Chapter Thirty-Four
My nerves are getting the better of me, so I scan the room in an effort to ground myself; this penthouse looks different here, in person, than in the blueprints.
It’s far more lavish and overwrought than I could’ve imagined.
The back half of the penthouse has two stories, but this party is confined to the three great rooms in the front, all of which stretch twenty feet high.
The private elevator empties into an echoing marble-and-mirror entrance hall.
In it, a large bar cabinet is filled with dozens of cut crystal decanters.
This crowd plans on getting very, very drunk.
Off the left of the foyer is a massive dining hall, where clusters of tall tables dot the perimeter, near the twenty-foot windows.
A fire is lit in the gigantic fireplace at the far end of the room, and its mantel is adorned with a massive, one-story-high gilded mirror.
Three crystal chandeliers, each the size of a cable car, glisten overhead.
A long, mahogany table glides down the center of the room.
If the dining hall is pink spun sugar, then the parlor is fine brandy.
Directly off the right of the foyer, a parlor is stuffed with soft leather finishings and fifteen-foot potted palms. Its footprint is the mirror image of the dining room across the hall.
There is a fireplace with a large mirror adorning its mantel, and a grandfather clock whose bells chime every quarter hour.
And the bookshelves! Every inch of wall space is covered with leather tomes.
The large windows overlook lower Manhattan, adorned with twenty-foot-long silk damask draperies.
And outside these windows, the shadowy Woolworth Building climbs into the sky with steel fingers.
This is the room from the painting. My heart pangs with an odd sense of nostalgia, as though I’ve been here before. I wish I could see Pax right now. I’m feeling wildly adrift and nervous as hell, and I could use the sense of calm I get when his eyes lock with mine.
No, I scold myself. I’ve made it this far on my own. The last few weeks do not change that. Too, I feel more and more certain I’ve made a mistake with that kiss. He’s been cold, his aura gray and spiky, ever since. I won’t waste my energy on pining for him tonight.
Despite that decision, I feel eyes on me, and I turn, and my heart blooms. Pax.
He leans in the doorway leading into the kitchen, at the back left of the foyer.
That tilt of his, with his arms crossed over his chest and his hair flopping adorably to the side, steals my breath away.
He wears his trim black catering uniform from Bellissimo Cibo, and pinned above his heart is a bright red carnation.
It’s stunning, this fist of a flower, like seeing someone’s angered heart outside their body.
But as has been the case lately, an odd energy vibrates off him, like small staticky shocks.
His eyes skitter over mine, making no connection.
We are, of course, not supposed to know each other, but this?
Odd. Something is definitely off. Perhaps he’s shutting me out now, so it’ll be easier for him to disappear after this party.
The women of this party, like women everywhere, take note of Pax.
Their eyes slide in his direction, they flutter their eyelashes when his green gaze connects with theirs.
Pax is as stunning as a bolt of lightning illuminating a night sky, and I am both amused and disturbed by all these women, so blatantly willing to be scorched by a stray bolt.
I suppose I am among those willing to get burnt.
I shake off that line of thinking and focus. There is no Matthew Steuer yet. No Evalyn Walsh McLean. No Hope Diamond. What if he doesn’t show? What if she’s changed her mind?
I listen. But as always, with questions, Spirit remains mute.
I shove aside my hesitation and cross the room, sliding up beside Pax. I try to speak from the side of my mouth, so as to keep up the appearance that we have no prior connection. It is odd and unconvincing.
“We don’t yet have the combination,” I say. I’m deliberately trying not to phrase it as a question. I’m holding out hope that Spirit will chime in. Their continued silence feels like a condemnation.
Pax is all angles today: sharp and stabby, jaws and fists. He is cold, cold, cold.
“We’ll get it,” he grunts.
I inhale, the questions on the tip of my tongue: How? Where? But I’m afraid that even thinking these queries drives Spirit further away.
But before I can press Pax further, Evalyn Walsh McLean enters the room.
The guests gasp and smile and gossip.
They titter.
Some even lightly applaud.
But my breath is stolen. My heart plummets.
“She’s not wearing it,” I whisper. I glower at Evalyn’s bare throat. “How could we assume—”
Pax lays his hand on the small of my back. He is shunning his own number one rule: We must not appear to know one another. I ignore the urgency that lingers at his touch. “Look.” He tips his chin.
Evalyn holds a gem-studded leash. She is walking a dog, a boxer. And the dog—the dog!—wears the Hope Diamond around its thick, furry neck.
A $180,000 gem on a dog.
The diamond is immense, as big as a walnut, and as lush as blue velvet.
A wave of heady greed washes over me, through me. It tastes salty-sweet, like butterscotch candies.
“It’s massive,” I whisper. My heart races, seeking synchronicity with Pax’s heart. Then, at least, my reaction to this gem would feel warranted, like I could make sense of my avarice if he felt it, too. I’ve never felt so covetous. “Pax?” I reach my hand back, hoping to grasp Pax’s.
But Pax has disappeared. I imagine his anger swallowed him whole, and he could no longer bear to watch this display. I cannot even sense his presence nearby. No tether.
Hedda Hopper shuffles across the room. “Oh, Miz McLean. What a delight! You must take a photograph of your dear pooch wearing that precious jewel. And do allow me to print it. My readers will positively eat it up!”
Hedda ushers Evalyn to the photographer’s area. Evalyn squeals, squats, and hugs her muscular boxer.
“Look at the camera, Athena!” Evalyn shouts.
The flash pops, smokes, and Athena starts panting. Kiyoko crosses to the boxer and introduces herself, lightly bowing hello. The dog, Athena, gives Kiyoko a deep sniff.
Kiyoko tilts her head and smiles. “Are you ready for tonight’s festivities, Athena?”
Athena snorts. I can only imagine what her reply to Kiyoko was.
That dog’s calling all y’all a bunch of pompous assholes, is what.
I can’t help it; I laugh and watch Kiyoko do the same. Kiyoko’s laugh is like wind chimes. Spirit flickers the nearby candles, laughing with us. This laughter is a much-needed release. I relax a bit.
But I should know better than to let my guard down so quickly. Evalyn McLean glares at Kiyoko, kneeling next to Athena. “Do not harm my dog. She is family.”
“Of course she is,” Kiyoko says. “And I’d never think of it.” She skirts away quickly. None of us need to be seen interacting too much with Evalyn McLean.
Oh, I feel sick. But Evalyn quickly forgets this small run-in. She pouts and removes the necklace from her boxer’s scruff. She lifts it to her décolletage, hands poised at her cheekbones, eyebrows raised.
“Max, darling,” Evalyn coos at Blanck, her eyes already glassy slits from several quick sips of gin. She lifts the Hope Diamond to her throat and whirls her back toward Blanck. “Help me with this clasp, won’t you?”
Blanck’s beefy fingers fumble with the clasp at the base of Evalyn’s updo. He is too proud to request his spectacles to see the clasp better, so he squints and grunts at it instead.
Blanck clasps the necklace at last. Evalyn whirls about and lifts the massive gem off her décolletage toward him. He bends forward to peer at it. I can practically feel Blanck’s hot, sticky breath fogging up the slick surface of the diamond.
“May I fondle your gem?” he says with a chuckle, and a greasy grin slides over his face.
Evalyn swallows uneasily but says, “Help yourself.”
There is a long, silent moment while everyone watches Blanck rub his stubby fingers over the blue-hued gem. He leans so close, he can likely see his reflection in it.
His greed, at this moment, is palpable.
It has a heartbeat.
It is a growling stomach.
A dry throat.
The screams of 146 lives lost in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire rise around me in a horrifying crescendo. I cringe. I am immediately hot, sweaty, short of breath. I grip the back of the chair next to me.
Blanck lays the gem back on Evalyn McLean’s chest, and the screams of women on fire fade. “So. Is it really cursed?”
Evalyn’s eyes gleam and her face tilts into an impish grin. “We’ll see.”