect stranger.”

David studies Grace for a second, then says: “It’s funny you should use the term ‘perfect stranger.’ For a while, when I was a kid, I thought perfect stranger meant something entirely different. I thought it was the name for an earthbound angel…one who was a little shy. And absolutely terrific.”