Chapter 24 Vivian #2
“He has a type. Remember there was Simon, the wealthy tech guy, and before that was James, who hailed from some aristocratic family, and before that there was the fancy lawyer? Xavier seems to be attracted to rich, powerful men.” Rachel sighs.
“And those are only the boyfriends we know about. Isn’t it weird how much we don’t know about Xavier these days? I miss him.”
A pang hits Vivian. She, too, misses him—but what she really misses is the three of them together, their shared bond.
Friendship itself. She used to have more friends—not just Rachel and Xavier, but a group of girls she grew up with, and college friends as well.
But the ones from home got married and had children, and settled into lives Vivian mostly no longer relates to.
As for those college friends, Kat was the glue that had held everyone together; after her death, they scattered in every which direction like loose tennis balls.
For a while, Rachel has been the one constant in Vivian’s life.
“Speaking of boyfriends,” Rachel continues, “that’s so romantic that Peter sent all those roses. Who does that? Did they really come on the hour, each hour?”
“They did.”
“That’s wild. I wonder what he meant by, ‘I’m new to this’?”
“Relationships? Who knows.” Vivian’s acting cool, but inside she’s been more than aflutter with the possibilities.
“Maybe love,” Rachel says with a partial grin. She has a way of smiling with just half her face moving, where it looks like she’s letting you in on a secret. Then she says, almost hesitantly, “You know, you could just marry Peter and then maybe you wouldn’t have to hunt down your family fortune.”
Vivian is annoyed. She hasn’t divulged the extent of her financial woes to her friend, nor does she want to.
Vivian will admit to herself—but only to herself—that the thought of such a marriage solution with Peter has crossed her mind.
And not only for practical reasons. She knows she is continuing to keep Rachel at arm’s length, and at this point, she’s not entirely sure why.
Maybe it’s an act of self-preservation. If it were earlier—before the deaths of her father and Kat—would she have more readily opened up to her friend?
Or perhaps Vivian is already bracing for that inevitable moment when Rachel becomes overly consumed with motherhood life.
“So, are you looking forward to your Tuesday dinner?” Rachel asks, when Vivian has failed to respond.
“Yes, though I wish it were at the Knox. I barely saw any of the rooms.”
“Patience, my dear.”
“I don’t have much of that.”
“You have a name for me, you said? Someone I can research?”
“Yes.” Vivian tells Rachel about William Knox’s son-in-law, Teddy Thurgood, who married Margaret—Vivian’s distant ancestor. And the doctor son they had, the half brother to Vivian’s great-great-grandmother.
Rachel riffles through her purse for a pen. “Mom brain,” she explains sheepishly. “I can’t remember anything anymore.”
“Here,” Vivian says, reaching into her own bag to pull out a slip of paper. “I drew my family tree. Excuse the rudimentary nature.”
“Not bad, not bad,” Rachel says. “This is actually helpful. Thanks.” She taps her finger against the sheet. “I know that surname, Thurgood. Where do I know that name?”
“Graham Thurgood is the current head honcho. And his son, Oliver, is somewhere in the line.” Vivian recalls the fight. “Though Oliver seems to have questionable leadership potential.”
“I know where I’ve heard the name Thurgood. Graham Thurgood is a donor on the Boston scene.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Let’s go back to the son. The doctor. Ha! I like how you call him ‘Dr. No-Good Thurgood,’ ” Rachel says, studying the tree.
“Well, he seems like he was up to no good. He was the one who tried to destroy Margaret’s schedule of beneficiaries. And…” Vivian’s voice trails off as she remembers what was written: Her son the doctor does not have the same kind heart. Something is not right. He has her body in the basement.
Rachel shudders, clearly recalling the note about the basement herself.
The bill arrives, and it’s Vivian’s turn to pay. She hands her credit card to the waiter, who returns moments later, an apologetic expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lawrence, do you have another card?”
“Oh, of course. Hold on.” She thumbs through her wallet, embarrassment flooding her.
“I can get it this time,” Rachel interjects.
“No, it’s my turn. Here, try this one,” Vivian says, handing the waiter another credit card.
Rachel, wisely, now says nothing.
When Vivian returns to her apartment, the concierge smiles broadly. “Your secret admirer strikes again,” he says, handing her an envelope with her name.
“Thank you.” She can’t remember his name despite interacting with him precisely a dozen times the previous day. The building has recently changed management companies, and there are so many new faces.
She walks toward the elevator and, as she waits for it to descend, decides to open the envelope. She could use a little good news.
But the letter is not from Peter.
PLEASE STAY AWAY, the note reads, in block letters. An arrow points upward to the symbol embossed on the stationery: a top hat with a flower rim. The symbol for the Knox.
It’s unsigned.
“Who delivered this?” she demands, marching over to the concierge.
“I don’t know. Is something wrong?”
“You didn’t see the person?”
“I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, it was sitting here on the counter.”
Vivian scans the room. “Are there no cameras here? There—that camera, in the corner. Can you replay footage?”
The concierge flushes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lawrence, it’s broken, and this model has been discontinued, so we are switching manufacturers and awaiting its replacement.”
“I didn’t know this.”
“Yes, it was in the notice that went out to all the residents last week.”
She must have missed it amid all her other fun-news emails, like the one from Brookline Bank requesting loan repayment for her second store buildout. Her failed second store.
Vivian turns on her heel and manages to catch the elevator door right before it gets called to another floor. Her building is extremely charming—and extremely old. The elevator is as slow as molasses, giving her ample time to reread the note.
PLEASE STAY AWAY
Is this a plea or a threat?