Chapter 13 Taylor
Taylor
Taylor’s heart beats wildly against her ribs as she darts through the propped-open entrance to the Lime Street building in the tony Beacon Hill neighborhood.
Vivian’s address.
Jabbing repeatedly at the elevator call button, Taylor prays that the concierge doesn’t suddenly return from outside, where he’s helping to unload groceries from a double-parked car. The elevator takes its sweet time, and perspiration gathers beneath her baseball cap.
When it finally arrives, she darts in, shooting one last furtive look at the still-empty lobby.
Vivian’s apartment is a penthouse, which makes it easy to know which button to press next: the top one. As the cab rises, Taylor removes her hat and leans her slick back against the wall. She tries to slow down her heart, but it’s continuing to behave like she’s drunk three coffees.
So she reminds herself of her justification for trespassing into her former patient’s apartment: What if, Taylor reasons for the umpteenth time, Vivian has a hungry cat that needs to be fed? A dying fish? What if she left her lights on? Food out on the counter that is now spoiled?
Taylor’s been off from work for a stretch of days—the life of a hospital nurse—which means that she’s had far too much time to think.
And this is what she keeps contemplating: Vivian’s wedding finger is bare.
Her “About Me” poster blank. No one has come to visit her yet, according to Aunt Gigi.
So what if there is no one to check on these things in Vivian’s apartment, other than Taylor herself?
The more she says it to herself, the more she allows herself to believe it.
When the doors open on the fifth floor, Taylor steps off into a rich, navy-blue-carpeted—and, most important, empty—hall. She finds the door labeled, simply, 3. Make that Penthouse 3. What an address.
She inserts the key, and there’s a satisfying click.
As she enters, her unease about what she is doing vanishes.
Turning on the large crystal chandelier light, Taylor stares.
The apartment looks almost unreal, like a movie set.
The chandelier sparkles, casting a warm golden hue on the collection of unique, striking furniture.
A vintage-looking rug runs the length of the floor, ending short of the marble fireplace.
A wall bookcase displays the most carefully arranged books and assortment of trinkets.
“Trinkets” is probably not the best word to describe the various small crystal and porcelain figurines and sculptures, but Taylor doesn’t have a sophisticated enough vocabulary to do them justice.
Dreamy silk curtains frame multiple airy windows—Taylor would have zero chance of suffering from claustrophobia here.
In the far corner of the room, Taylor spots Vivian’s desk.
It’s a dark ebony lacquered wood with a black leather writing surface flanked by raised panel drawers.
There could be secrets about Vivian hidden within.
Taylor starts to make her way over but pauses, distracted, to run her hand down a cabinet’s curved legs that end in almost humanlike claws.
And then she momentarily sinks into a high-backed deep purple velvet chair with a gold frame that looks—and feels—fit for a queen.
She caresses every surface, rubs every texture.
It’s almost like a museum exhibit. No, it’s better than that, because she gets to feel and touch and experience the items. For once, Taylor’s not standing behind some velvet rope, or peering from outside a window, but rather immersed inside the wealth. And it’s glorious.
She picks up a framed photograph of Vivian with two people who look like her parents, based on the age and similar facial features.
Vivian’s mother is pretty but nothing like her daughter.
Also, she wears way too much makeup. Another photograph is of a younger-looking Vivian standing, arms linked, with a plain-faced woman dressed in Gap-grade whitewash jeans and a UPenn sweatshirt. A picture from college?
Taylor places the frame down and glances around again.
A few feet from the desk, which she has yet to search, is the bedroom door, tantalizingly ajar.
Like a fish to a lure, Taylor immediately bypasses the desk to enter the bedroom.
She slips off her boots and then her socks so she can sink her toes into the soft sheepskin rug.
She opens dresser drawers, riffles through closet hangers, combs through shelves.
With every designer accessory she picks up—a Chanel bag, Prada sunglasses, a Christian Dior belt—and every clothing item she uncovers—a Burberry trench coat, a Versace dress, a Chanel tweed jacket—she falls a little more in love with Vivian.
And a little more in love with herself. Taylor normally doesn’t like her arms, but in the fine Versace silk, she doesn’t mind them.
In fact, as she twirls in Vivian’s full-length gold-framed mirror, her arms look almost shapely.
And the Hermès scarf gently tied around her neck elongates her face, slimming it and shifting attention away from her gapped teeth.
The three-inch Jimmy Choo crystal pumps create muscles in her calves.
It’s as if she’s stepped into one of the collages of fashion magazine cutouts she used to make as a young girl.
She feels beautiful in a way she hasn’t in a long time, perhaps since she first started dating Grayson years ago.
She isn’t in a movie set; she is the movie set.
In the back of the closet is a set of Louis Vuitton luggage: one large duffel bag, a rolling suitcase, and a garment bag.
She runs her palm across the smooth leather, fingers the intact seams. She marvels at their pristine condition and is reminded of an incident that happened years earlier, at her dad’s restaurant: A tourist left behind her Louis Vuitton wallet.
Taylor discovered it, after-hours, as she was sweeping crab shells into a dustpan.
The wallet was wedged beneath a table, and it felt like a piece of gold in Taylor’s high school–age hands. She wanted it, badly.
The woman’s license revealed she was from Boston, which didn’t surprise Taylor in the slightest. Boston had seduced her mother. It was a city where things seemed to happen. Where history had happened. Of course a sophisticated woman with a Louis Vuitton wallet would be from Boston.
When the woman returned to the restaurant the following day, distraught and fretting about how she had a flight to catch, Taylor surreptitiously emptied the wallet of its contents.
“We found your credit cards and license and cash, but no wallet,” Taylor had said. “I can put these in a plastic bag for you, if you want?”
The woman had eyed Taylor, almost in disbelief, but she’d taken her items and gone on her way.
For years the wallet was Taylor’s most coveted possession.
She used it all the time. Only later did she realize it was nearly worthless.
The lining was deteriorated, ripped even; the leather discolored, the edges peeling.
She felt foolish with the realization, but it was a good lesson.
Condition of designer items matters; it is why they have protective cloth bags.
On a mirrored jewelry tray, Taylor now picks up a bottle of perfume.
Chanel N°5. She sprays it on her wrist, deeply inhales.
Then she places it back on the tray, beside a bottle of OPI nail polish whose color she takes note of (Malaga Wine), and some jewelry, including a casually strewn diamond tennis bracelet, a pearl necklace, a “V” initial gold pendant, and a pair of gold-and-emerald drop earrings.
This woman sure likes her emeralds, but Taylor supposes that if she, too, had magnificent green eyes, she’d be drawn to that color—though she’d obviously have to make do with glass- and gold-plated versions.
No wonder Taylor’s patient access was restricted. Is Vivian some sort of royal heiress?
Taylor’s phone pings with a text message, and she jumps, startled. It’s Sam, her neighbor:
Hey, thought you were coming by the salon? I’ll hang around for a few more mins…Lmk.
Shit. Sam kindly offered another after-hours cut and told her to swing by at 7:30 p.m.
She’s shocked to see it’s already 7:48 p.m.
How long has she been here? Outside, the sky is pitch-black; the winter day has closed like a curtain. She quickly types back a response:
Omg so sorry…I can’t make it. Something came up. Happy to pay you a cancellation fee.
She isn’t happy to do that at all; she can’t even afford a regular cut from him, let alone a fee for one she never received.
Luckily, his response is: No worries.
She looks around at the pile of clothes heaped onto the paisley bedsheets, the shoes scattered on the floor. The absence of the hungry cat, the nonexistent dying fish—the scene pokes holes in the thinness of her justifications for coming here. What was she thinking?
She works quickly to put everything back. With each passing minute, she grows more anxious. What if the concierge or someone else comes by to check on the apartment? What if Vivian’s Gap-wearing friend from the picture is making her way there at this very moment?
With the bedroom back in order, and just a lingering waft of perfume in the air, Taylor hastens to the main room, toward the door. But then she stops, turns to look at Vivian’s desk.
Just five more minutes, she thinks. Besides, leaving will be far easier than coming.
She can just stroll by the concierge on her way out as if she were visiting someone in the building.
Still, time presses in on her. Taylor thrusts open the drawers, moving in a swift, clockwork fashion.
There’s the normal desk spread: a tiny stapler, a roll of stamps, pens, and a pair of readers.
A wallet-size school picture of a little girl who looks kindergarten age.
Embroidered on the left side of her navy-blue jumper are the words “Locust Prep” over a school shield with a Liberty Bell. Who is she to Vivian?
Taylor digs deeper, finds a stack of plastic cards bound with an elastic band that reveal that Vivian is a member of The ’Quin (Boston’s exclusive social club that Sam wants to join), the Atheneum (a private library in Beacon Hill), and a yoga studio called Mission Hill Yoga.
There’s another stack of cards, business ones, for a place called Storied Antiques.
And what do you know, Vivian is listed on the card as the owner.
Taylor slips one of the business cards into her pocket.
She is about to close the drawer—the last one she’s gone through—when she spots a hint of cream paper.
She extends the drawer; a small, folded slip of paper is wedged at the back.
Reaching in, she retrieves it and unfolds it.
There’s a single sentence, written in black ink: PLEASE STAY AWAY
The room darkens further as dusk settles in, and it’s followed by a loud knocking noise that startles Taylor. Is someone at the door? She freezes, holds her breath. But then she realizes the sound is simply the boom of the old-fashioned wall radiator.
She looks again at the note; there’s an upward arrow at the end of the sentence, directing where it is one should stay away from. Her eyes travel to the top of the stationery, to the embossed graphic: a top hat with a flower on its band.
She gasps. She’s seen this symbol before: It was on the last letter her mom wrote her from Boston.