The Necklace Page 18

  “I think it’s kind of badass,” Pansy says. And she would, probably imagining James Bond or Indiana Jones instead of a sneaky guest pilfering during a dinner party. “Weren’t there stories that Ambrose ran out of money over there?”

  Patel looks at Pansy, stymied for a full minute by this comment, and then turns to Baldwin. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything. And it wouldn’t have to have been a Quincy who stole it. Maybe he bought it from the thief. These things are rarely clear-cut. And I should restate,” she says, looking at Pansy. “The necklace hasn’t actually been authenticated as the Moon.”

  Nell notes Patel’s use of the gray area.

  “Yet,” Pansy says, and Nell notes her proprietary tone.

  “If it were,” Patel says, “we’d predict extensive negotiations with the country of origin, but similar negotiations have been successful in the past without repatriation. The Toledo Museum of Art just concluded a successful negotiation with Syria, right before everything began over there. It was in the news. Then again, we just had to return an important tenth-century statue of Hanuman to Cambodia, so I should tell you that these things are never assured.”

  “I don’t think you’d have a hard time getting the rest of the family to agree to a donation,” Walker interjects. “As Reema here just laid out for us, you might have a harder time if you pursue other venues.”

  “Last I checked, I don’t need the rest of the family to agree to anything,” Nell says.

  “A legacy from the Quincy family,” Baldwin says.

  “Wouldn’t that be the Merrihew family?” Nell says.

  Baldwin clears his throat and squirms in his chair. “It was bought by Quincys. It’s coming from Quincys. It should have the Quincy family name on it.”

  Nell leaves it unsaid that it would be gifted by a Merrihew.

  Nell views the complicated mechanics that have gone on while she’s been immersed in her own life and work. In those few months, Pansy has lawyered up, Reema Patel has started strategizing, and Baldwin has claimed naming rights.

  “Well.” Nell looks straight at Pansy. If it’s an ambush, then now is the time to fire back. “As your lawyer”—Nell waves a hand at Walker—“has probably explained to you, my claim on the Moon is absolute. And it’s not something I’ll be relinquishing. Pursuing litigation would be entirely your decision and, as I am sure you can explain to her,” she says to Walker, “entirely your loss.”

  “Now, calm down,” Walker says, palms flat on the table, as if stabilizing it. This of course makes Nell feel the opposite of calm, as it is meant to. “There’s no need . . .”

  “As for any specious claims the twelfth maharaja may have to the piece,” Nell interrupts, turning to Patel, “I doubt they’re as clear as you’re portraying them. Have they reported it stolen until now, almost a century later?” Nell knew enough from her Internet searching that they hadn’t ever made a formal claim. “Even if they did, that family would have little standing in a US court and any interference on their part would be actionable, potentially tortious, if you want to go that way.”

  It’s then that Pansy takes a break from picking at the remnants of her fish to look up. “There’s no need to get nasty, Nell.”

  “May I speak with you?” Nell rises and leaves the room, fully expecting Pansy to follow.

  Nell walks with purpose, despite being afraid Pansy will just stay seated, and she is relieved when Pansy follows her into the ladies’ room, as big as Nell’s living room with a full vanity and four flounced seats before a dressing table and a matching fainting couch. Pansy does a quick check of her clothes in the full-length mirror and then looks under the doors of the stalls, ensuring no eavesdroppers, before she faces Nell.

  “I told them you’d be reasonable,” Pansy starts. “I figured when we laid it out for you, you’d see it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Is anyone asking Emerson to donate his painting?” Nell questions.

  Pansy turns back to the mirror, calmly leaning in to check her undetectable lipstick. “I always said I’d want you on my side in a fight.”

  “Who’s fighting?”

  “This is all just information for you. I know this is so new to you, I wanted to expose you to some options.”

  “I’m aware of my options.” Nell fiddles with the hand sanitizer on the dressing table.

  “I know you don’t want things to get unsavory, either, but you know as well as I do that the necklace isn’t really yours. And the right thing to do would be to donate it,” Pansy says in a chummy tone of complicity. “Granny Lou was going a little nuts at the end, I guess. Living out there with nurses. Strangers, really. Giving things away out of the family. She gave away almost all of the silver.” Pansy nods at Nell’s raised eyebrow. “Yes, even that nice little piece of Paul Revere. She gave it to some physical therapist who came to the house once. I had to track down her address, go visit her, and have a little talk.” Nell gives a shudder, thinking of that hardworking home health aide opening her front door to a righteous Pansy. “Luckily she had no clue what it was. Thought it was pewter and gave it back. That’s when we put everything on lockdown.”

  And all the good jewels in the safe, thinks Nell. Nell wonders then if they’d found the Moon, whether they’d have put it downtown in Pansy’s safe-deposit box. Then things would have been much messier.

  “Not that you’re not family,” Pansy is saying. “But let’s be real. You’re not really family, either. I mean, you certainly won’t have to worry about an undue influence claim or anything. You hadn’t seen her in years.” It both stings and illuminates. Pansy has been pursuing all her legal arguments. “You’re very much your mom’s child. And Daddy was the one who had the bond with her.”

  “You’re being nuts.”

  “What’s nuts is you’re back here trying to pretend you’re a part of this. For you to be in charge of something so monumental and not have the family involved in what happens to it. Don’t you think it’s confusing?” she asks. “Confusing” is Pansy’s evasive word for infuriating. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking, but there’s no way she knew how valuable it is. And you wouldn’t know this, but she would have wanted it donated. Philanthropy was huge with her.” Pansy rises, smoothing down her black layers. “We should get back. Just listen, would you? I think you might come down the same way we all do.”

  As Pansy swings open the door, she leans back long enough to say, “I’d be so sad if this caused a rift between us.”

  When they return to the room, Nell overhears Patel saying, “That’s all premature until it’s authenticated. And I mean, I’ll be going to other institutions, but I’m going to bring in the main freelance curators as well. Then we’ll make a determination once we know what’s what.”

  The men all stand when they come back, something Nell never sees on the West Coast, and then they are all seated again.

  “We’d love to get this dealt with and put to bed before you leave again,” Walker is saying, scooting his chair in, as if Nell isn’t completely accessible on the West Coast, like they rely on the Pony Express or something.

  “Why the pressure?” Louis asks.

  Patel ignores him and turns to Nell. “If you’re at all inclined to go this way, I’d really encourage you to let us get the ball rolling. And if I may,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “I’d like to make the case for discouraging you from pursuing the auction route. I know that’s always attractive, and I’m sure you’ll look into it at some point. But firstly, the sapphire will likely be put in a vault if it’s sold privately, and no one will see it again—a huge loss. And that’s the best-case scenario. The worst case is the sapphire is dug out and resold. At that point it becomes a pure commodity based on weight and other metrics. Any art value is lost. It’d likely be slammed into a modern setting, too, but that’s neither here nor there. The cultural value is destroyed—historical, ethnographic, archaeological. Forgive me for being dramatic, but I see it as not unlike the dynamiting of the Bu
ddhas of Bamiyan. Lost forever. And we really would be able to properly handle it for you, not to mention we’d want to celebrate it with you. And I don’t have to tell you that prices are never guaranteed at auction.” She says the last part unflinchingly, holding Nell’s eye.

  “Is the museum thinking of ponying up?” Nell asks.

  Baldwin winces.

  “We’d need to understand the context,” Patel says smoothly. “But I’ll remind you that the Cleveland Museum of Art has one of the largest acquisition budgets in the nation, up there with the Getty and the Met.”

  “I’d like her to have time to consult with outside experts,” Louis says, jumping in on Nell’s behalf.

  “She’s a sophisticated attorney,” Walker says, as if Nell isn’t there. “There’s been more than enough time for her to understand all the implications. Plus she’s had a private meeting with the curator of an internationally renowned museum, she’s had a few months back home to think about it, and most important, she is a magna cum laude graduate of Stanford Law School and a partner at one of the leading firms practicing intellectual property litigation on the West Coast. It’s not like she’s overwhelmed in negotiations about her great-aunt’s will.”

  “You understand I’m sitting right here,” Nell says.

  “Just like your mom,” Baldwin says with a sickly smile. “Making your presence known.”

  THE MOONLIGHT

  Ambrose didn’t see May for the rest of the day after their ride. She’d beat him back to the house and disappeared. When he came down for dinner, the maid told him May had a headache and had asked for a tray in her room.

  Message received, he thought. And over dinner by himself, he decided he’d leave in the morning, on the first train. He was outraged at her for avoiding him as he sat in the dining room alone eating cold ham and country biscuits. He promised himself, in earnest this time, that he would move on with his life. He’d leave now. Not to follow his brother and father; he wouldn’t be going to DC. First to Chicago or even farther west—a man could lose himself out there. He could start anew—palm trees and Santa Barbara, maybe even Hollywood.

  Upstairs he packed his small weekend bag. The books and assorted things he’d brought from town, as if he were living out here, living with them. Looking at it now, he realized what a sham it’d been. He’d been waiting, testing, and it’d finally happened. May had given her answer, once and for all. Ambrose supposed he’d had to come back and see it, feel it, before he could know it. Everything was over.

  He’d leave his books here for May, let her sort through them if she wanted. He’d leave the Ragman, too.

  When he finished, having tidied everything and now lying in bed, he was about to finally let go, to slip under to unconsciousness, his grip loosening on the day, on his expectations, on May. The door creaked open.

  May slipped into his room in her white nightgown, which shone nearly pale blue in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He reached for the bedside lamp.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t turn it on.”

  His pulse hammered in his ears as she crossed the room. Anger morphed into excitement; adrenaline serving both. And then she slipped under the thin linen, her body a warm delight next to his.

  He stilled himself, as if a bird had landed on his shoulder. If he’d learned anything today, it was that he couldn’t force her. He waited, exhilarated but not grasping, sure now. Why else would she walk down the hall to him?

  Her lips came tentatively at first, tiny kisses at his neck, her hand traveling across his bare chest, and then her lips to his—the spark of connection. He restrained himself from grabbing her.

  Under the cover of night she was both braver and more demanding than he. The feel of her hands passing over his heart raised chill shivers up his neck. Her insistence bordered on blind determination, and he knew she was shutting down her doubts. He’d seen her do that before. He’d watched as she cast her lot—for pleasure, for desire, for him—that day before he’d left on his trip.

  He slipped a hand high up her thigh, thinking he might; he could; it was possible. It was impossible.

  But desire won out, and she felt warm under his fingertips, and so soft, and when she finally slipped him home he could feel her open mouth against his neck.

  “You,” she said.

  He knew in that moment that he never should have left. Or he should have taken her with him. Or she should have waited. Something should have been different. Starting now it would have to be made different, some things destroyed and others made new. He would see to that.

  The smell of her around him, the feel of her crushed against him, drove him toward some elemental rivalry that in the moment, before he could check it, he had to know.

  “Was it like this? Before. Was it ever like this?”

  She shook her head and he breathed into her asking, “Ever? It was never like us?”

  Her hair fell against his mouth as she shook her head. “No, never like us.”

  THE VICTORIAN

  After Charles Walker’s attempt at strong-armed rushing, and Pansy’s attempt at blatant coercion, Nell’s had enough of dinner. She’d chew glass before she stayed for coffee and those sticky coconut macaroons they served at the hunt club. She gathers her things, quickly shaking everyone’s hand like a grown-up, while she steams on the inside. She heads out to her car fast enough that no one can collect themselves to come after her.

  She jumps a little when the passenger-side door opens and Louis leans in.

  “We’re going to need to talk,” he says.

  Nell’s so relieved it’s him and not Baldwin or Pansy or Charles Walker that she starts up the car and merely asks, “Where to?”

  He directs her downtown. Putting miles between them and the scene at dinner calms her. While she drives, Louis keeps up a reassuring patter of small talk, avoiding anything of substance, letting her calm down.

  When he directs her to the exit next to City Hall, Nell remembers the way to the boxy Victorian with flaking white paint. The lawn is still in the need of a cut, as it was the last time she was here.

  In the kitchen there’s a fridge with some beer inside and little else. Louis offers her one, but quickly pulls it back. “Oh, right,” he says to himself, and that sends him rifling through the cupboards, which turns up an ancient bottle of warm white wine.

  “I’m good, really,” she says, but he opens the bottle and pours some over ice anyway.

  She takes a sip; it’s sour, corked.

  “To Chuck Walker,” he says.

  Nell almost snorts her drink through her nose. It’s such a perfect name for that aging good old boy.

  “Really?”

  “All his life,” Louis says. “Took an iron hand and the determination of a beaver for him to get everyone to call him Charles. But my sister went to college with him and he was Chuck all the way until law school. Every once in a while someone from his past calls or visits and ‘Chuck’ gets out, then he has to enact a reign of terror all over again to stuff it back in its box.”

  “That’s so perfect. It makes me think God’s on his cloud throne and all’s right with the world. He’s a total Chuck.”

  “Isn’t he, though?”

  “But smart,” she says. Walker may have been an ass, but he hadn’t been stupid.

  “Decently.”

  She follows Louis to the sofa in the living room. The only furniture besides an elaborate television setup; she remembers this from before. The house is mostly bare, with clean floors and white walls, cut up into dinky rooms. The fixtures are cheap, likely replaced in the sixties. He told her last time that he’d bought it as an investment, a fixer-upper in a gentrifying neighborhood. The place has the air of the unfinished about it, the bachelor, the workaholic. There are no photos on the walls.

  “But I don’t think they’ll make it difficult for you now that we know why they’re pushing so hard for you to donate,” Louis says, sitting down. “I didn’t get it at first, but as I sat there
I realized they must know they’re not going to have a real basis for a challenge, not legally. So maybe this is their way to control it.”

  “And look like big shots all over town.”

  “There is that.”

  “If that’s the worst of it, I can handle it,” she says.

  “If you donate it, the tax apportionment issue would go away, too. I’m sure Chuck explained that to them. Another reason they’d be keen to have you give it away. I should have sewed it up during drafting, but it wasn’t important at the time. These things have a way of biting you in the ass.”

  There’s zing in this throwaway line; it comes out of his mouth with intent.

  “God, that sounded weirdly . . .” To her delight, his ears turn red. “Literal.”

  She waves off his discomfort as she fiddles with her glass, glad to have him on the back foot for once.

  His beer is finished, and he tips it toward her, as if to ask, “Want another?”

  Her sour wine is forgotten, left on the floor, as there’s no coffee table. Right now she knows what she wants, and it’s not another drink.

  She’d been hesitant to see him, wondering if it would be awkward in person after weeks of writing. But her doubts disappear when he stands, offers her a hand, and leads her upstairs with no hesitation.

  His bedroom is as spartan as the rest of the house. The bed is on a basic metal frame, smack in the middle of the room, and sex immediately comes to her mind. Plain white sheets smell like clean laundry and him.

  “You’re going to stay,” he says with a cheeky smile. They both know she’s staying.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, or, you know, forever. Whichever you want.”

  He’s charming, yes, but there’s something in this sentiment that irks her. He’s all intensity and certainty, which is flattering, but the unspoken is that she will stay here with him. She will fit into his world. And Nell is sick of trying to fit in.

  But she lets it go. She’s been looking forward to this.