Chapter 17 Vivian
Vivian
Early February
Why had Xavier warned Vivian to be careful? Was it because he saw Peter over her shoulder? Or did he simply mean to be careful of the Knox? And why was he here, anyway?
But Xavier’s gone, so Vivian can’t ask him. When she glances at the spot he was standing in, the hall is empty. He’s vanished, on par with the other shady characters that seem to inhabit the place tonight.
Meanwhile, Peter stands there, as still as a statue, his arm extending toward her. In his hands is her martini, perfectly filled to the rim. Of course it is.
Peter feels like an architect. There is a certain way he holds himself, and objects, that appears structural in nature. He must think about dimension and space in a different way than most people do.
“Thanks,” Vivian says, taking the martini glass from him.
When their fingers brush together, a current pulses through her.
On top of the olives, at the end of the toothpick, is a piece of what she thinks is candied fruit, but then she realizes it’s a tiny gummy, shaped like a mask.
“This is a marvelous drink.” She slides the gummy into her mouth.
Too late, she considers it could be more than just a simple piece of candy.
“You might be the only fortysomething-year-old woman who uses the word ‘marvelous.’ ”
“Thanks, I guess?” She hasn’t told him she’s in her forties, and she can’t say she loves him referencing her age.
“I mean it in a good way,” he says. And then he adds, “What are you doing out here?”
She shrugs. “Is there a bathroom?” Meanwhile, she’s still thinking about Xavier. She must have misheard the slurring of his words; the parlor music is probably still echoing through her.
Vivian is surprised that Xavier would be at a party, period. And at the Knox, no less. He’s probably here with a new boyfriend and was carrying that wine for him. Or maybe it wasn’t wine that Xavier was holding. It could have been a soda. It’s shadowy in these corridors.
It saddens Vivian, how little she knows about Xavier these days.
Peter takes a step closer, studying her. “You’re not really supposed to be here, in this part of the house.”
Vivian takes a long sip of the drink. She can’t tell if he’s flirting with her or genuinely concerned about how she decided to wander around—that is, until she locks eyes with him, and a heat kindles inside her. “Oh no?” she says, dropping her voice a little.
“No,” he whispers.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
After a quick glance over his shoulder, he takes her arm and pulls her forward a few steps before leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, a door pushes in. It’s a false wall. Peter flips his mask up, like a pair of sunglasses, and grins almost boyishly as he holds the door open.
It’s dark, and the strong smell of cigars hits her nose, as if someone were sitting there smoking, but when the lights flicker on, they are alone.
The secret room is a small library. Mahogany built-in bookshelves and cabinetry wrap around two walls.
A rolling library ladder is hinged to a track that runs along the upper shelves.
The third and fourth walls of the room are adorned with artwork.
A tapestry of Chinese origin occupies a large swath of wall space.
No surprise there, given the Knox’s early roots.
In the center of the room, a green velvet couch sits opposite two chairs, a wooden coffee table sandwiched in between.
No secretaries, unfortunately.
Peter steals over to a mahogany cigar box resting on one of the cabinets.
He is suddenly more interested in fishing out a cigar for himself than continuing their flirting.
Fine with Vivian. It will give her a chance to look around.
She sets down her martini on the coffee table, next to a pair of familiar candlesticks she’d sourced for the Knox.
She’s drawn into a memory: Xavier at Vivian’s store one day, looking through her collection of heavily tarnished silver and brass candlesticks.
“I could easily clean these up for you,” he offered, meaning he could remove the oxidation with cyanide.
While the use of cyanide is no longer a standard practice for cleaning jewelry due to its obvious danger, certain jewelers, like Xavier, have permits that allow them to purchase and use it for their business.
“Don’t you dare,” she replied. “Patina and original finish are what allow me to price these the way I do.”
The memory fading, she glances around the room. There’s an eerie quiet; the party sounds are muted completely, as if the room is soundproof. Maybe it is. She realizes there are no windows. Unless there’s one hiding beneath that tapestry.
Peter lights up the cigar, and puffs of smoke billow. “This room is ventilated, so don’t worry.”
“Oh?” She still holds her breath. She is not one for cigar smoke, especially when in a windowless room, ventilation system or not. Through the filter of a masquerade mask or not. “What is this place?”
“They call it Teddy’s. It was named after Theodore Thurgood. He was in charge of the Knox after William Knox passed.”
Theodore “Teddy” Thurgood. Hmm. She commits this name to memory—she’s not sure what she’ll need in this quest of hers—and walks over to one of the nearby bookshelves that has caught her eye.
The section is partially tucked under the ladder, and she pushes the ladder away, marveling at the ease in which it moves.
Now, she’s face-to-face with a few shelves of old, seemingly forgotten-about books. Antiques, some might say.
Hunger floods her, but it’s not for food.
She feels the way she does when she enters an estate sale, when a trove of treasures is at her fingertips.
She instantly feels she can breathe a little easier.
The books are in shades of tans and maroons and muted greens, their spines worn, crinkled.
She can almost sense the film of dust that surely envelops them.
Vivian carries a smattering of vintage books in the shop, some finds she’s discovered at the Sunday markets that run in the warm weather.
She’s marked them up to make a profit, but it’s difficult to really assess their value.
She is hardly an expert on rare books. Her area of expertise has always been what she jokingly—and secretly—calls “early IKEA”: livable, functional, antique furnishings, from the 1800s to the 1920s.
The criteria being that the items need to fit through the front door of her shop—it’s the only way in and out.
This suits her local customers just fine, though.
They live in quirky, old spaces and are also looking for furniture that can squeeze through small entrances or be carried up narrow, crooked or spiral staircases.
Her items are pricey, though; her customers are far from IKEA shoppers.
“Was Theodore a business associate of William Knox’s?”
“No. He was his son-in-law. He worked for William. He was actually a cabin boy who worked his way up. But then he married William’s only daughter, Margaret.”
At the name Margaret, Vivian freezes. “Did they have children?” she manages to ask, slowly turning to face Peter.
“One, a boy.”
And a girl, she silently adds. A girl, her great-great-grandmother, born out of wedlock while Theodore was at sea. Instead, she says, “That’s unusual for those times. To have just one.”
“You’re right; I’ve never really thought about that.”
“Maybe she had health problems?” Vivian suggests.
She might be pushing her luck here. But she is curious, and not just because she wants to find a missing slip of paper.
Because this Margaret—her great-great-great-grandmother—lived here, in this house.
Because suddenly, in Vivian’s mind, she’s become a real person, with desires and likes and dislikes.
“Well, their son was a doctor, so if she did, she was in good hands.”
Her son the doctor does not have the same kind heart. Something is not right. He has her body in the basement.
Vivian swallows. “A doctor, huh,” she says, prodding Peter. But he doesn’t say anything. “Dr. Thurgood,” she adds, but he still doesn’t say anything.
Finally, she says, “Is that what the son went by? Dr. Thurgood?” She wants to know his name.
Peter taps out the ash, then takes another puff on the cigar. He looks amused. “Is this what dating a lover of antiques is like? Your mind always on rewind, one foot always stepping into the past?”
“Oh, are we dating, then?”
“I’d like to.”
“So, you’re not opposed to dating fortysomething-year-old women who use words like ‘marvelous’?” She can’t help the snark.
“Touché. That was incredibly rude of me, calling you out for using the word ‘marvelous.’ ” He grins. “I’m kidding. I do truly apologize. My mother, should I have had one for any real length of time, would have likely taught me not to mention a woman’s age.”
“Apology accepted.” It’s difficult to not soften with the thought of a motherless boy.
“I do want to date you, Vivian. At the moment, I have a crush like a schoolboy on you.”
“Oh, a schoolboy crush?”
“I think you’re incredible.”
“I think you don’t even know me.”
“Vivian Lawrence. Grew up in Chestnut Hill. Studied anthropology at UPenn. Graduated summa cum laude.”
“How do you know this?”
He puts down his cigar and walks toward her. “Lives at 62 Lime Street. Owner of Storied Antiques.”
Her face burns, and she wonders if he’s also sniffed out that her other store is soon closing. “How do you know all this?” she repeats.
He’s in front of her now, running his finger down her bare shoulder. It sends tingles through her arm. “We don’t just extend an invite to anyone at the Knox, Vivian. You can’t be surprised that we did a bit of a background check.”
“What I studied in college is part of a background check?”
“Well, that Michael told me.”
She frowns, trying to remember what conversation she had with Michael over the years at the store that revealed that fact. But it’s hard to think because Peter’s touch is consuming her. And truth be told, she might not remember anyway.
“You’re so beautiful, Vivian.” He tugs her mask off her face, slowly, as if he’s undressing her whole. And then he kisses her.
Her whole body feels electric as she kisses him back. He tastes like martinis and cigars, but now she doesn’t mind the cigar smell. Now, she likes it, savors the smoky tang on her tongue. They push against each other, their desire hot and sudden, like the strike of a match.
Then, the door to the room abruptly swings open as a pair of entangled bodies collapse on the ground.
It’s two men, fighting. Peter protectively pushes Vivian to the side, away from the commotion.
She presses against the Chinese tapestry, which normally she wouldn’t dare touch without gloves.
As the men thrash on the ground, Vivian can’t pull her eyes away.
They are clawing each other like wild tigers.
But one has the advantage, and something about the thick shape of his neck looks familiar.
It’s the wrestler—Jerry. The waiter who served her and Peter tea. His face is as red as fire.
“You’re an asshole, Oliver!” Jerry yells as he pummels the other man.
Peter has turned oddly white, mute. He stands a few feet from Vivian, also pushed against the wall, like a piece of furniture. She feels strangely disappointed in him.
The door thrusts open again as Michael rushes in. Fittingly, he’s wearing a very proper black tailcoat that Vivian can almost imagine him in on a regular day. She’d been wondering when she would see him tonight. She certainly didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances.
Michael manages to pull Jerry off this Oliver fellow. It’s quite impressive. She didn’t think Michael had it in him.
“Asshole,” Jerry spits once more, as Oliver stands up and straightens his shirt.
Oliver doesn’t look like he’s a fellow coworker but rather a member or a guest. A strung-out member or guest. Dirty-blond shoulder-length hair, an angular, chiseled face.
A streak of blood trailing down his cheek. Gucci loafers beneath his Canali tux.
Why on earth would such a person be in a scuffle with the help?
Michael notices Vivian, and then his gaze travels to Peter. Vivian can’t interpret his expression.
“You’re so done, Jerry,” Oliver says with a slur. “I’m so done with you…but not as done as I am with your skank sister. Tara wasn’t even a good fuck.”
Aha. Because this Knox member, Oliver, apparently slept with Jerry’s sister.
“Fuck you!” Jerry lunges at Oliver, but Michael has seen it coming and grips Jerry from behind.
Oliver just laughs, and it’s one of those empty laughs that makes everyone around feel worse.
“Men! Please!” Peter says, striding over. His color is normal, and Vivian wonders if she imagined what she’d seen just moments earlier, perhaps even projected her own fears onto him. “We have a lady here. Why don’t we move this upstairs?”
“I don’t need nothin’ else. I’m done here,” Jerry says. He doesn’t give Vivian a second glance as he slinks out of Michael’s arm and stalks out of the room.
Michael rubs his wrists, and the tension in the air suddenly lessens.
Meanwhile, Oliver seems to have noticed Vivian for the first time. “Well, hello there,” he says with a pasty grin.
He looks her up and down, making Vivian’s skin prickle. Oliver stumbles as he takes a step in her direction, and Peter moves in between them, like a blockade. She must have been imagining Peter’s earlier cowardice.
“A lady,” Oliver says. “Now that is a—”
“Oliver, your father wants a word,” Peter interrupts. “He was looking for you.”
Michael appears at Vivian’s side, takes her elbow, and his touch is not entirely unpleasant. “C’mon,” he whispers, and when she looks at Peter, he nods.
Vivian follows Michael out the door, feeling Oliver’s eyes on her back.