The Necklace Read online

  She sits on the chic little bench in front of the mirror and instantly feels she’s not alone.

  “Oh hey,” she says, rising when Emerson emerges from the bathroom. “I didn’t know anyone was up here.”

  “Sorry. Was looking for aspirin.” He opens his palm and displays two ancient-looking chalky pills. “Think they’ll kill me?”

  “Sketchy.”

  “Liquor’s quicker.” He shrugs off the doorjamb to reveal a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his other hand. “Want some?”

  She can never say no to a drink with Emerson. Yesterday at noon was only the most recent example. It’d started the time he’d snuck rum, kept for guests, in a thermos and told her to meet him down at the pond.

  “Fair warning, Quincys don’t drink rum,” he’d said as he passed the drink to her. “But I like it.” It had been her first taste of alcohol, and it’d tasted like fruitcake on fire. Emerson had stealthily pilfered from each of the dark, light, and spiced rums in the farm liquor cabinet so as not to be detected by adults—a vile concoction. She didn’t pull a face, though, wanting to seem cool in front of Emerson. “Yet another reason I’m a misfit,” he’d said.

  She knew that he was on the school newspaper and the varsity swim team at his fancy school. And from the picture she’d spied on Uncle Baldwin’s refrigerator, he’d taken a pretty girl to the prom. “Right,” she’d scoffed. “Total misfit.”

  “I am.” He’d taken another swig. “There’s no way I’m going to live up to any of this shit.” Emerson was the only boy in his generation, and even then Nell knew living with Baldwin’s ideas of Quincy grandeur had to be rough. It wasn’t until later that she’d understood exactly why Emerson had beat himself up like this.

  “You’re not a misfit,” she’d said. “You’re an unfit. That’s what my mom calls it. I am, too, I think. There’s a difference.”

  “Your mom, huh?” he’d said. “Like, unfit for human consumption?”

  “Unfit for Quincy consumption. I’ve heard her say that to my dad.”

  “And who would want to be consumed by this stuff anyway?” She’d seen him smile as he’d passed her the thermos again.

  They’d eased into the pond that night. Too big a splash would have woken everyone in the house. They’d spent the midnight hour trying to stay afloat in the warm top layer of inky black water, only rarely diving down to the chilly depths below.

  Today he goes back in the bathroom and returns with a toothglass etched with flowers at the rim. She accepts the drink as he comes and sits next to her on the bench.

  “You look for it?” he asks.

  She’d thought about hunting for the necklace last night, but rifling through Loulou’s things by moonlight had felt creepy. She nestles her glass of unwanted whiskey in with the sparkly things.

  “Here,” he says, opening the top drawer with a harsh tug. “I know I would.”

  It’s all tins of old powder and glass pots of hand cream, a dried-out tube of Revlon Cherries in the Snow lipstick, and a stack of ironed handkerchiefs with a scrolling L on them.

  As if he’s satisfied there’s nothing worthwhile in there, Emerson gets up and heads back into the bathroom. She can hear him rustling through the cabinet and tells herself that he isn’t looking for leftover pain medication.

  She opens the next drawer, trying for stealth so Emerson doesn’t hear her, though she doesn’t know why. He seems okay with her snooping. It’s filled with bobby pins, a strand of good, yellowing pearls, and many pairs of costume earrings. This isn’t the serious stuff. That’s all been residing in the downtown safe-deposit box waiting for Pansy for more than a decade. Loulou had put it away when she’d stopped going out socially, when a rotating band of nurses had started inhabiting the house with her.

  Sitting there, Nell has an idea for her first act as executor.

  “Hey, Em,” she calls.

  “Yo.” He rounds the corner, visibly swaying as he accidentally bumps into the side of the dressing table.

  “I was thinking I’d put some of this stuff out and let people take a little token.” She watches as his eyes narrow and his lips grow thin, the sway gone.

  “As a remembrance,” she says at his silence. “It’s all bound for a thrift store anyway.”

  He suddenly sounds sober. “You know I hate to get in the middle.”

  “What middle?” Nell feels the unseen ice of family dynamics shifting under her feet.

  He pauses, looking at the sparkly heap. “You might give Pansy some of it.”

  Nell lifts up an old compact. “She can have whatever she wants.” Nell waggles the tarnished thing. “I mean, of course she can.”

  He sighs, coming into the room. “You know she’s still a gigantic pain in the ass, right? It’s not like she’s changed.”

  Nell says nothing. A brother has a right to criticize, but she knows he’d take umbrage at her piling on.

  “And she was kind of shitty to you the other day.” He’s opening the door of the narrowest closet, recessed in the wall with hidden hardware, meant to store something valuable.

  She hadn’t thought Pansy was particularly shitty to her. She’d thought that given the state of things, Pansy was pretty generous. But maybe Nell doesn’t know what shitty looks like, always happy with crumbs, with merely being included. Maybe if you were Emerson, you’d know from shitty.

  He hauls out a disturbing fur coat that looks like a dead bear and dons it, doing a lurching Charleston on the faded rose-colored rug. Rhythm is not a Quincy family trait.

  “It’s disintegrating,” Nell says, as bits of fur fly around the room.

  “Raccoon.” He sneezes heartily. “It might have fleas, though.”

  There’s a gray astrakhan with a pale pink lining hanging next to a glossy floor-length sable that’s shedding in the heat.

  “Surprising,” Nell says.

  “Oh, this wasn’t hers,” Emerson says, lifting a sleeve that shows the cracked hides underneath. “The good stuff never is. These have got to be theirs,” he says, referring to Ethan and May Quincy. “G-Lou was so upset, you know. Everything landing on her head. She couldn’t deal. I mean, the stuff,” he says, “it was nice stuff, but it was an avalanche. Plus, she wasn’t even twenty. That’s pretty young to be in charge of a kid.” He pauses only now, remembering that he’s talking to Nell. “Dad says that’s why she married Granddad Dicky. He stepped in and took control, protected her, I guess. Before they started fighting like gatos y perros.”

  “I don’t think she really threw any of their stuff away,” Em continues. “Just pushed it to the back of the closet and put her stuff on top. Amazing, when you think of it. That she loved her brother that much. Imagine feeling that way.” Emerson stuffs the coat back in the closet. “Pansy would have my shit on the curb and hauled away chop-chop if I bit it unexpectedly.”

  “She would not,” Nell says, smiling.

  “Who are you trying to fool?” Emerson asks. “But you should do what you want,” he calls as he heads back into the bathroom. “Don’t you call the shots and stuff now?”

  Nell crosses the room and opens Loulou’s closets with a deep sense of trespass, tempered by having Emerson in the next room to make her feel like everything’s on the up and up. He’s running the taps, washing his hands. The closet smells like the inside of an alligator handbag mixed with faded gardenia. Thin chiffon and dangling silks hang in organized rows, a crunchy lavender sachet tied to the top of each hanger. Loulou’s handbags neatly line the top shelf—some glossy, well-tended clutches and a Chanel in the classic style. There’s a tidy stack of silk scarves as well.

  Nell gets it all down and spreads it across the bed, trying to make an enticing display. This will show how fair she can be, how magnanimous. It’s only a symbol, yes, but symbols are important, she tells herself as she essentially merchandises Loulou’s old things.

  Back at the dressing table she opens the final drawer to find it packed almost exclusively with cards and letters. Nell un
folds them, thinking they might make for a nice token, too. She’s admiring a fancy dance card with a pagoda on the cover and a silken cord for the wrist when her hand grazes a dust-furred lump.

  It gives her a shudder and, thinking it’s a dead mouse, she steadies herself. She takes a sip of warm Jack and, almost pulling the drawer out of the runner, sees it’s an ancient and faded Crown Royal whiskey bag.

  When she finally gets the triple knot undone she steels herself to look inside, bracing for unknown horrors, but instead sees a glint of gold and sparkle.

  A clear blue stone of immense size is set amid a surrounding circle of nine different jewels. She knows immediately that it’s the necklace from the will, her necklace. And yet it’s not at all what she’d imagined. She’d been expecting something refined, a bit more traditional. This is tribal and chunky, dull and totemic, with a spirit of its own. She spots a pearl, what looks like a diamond, coral, and other stones she’s unsure of surrounding the main stone, as big as any she’s ever seen. She flips it over and finds exquisite enameling on the back—so detailed against the skin, it’s a crime only the wearer sees it. Brittle metal ribbons are attached to the sides, and she spies an artlessly rewoven spot. “Condition issues,” that’s what Baldwin calls damage. “Makes it less valuable, but more sentimental,” he’d say, as if Quincys preferred it that way.

  Without thinking too much about it, she props it under her chin and ties the cords at the back of her neck. Through the grime, a high shine sparkles, and even Nell can recognize that it looks good. It might be the first piece of jewelry she’s ever put on that actually feels right, that feels like she doesn’t want to take it off.

  “That’s some hippie shit, right?” Emerson asks, coming into the room, toweling his hands. “Imagine old G-Lou in a sixties mode.” And then he seems to check himself, remembering that this is Nell’s inheritance. “It’s nice, though,” he offers.

  “From Ethan and May?”

  “Who knows?” he says, eyeing it suspiciously. “From what I’ve seen, most of their stuff is more understated.” Of course, thinks Nell. Of course, between now and yesterday he and Pansy have already been down to the safe-deposit box to check out her loot—the art deco diamonds with jade and onyx, the Edwardian emeralds set in platinum with pearls. Nell knows she would. “But I can’t imagine G-Lou ever buying that,” Em says, inclining his head.

  Thinking some action will make her feel better, she takes it off before turning to go downstairs and invite everyone up to choose something.

  She’s met with surprised quick nods, which indicate a desire not to participate. Never mind, once there’s a small exodus up the stairs, the rest begin to follow.

  A small crowd of women gathers around the bed, looking at Loulou’s things, commenting on her taste, remarking on her penchant for quality. No one wants to go first.

  When Pansy walks into the room she takes a slow stroll around the bed and then sidles up to Nell. “Can I speak with you?” Everyone averts their eyes as Nell follows her.

  Pansy drags her into a ramshackle bedroom across the hall. “You’re giving stuff away now?”

  Nell reminds herself that in a time of upheaval it’s best to give people the opportunity to adjust. “It’s just some odds and ends, nothing either of us want. I thought it’d be a nice gesture. Sentimental.”

  “So this is—what? You’re starting already as the one in charge?” Nell’s sure the women in the bedroom can hear them. She sees a few of them come out into the hallway and head back downstairs.

  “I was trying—” Nell fades off, realizing how it’s going to sound.

  “To be generous?”

  “To be accommodating, I guess.”

  Pansy’s tone shifts. “I understand this is new to you. And I want you to know that I’m here to help. So you might want to ask first. That’s pretty basic, right?” With that prim reprimand, Pansy heads back into her grandmother’s bedroom, and Nell can hear her mutter, “I don’t know how this is going to work.”

  Tension is palpable as Nell crosses the hall. The awkwardness when she enters the room is nearly unbearable. And to make a gesture, to relieve some pressure, to prove she’s not out of line, Nell picks up the necklace before she can think it through. “Here,” she says handing it to Pansy. “Get a load of this. Crazy, isn’t it?” The room is silent, watching them.

  “Is this the . . . ?”

  “I think so,” Nell says. “Try it on.”

  “It’s yours,” Pansy says, pushing it back to her.

  “I think it’d look best on you.” She pushes it, a little forcefully, into Pansy’s hands. “You’re the jewelry girl, right? You should have it.” There is a desire to please, a desperate wanting, yes, but it’s edged with just a bit of “fuck you.” “You think this is all so wonderful? Watch me give it away,” she wants to say, letting her actions speak for her.

  Pansy takes it, with a snatch, into the dressing room, holding it in front of her chest. It winks in the light. With her height almost anything looks good on her.

  “You could definitely pull it off.” Being generous with Pansy makes Nell feel less like a gate-crasher, a little bulletproof, even.

  “You think?” Pansy asks, raising and lowering the necklace against her sternum, and Nell feels a slight panic at the thought of Pansy actually calling her bluff, actually taking the necklace. Nell, you groveling idiot, she thinks. What have you done? She only wanted to have offered. With everyone watching, it’ll be incredibly awkward to backpedal now.

  “Yeah, I mean, it would make more sense, right?” Nell says, a bit weakly.

  Pansy walks back into the bedroom and tosses the necklace onto the bed. “I’d never wear it.” The unspoken being that it’s gaudy, tacky, clearly costume.

  Pansy picks up the Chanel handbag and swoops it over her shoulder. “But this. Vintage 2.55? Don’t make ’em in this type of leather anymore.” And with Pansy having made her choice, the others feel more comfortable diving in.

  Scarves are unfurled and chosen. The elder O’Brennan in the pearls goes for a twill Hermès in a pattern of lilacs. The alligator bags go fast. The new Van Alstyne cousin by marriage looks pained as the Cavanaugh golfer insistently encourages her to select something. The new bride finally picks up a canvas tote bag that has “Shop Till You Drop” printed on it in blue script. Well played, thinks Nell as the young wife heads downstairs with her irreproachable choice.

  In the end almost everything is gone except the rhinestone brooches from the fifties, tarnished and out of fashion, and the hefty Crown Royal necklace, as Nell has taken to calling it.

  “Guess it’s yours after all, much as you tried to wash your hands of it,” Pansy says, tossing it lightly toward Nell’s side of the bed, and Nell checks the twist Pansy’s put on her attempted generosity.

  Since Pansy’s passed on it, Nell doesn’t feel illicit slipping it over her head. Before she heads back downstairs, she catches a glimpse in the dressing table mirror, an outsize sparkle against her plain black clothes, making them look almost chic.

  And in the vein of her illustrious forefathers, she does what generations of Quincys have done to gain courage and to gird themselves, to shore themselves up in the face of good news and bad. She heads downstairs to fix a drink.

  THE JEWELRY BOX

  Walking into his father’s house, the smell of wool rugs and lemon furniture polish convinced Ambrose he was home. Israel Quincy’s heavily gabled and turreted house loomed three stories above the street that the locals referred to as “Millionaire’s Row,” which made Ambrose cringe. Israel’s house was draped in cornices like a wedding cake groaning under a layer of butter and sugar. The family insisted it was “Italianate” in style. But now, having seen much of Italy, Ambrose could only think of it as American—garish and gaudy, with a domed glass observatory on top of the mansard roof and an ornamental portico over the front door.

  He’d stayed at the Union Club in New York for two weeks. Increasingly frequent letters and tele
grams from his father only made him linger in the city. He’d spent his time wandering the park alone or sitting in the club’s silent reading room smoking and staring into space. The quiet of the place, men enjoying the solitude of their newspapers and their cigars, was all he could stand after traveling alone for so long.

  In the end it was a letter from May that motivated him to take the train.

  She’d been short; terse, really. She’d said she was happy, that he couldn’t stay away forever, and that they were family now. She didn’t apologize. He supposed that was correct. She shouldn’t apologize for marrying his brother.

  He reread one part of the letter so often that he had it memorized, though he’s sure May didn’t give it nearly as much thought when she wrote it, likely tossing it off without realizing how much she was revealing. “I’ve been thinking that life shows us who we are, our actions wrap us up in the end like nothing else. Everything is how it should be.”

  It was her tone mostly, her familiar directness echoing his own thoughts; this convinced him. Because what would he do, really? Never go home again? Never talk to them? Make some big dramatic statement? As appealing as those options were, they had the whiff of something else—of defeat, of acknowledgment that he was brokenhearted. And in the spirit of getting a dreaded deed over with, he bought his train ticket.

  He’d forgotten what it was like to stand in the front hall of his father’s pile, where the windows were covered by crewel curtains to keep out the soot from the steel yards miles away. But Ambrose carried the ease of the world traveler now; he was a man of perspective and broad horizons.

  The driver brought in his trunks, thumping them on the gleaming floor and likely scratching the tiled foyer. This brought Mrs. Gilder, the housekeeper, clucking out of the kitchen asking that his things be taken up right away. The commotion managed to flush out his father from the library.