The Necklace Read online

  When the auctioneer called him as the winner, May smiled at him with warmth, a look of true fondness that took him back to other days. She understood his gesture. He’d understood what it would mean to make it. The crowd was on their feet after the gavel hit, intent on mixing after having sat for so long. May rose, and as Ethan took her arm, quickly and proprietarily Ambrose thought, she turned and mouthed the words “Thank you” at him over her shoulder.

  THE INVITATION

  After Baldwin and Pansy leave, Nell gnaws on a cold drumstick and drinks warm whiskey while listlessly poking through cupboards in the butler’s pantry—lavish sets of china, complete with finger bowls, and stockpiled table linens with thick monograms she can’t decipher. Someone’s going to have to clean this place out, and like a sinking balloon she realizes it’s going to be her.

  She’s done now with this trip back in time. And she’s petulantly cursing her father for leaving so quickly. Pansy has Baldwin; who’s in her corner?

  She pulls herself up and reminds herself that she is a grown woman who no longer needs her daddy. During this trip, she’s constantly had to remind herself that she’s no longer a child. Her emotions keep flinging her back into the past. So much has happened since she arrived only days ago for the will meeting, and already she needs distance from it. Emerson left this morning. Lucky him.

  She thinks back to shutting down Louis Morell’s invitation to dinner. She’d been taken by surprise. Work keeps her underwater, such that she can’t remember the last time she met someone interesting. The men she knows in Oregon don’t go on dinner dates. And then, with her father there, there’d been no way to backpedal and accept Louis’s offer. Or perhaps she’d misread the situation. Maybe it was just a work thing after all. He must have someone. A man like that, of course he does. She thinks maybe she’ll call him. All she has is his office number, and she leaves her name and number with the assistant.

  In less than a minute her phone rings with an unknown number.

  “Glad you called the office. I’ve got a bunch of voice mails from Pansy.”

  She mentions that she took the necklace to the museum.

  “So I’ve heard,” he says.

  Is nothing secret in this town? Nell thinks.

  “I was meeting with a client out your way . . .” He trails off.

  There’s something forced in his voice, and she’s almost sure this story is a ginned-up excuse to see her, the thought both creepy and exciting.

  “Stop by, why don’t you?” she invites.

  When he agrees, she hangs up and runs through the house, throwing out the chicken and trying to decide if she has enough time to brush her teeth but refreshing her whiskey instead.

  “Making the final call,” she says in a mock solemn voice as she opens the door, relieved to see someone, anyone, who’s not family. “Rewriting the will to jilt the third wife and leave everything to the nubile nurse.” She’s feeling the whiskey, feeling the release from the tension of the morning, feeling the relief it’s not Pansy or Baldwin.

  “Come on now, not everyone practices cutting-edge intellectual property law. Some of us are journeyman lawyers, serving the people.”

  “Or the dog? I love it when they leave everything to the Pekingese. And a tiny percentage of estates need lawyers, journeyman.”

  “Not all of us were on the law review, okay?”

  “You’ve been researching me?”

  “A lucky guess,” he says.

  He’s already walking toward the flower room, leading her with that ease he has. He’s not impressed by the house and not dismissive of it, either. His energy of competence with a soupçon of detachment makes her want to let him handle everything. Maybe this is why Loulou chose him, in addition to the nice view. He accepts a glass of whiskey, rolls up his sleeves, putting his veiny forearms on display, and settles on the droopy chintz sofa in the living room.

  He sits silently across from her, like a priest or a therapist. His particular branch of their profession requires a combination of both.

  A cloud passes over his face as she explains her museum meeting and that the Moon might be worth more than anyone anticipated, resulting in Pansy’s not-so-veiled threats.

  “They could make an argument that it’s part of Pansy’s jewelry and somehow got misplaced,” Nell says, taking a sip of whiskey. “I mean, she basically did. Could also argue it’s part of the contents.”

  He’s nodding deeply. Does she imagine it, or does he lean back from her? “It won’t fly. I worded the provision to avoid a claim like that.” He’s become stiff, all business, and she worries that she’s offended him, implied his drafting is Swiss cheese and subject to challenge.

  “I’m not saying they’d win if they made a challenge,” Nell says. “I’m saying they could make it hard for me.”

  “Of course they could,” he says, while shaking his head no. “But it would cost them.” They both know pride might have the Quincys shelling out for a grudge, but legal fees would have them standing down. “Cost them quite a bit, actually. Besides, anyone can contest the will, you know that.”

  “Still . . .” she says.

  “Still.” Louis inclines his head in agreement. “Vegas isn’t even putting that one on the board. Also, now you have an ace up your sleeve.”

  When she doesn’t react to his little quip, he says stiffly, “If you’re worried about this, I can recommend outside counsel.”

  She realizes then he’s taking offense, though he’s trying not to look it as he loosens his tie. Every time he’s been here she’s had the impression that he belongs. He certainly feels comfortable enough settled back, ankle on knee, a convincing cover to the annoyance she hears in his voice.

  “What ace?”

  “Tax apportionment. Basically, the estate pays taxes on any specified gifts unless it’s been stated otherwise. Loulou didn’t specify, and I didn’t push. There was no reason to since I didn’t know the necklace was so valuable, hadn’t seen it, no insurance policy on it.”

  Nell gets it right away. “So if I sold the necklace, the estate takes the tax hit.”

  “Even if you don’t sell it. But now that we know what that thing likely is, the taxes on the sale would probably bankrupt Loulou’s estate. A great place to negotiate from.”

  He’s dropped by, but she’s the one who took it as an invitation to talk shop. Perhaps he wanted to keep this all off the clock. Or perhaps he’ll bill her. These are her concerns now that she’s executor and keeping track of expenses. But it just felt so good to talk it through with someone.

  “I’ve already taken up a good amount of your time,” she says. “Thanks for coming so far out of your way.” She’d like to make up for flubbing his prior invitation, would like to ask him to dinner. But now he might think her suggestion is a ploy to pump him for free advice.

  “Why so formal?” he asks.

  “I thought you might bill me.”

  “Wow,” he deadpans. “Lawyers in Oregon must be cutthroat.”

  “I was the one who started talking shop.”

  “So maybe you should buy me dinner. You know, bartering.”

  She smiles, and she doesn’t miss his pitch this time. “Big fancy firms accept meals as payment now?”

  “You should know,” he says with a delighted smile at her tacit invitation.

  “It’s your call. I don’t know any restaurants here. I’m completely at your mercy.”

  “Excellent,” he says with an exaggerated grin. “That’s just how I like it.”

  THE CHARTREUSE ON ICE

  After May publicly offered at the gymkhana to board the Ragman at the farm, Ethan had little choice but to go along. Ambrose fell into a pattern of taking the train between downtown and the farm on the weekends to ride with his brother, attend May’s parties, and return to his father’s house on Sunday night to spend his weeks working in town. Months ago, even a week or so, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine such a schedule. And if he didn’t think about it too
hard, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  Work was a dreary haze of what seemed like never-ending accounting books. Ambrose was most interested in the cleanup of the Sandusky fire and the aid fund for the families, but whenever he inquired he was told that the fund was in good hands and being distributed properly. The mine was shut and obviously not to be reopened. What was needed was time, his father said. There was really nothing more to be done.

  After these weeks in town, weekends at May and Ethan’s became what Ambrose most looked forward to.

  Ethan, Ambrose noted, was never expected at the offices in town. He conducted most of his business out at the farm, sitting in the gunroom by the hour, loudly taking meetings down the telephone line and smoking cigars with the windows closed. May called it his Indian smoke house, and the ceiling was already turning gray. When Ambrose asked Israel about his brother’s schedule, his father had looked at him from under his paled-out gray eyebrows and said simply, “Newlyweds.” Ethan only came to town for board meetings.

  This Friday, as Ambrose entered the farmhouse, he heard O’Brennan’s familiar voice booming from the gunroom. Ambrose found May in the living room, sipping Chartreuse and ice. Three sets of large French doors were open to the scent of baking box hedges still in the sun and juniper bushes cooling in the afternoon shade of the house.

  “Help yourself,” she said, hooking a thumb back toward the flower room. “To whatever you can rummage up in there.”

  She fiddled with the jade Bakelite knobs on the radio next to her. “Lucky Lindy” followed him into the bright octagonal room with terrazzo floors and a fountain made out of Peeble tile set in a wall. The room was meant for flower arranging and other feminine country arts. Ambrose wasn’t sure if Ethan had been anticipating a wife who enjoyed ladylike pastimes or if the room was simply what one expected in any fine country house. He doubted May used it for flowers. There were no cupboards full of vases, no clipping shears or gardening gloves left in casual disarray.

  But there was Ethan’s stash of hooch, hidden behind the recessed panels.

  Ambrose fixed himself a small glass of gin, and joined May in the living room. As he lowered himself in the seat across from her, he felt the warring consciousness that dogged him nearly constantly now.

  He wanted to be anyplace but here. There was no place else he’d rather be.

  “Arabella’s coming tonight,” May said, as if she’d ordered his favorite dish for dinner. She organized a dinner party every Friday night, always with an eligible female acquaintance “rounding out the table.” Ambrose noted that she’d not invited Arabella until now, one of the few girls he would have liked to see.

  “Your sister, too.” She rattled the ice in her glass, her drink nearly gone, and he wondered if it was her first or her third. She was sunk down in her chair, glum. He inquired about her week, and after a moment she leaned forward. “Do you think . . .” He could smell the herbaceous liquor on her breath from his seat, her voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. “Do you think there was anything Ethan could have done to prevent it?”

  “Is that what they’re talking about?” Ambrose’s interest was piqued. His father would barely tell him a thing, had shut him out so completely from Sandusky, had claimed everything was in order. He should have known. Why else would O’Brennan travel all the way out here? Ambrose made to stand, to go in and insert himself in the business he wanted to be a part of.

  But May stood and quickly grabbed his wrist. Her face showed true concern. She mentioned the fire in Sandusky every time he saw her now.

  “Likely not,” he answered truthfully, looking in her eyes, though it was true he was only trying to placate her. “You can’t prevent tragedy. It’s all in how you deal with it afterward. That’s all there is, really.”

  “You know he sealed them in there.” She jerked her head toward the door. “He made O’Brennan do it. O’Brennan shouldn’t have agreed, should have advised him against it. What good’s an Irishman if he won’t put up a fight when it’s needed?”

  Looking at May’s face, he realized the source of her dislike of the lawyer—misplaced blame. “Ethan was acting on the best advice he had at the time. I’d be surprised if O’Brennan didn’t try to find some other way around it. That’s the recommendation with seam fires. They can damage the town if you’re not careful. You don’t think he’d do it callously?” he asked at the look on her face.

  “He could have tried to save them. They managed to get Ethan out before they closed it.”

  “Well, you were here, not me, but I’d imagine he saved more lives than he didn’t.”

  May only looked out the window. “You’re right. He was here,” she said.

  In the intervening weeks, he’d expected the pull he felt toward May to lessen, to ease in her close proximity, the anesthetizing effect of familiarity.

  But sometimes, at times like this, the urge to touch her rose in his body, unchecked. Those were the times he forgot she was his brother’s wife. Times when he remembered that he’d known her first.

  “They’ll be a while,” she said.

  “Then come outside.” He offered his hand casually, and when she didn’t take it, he headed out the French doors. He felt May follow, but then she overtook him, purposefully guiding them away from the pond and the tennis house, down a straight path mown through a hay field, dotted with blue chicory, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s lace, grown tall and not yet cut. A red-winged blackbird dove at their heads, clicking and shrieking, protecting a nearby nest in the grass.

  He noted she’d refilled her glass before bringing it with her. He remembered a friend in college advising that one could tell when a person had trouble with drink by the way she held the glass like it didn’t matter, but never let it out of her grasp.

  “He killed those men for money,” she finally said. The bright blue of the sky somehow mitigated the harshness of her words. As if in the open field of burnt hay and wildflowers even the ugliest things could be said and rendered bearable.

  “May . . .” Her accusation was the beginning of making a case against Ethan, a convincing of herself.

  “For convenience, then.” Her turning against Ethan made him wary, but faintly hopeful.

  “They were already dead. It was a sacrifice. Who’s to say he didn’t save more lives than if he hadn’t . . .” His role as Ethan’s defender was awkward, and he was embarrassed to realize it made him feel magnanimous.

  “Sacrifice,” she hummed over the word. “The ends justify the means. In the end it was for the best. That what you mean?”

  “His arm . . .” Ambrose stated. “Surely you can’t doubt his seriousness.”

  “His seriousness about what?”

  “About saving people.”

  “People?” She turned to him with a blank, uncomprehending face. “He saved me.”

  Ambrose’s vision narrowed, as if May were the only thing in the world.

  “It’s me who he saved,” she continued.

  Ambrose felt a confirmation of something glimpsed in his periphery since his return, half-seen in the way she unflinchingly took Ethan’s damaged hand, in the way Ethan hovered behind her chair, in the way she turned the pages of his newspaper, in all their intricate rituals.

  “But why? How were you even there?”

  “The fire had been burning. I couldn’t believe they were just going to sit there and wait for it to burn out. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t come up with anything to do to put it out.” This was a familiar line of May’s, and he was concerned she was about to veer off when she seemed to right herself. “Ethan had already gone with your father. I’d been sitting around, feeling useless, and so I took the train over. I thought at least I’d join the bucket brigade, talk to the women, something. And I was stupid. I was . . .” She stopped, controlling her breathing, fighting tears. “I can’t look at you when I say this, but I was thinking of you. I was thinking of a way to make you understand that I was as adventurous as you, that I�
��m not some ineffectual . . . I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me near the fire, so I just grabbed a bucket and ran in.

  “It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Men were yelling at me to stop, but I thought they were being overly cautious. I wanted to help. But I didn’t realize how dark it’d be inside. The smoke . . . I got confused. I couldn’t get out. Someone told him I’d run in, and he came in after me. Pulled me in the right direction, but not before a beam collapsed on his arm.”

  Ambrose could barely understand what she said next. “I had to leave him, you understand? I ran out and four men went in and rescued him from under the burning timber. He was unconscious when he came out. I thought he was dead.”

  In that moment Ambrose felt the rushing knowledge of the silent organization and agreement of his family, who consistently edited this information out of all their dealings with him. They told him Ethan saved people, glossing over who and skipping ahead quickly to remark on his heroism. Ambrose had been washed away in a tide of agreement, praising his brother, never needling too hard on the particulars of a tender topic. How many did he save or who? These were obnoxious questions. What did it matter? A hero was a hero, whether he saved one or twenty, whether he saved a miner or May.

  “I thought you knew.” Her eyes were on the grass, tears on her lashes held back by a twisting mouth. “The reason he’s like that is because of me.”

  What Ambrose had thought was pity was actually indebtedness. He’d seen his brother as manipulating her compassion as he recovered in his hospital bed, pulling her strings. He’d never understood why she’d succumbed. It made sense now. Ethan had literally put his life on the line to save hers. How much more can anyone ever ask?

  “That’s not how it works,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “He would have done it for anyone.”

  “That’s what he says. I really don’t think that makes it any better.”

  “He would have done it for anyone who’s as important to me as you are.”