Chapter Thirty-One
Annie
Annie’s homecoming hadn’t been as terrible as she predicted it would be. Sure, she still didn’t have a place to live or a job, but after the trip with Charlotte, her world had opened up, and now she understood that clinging to her old life wasn’t worth it.
Yesterday, after the successful arrest of Mona, Joyce’s boyfriend had let Annie into the basement apartment with a look of confusion on his face. Brad—a mild-mannered guy with no chin or shoulders to speak of, which gave the unfortunate impression he was slowly melting into the ground—seemed uncertain as to who exactly Annie was.
Joyce had never even mentioned Annie’s existence.
So while Joyce got herself out of the bath and dressed at warp speed after Brad announced Annie was here, Annie genially introduced herself as Joyce’s daughter. The irony that Charlotte was desperate to find her missing child while Joyce was doing everything she could to erase Annie from her life was not lost on Annie. But it also didn’t crush her the way it might have two weeks earlier.
Annie was no longer angry at Joyce for her terrible decisions. Those were her mother’s choices, and Annie didn’t need to fix them or change them. Whether Joyce’s marriage to Brad worked out or not was not Annie’s problem. She hoped it would work out, but if it failed, she would be there for Joyce in a new way, as a sympathetic observer, not as a fixer.
Joyce had emerged from the bedroom, her hair up in a towel, and sheepishly introduced them. By then, they’d had a pleasant enough discussion about the best place to get a burger in the neighborhood as well as the various eccentricities of Mrs. Hollingsworth upstairs. Joyce went on and on about their plans for the future while not asking a thing about Annie’s trip nor her plans, and so after ten minutes Annie excused herself and left.
Upstairs with Mrs. H, Annie explained that she’d need a place to stay for a few weeks until she got settled, and thanked her for having the foresight to withhold some of Annie’s pay each week, that the trip she’d taken to Egypt had turned her life around in a good way. Mrs. H smiled and put her bony hand over Annie’s. “That’s my girl,” she said. “By the way, Mrs. Vreeland called me a little while ago. She’s trying to track you down. Looks like you have a second chance.”
Then, this morning, Annie had got caught up in the whirlwind of seeing Charlotte and the revelation of Helen’s drawings made from the Kodachrome slides, not to mention the rediscovery of the ancient contract, which left Annie no time to get nervous for her meeting with Mrs. Vreeland.
The Costume Institute workroom was empty now that the exhibition was up and running, and Mrs. Vreeland warmly welcomed Annie into her office, lit a cigarette, and asked all about the trip, more than making up for Joyce’s indifference. Rather than making the standard inquiries—did she see the pyramids (unfortunately, no) and did she ride a camel (again, no)—Mrs. Vreeland asked what the Egyptian women were wearing and raved about the softness of the Egyptian cotton button-down shirts she’d bought her last time in the country.
“Were any of the clothes from the exhibition damaged?” Annie asked. That was her one worry, that the moths had gotten to the delicate silks and embroidery on display.
“They fumigated that evening, so not a flying insect was left. All is in order.” She drew on her cigarette. “What now, for you?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“I’d like you to come back and work for me, if you’re willing. I thought we did well together, until I overreacted and sent you packing. Your involvement in the recovery of the Cerulean Queen has this place in an uproar, and I have to admit I’m mightily impressed with your gumption.”
“I’m not sure I’m up to your standards, Mrs. Vreeland,” Annie admitted honestly.
“Don’t sell yourself short, girl. I believe in the rare, the extravagant, the utmost of everything. I don’t believe in the middle of the road because I don’t think it’s good company. But ultimately, it is for you to discover for yourself, within yourself.” Mrs. Vreeland looked off into the distance, lost in her own verbiage. “Within the silent green-cool groves of an inner world where, alone and free, you may dream the possible dream: that the wondrous is real, because that is how you feel it to be, that is how you wish it to be. And how you wish it into being.”
Annie was flummoxed by what exactly Mrs. Vreeland had just said. “English, please.”
Mrs. Vreeland let out a girlish laugh. “ That’s what I like about you. You don’t put up with my nonsense. Please, give me a second chance. I’m already dreaming up themes for next year’s exhibition.” She held both hands up in the air, palms out, fingers spread. “ Fashions of the Hapsburg Era: Austria-Hungary. Can’t you just see it?”
“Not exactly, but it sounds intriguing.”
“I’m off to Vienna and Budapest next week. Care to join me?”
No matter Mrs. Vreeland’s quirks, she had a lot to teach Annie. The offer was too good to pass up, and Annie accepted the job without any reservations. She’d grown so much since the first time she’d walked into the Costume Institute carrying Mrs. H’s feather boa in a paper bag. She had a newfound faith in herself and her capabilities, one she was eager to apply to her role as Mrs. Vreeland’s assistant.
As Annie passed through the basement gallery of the Western European Arts collection on her way upstairs, she heard her name called out.
Billy strode over and gave her hand a hearty shake. “Annie Jenkins! You’re the hero of the Met. We heard all about how you found the Cerulean Queen and took out the thief in the process. Just amazing.” His grip was strong and warm, and his eyes shone.
“Well, it wasn’t quite like that.”
“Can I buy you a coffee to celebrate? And as thanks? I learned yesterday that I can still stay on at the job, thank goodness.”
Seeing Billy so happy and enthusiastic was a relief. She would’ve hated to think their friendship had cost him his job.
In the staff caf, she answered his questions about her trip (pyramids, no; camel ride, no; mummies, yes) and then they settled into an easy conversation about his application to New York University, which he’d just submitted. “Fingers crossed I get good news in April,” he said. “And what about you? Are you coming back to the Met?”
“Actually, I accepted, for the second time in a month, the job of assistant to Mrs. Vreeland,” said Annie.
“That’s great! She’s lucky to have you.”
“I realized I’m no longer intimidated by her. Well, not as much as I was before. Being in Egypt—it’s hard to explain—but it changed everything. After almost being killed during a tomb cave-in, asking Mrs. Vreeland what on earth she means is no big deal.”
“You seem different. Not that you weren’t extremely compelling before.” Billy looked straight at her with his big brown eyes.
Annie took a sip of her coffee to hide the blush that she was certain was crawling across her cheeks.
“Well, now that you’re back at the Met,” he said, “I hope I can take you out on a real date. Would that be all right?”
“I couldn’t think of anything better.”
Annie was still beaming from her conversation with Billy as she crossed the Great Hall on her way out. At the information desk, she overheard a man ask for Charlotte Cross. She turned to see who it was, but he had his back to her. The clerk informed the man that Charlotte wasn’t at the museum, and she was unsure of her exact return date.
“Blast it!” said the man.
In an English accent.
He was tall, wearing a tan overcoat, with curly gray hair cut short. Short enough that Annie could see a large pair of ears sticking out from either side of his head.
It was Henry.
Charlotte’s Henry was here.