Rare Objects (21 page)

I thought of the safety pin in my coat pocket, the one I never took out. As much as I teased Ma about her superstitions, I couldn't quite bring myself to live without them.

“I believe in luck,” I told her. “And fate. And God. And free will. But nothing so intractable as providence. If I did, I'd stay in the bathroom with the razor blades. You have to have hope.”

Then one day I came back from the post office to find Mr. Kessler talking to a customer. The man was leaning against the counter, chatting in a low voice, hands in the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit. His hat was cocked just so, obscuring his right eye. He had the same dangerous ease I'd seen so many times in the clandestine nightclubs and speakeasies of New York City and found so attractive; the way certain men had of sidling up to a
bar and taking over a room. It was an absolute confidence that couldn't be mimicked or taught.

Then Mr. Kessler waved me over. “May, there's someone here to see you.”

The man turned.

It was Mr. Van der Laar.

“Good afternoon.” He took his hat off, and I was struck again by how similar he was to Diana, the unusual pale blue eyes and dark hair; only there was something about the way he looked at me, a directness in his gaze, that unsettled me. “I hope you don't mind me calling in. I seem to remember that you're a friend of Diana's, aren't you?”

“Is she all right?” I asked.

It came out rather chilly. I didn't trust him being here, although I wasn't quite sure why.

“Couldn't be better. Actually”—a single lopsided dimple appeared in the center of his left cheek—“I was in this part of town and thought I'd stop by, see if I could convince you to come for a drink with us tonight. We're meeting some friends, and I thought you might want to join us.”

“Really? Diana never mentioned it.”

“Well, she doesn't know yet. I want to surprise her.”

This struck me as odd. “Why?”

He flashed a smile in Mr. Kessler's direction, caught his eye.

Taking the hint, Mr. Kessler slipped into the back office.

I didn't like being alone with him. Taking my coat off, I moved behind the counter, putting some distance between us.

“I suppose I'm a typical big brother, a little overprotective perhaps, but I like to know who her friends are. And after all, you've known her awhile, haven't you?”

“Not that long.”

He tilted his head to one side. “I thought you knew her in New York, didn't you?” He said the words so lightly that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “From before?”

My chest tightened. Was he referring to the hospital?

I ignored his question. “So you're here to check me out, is that it? Go on, then.” I twirled round so he could take a good look. “What do you think? Will I do?”

“You're making fun of me. And maybe I deserve it,” he admitted. “But you see, Diana's a very sensitive girl. She pretends to be sophisticated, but actually she's surprisingly naive. I live abroad most of the time, and I'm afraid I've failed to look after her the way I should.”

“Does she need looking after?”

“More than you know. There have been some unsuitable companions in the past, people who've tried to take advantage of her.”

He seemed determined to offend me.

“And you think I might be one of them?”

He held up his hands, laughed. “You're too quick to judge me! Actually, when she mentioned you again, I was pleased.”

“What did she say?” The question came out before I could stop it.

He paused a little before saying, “Only that you'd been a good friend. Someone she could talk to. And she needs a friend, Miss Fanning. Someone who can be trusted by all of us.”

Our friendship was fast becoming public property, to be endorsed or discouraged as he saw fit.

“There's a little place I know called the Friday Club,” he went on. “On Massachusetts Avenue. Members only. Have you been?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then, why don't you let me treat you? They have a heck of a band! And who knows? I might even ask you to dance.”

It felt more like a summons than an invitation.

“I don't know. I might be busy leading small children astray.”

“How does one get an appointment?” He grinned, and again the rogue dimple appeared. “Look, I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. What do you say, Miss Fanning? Will you do us the honor?”

For all the time we spent together, Diana had never invited me to meet any of her other friends. And the offer to dine with her family had quickly fallen by the wayside. I wasn't sure if that was because she didn't want to put me in the position of lying or because she didn't think I'd fit in—something that had occurred to me before, but that I avoided thinking about.

It was as if he could read my thoughts.

“It's strange, isn't it? The way Diana keeps people all to herself.”

“What do you mean?”

He gave me a quizzical look. “You're not the first, you know. She's never been very good at sharing. She always likes to keep one special friend all for herself. I wonder what she's hiding—you or us.”

I didn't like the way he talked about her. Or me.

“I'm sure she doesn't care one way or the other,” I said.

“You're probably right. So, shall I have a car collect you? What's your address?”

“I'll, uh . . . no . . .” My mind raced. I hadn't meant to agree, but part of me was curious. “I'll meet you there. What end of Massachusetts?”

“Near the Regent Theatre. We'll see you out front at nine.”

He put his hat back on, heading for the door. Then suddenly he stopped and, as an afterthought, pointed to the glass display case. “Actually, I thought I might pick something up. You don't
still happen to have that black stone ring you were wearing when we met?”

I was tempted to lie, to say it was already sold. But of course when I'd shown it to Mr. Kessler he'd insisted in displaying it right in the center of the case that Mr. Van der Laar had just been leaning on. In fact, he'd probably already seen it. “Yes, of course. It's Roman, made from agate and gold.” I took it out, handed it to him. “Possibly third century AD.”

“One of the three Fates—isn't that what you said?” He slid it onto his finger. The ring seemed made for him, dominating his hand. “What do you think?”

“It suits you,” I had to admit.

“I suppose it's a good-luck charm.”

“Well, fate can mean a lot of things—from tragedy to triumph.”

“I don't believe in luck anyway. I prefer to make my own destiny. So, do you think I should buy it?”

I had yet to make a significant sale on my own. But it was also my favorite thing in the whole shop. I could feel him watching, waiting for my response.

“I leave that choice entirely in your self-determining hands,” I said.

Pulling out his wallet, he counted out a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills. It was as easy as that—he wanted it, he got it.

“You know, I'll think of you now every time I wear it.” It was such an odd thing to say, especially as he'd been so insulting before. “Good afternoon, Miss Fanning. I look forward to our date.” He tipped his hat. The gold of the ring caught the afternoon light as he pushed open the door.

I looked down at the space where the ring had been, at the
slight indentation left in the green velvet. Had he sensed it was my favorite?

What did he mean when he said I wasn't the first?

Mr. Kessler came out again from his office and removed the cash from the register, counting it out and nodding with approval. “I knew you'd be good at selling.”

I gnawed at my thumbnail. “What about commission, Mr. Kessler?”

He folded the money, put it into his breast pocket. “Let's not get ahead of yourself, Miss Fanning.”

I was in the kitchen in my stockings and robe, eating a plate of scrambled eggs while ironing my black crepe skirt, when Ma came home.

She stood in the doorway, unbuttoning her coat. “What's going on?”

“I'm going out,” I said, swallowing another forkful of eggs.

“Where?” She unpinned her hat. “With whom?'

“You don't know them. I've only just met them myself. Ouch!” I managed to burn the tip of my finger. “Damn it!”

“Here, let me do that. You'll ruin that skirt. How many times do I have to tell you? You must protect the fabric!” She hung up her coat and took over ironing while I finished my eggs. She smoothed the seam flat before unfolding a handkerchief over the wool crepe. “Whoever it is, I certainly hope they're worth all this fuss! Better not be Mickey.”

I couldn't resist showing off a bit. “Actually, it's Diana Van der Laar and her brother. They've asked me to go to a private club with them.”

“Van der Laar?” She stopped ironing. “You mean,
the
Van der Laars?”

For once, I'd managed to impress her. “They're regular customers at the shop. Why?” I played it up to the full. “Have you heard of them?”

“Of course!
Everyone
knows them! They're one of the wealthiest families in the city!” She was obviously struggling to fit us all on the same page. “How did you meet them?”

“Mrs. Van der Laar bought a piece from the shop, and Mr. Kessler asked me to deliver it to their home.”

“You mean the big house? By the sea?”

“That's the one.” I put my plate in the sink. “The daughter, Diana, well, she just took a liking to me. I saw her again at the Museum of Fine Arts, and now they want me to go to a club with them on Massachusetts Avenue.”

Her eyes were as wide as a nun's in a brothel. “But why didn't you tell me you knew the Van der Laars?”

“I
am
, Ma!”

“But we have so much to do!” she fussed. “What time is it?”

“
We
?”

She held up the skirt, which of course hung flawlessly. “The Van der Laars are extremely well connected. This is an opportunity, Maeve! A once-in-a-lifetime chance! If you're friendly and charming, who knows where you might end up? But you must be careful,” she warned. “If you act carelessly or drink too much or speak out of turn . . .” She stopped; the threat of failure hung in the air, potent enough to leave unsaid.

I'd never seen her quite so worked up.

“I know how to behave, Ma. I'll be fine.”

But she just nodded mechanically, her mind already racing
ahead. “Keep the conversation light and gay, understand? Avoid anything to do with politics or money or religion. . . . Laugh at everything, but not too much, mind you, just enough to show you're good company. Act interested, no matter what the topic is.” She stopped, her brow furrowing. “I only wish it wasn't a nightclub,” she fretted. “A nightclub is so . . .
informal
!”

She always had a talent for transforming good news into some unforeseen obstacle.

“If it were any more formal, I wouldn't have anything to wear,” I pointed out.

This backfired terribly. She turned on me with a face like the Lady of Shalott. “Actually, what
are
you going to wear?”

“Well, the red knit top . . .”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head emphatically. “No, that won't do at all! They'll be in gowns, Maeve! If only I'd known sooner!”

Her worry was contagious. Now I was starting to panic too.

“What should I do?”

She thought a moment. “Come with me.”

I followed her into the bedroom. She opened the closet. Inside hung an untouched white blouse, bought two years ago to go with the gray suit and never worn. It was made from a soft semi-sheer rayon fabric that fluttered slightly when it moved. “Hand me my shears.”

I took the shears from the sewing basket by her bed. “What are you doing?”

She laid the blouse flat on the floor and began to cut. Off came the sleeves and then the collar.

“Ma! You can't! You're ruining it!”

She paid no attention. “Thread the needle, Maeve.”

Folding the sleeves carefully, she placed them on the dresser,
to be salvaged at a later date. “I'll turn them under and make cap sleeves. Pass me the pins. And we can give it a mandarin collar, which is very fashionable now. In the dark the fabric will look like silk, and no one will know the difference.” She flashed me a smile. “Maybe a nightclub isn't so bad after all!”

She was in her element, solving problems, working at speed. She'd never been my ally before, for getting ready for a date. With Mickey, there was only opposition and dismay.

Now I watched as she deftly transformed the blouse, her fingers quick and skilled with the delicate material. She added a thin trim of black cord around the neckline from a supply of fabric scraps she'd collected from work and kept in her sewing basket. The result was simple but effective.

I put it on, along with the black skirt, and stood in front of the mirror. Ma took a navy blue satin sash from another dress that had long been remodeled and fixed it to my waist. The result was dramatic; it almost looked like a real store-bought gown.

“It's beautiful.” I was touched, grateful and guilty at the same time. She'd never even worn the blouse. “Very stylish.”

“Maeve! Your shoes!” She pointed to my feet. There was always some fresh hurdle. The black pumps that were perfectly fine during the day now looked worn and faded from too much wear in the snow and rain. “You'll have to borrow mine.”

Her shoes were almost a whole size too big for me, but she was religious about wearing overshoes in the winter and carrying her “good shoes” to work with her in a separate net bag. So we stuffed the toes with newspaper and I made do.

Rummaging through her sewing basket again, she pulled out the discarded black net from my damaged hat. Then she carefully snipped the wide grosgrain ribbon from her own winter cloche
and tacked the net to it. We fixed the ribbon in my hair so that the net fell just over my eyes.