Chapter Fifty-Three
Pax hails a carriage to Times Square. The carriage bumps and jolts and adds to my sense of reeling, rattled to my bones. Silence hangs over us like a black velvet cloak, heavy and smothering. I feel Pax’s eyes on me as I once felt his hands on me—gentle but firm. Pleading.
His voice cracks though the silence, like coffee over ice. “I feel sick with wrath. How do I let all this rage go?”
His agony surprises me, and it guts me. I ease my hand toward his. He lifts our knotted fingers to his lips. I lean in and place my forehead against his. We share our breath.
“Together,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Illness is an individual fight. Injustice is fought through unity.”
We are stronger together, Pax and I. Maman would warn Daisy and me about the single grain of rice that would tip the scale.
But perhaps our focus should be on the scale itself, not the rice.
When one side of the scale falls, the other side must lift.
When one side spirals unpredictably, the other side grounds.
Like a dance, dipping, swaying: True balance looks like music in motion. Pax is the dance.
We arrive at the Lyric Theatre. We’re almost too late to be seated, but when Pax tells the usher where our seats are, he directs us to a lush balcony box.
The usher folds back the curtains, and one woman sits alone in this entire section.
She squeals when she sees us and throws her arms around Pax.
The whole seated theater looks up at us.
Pax dips his head. I take a step back into the shadows. We do not need anyone from high society spotting us here, alongside Evalyn Walsh McLean.
Pax looks around. “Smart to buy out every seat in the box for us.”
Evalyn looks confused, then smiles. “Oh, this. I didn’t do this for you. I rent out a whole box every time I come to the theater. It’s too intimate otherwise. I certainly don’t want my arm brushing up against another’s while I’m weeping over Macbeth killing everyone in sight.”
Oh, Law, she did it.
She said the M-name in a theater!
I discreetly hand Evalyn the sagging drawstring bag containing her Hope Diamond. She doesn’t even check the contents of the bag before dropping it deep into her beaded evening purse. I could’ve loaded that bag down with rocks, for all she knows.
Technically, it IS loaded down with rocks.
I smile to myself. Fair point.
“Thank you for your help,” Pax says.
“No problem,” she says with a shrug. “I’d do anything for William Vanderbilt. He’s the bee’s knees. Please give him my regards. I’ve missed seeing him of late.”
Okay, maybe she’s not totally terrible.
“It was rather ingenious, how you guaranteed Blanck’s fingerprints would be on the necklace.” Pax leans forward. “That really put him in a panic.”
Evalyn beams at Pax and lays her hand on his knee. I cough and avert my eyes.
“You”—she leans in and nudges Pax, shoulder to shoulder—“are welcome. Happy to assist. Max Blanck is positively vile.”
Pax lays his hand on hers and he squeezes gently, prying her hand from its grip on his knee. He holds her hand there, balanced on his leg.
“And the switching of the necklaces from real to fake. You did that in the powder room, I assume?” Pax asks.
“I did. Oh, what a fun ruse. To wake to all those faces who thought the Hope Diamond had gone missing. It was priceless!” She shimmies with glee.
I lean around Pax. I whisper, “Yes, thank you, Mrs. McLean. You, um, really committed to the bit. That head wound…” I gaze pointedly at the swollen goose egg on her forehead.
“It really distracted folks.” I don’t add how her “commitment” resulted in a friend of mine being accused of attempted murder.
“Oh, this.” She removes her hand from Pax’s to lightly touch her forehead. She winces. “This was an accident. I stumbled in the dark after I placed the sugar necklace you gave me in the punch bowl. And too much gin, well.” She bats her eyelashes. “Too much gin makes blood flow like water.”
The lights flash, then dim, and people across the theater whisper shhhh.
We watch Patience, and I glance at McLean several times throughout the production, fascinated by her.
Her elbows rest on the balcony ledge, and her eyes shine as she mouths the songs along with the performers, adding small, discreet gestures—head nods and finger flares and lip puckers.
She basks in the lights and music emanating from the stage.
Evalyn McLean is a performer. We could not have asked for a better ally in our whole Blanck charade than Evalyn. When the actors take their final bow, Evalyn leaps to her feet and claps the loudest. Spirit announces:
Let’s go mess with the ghost light!
Spirit chuckles, and they pull away. Evalyn flops in her chair next to Pax and grabs both his hands in hers. “Tell me you’ll come back to my place for a cocktail?” She bats her eyes.
I burn red, a combination of anger and embarrassment. Am I invisible to her? I suppose I am, when Pax is here. Most everyone else fades from my sight line when he’s nearby.
“Oh, you are a temptress!” he says, silvery eyes flashing. Evalyn giggles. How do I continually forget how polished he is when it comes to coaxing wealthy women?
I can feel him stalling for time. Is he waiting for me to leave so he can accept her advances? I turn toward the curtain.
“I’m delighted by your invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot.” He grins at the silly carpet. He’s looking at his hands. I’m reminded of the day we met. I knew then that truth is harder for him than lies. Then his dancing eyes flick to mine, snick.
I want to burst. Why is he declining her advances? Is it me? Or something else?
He stands abruptly, his silver-green eyes still locked on mine. “I must leave the country for a while. I have some business overseas.”
Ah, I see. My heart plummets. Why would I assume he’d make choices with me in mind?
Evalyn pooh-poohs him. “Oh, all right, you spoilsport.” She hops to her feet and climbs the trio of stairs. “Just remember—you did say you’d mention my name to the Broadway producers you know.”
Pax grins, and I can tell Evalyn is electrified by his smile—she literally shivers. I am one of his many admirers. “I will,” Pax promises.
Evalyn blows him a kiss and folds herself under the thick curtain at the back of the balcony.
Our eyes meet, snick! I have so many questions for Pax, but I think I surprise him with the one I choose: “Do you know any Broadway producers?”
Pax smiles his lopsided smile, and he lowers his chin, and he lifts his eyebrows, and dammit if his green eyes aren’t dancing.
“No.”