Chapter 3 Vivian #2
Vivian does; she wonders how much it costs. Xavier has never been wildly extravagant in his wine purchasing, but he always brings a respectable bottle. As with her coffee beans, Vivian prefers expensive wine. But she needs to start adjusting her lifestyle choices sooner than later.
Vivian smiles, trying to put on a happy front. “It’s very good,” she concludes, but her voice betrays her, cracking.
“Bad day so far?” Xavier asks, tilting his head.
“That’s an understatement.” She considers telling him about it, or even part of it, but it’s been so long since they’ve seen each other.
Also, she senses it might make him uncomfortable.
In the past few years he’s distanced himself from her and Rachel, always dating some new guy and getting sucked into the relationship.
She doesn’t know what’s going on in his life, not like she used to.
“But my day’s better now that you’re here.
It’s so good to see you. It’s been too long. ”
“It has,” he admits, smiling. “Have you spoken to Rachel lately?”
Vivian speaks to—or texts with—Rachel most days, including just earlier, but she doesn’t want Xavier to feel left out. “Occasionally. I think she’s busy with the baby. How’s…your family? Your mom?”
Most of his family is back in Spain, and Vivian knows he sends them money.
Xavier brightens. “She’s good. A little heart trouble, she said in her last letter, but she’s good.”
Like his old-fashioned preference for carrying a pocket watch, Xavier also possesses an affinity for writing letters. He lives, Vivian sometimes thinks, like he belongs in the past.
“And your mom?” Xavier asks. “Still painting the town red?”
“No, actually, she’s sick…. She’s in a nursing home now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Vivian. I didn’t know.”
“Thanks…. It all happened pretty quickly.” Vivian raises the glass again to her lips.
Given the little she’s had to eat, the wine’s already hitting her.
Her thoughts feel a little syrupy, and she welcomes the sensation, the change from her reality.
She’s already halfway done with her glass, which isn’t ladylike in the slightest. Her mom wouldn’t approve.
But she doesn’t want to think of her mom.
She wants to forget Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the rare degenerative brain disorder that has rudely occupied her mother’s body like an unwelcome squatter.
Vivian doesn’t, in fact, want to think about anything in the here and now.
She wants to finish her wine and recall summer sunny days when she and Xavier and Rachel sat in lawn chairs watching Shakespeare on the Boston Common, passing a thermos of sparkling wine between them.
Time was, they were the three musketeers: an antiques dealer, a jeweler, and a genealogist. Engaged in just the right touch of unusual professions to have found one another, and sharing mutual interests: Sunday antique markets, cultural events, dining at the hot spots.
Spending many long, wine-fueled evenings together.
But in the past few years, everything changed: Rachel had a baby. Xavier got sober. And then it seemed like he started replacing alcohol with men.
“Please let me know if you need anything with your mom,” Xavier now offers.
But his words sound hollow, and they both know it.
A look passes between them. Vivian couldn’t even reach him if she wanted to—no cell phone, and she thinks he recently moved.
She’s too embarrassed to ask, because she should already know.
If push came to shove, and she needed to, Vivian supposes she could stop by Xavier’s store in the jewelry district, but the tradition is that it is he who stops by.
Xavier suddenly lunges forward, past Vivian, and she turns to see the reason. He has positioned himself in front of the turquoise-painted carousel horse, whose profile is peeking out from behind a tall chest.
“How did you come by this horse?” he asks, running his hand over the horse’s mouth.
“I repaired it for a client. Well, I arranged for the repair.”
Xavier snatches his hand back, as if the horse has bitten him. Fear flashes across his face so quickly that she wonders if she imagined it.
Circus stuff has never been Vivian’s cup of tea, either, but Xavier’s reaction seems dramatic.
“A client?” he repeats.
“Correct.” What is he getting at?
A frown tugs at his mouth; he seems like he’s about to say something but then thinks better of it.
“Why do you ask?” she prods.
“Just curious.” Xavier immediately looks down and fumbles with his pocket watch. “I’ve forgotten I have an appointment. I’m sorry, but I must go.” He hastens away without giving his usual goodbye air-kisses.
Just as he exits, her phone buzzes with a text from her client itself, the Knox, or rather her contact at the Knox.
Funny timing, almost as if they’ve been somehow listening, if you believe that sort of thing.
Given that the Knox is a centuries-old secret society—and a notorious one at that—maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised.
She’s heard the same stories everyone has: an initiation night shrouded in secrecy, fingers reaching into all crevices of society, drug-fueled parties, a choke hold power over their members.
They say the members partake in an annual midnight walk to the harbor in an homage to their seafaring merchant roots—and to offload any persons who’ve become unnecessary collateral.
But the rumors are of no consequence to her. The Knox is one of her biggest clients.
She reads the text: Ms. Lawrence, is the horse ready? If not, we are requesting an expedited repair. We need it by Friday. We can cover any additional costs required to facilitate this. Warm regards, Michael.
Of course you can cover any additional costs, she thinks.
Vivian normally doesn’t handle too many repairs.
In fact, she gets rather annoyed when people assume as much.
An antiques dealer is not a furniture restorer, just like, as Rachel often says, a genealogist is not a librarian.
But given how much money they’ve funneled to her through the years, she makes the exception for them.
More than the exception. At this very moment, there are a selection of “no rush” Knox items in her back room, awaiting refinishing.
There are many antique restorers, but only a few excellent ones; the best one passed away during Covid, so she is still vetting his replacement.
Luckily, Gerard, the carnival guy, was able to slot in the carousel horse.
Vivian studies the signature on the text: Warm regards, Michael.
Is that a change from his usual? She scrolls through the trove of texts between her and Michael.
She doesn’t delete messages, so their entire history is there.
Sure enough, he at first signed, simply: -Michael.
And then, for the longest time: Best, Michael.
They are on a “warm regards” basis now, apparently.
This surprises her. When he comes into the shop, stooping as he descends the first few steps to avoid hitting his head on the overhead beam, he keeps things brief, professional.
She tries to remember if he wears a wedding band.
Or, really, what he looks like. He’s tall, of course.
Tall like a basketball player. But “athletic” would be the least likely word she’d use to describe him.
He’s unassuming, stiff. Too stiff, really.
Always so reserved and proper, always dressed in a dark suit, as if he’s coming from or going to a funeral.
He doesn’t seem unkind, though—more socially awkward.
Vivian starts to type back, It’s ready now, but then stops.
She looks at the horse, then back at the text. Then she clicks the phone’s side button to bring up her lock screen: a picture of her mom. Her hair is pulled severely back in a bun; she wears a light pink lipstick that matches her Chanel tweed jacket, circa 1993 spring collection.
A childhood memory surfaces, and on its back, a wild, wild idea now forms in Vivian’s head. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she deletes the first message and taps out a different response: The horse is not ready yet. I’ll let you know.
And then, at the end, adds: Warmest, Vivian.