Rare Objects (46 page)

Authors: Kathleen Tessaro

There was no public funeral for James. Rumor had it that his
body was sent back to South Africa and buried on his father's old estate.

His widow, it was said, did not attend.

The autumn progressed, a string of misty mornings and gradually cooler days and nights, melting into one another. The air became scented with the rich, earthy aroma of crushed fallen leaves and fresh rain. Streets that had been littered with bodies stretched out on lawns and lounging on doorsteps searching for relief from the heat emptied. Instead of drowsy lethargy, people moved again with purpose and industry; children went back to school, and life fell into a familiar routine.

Without Mr. Winshaw, the shop was quiet and ordered and dull. And now that Diana was gone, the world of the Van der Laars receded. The whole experience was like being caught in a sudden violent tempest that, now spent, left only a calm and placid sea. I saw Nicky Howerd walking down Beacon Street one morning, but he strolled right past me, lost in his own dim world. He didn't recognize me with my red hair, and I didn't bother to stop him. We had nothing in common anyway.

Instead, I turned my attention to a series of lectures at the Athenaeum in the evening and occasionally took Ma to the theater as a treat; we saw
A Doll'
s House
together, and she wept through the entire last act.

“It was like that, you know,” she said on the way home. “You are so lucky nowadays. You young women have so many more choices.”

Angela grew larger. Early one morning she awoke in a pool of blood and was taken to the hospital, where an emergency cesarean section was performed. The baby, a little girl, was so small that she was kept in the hospital for two months.

Angela named her Maddy for her mother.

I missed Mr. Winshaw. As the days went on, the feeling grew rather than diminished. And I realized that part of meâa really decent, admirable partâonly resonated to the sound of his voice, to the impossible workings of his impossible mind. I didn't know what was worse, to be entirely without him or to have him return and to be close to a man who would never take me seriously.

One morning Mr. Kessler was going through the post when he handed me something.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” he asked.

It was a postcard, addressed just to the shop, with a detailed drawing of a Madagascar giraffe weevil on it. On the back was written:

Our collection is coming along brilliantlyâonly 27,000 more species to go!

Original picture by Andrew Hanover

Signed,

The Secret Society of the Silver Pen

(Formerly the No Way Out Club)

Then at the bottom, in different handwriting was scrawled, “Stay away from pickle juice, blondie . . .”

Max, Diana, and Andrew . . .

“Yes.” I smiled. “I have an idea.”

Taking the postcard into Mr. Winshaw's office, I stuck a pin into the map on Madagascar.

The world was full of collectors, scouring the earth for pieces of themselves.

Then one evening I came home late from confession to find a man's hat sitting on the hallway table. “Is that you, Maeve?” Ma called.

I was on the verge of saying, “Who else would it be?” as I always did but checked myself instead. “Yes, Ma.”

“Well, it's about time! You have a visitor.”

I walked into the kitchen. Ma was sitting at the table with Mr. Kessler. They were drinking coffee, a plate of scones was halfway finished, and on the table between them was a large box.

“Mr. Kessler's been telling me what an asset you are to the shop!” Ma smiled. “He's says you've got the makings of a first-class antiques dealer.”

I looked at him quizzically. “I do?”

Mr. Kessler gave a little nod. “Your daughter has a sharp mind and an eye for a sale,” he confirmed.

“She gets that from me!” Ma squeezed my hand. “And look! He's brought you something.”

I sat down. “What's this, then?”

“Mr. Winshaw asked me to collect it,” he said. “Apparently it took longer than he thought.” Mr. Kessler removed the lid.

Inside was a glass-domed case, like a miniature version of a Victorian diorama. Displayed on a black velvet cushion was the Staffordshire willow-pattern teacup. The pieces had been bound together with thin veins of gold. The cracks were now illuminated, gleaming under the light, a delicate map of misfortune and fate.

Ma stared at it. “Is that my broken cup?”

I nodded in astonishment. “I wanted to fix it. Mr. Winshaw offered to help.”

“
Fix
it!” She laughed in disbelief. “This is more than fixed! Is that gold, Mr. Kessler?”

“It's gold leaf mixed with lacquer resin, Mrs. Fanning. The technique is called
kintsugi
and is Japanese in origin. It's not just a method of repair but also a philosophy,” he explained. “It's the belief that the breaks, cracks, and repairs become a valuable and esteemed part of the history of an object, rather than something to be hidden. That, in fact, the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.” He looked across at me. “There are only a few authentic Japanese craftsmen in the country. Mr. Winshaw took it to New York to have it done, and then had the case made here afterward.”

“But why?” I wondered, amazed at the gesture. “Why would he go to so much trouble?”

Mr. Kessler and Ma exchanged knowing smiles.

“Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say it's a kind of overture.” Mr. Kessler chuckled softly.

I looked down, both embarrassed and thrilled.

“May I get you another cup of coffee, Mr. Kessler?” Ma offered, breaking the awkward moment. “You can have it in a gold-plated teacup if you like!”

“No, I'm afraid I've intruded upon your evening for far too long.” He got up. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Fanning. And those scones were most delicious.”

“I can't tell you what a pleasure it's been.” She rose too, took his hand. “It's so good to know that Mae is among the right sort of people. I can relax now, knowing that you've taken her under your wing.”

I saw Mr. Kessler to the door.

“You have a nice home, May with a
y
. And a good family,” he added with a nod.

“Well, there's only the two of us,” I said, handing him his hat.

“To my mind, any more than one is enough. You're lucky.” He gave a little formal bow. “Good night.”

After he left, I went back into the kitchen. Ma was washing up. The teacup sat in the center of the table in its glass case, like a museum object. It struck me as funny that anything from our lives should be singled out as worthy of such distinction, let alone a broken cup. But it was like Mr. Winshaw to see ordinary objects in an extraordinary light. To him, even simple things held stories.

“Did you know, Ma, that the willow pattern has a legend behind it?” I asked.

She dried her hands on a tea towel. “A tale of two lovers, separated by death. The birds are their souls in flight.”

“How did you know that?”

“Why do you think I chose it, Maeve?” She looked at me and sighed. “You're not the only one who's ever read a book, you know!”

After she left, I lifted the lid off and took the cup out again, turning it round, tracing the veins of gold with my finger. Ma was rightâit was more than repaired, it was now an entirely different thing. No longer one of a set, its unfortunate fate had made it unique, a survivor. It was a Ulysses cup, I decided. Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will.

Then I noticed the wooden base. A carved motif ran along the edgeâwaves. I turned it over. There was an inscription on the bottom.

TO THE MERMAID OF BOSTON HARBOR

FROM A DROWNING MAN

Acknowledgments

I
wish to thank the following people for their tremendous insight, copious notes, relentless re-reads, support, and above all patience during the completion of this book: my exceptional trio of editors at HarperCollins U.S., UK, and CanadaâMaya Ziv, Lynne Drew, and Lorissa Sengara; my astute, unflappable agentsâthe stiletto-heeled Jennifer Joel and sensible-shoed Jonny Geller; and self-professed Classics geek Madeleine Osborne at the offices of ICM, whose extensive help and enthusiasm have been nothing short of heroic. I'm extremely lucky to work with such intelligent, dedicated individuals.

I also want to acknowledge my husband, Gregg Liberi, and my son, Eddie, just because I can and because you're the reason why all efforts are worthwhile.

About the Author

KATHLEEN TESSARO
is the author of
Elegance
,
Innocence
,
The Flirt
,
The Debutante
, and
The Perfume Collector
. She lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her husband and son.

www.kathleentessaro.com

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

Also by Kathleen Tessaro

The Perfume Collector

The Debutante

The Flirt

Innocence

Elegance

Credits

Cover design by Robin Bilardello

Cover photograph Â© Conde Nast Archive/Corbis

Copyright

RARE OBJECTS.
Copyright Â© 2016 by Kathleen Tessaro. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Tessaro, Kathleen, 1965â author.

Title: Rare objects : a novel / Kathleen Tessaro.

Description: New York : Harper, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015042025| ISBN 9780062357540 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780062357564 (ebook)

EPub Edition April 2016 ISBN 9780062357564

Classification: LCC PS3620.E776 R37 2016 | DDC 813/.6âdc23 LC record available at
http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042025

16Â Â 17Â Â 18Â Â 19Â Â 20Â Â Â Â
OV
/
RRD
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Australia

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