Chapter 53 Vivian
Vivian
February
When Vivian exits Canton’s Restaurant, she glances down the hall, toward the bathroom Peter directed her to—she wasn’t lying about needing to use it—but in the opposite direction is the staircase leading to the downstairs mailbox and Xavier’s note.
And then, smack-dab in front of her, is a secretary she somehow missed earlier.
How much time does she have before Peter grows suspicious over her absence?
Vivian takes a deep breath and rushes down the stairs, her hand skimming the railing like a sled on a slope.
Her heart ticks loudly in her ears. There’s no one in the nearby vicinity, but distant voices circulate around her, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before someone comes.
Stealing over to the mailbox in the foyer, she runs her fingers across the worn numbered slots until she finds it: number 34.
A small, unsealed envelope is tucked inside.
She pulls out the slip of paper as the surrounding voices get louder. People are heading her way.
V,
Send my love to Rachel and Claudius. Can’t wait for the common play. We’ll raise a toast and clink our dirty martinis with extra olives.
—X
P.S. Remember when I told you and Rachel about the pigeons on my building? I wish I’d known that was going to happen.
What on earth? Vivian has never met a Claudius in her life.
What the heck is the “common play”? What pigeons?
And why would Xavier mention alcohol? Vivian almost feels like she’s getting pranked.
Is this really from him, and is she the intended recipient?
She double-checks the mail slot. Yes, number 34.
And this is Xavier’s handwriting, the letters angled up and to the right, like they’re trying to have good posture.
He’s clearly relapsed and is off his rocker.
Annoyed, Vivian slips the note into her pocket and quickly climbs the stairs.
She doesn’t have the time or patience for shenanigans.
She passes a few people from the restaurant milling about in the upstairs hall, cocktails in hand.
Dinner has finished for them. Has she taken too long?
She does still need the bathroom and should discard this absurd note before anyone else finds it.
But she can’t resist the opportunity to rummage through the secretary.
It’s right there, on her left, pulling her like a magnet.
Mahogany, slant top, and nineteenth century, so fitting with Margaret’s era.
While she waits for the hall to clear, she pretends to check her phone—silly, really, since there’s no service in the Knox—and, spur of the moment, composes a draft of a text to Rachel.
Rachel, I have a strange question. Do you happen to remember a story X might have told us about pigeons on the roof of his building?
She toggles off her phone’s Wi-Fi, wondering if that might enable her to use cellular data. No such luck.
The crowd finally disperses; now’s her chance.
Vivian quickly turns the small brass key already inserted in the secretary lid to pull it down.
The inner contents are standard: a base of curved drawers beneath pigeonholes, a small middle compartment with a door flanked by two skinny columns.
If there is a secret compartment, it’s somewhere in this middle portion or its adjacent columns.
She pulls out the dovetail drawer to the left of the spindle and runs her finger against the wood.
Yes! There’s a tiny circular notch inside, a spring that will release the column.
She just needs the corresponding pin to free the latch.
Excitement drums in her as she pulls open and closes the drawers, searching for it.
But the drawers are empty. No pin.
Damn it!
What to do? She tries the drawers again, in case there’s a ballpoint pen rolling around whose fine tip might work, but no such luck.
Suddenly, Vivian gets an idea. She runs her fingers through her tresses, removing her hairpin.
Thank goodness she wore this tonight. It’s her mother’s—a gold-and-diamond hairpin—which feels fitting.
She inserts its pointy end into the small hole, and there’s an utterly satisfying click as the spring is released.
The “column” pops forward: It’s a wooden document holder. A tingle runs through her.
But the holder is hollow, empty. Sort of like how she feels right about now. She crouches disappointedly over the secretary, pushing the column back into place, when a familiar voice rings out: “Ms. Lawrence, can I help you with something?”
Vivian startles, bumping her head against the desk ledge. Christ. It’s Michael.
“No,” she says, rubbing her head. “I…I was just looking at this piece. I had a similar one in my store a few years ago.”
“I see. What was that clicking noise? Did you just pop back in one of the drawers?” he asks, moving closer to the desk. He has an odd look on his face.
“No.” She’s such an idiot. The last person she should be alerting to the fact that there may be furniture with secret compartments lying around in the Knox is Michael. He has genuine interest in antiques and will now likely finish her hunt through the house for her.
He puckers his brow, running his fingers along the surface of the drawers. He has nice hands, she notices in spite of herself. Long, slender. Like an artisan’s hands. On his finger is the brass ring he always seems to wear, which is embossed with a top hat and flower. The Knox symbol.
“Well, yes, actually, I did pull out a drawer,” she says now.
Better to come up with some sort of excuse.
“I wanted to see if the drawers were dovetailed, and they are.” She shows him, pulling a random drawer completely out of its socket to illustrate the puzzle piece ends of the wood joints.
“This is one of the strongest joints in carpentry.”
“Very cool,” he says, smiling. “They don’t make furniture quite the same anymore.”
“No, they don’t. This type of joint predates written history. The ancient Egyptians used it four thousand years ago.”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs.
A couple from the restaurant spills into the hall, arms wrapped around each other. Vivian becomes acutely aware of the time. “Anyway, I should get back to Peter.”
“Speaking of Peter and history, have you told him yet about your family history?”
“Wh…what do you mean?”
“You don’t remember telling me?”
“No. I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“The very first time I came by your store to purchase an antique, the nineteenth-century globe from Charles Smith and Son—which, by the way, you may have noticed is in the parlor—we had a conversation about the outdated names depicted on maps and globes.”
“I remember.”
“And you said, on some maps, the islands east of Tahiti used to be called ‘Dangerous Islands.’ ”
“Right.”
“And you said it was called this because of the dangerous currents and high reefs, making it a wrecking ground for ships. And I said, ‘Oh, and here I thought they just wanted unwanted visitors to stay away.’ ”
She remembers this. And she remembers how, at the time, she was trying to figure out his intentions. She’d never had a new customer walk in ready to drop sixty grand on a single antique.
“And then I said I was from the Knox, and you said…” He lowers his voice, leaning closer to her. “You said you were kind of an unwanted visitor there. Or at least that one of your ancestors had been.”
“I don’t recall saying that,” she says. But something about it feels vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had indeed made an offhand comment like that. An attempt to connect with an obviously wealthy customer.
“Maybe I misremembered,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, don’t forget this.” He picks up her hairpin from the surface of the secretary and hands it to her. His expression is unreadable, but she can only guess what he’s thinking.