Chapter 29 Vivian
Vivian
February
The morning light is harsh, offensively so.
Vivian squints one eye open and promptly closes it.
But even with her eyes closed, she can still sense the light.
Christ. Why is this Knox guest bedroom so damn bright?
It’s not ideal for a hangover. Which Vivian has, after inhaling all those martinis at the restaurant. And the wine.
This could have been avoided; she and Peter could have drawn the drapes before heading to bed. Wait—didn’t she?
Memories of her previous night groggily assemble themselves to order.
Martinis, dinner, the bedroom, and…and…Oh no.
Suddenly, she recalls her late-night clandestine foray through the building, once Peter fell asleep.
She crept quietly through the house, opening doors to check for secretaries.
The house is quite the maze; at one point she got turned around in a panic for several minutes before finding her way again.
Once safely back in the bedroom, she used the bathroom and had the good sense—or so she thought—to pull the drapes shut before stumbling into bed.
But now here are the drapes, brazenly flung open.
It was stupid of her to wander; she was drunk, clearly.
And feeling a little reckless, high on endorphins after her romp with Peter.
She’s lucky she didn’t get caught, even though Peter assured her, as they absconded into the Knox, that there are no cameras on the inside.
Only the outside, he added, and proceeded to wave audaciously to some high-up camera she couldn’t see.
Peter is next to her, his arm slung over her stomach.
She follows the lines of the clock tattoo that covers his left chest. Last night she traced all his tattoos, all his curves, all his lines.
He told her the story of a few of them: He got the clock tattoo as a teenager to remind himself that there are many minutes in a day, that he wouldn’t always be under the thumb of someone the system had assigned as his foster father.
The way he’d said it, with a dark edge, made her realize there was more to that story. A terrible kind of more.
There are so many more stories he has yet to tell her.
She, too, has stories to tell him. One he’d be quite interested in.
Peter shifts slightly and then falls back asleep.
He breathes heavily when he sleeps. No snoring, thank goodness, but a deep, heavy breath.
It’s the only sound she hears. The room is otherwise silent in this third-floor Knox guest bedroom.
The Knox has some serious insulation in its walls.
It strikes her how much quieter it is than her own bedroom, just blocks away.
There, she’s grown accustomed to the sirens of ambulances racing to nearby Mass General Hospital and the grunts of the twice-weekly garbage trucks—and she occupies a top floor herself, at least, for the time being.
But it’s a weird silence here in the Knox. It has a muffled quality, like it’s suppressing something, as if she were sitting atop a lid screwed tightly shut.
Maybe it’s her quest to uncover her family fortune that is being quelled.
Vivian slips out of the four-poster bed—she is naked—and grabs the cream cashmere quilt that rests at its foot.
She has a good body, but forty-four is forty-four, after all.
And it’s bright. Maybe brighter than it was a few minutes earlier.
Her head feels like someone is twisting it with a wrench, and she knows she’s in store for a doozy of a day.
Wrapping the quilt around her, she slides across the room, away from the woven rattan-top bedside tables with waisted aprons and horse-hoof legs. Past the red sandalwood trunk resting at the foot of the bed, Peter’s navy-blue coat cast across it. This room breathes Ming dynasty.
No secretary here. She came across only one last night, and she searched it thoroughly to ensure there were no hidden compartments. Though maybe she shouldn’t be trusting her memory of last night’s forbidden escapade.
Vivian steps over to the window that overlooks the peaceful inner courtyard.
She could use a little zen right now. Rubbing the film of fog, she peers down.
The courtyard is well-manicured: A hedge of boxwoods lining the perimeter is interrupted by an empty fountain base with a Chinese dragon, poised as if it’s about to strike.
She can almost hear the trickle of water spewing through its mouth come warm weather.
On a stone patio there’s a small gray table with four bistro-style chairs, and in the far corner, beneath a large, looming tree, an elderly man sits reading the newspaper.
He must be seventy or so; he has thinning white hair and wears wire spectacles.
A thick plaid wool blanket is draped over him, covering everything except his suede slippers.
Who is this man? Does this courtyard even belong to this building? She assumes as much, but sometimes these old Boston house renovations feel like child-constructed LEGO projects: rooms tacked on after the fact, buildings bulging in odd directions, a bedroom where a kitchen should be.
Suddenly, the building door on the side of the courtyard opens and out comes Rose. Vivian stiffens.
Christ. This woman is everywhere. Thank God she didn’t run into her last night.
Rose is dressed in washed-out attire: khakis, an off-white turtleneck.
Vivian could blink and miss her, Rose is that plain.
She’s carrying a tray that she puts down on the side table next to the man.
She offers him something from it—a tissue?
—but he shakes his head. Then she carefully hands him a steaming mug, waiting until he has a firm grip before removing her hands.
But even then, she keeps one hand cupped underneath the mug, open-handed.
This gesture—that extra moment of care—hits Vivian hard, dislodging a small piece of the string ball she’s wound tightly together over the last few months.
She’s reminded of the way that the nurse Paula plays her favorite cellist, the Australian Lada Marcelja, on her phone when her mother gets agitated.
It works like a charm to calm her down; who knew her mother would like cello music?
Has Vivian misjudged Rose?
The man slowly sips his mug, and as he does, his eyes travel up the building and lock on Vivian’s.
Yikes. Feeling like she’s just been caught prying, she instantly shifts to the side, away from his gaze.
“See something scary?” Peter asks, and she startles. He’s propped up on an elbow and wears an amused smile. Vivian realizes he’s been watching her. An instant electricity runs through her.
She clears her throat. “Who’s the old man?”
“That’s Graham Thurgood. The one and only.”
“Ah. Does he live here?”
“Not usually. He’ll stay over sometimes. But he just had a heart attack, so he’s been recuperating here since getting out of the hospital.”
“Sorry to hear that. Is there a Mrs. Thurgood?”
“Graham’s been widowered for a long time.”
Damn, Peter looks good in the morning. Only the presence of some slight under-eye circles betrays their previous night’s activities.
“And the woman with him…that’s Rose, right?”
“Yes. Rose is the glue that keeps everything and everyone, including Graham, together.”
Vivian’s head throbs, and she slinks down onto the edge of the bed.
Her eyes briefly flicker to her black lace underwear strewn on the floor a few feet away.
She’s having trouble focusing, between the desire building inside her, her terrible hangover, and a need to find out more information.
“And Oliver, the one who got in a fight with the waiter, is his son?”
“Yeah.”
“So where does Oliver live?”
Peter’s still smiling, but he’s tilted his head, one eyebrow raised, and Vivian gets the impression that he’s suddenly a little guarded. “Why all these questions? Why are you so curious?”
“Well, um, I’m just trying to get the lay of the land, is all,” she fumbles with her words.
“For years, I’ve sourced antiques for this place, and I always wondered who the man behind the curtain was,” she tries to joke, and immediately realizes it has come out wrong.
“Sorry, not that Graham is a fraud…I’m not operating on all cylinders this morning.
” There’s a chill in the air that she can feel on the tops of her shoulders.
“I get it,” Peter says to her relief. “I like to meet the people I design houses for. Oliver is…a bit of a nomad. He’s recently returned from living abroad in Southeast Asia. He comes and goes.” He pauses. “Oliver and Graham don’t always see eye to eye on things.”
“Oh? They don’t?”
“Oliver has a direction he wants to take the Knox in that his father doesn’t agree with.”
“What kind of direction?” she asks, hoping she’s not pushing it.
“We have a long history here…certain traditions. And over the years, Graham has moved us away from those, and there are those of us who want to move it back to how it was.”
Those of us. Is he Team Oliver, then?
“But I digress. To answer your question, Michael is your man—the sole antiques buyer…He’s particular,” Peter says with almost a sneer. He leans over to glance at the table clock, and his face clouds. “Shit. I need to hop in the shower. I’ve got a flight to catch.”
“A flight?”
“Yeah. Milan. I’m working on a hotel. I’ll be back on Saturday.”
“But you’ve only just returned from a work trip,” she says, and she instantly regrets it. She hates the way she sounds, like a whiny girlfriend. Christ. This is so unlike her. But this is the first he’s mentioned it.
Her vulnerability must be written across her face, because he pulls her toward him.