“What about that Mindy Gooch?” Paul asked. “She’s one of those bitter career women.”
“How do you know?”
“I see them all the time. In my office.”
Annalisa laughed. “There aren’t any women in your office. There are hardly any women in your industry.”
“There are,” Paul said. “And they’re all like Mindy Gooch. Dried-up husks who spend their whole lives trying to be like men. And not succeeding,” he added.
“Don’t be so hard on people, Paul. And what difference does it make? We’ll probably never see her.”
Back at the hotel, Annalisa sat on the bed, reading through the bylaws of the building, which Mindy had put together into a neat, printed pamphlet for new occupants. “Listen to this,” Annalisa said as Paul brushed and flossed his teeth. “We have a storage room in the basement. And there’s parking. In the Mews.”
“Really?” Paul said, removing his clothes.
“Maybe not,” Annalisa said, reading on. “It’s a lottery. Every year, they pick one name out of a hat. And that person gets a parking spot for a year.”
“We’ll have to get one,” Paul said.
“We don’t have a car,” Annalisa said.
“We’ll get one. With a driver.”
Annalisa put the pamphlet aside and playfully wrapped her legs around his waist. “Isn’t it exciting?” she said. “We’re starting a new life.”
Knowing she wanted to have sex, Paul kissed her briefly, then moved down to her vagina. Their lovemaking was slightly clinical and always consisted of the same routine. Several minutes of cunnilingus, during which Annalisa climaxed, followed by about three minutes of intercourse. Then Paul would arch his back and come. She would hold him, stroking his back. After another minute, he would roll off her, go to the bathroom, put on his boxer shorts, and get into bed. It wasn’t exactly exciting, but it was satisfying as far as orgasms went. This evening, however, Paul was distracted and lost his hard-on.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, raising herself up on her elbow.
“Nothing,” he said, pulling on his shorts. He began pacing the room.
“Do you want me to give you a blow job?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just thinking about the apartment,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“And that parking spot. Why does it have to be a lottery? And why do you only get it for a year?”
“I don’t know. Those are the rules, I guess.”
“We have the biggest apartment in the building. And we pay the most maintenance. We should get precedence,” he said.
Three weeks later, when Annalisa and Paul Rice had closed on the apartment, Mrs. Houghton’s lawyer called Billy Litchfield and asked to see him in his office.
Mrs. Houghton might have chosen an attorney from an old New York family to manage her legal affairs, but instead had retained Johnnie Toochin, a tall, pugnacious fellow who had grown up in the Bronx. Louise had “discovered” Johnnie at a dinner party where he was holding court as the city’s brightest up-and-coming young lawyer in a case of the city versus the government over school funding. Johnnie had won, and his future was doubly assured when Mrs. Houghton hired him on retainer. “There are as many criminals in the ‘establishment’ as there are in the ghettos,” Mrs. Houghton was fond of saying. “Never forget that it’s easy for a man to hide his bad intentions beneath good clothes.”
Happily for Mrs. Houghton, Johnnie Toochin had never been well dressed, but after exposure to money and superior company, he had definitely become establishment. His office was nearly a museum of modern furniture and art, containing two Eames chairs, a sharkskin coffee table, and on the walls, a Klee, a DeKooning, and a David Salle.
“We should see each other more often,” Johnnie said to Billy from behind a massive desk. “Not like this, though. The way we used to at parties. My wife keeps telling me we ought to go out more. But somehow there’s no time. You’re still out and about, though.”
“Not as much as I used to be,” Billy said, quietly resenting the conversation. It was the same conversation he seemed to have often now, every time he ran into someone he hadn’t seen in ages and likely wouldn’t in the future.
“Ah, we’re all getting old,” Johnnie said. “I’ll be sixty this year.”
“Best not to talk about it,” Billy said.
“You still live in the same place?” Johnnie asked.
“Lower Fifth,” Billy said, wishing Johnnie would get on with whatever it was that had caused him to call this meeting.
Johnnie nodded. “You lived close to Mrs. Houghton. Well, she adored you, you know. She left you something.” He stood up. “She insisted I give it to you in person. Hence the visit to my office.”
“It’s no trouble,” Billy said pleasantly. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Well,” Johnnie said. He stuck his head out the door and called to his assistant. “Could you get the box Mrs. Houghton left for Billy Litchfield?” He turned back to Billy. “I’m afraid it’s not much. Considering all the money she had.”
Best not to talk about that, either, Billy thought. It wasn’t polite. “I wasn’t expecting anything from her,” he said firmly. “Her friendship was enough.”
The assistant came in carrying a crude wooden box that Billy recognized immediately. The piece had sat incongruously among priceless bibelots on the top of Mrs. Houghton’s bureau. “Is it worth anything, do you think?” Johnnie asked.
“No,” Billy said. “It’s a sentimental piece. She kept her old costume jewelry in it.”
“Perhaps the jewelry’s worth something.”
“I doubt it,” Billy said. “Besides, I wouldn’t sell it.”
He took the box and left, balancing it carefully on his knees in the taxi going home. Louise Houghton had always been proud of the fact that she came from nothing. “Dirt-poor farmers we were in Oklahoma,” she said. The box had been a gift from her first beau, who had made it for her back in school. Louise had taken the box with her when she’d left at seventeen, carting it all the way to China, where she worked as a missionary for three years. She had come to New York in 1928, looking for money to support the cause, and had met her first husband, Richard Stuyvesant, whom she had married, much to the consternation of his family and New York society. “They considered me a little farm girl who didn’t know my place,” she’d tell Billy on the long afternoons they used to spend together. “And they were right. I didn’t know my place. As long as one refuses to know one’s place, there’s no telling what one can do in the world.”
Back in his apartment, Billy set the box down on his coffee table. He opened the lid and extracted a long string of plastic pearls. Even as a penniless young girl, Louise had had style, sewing her own clothes from scraps of material and adorning herself with glass beads, cheap metals, and feathers. She was one of those rare women who could take the tackiest item and, by wearing it with confidence, make it look expensive. Of course, after she took New York by storm, she didn’t need to wear costume jewelry and acquired a legendary collection of jewelry that she kept in a safe in her apartment. But she never forgot her roots, and the box of costume jewelry was always on display. On afternoons when they sat in her bedroom, where Louise felt it was safe to gossip, she and Billy would sometimes engage in a silly game of dress-up, decorating themselves in various pieces of costume jewelry and pretending they were other people. Now Billy stood up, and staring into the mirror over the mantelpiece, he wrapped the pearls around his neck and made a face. “No, no,” Louise would have said, laughing. “You look like that awful Flossie Davis. Pearls aren’t for you, darling. How about a feather?”
Billy went back to the couch and began carefully laying out each piece on the coffee table. Some of the pieces were ninety years old and falling apart; Billy decided he would wrap each piece in tissue paper and bubble wrap to keep them from suffering further injury. Then he picked up the box, meaning to put it on his own bureau, where it would be
the last thing he saw before he went to sleep and the first thing he saw in the morning; in that way, he might keep Louise and her memory close to him. As he lifted the box, the top slammed shut on his finger. Billy opened the lid and glanced inside. He had never examined the box empty, and now he saw a small latch tucked into the back. No wonder Louise had always kept the box, he thought. She would have found it romantic—a box with a hidden compartment. It would have been a magical piece for a bright fourteen-year-old girl who had only fairy tales to nourish her dreams.
It was a small, simple latch made of bronze, a tongue held in place by a tiny knob. Billy unhooked the latch and, using a nail file for leverage, lifted out the wooden shelf. There was indeed something in the hidden compartment, something wrapped in a soft, gray pouch fastened with a, black cord. Billy warned himself not to get too excited: Knowing Louise, it was probably a rabbit’s foot.
He untied the cord and peeked inside.
What he saw made him immediately want to tie the cord again and pretend he’d never seen it. But a perverse curiosity prevailed, and slowly, he inched off the pouch. There was old gold, rough-cut emeralds and rubies, and in the center, an enormous crudely faceted diamond. The piece was as big as his hand. Billy began to shake with excitement, to which was quickly added fear and confusion. He picked up the piece and carried it over to the window, where he could examine it more closely in the light. But he was quite sure of what he held in his hand. It was the Cross of Bloody Mary.
Act Two
8
Enid Merle liked to say she could never stay angry at anyone for long. There were exceptions, of course, such as Mindy Gooch. Now, when Enid saw Mindy in the lobby, she cut her, deliberately turning her head away, as though she literally didn’t see her. Nevertheless, she kept up with Mindy’s comings and goings through Roberto, the doorman, who knew everything about everyone in the building. She found out that Mindy had purchased a dog—a miniature cocker spaniel—and that the Rices were hoping to install through-the-wall air-conditioning units in their apartment, a request that Mindy planned to turn down. Why was it, Enid wondered, that the first thing everyone wanted these days was air-conditioning?
Although she had yet to forgive Mindy, Enid’s ire at the Rices themselves had fizzled with the hot August weather. Mostly because Enid found Annalisa Rice, with her auburn hair and curious wide mouth, intriguing. Several times a day, Enid caught glimpses of Annalisa Rice on her terrace, dressed in a smudged T-shirt and shorts, taking a break from unpacking boxes. Annalisa would lean over the railing to try to catch a breeze, shaking her long hair out of its ponytail for a second before twisting it back up on top of her head. On Thursday, the hottest afternoon of the year so far, Enid left Roberto a note to pass on to “Mrs. Rice.”
Ever helpful, Roberto delivered the envelope to Mrs. Rice’s door himself. As he handed her the missive, he attempted, not very subtly, to peek around her, hoping to get a glimpse of the apartment. Without the furniture or rugs, it appeared vast and echoey, although Roberto was able to see only into the second foyer and the dining room beyond. Annalisa thanked Roberto, firmly closed the door, and opened the envelope. Inside was a light blue card, across the top of which was embossed ENID MERLE, in no-nonsense gold lettering. Underneath was written: “PLEASE COME BY FOR TEA. AT HOME TODAY FROM THREE TO FIVE.”
Annalisa immediately set to work at making herself presentable. She clipped and filed her fingernails and scrubbed her body with a loofah. She put on a pair of khakis and a white shirt, tying the tails around her waist. The effect was casual but neat.
Enid’s apartment wasn’t what Annalisa was expecting. She’d assumed the apartment would be filled with chintz and heavy drapes, like Louise Houghton’s, but instead, it was a museum of seventies chic, with white shag carpeting in the living room and a Warhol above the fireplace. “Your apartment is beautiful,” Annalisa said after she’d shaken hands with Enid and been invited inside.
“Thank you, dear. Is Earl Grey tea okay?”
“Anything’s fine.”
Enid went into the kitchen, and Annalisa sat down on the white leather couch. In a few minutes, Enid returned, carrying a papier mâché tray, which she set on the coffee table. “I’m so happy to meet you properly,” she said. “Usually, I meet all our newcomers first, but unfortunately, that wasn’t possible in your case.”
Annalisa stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “It all happened so quickly,” she said.
Enid waved this fact away. “It’s not your fault. Mindy Gooch rushed your application through. I’m sure it will work out for the best. No one wants a lot of potential buyers trooping through the building—it’s extra work for the doormen and irritating to the other residents. But we like to take our time approving applicants. We kept one gentleman waiting a year.”
Annalisa smiled tensely, not sure of what to make of Enid Merle. She knew who Enid was, but given Enid’s comments about their entry into the building, Annalisa had yet to discern whether she was friend or foe.
“He was a so-called fertility specialist,” Enid continued, “and we were right to wait. It turned out he was impregnating his patients with his own sperm. I kept telling Mindy Gooch there was something unsavory about the man, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Mindy couldn’t see it at all, but it wasn’t her fault, poor dear. She was trying to get pregnant herself then, and she wasn’t thinking clearly. And when the scandal broke, she had to admit I’d been right all along.”
“Mindy Gooch seems very nice,” Annalisa said cautiously. She’d been looking for an opening to talk more about Mindy. Paul mentioned the parking spot in the Mews nearly every other day, and Annalisa wanted to find a way to secure it for him, guessing that Mindy Gooch was the key.
“She can be nice,” Enid said, taking a sip of her tea. “But she can also be difficult. Bullheaded. She’s very determined. Unfortunately, it’s the kind of determination that doesn’t always lead to success.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Mindy lacks people skills.”
“I think I see what you mean,” Annalisa replied.
“But she’ll be nice to you—at first,” Enid said. “She’s always nice, as long as she’s getting what she wants.”
“And what does she want?” Annalisa asked.
Enid laughed. Her laugh was unexpected, a great joyous whoop. “That’s a good question,” she said. “She wants power, I suppose, but other than power, I don’t think she has a clue. And that’s the problem with Mindy. She doesn’t know what she wants. You never know what you’re going to get with her.” Enid poured more tea. “On the other hand, the husband, James Gooch, is as mild as toast. And their boy, Sam, is brilliant. He’s some kind of computer whiz, but all children are these days—it’s quite frightening, don’t you think?”
“My husband’s what one might call a computer whiz as well.”
“Naturally.” Enid nodded. “He’s in finance, isn’t he? And they do all that wheeling and dealing on computers these days.”
“Actually, he’s a mathematician.”
“Ah, numbers,” Enid said. “They make my eyes glaze over. But I’m just a silly old woman who was barely taught anything in school. They didn’t used to teach girls mathematics, other than addition and subtraction, so one could make change, if necessary. But your husband appears to have done well. I heard he works for a hedge fund.”
“Yes, he’s a new partner,” Annalisa said. “But please don’t ask me what he does. All I know is that it involves algorithms. And the stock market.”
Enid stood up. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Annalisa said.
“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been working all day, and you’ve been unpacking boxes. And it’s ninety-six degrees. What we both need is a nice gin and tonic.”
Several minutes later, Enid was telling Annalisa about the former owners of the penthouse apartment. “Louise Houghton didn’t like her husband at all,” she said. “Randolf H
oughton was a bastard. But he was her third husband, and that’s why they moved downtown in the first place. Louise assumed correctly that a twice-divorced woman wouldn’t be completely accepted in Upper East Side society. She convinced Randolf to move here, which was considered very bohemian and original and made everyone forget that Randolf was her third husband.”
“Why was he a bastard?” Annalisa asked politely.
“The usual reasons.” Enid smiled and finished her cocktail. “He drank. He cheated. Two qualities a woman could live with in those days but for the fact that Randolf was impossible to live with. He was rude and arrogant and quite possibly violent. They had terrible fights. I think he may have hit her. There were servants in the house at the time, but no one ever said a word.”
“And she didn’t divorce him?”
“She didn’t have to. Louise was lucky. Randolf died.”
“I see.”
“The world was a much more dangerous place back then,” Enid continued. “He died from sepsis. He was in South Africa, trying to get into the diamond business, when he cut his finger. While he was traveling back to the States, the cut got infected. He made it back to One Fifth, but a few days later, he was dead.”
“I can’t believe her husband died from a cut,” Annalisa said.
Enid smiled. “Staph. It’s a very dangerous bacteria. We had an outbreak in the building once. Years ago. Spread by a pet turtle. Aquatic creatures don’t belong in apartment buildings. But no matter. Louise had her grand apartment and all of Randolf’s money and the rest of her life to live unencumbered. Marriage was considered a bit of a trial for women back then. If a woman could manage to live independently, free of the matrimonial noose, it was considered a blessing.”
That evening, Annalisa bought a bottle of wine and a pizza and set this feast out for Paul on paper plates.
“I had the most interesting day,” she said eagerly, sitting cross-legged in the dining room on the recently stained parquet floors. The setting sun made the wood glow like the last embers of a fire. “I met Enid Merle. She invited me to tea.”