Chapter 47 Vivian
Vivian
February
What on earth is going on with Xavier? Vivian sits across from Peter in Canton’s Restaurant, feeling troubled.
She keeps looking around for her friend.
Most of the dark tufted-leather seats are occupied, and a bartender buzzes behind the softly lit wooden bar, preparing rainbow-colored cocktails and vodka martinis.
The back double door swings open and shut as Jerry and a few other waiters carry food from the kitchen.
She spots Oliver sitting by himself at a window table, likely awaiting his father.
But Xavier is nowhere to be found.
Vivian hopes he has gone to deposit the note and that she’ll get some answers soon.
By “mailbox downstairs,” he must mean that antique mailbox ensconced in the dark foyer entrance, by the front door.
She recalls seeing a few notes tucked inside its open mailbox slots.
It’s likely a messaging system of sorts that Knox members use to communicate with one another and reminds her of a wooden cabinet an elegant European hotel might use in its reception area to store old-fashioned room keys with attached tassels.
Could Xavier be a Knox member?
“Are you feeling okay?” Peter asks, pulling her out of her reverie. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m fine. Sorry, I have a headache,” she fibs.
“Drink some more water,” he suggests, and he motions to someone behind Vivian’s shoulder.
Rose approaches to fill their water glasses.
She takes her time; she’s deliberate. Vivian doesn’t understand what her role is, exactly.
She seems to always be underfoot. The number of staff at the Knox is, as far as Vivian can tell, fairly small.
A lot of them multitask. It feels like this is a deliberate choice; they could afford to hire however many people they wanted to.
But instead, there’s a tight inner-circle vibe she’s sensing.
And clearly Rose, with her bright smile at Peter and then grim-faced look at Vivian, doesn’t particularly love outsiders.
Too bad for Rose, Vivian isn’t going anywhere. Besides, she is not as much of an outsider as Rose thinks.
Vivian fiddles with the menu, which doesn’t show any prices.
It’s a gout-inducing meal if she ever saw one: Duxbury oysters, shrimp scampi, pan-seared foie gras.
And that’s just the apps. Meal options include duck and venison, trout and scallops.
Thank goodness they have a salmon Caesar salad option.
It’s no wonder Graham had that heart attack.
“Better?” Peter asks, once they’ve ordered from a waiter who introduces himself as Eduardo, and Vivian has taken a few sips of her water.
She nods, and then promptly exchanges her water glass for her wineglass. They are drinking a 2018 Gaja Barbaresco, a bottle not listed on the wine menu. It’s a favorite of Vivian’s; something she mentioned to Peter at their dinner date. Did he have it stocked just for her?
“So what do you think?” Peter asks.
“Of the wine?”
Peter gestures around them. “The wine, the room, the place.”
“The place, meaning the Knox?”
“Yes.”
She glances around; the crowd is more sophisticated and European than Boston usually runs.
But among the unfamiliar faces she spots a few Boston people in the know: Alina, the interior designer behind Wolf in Sheep Design, dining with her husband, Jay, of the legendary sneaker store Bodega.
The head of the Brookline Hospital, who’s been to her mother’s house for fundraisers.
Zoey, owner of the famed Gulmi Group PR company.
A Massachusetts senator. Sal, the artistic director of Salon Mario Russo.
Kate, from @BucketListBoston. Vivian feels almost comforted by this, the fact that there are people here who are real people, established people.
But in the next breath it gives her pause.
The Knox is a very connected place. Are these people Knox members, or guests? Does it matter?
Xavier has not yet reappeared.
“I think it’s interesting. And I think it’s interesting that you would ask me that, here.”
He grins. “Why?”
She’s starting to wonder if he’s the type that gets off on pushing the envelope. A mile-high-clubber sort. The way he’s always telling her things he shouldn’t, and now, asking her here out in the open about the Knox.
“Do you know these people?” she asks.
“Some.”
“Are they all members? Or are some guests?”
“It’s a mix tonight,” Peter says, as his eyes roam around the room.
“What about that guy who was with Oliver? What was his name, again?”
“Xavier?”
“Right. Is he a member?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
She shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “He reminds me of someone…but I can’t put my finger on who.”
“He’s Oliver’s boyfriend, so I know him a little.”
“Oh.” Oooh.
“Well, one of many boyfriends, really.”
“At the masquerade ball, when the fight broke out, I thought someone said it was because Oliver got involved with the waiter’s sister.”
“He did. Women, men—Oliver doesn’t discriminate.” Peter gives a boyish grin.
“Do you do business with him? Oliver? I—I heard you mention something about Customs. I have some experience with that. Through my antiques store.” She’s prattling now, but she is desperate to pull more information about Xavier.
But he doesn’t take the bait. “Ah, that makes sense. Where do you mostly import from?”
Suddenly, Vivian recalls the last time she saw her missing notebook of business contacts. It was the day Xavier came to visit her in her shop.
That notebook also contained her contacts for Customs agents.
A wealthy client of mine who recently became widowed is intent on acquiring an elephant ivory necklace, Xavier had said. Perhaps you could connect me to your Customs contact?
“I import from all over, really,” she manages to respond. Is this all a coincidence, or did Xavier steal her notebook?
Oliver, still sitting by himself at a window table, suddenly leans back, eyes closed, as if he’s taking a short nap. He’s a hot mess, that one.
Fear suddenly clutches Vivian’s heart. Has Xavier relapsed? Is that what’s going on?
Their appetizers arrive: a half dozen oysters and an off-menu caviar that Vivian didn’t hear Peter order. She is quiet while they polish off the oysters, whose taste she’s not even registering. Instead, she’s thinking of how Xavier’s pupils looked suspiciously small.
“What else are you thinking in that beautiful head of yours?” Peter prods.
What isn’t she thinking? would be the better question. But she says nothing, only shaking her head.
“Ask me anything,” Peter says, staring intently at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Ask me anything right now, anything in the world, and I’ll answer you truthfully.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
What is going on with Xavier and Oliver? Would you still care for me if you knew my true intentions? What are my true intentions? Why didn’t you pick up that cocktail napkin that Jerry dropped?
Who is the blue-haired woman?
Who are you?
The problem is that she can’t ask any of the questions she really wants to. So she picks one that will test his trust in her. “Downstairs,” she says carefully, “you said that members’ allegiance to the Knox is inscribed on the scroll in the basement called the ‘Bowels’?”
Peter nods. “Yes?”
“So, what does that mean?”
“Ah,” he says, folding his arms. “Smart question. You want to know how they ensnared me.” He says this so matter-of-factly that she almost wants to deny it. But why? It’s true.
“Yes,” she admits.
“I had to confess my deepest, darkest secret.”
Vivian laughs, because clearly, it’s a joke, but a pained expression suddenly rips across his face.
“You don’t think I have secrets?” he asks, sounding almost injured.
Damn, well, you do. Too many for my liking, in fact. But the secrets she’s currently thinking of don’t seem to match those he’s now recalling. She studies him; his face remains raw, laying bare something long buried. It’s the same look he gets whenever he mentions his childhood.
“We all have secrets,” she replies carefully.
“True. But some worse than others. As I’ve mentioned, I was an orphan. My mother—she had a car accident, and…Well, after that, I was put in foster care.” He takes a jagged breath. “And there were things I had to do, to survive.”
She nods, and says softly, “I understand.”
He places his hands on the table, his fingers digging into the white tablecloth so hard the tips go white. “But do you? Do you really, Vivian? Tell me.”
It catches her off guard, this intensity—this scrutiny—so she smiles and attempts a joke. “So, what, sharing of secrets is some sort of Knox member-bonding exercise? A team-building experience, like a trust fall?”
But Peter doesn’t return her smile. “Do you want to know what secrets really are, Vivian? They’re chips to bargain with; they’re influence; they’re ownership. If I know the worst thing you’ve ever done—something no one else knows—then I hold a power over you. Some might say I might even own you.”
What are they even talking about anymore? Secrets? Power? Sex? He’s so damn hot; a charge rises between them, like heat waves off a pavement. “What if I haven’t done anything that bad?” she replies in a low, sultry voice.
He holds her gaze for a moment, and then he erupts in laughter. His demeanor instantly changes, his face loosening like a slack rubber band. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t be the best candidate for the Knox.” He winks and takes a long pull of his wine.
A hush falls over the crowd, and Peter’s attention shifts to somewhere beyond Vivian’s shoulder.
She turns to see an elderly man being ushered across the restaurant.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a dress shirt.
Brown loafers on his feet. Grayish-white hair crowns his head, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rest on his nose.
He uses a cane to walk; its elegant wooden base is topped with an ivory-horn handle carved in the shape of a flower head.
The way people are acting, it’s as if British royalty has just entered the room. Adoration on faces, hands reaching out when he passes, eager to simply touch the clothing the man wears.
As he settles into his seat, opposite Oliver, the man nods back at Peter and then gives Vivian such a discerning look she feels like he’s looking through to her insides.
It’s the man she saw in the courtyard, from the guest bedroom window.
“Graham,” Peter confirms, in a low voice, once Graham’s attention has turned elsewhere. “This is the first time he’s out and about since the heart attack.”
Gluttonous King Henry VIII himself, Vivian thinks, but says, “Glad to see he’s doing better.”
Peter wears a displeased look, as if he himself may not be as glad.
A low level of chatter resumes throughout the restaurant.
Jerry the wrestler clears their appetizers, and then a few seconds later, Eduardo swoops in with their entrées. “Can I get you anything else?” Eduardo asks, but Vivian barely registers what he asks.
Because the girl with the blue hair has just entered the restaurant.