Riverside Park (29 page)

“Did her mom get here?”

Rosanne nodded, unscrewing the water and taking a swig.

“Here's your friend's cell phone. I think her purse is at the desk. The cops brought it.”

Rosanne nodded, taking Samantha's phone and flipping it open.

“I had to turn it off when I came in because the nurse said—”

“The equipment, I know,” Rosanne told her.

“I saw
Mom
in her directory so I called the number,” Celia said. “I figured I should let somebody know what was happening.”

Rosanne brought the bottle down from her mouth. “You called Mrs. W? That's how she got here?”

“If that's your friend's mom, yeah. I guess.”

Rosanne nodded, sliding the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Yeah, well,” she said after a moment, “you did good, kid. Thanks.”

The girl's face instantly brightened. “You're welcome. Well,” she said, starting to back away, “I guess I'll go now, then. Unless you need me to do anything.”

Rosanne shook her head. The girl turned around and headed for the E.R. exit doors. “Celia!” Rosanne suddenly called. The girl turned around. “I'll let you know how she's doing.”

Then Althea Wyatt came flying in through the doors and Rosanne had to move on to think about other things.

WHEN HOWARD STEWART'S
wife greeted Celia by name in the lobby, Celia knew something other in the neighborhood must have changed besides the state of her own depression.

“Hello, Celia,” Amanda Stewart said, leaving a large, thin cardboard box leaning against the concierge desk. She held her hand out to Celia.

Celia put down her bag of groceries. “Hi,” Celia said, shaking her hand.

“I hear you were almost the first person to see Althea's little boy.”

Celia hesitated. “Althea?”

“Oh.” Amanda grimaced slightly. “Well, it's—Let me phrase it this way. Althea Wyatt is the little boy's mother. The—the young woman you assisted is her sister.”

“I see,” Celia said although she didn't. But it wasn't any of her business.

“Rosanne told us how wonderful you were, that you called 911, got Rosanne's purse, called Harriet, Samantha's mother—”

Celia shrugged. “Really, I didn't do much.” Pause. “That's right, you're friends with Jason's mom and gran, right?”

“Yes. His gran is dying right now, it's a tough time.”

“Yes, I know,” Celia said. Jason had stopped by Captain Cook's the other day to say hi to everyone. He liked his new job and had a girlfriend, so life was much better, except that his grandmother was dying. Celia was unsure how to proceed with this conversation or if she was supposed to. “Um, I saw your husband. He told me you guys are moving back into the city.”

“Yes, yes we are, as soon as the school year's over,” Amanda said. “And I am
delighted
. I've missed Manhattan terribly.”

“He's really happy. He's missed you guys a lot.”

Amanda smiled. “That's nice to know.”

Celia banished the thought of Howard kissing her in the elevator.

“So you cannot imagine the task that lies ahead of me, Celia,” Amanda said, walking back to her big box. “Somehow I must reduce twenty rooms of furniture to eight.”

Celia's ears pricked up. “You're getting rid of your house?”

Amanda nodded, sliding the box over to lean against her hip. “We might buy a smaller house in the country sometime later, but something low maintenance, that we can use for weekends and vacations.” The cardboard box slipped and almost fell over but Celia moved quickly to catch it. “Thank you,” Amanda said. “I'm supposed to be taking this over to storage.”

They compared notes on storage units and Amanda said she should look into Celia's place, it sounded like a much better deal. “I'll drop the rate information for you at the desk,” Celia promised, picking up her groceries. “They have some climate controlled areas that would be good for your paintings.”

“I think my children are hoping this particular painting will rot somewhere so they don't have to inherit it,” Amanda said, nudging the box. “It took us years to figure out that the vulture in it was giving Emily nightmares. It's been under our bed for I don't know how long.”

Celia laughed. “Where did you get it?”

“My grandparents. I think my grandfather must have liked it because—Well, here, I'll show you.”

Celia put her groceries on the concierge desk this time and helped Amanda take the painting out of the box. It wasn't wrapped in anything. Celia caught her breath when she saw the quality of the oil painting. But the subject was very strange, an Arab kneeling behind a camel in a desert, aiming a long rifle at a vulture circling in the sky.

“Rather ghastly, is it not?” Amanda said. “But in my family, when you inherit something you're supposed to keep it forever and ever, even if everyone hates it.”

Celia laughed, carefully bringing the painting over to rest on the couch. “I've got some stuff upstairs to wrap this properly for storage,” she told Amanda while she took a closer look. Celia kneeled, squinting.

“Don't tell me you like it,” Amanda said.

“Not the subject, particularly, but as a well-executed painting, absolutely,” Celia said, standing and tilting the painting to look at the back of the frame. “And if I were to guess, I would say someone would pay a bit of money to own this painting.”

“Really?” Amanda said.

“Yeah.” Celia came back to stand next to Amanda, eyes still on the painting. “It's well over a hundred years old. It's in the original frame, I think, which on its own is worth something.” She looked at Amanda. “If you don't like it, and if your children
are scared of it—” She shrugged, smiling. “If I were you, I would call Christie's or Sotheby's and have one of their appraisers look at it. You never know, you might get enough money to buy a painting that you like, instead of what your grandfather liked.”

“That's an idea,” Amanda said, crossing her arms and reconsidering the painting. “It is rather good, isn't it?”

“I think so. I mean, I don't really know for sure. I like old things and this is sort of jazzing me. It gives me a kind of a humming feeling, which makes me think it's valuable.”

“A humming feeling?” Amanda repeated, fascinated. She looked at the painting again. “It does absolutely nothing for me.” She looked back at Celia. “Tell me more about this humming.”

Celia laughed, embarrassed. “It's the quality of it,” she explained. “Everything feels real about it to me. There doesn't seem to be any restoration needed. I can check online for you about the artist, to at least give you an idea if he's listed.”

“That would be wonderful,” Amanda said, looking back at the painting. “And would you be willing to call one of the auction houses for me, as well? Get somebody to look at it?”

“Oh, it's very easy,” Celia assured her. “I'll help you call, if you like.”

“No,” Amanda said, shaking her head, “I've got too much to do as it is. What I want is for you to take over now. I was only going to stick it into storage the way it is and probably ruin it. So please take it, Celia, find out if it's worth anything and if it is, sell it. You can be our agent. And take, I don't know, ten percent of gross? Is that fair?”

“But you don't have to pay me anything!” Celia sputtered. “It would be a great learning experience for me.” She was also thinking how it might make up for the Victorian glass globe
being destroyed. When Mrs. DiSantos' friends got hit in the cab, Celia had put the box down and somebody ran over it.

“My husband's a literary agent,” Amanda said, “and I can assure you since he receives a percentage of the author's work he tries a great deal harder to sell things than he might otherwise. I'm not
that
generous. My guess is it will provide motivation.”

Celia didn't know what to say. This was a real piece of art; this wasn't something she found in a Dumpster. “If they took it, there would also be the auction house commission—”

“Understand, my young friend,” Amanda said, touching her arm, “this was practically going into the bin so whatever you can get is going to be a great deal more than nothing. So, it's all yours, take it away. Hallelujah, I don't have to go out after all!”

Celia tried one more time, although she did agree with Amanda; it would do nobody any good if the painting just got stuck away.

“
NO, IT'S FINE
, really,” Cassy assured the nurse's aide in the kitchen. “I'll wait in the living room until the others leave. She has enough company right now.”

“Yes, she does,” the nurse's aide agreed. She smiled broadly. “It is a very cute little baby. Mrs. Goldblum's eyes lit up when she saw him.”

“He's only a couple of weeks old.”

The nurse's aide nodded and proceeded to set up some medications on a small tray.

Cassy lingered a moment, wanting to ask but not wanting to ask. She already sensed it, but wanted confirmation. “She's not very far away from it now, Virginia, is she?”

The aide waited a moment before looking at her. In a low voice she said, “But Rosanne does not see it. She won't allow herself to see it.”

“She doesn't want to let her go.”

“That makes it hard for Mrs. Goldblum,” Virginia said solemnly. “Because she wants to go.”

Cassy nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

Cassy went into the living room and sat down on the couch. She slid her glasses on and picked up the photo album Amanda and Rosanne had put together for Emma to look at. There were pictures of Emma as a girl, her parents, her dog. There was her wedding, Mr. Goldblum, Daniel as a baby, and the park. Those were the most amazing pictures, of Riverside Park over the decades, the glory years, the bad years, and then the glory of the past fifteen years or so when The Riverside Park Fund caught the hearts and imagination of the neighborhood residents. There were pictures from block parties that made Cassy laugh out loud. And then there was a photo of the day Rosanne and little Jason had moved into this apartment, standing with Mrs. Goldblum in this very living room, the DiSantoses looking almost like Ellis Island refugees.

What would Cassy's own scrapbook contain when she was old? She knew Henry would put in the picture of Cassy, at around age six, sitting in her father's lap with her arms around his neck. Cassy and her father had been very happy that day. It was before he couldn't hold a job. Henry would put at least one picture of Cassy's mother in it, but which one would he choose? Surely not the one where Cassy stood in her cap and gown at Northwestern and her mother, still stylishly attractive then, was giving such a poisonous look to the camera that anyone who saw the photograph burst out laughing. It so succinctly summarized her mother's feelings about the world! No, Cassy knew the picture Henry would put in. Of her mother holding Henry when he was a baby, because it was such a nice picture of her and it was clear that while she might hate the rest of the world, those feelings did not apply to her grandson.

Henry would put some pictures of Michael in, she supposed (how did you skip twenty years?), and he would make a big deal of her marriage to Jack. He would put in some pictures relating to DBS and her friends there, but what gave her such a hollow feeling was wondering where, outside of a picture of the gang from DBS, would Alexandra be in that book of pictures. And that thought, of everyone making it into her album as part of her personal life except the person she had come to realize she loved most, frightened her.

Cassy's head picked up at the sound of laughter coming down the hall; she closed the album and slipped off her glasses. A moment later a radiant Althea Wyatt appeared in the archway with the bundle of her baby son in her arms. Samantha had returned to school and so the rest of the Wyatts were free to joyfully tend to the new member of the family. He was beautiful. He had very light skin, lighter even than Samantha's. The nose must be the father's for Cassy did not recognize it, but the baby had the same high chiseled cheekbones Sam and Althea had. Cassy smiled to herself. This child could very well be Althea's because of the resemblance. In any case, he
was
her child.

“Hello there, Samuel,” Cassy said gently to the child. “You are the most gorgeous creature on the face of the earth, yes you are. Except for my grandchildren. All right, I give in, you are just as gorgeous as they are.”

“He is gorgeous, isn't he?” Amanda Stewart said, coming into the living room to stand with them. She peered down at the baby over Althea's shoulder. “You made Mrs. Goldblum smile and smile, didn't you, Samuel?”

Cassy glance up at Althea. “So how's the nanny hunt coming?”

“It's not,” Althea said. “I mean, when the right one appears I figure I'll know it.”

“Amanda's pushin' Madame DeFarge on her,” Rosanne contributed, breezing by on her way to the kitchen.

“I am not, Rosanne,” Amanda protested. To Cassy she explained, “We're not renewing Madame Moliere's contract.”

“Really? Why not?”

“We frankly don't have the room for a live-in here. Not if we're living here full-time. I need her room for the baby.”

“If we're going to Mrs. W's for tea,” Rosanne announced, coming back in, “we need to get a move on. It's going to take a while to wrap Nanook of the North and then unwrap him again.” Rosanne had already put on her coat and was holding the baby's outdoor garments. “Are you sure you don't want to go, Mrs. C? Because I'll stay.”

“No, no, you go ahead,” Cassy said. “I'd like to sit with Emma for a while. I brought the paper to read.” Cassy used to read the paper to Emma but not anymore. She read it to herself while Emma dozed.

After the ladies bundled Samuel up to everyone's satisfaction, they left and Cassy walked back to Emma's bedroom. Virginia was smoothing the bed linens. The hospital bed was raised and Emma lay back against the pillow, her eyes closed. She looked very clean and tidy.Virginia dampened a washcloth and patted Emma's mouth with it, which made Emma open her eyes. They seemed to be very heavy for her. She made a sound, trying to say something Cassy couldn't understand.

“She knows it's you,” Virginia told her, standing by the bed.

Cassy drew up a chair and sat down, reaching through the bed rail to take Emma's hand. The diamond in Emma's engagement ring caught the light coming through the window. The view was spectacular from here, of the park and the river and the setting sun.

Emma's hand seemed even lighter and more fragile than two
days ago. “I admire you above all others,” Cassy heard herself say in a hushed voice. “Your faith, your loyalty, your strength, your love, Emma. You have always been there for everyone who loves you.”

Mrs. Goldblum's eyes had closed and she whispered something. Cassy didn't dare ask her to repeat it because she was so obviously weak.

“She says you are like her,”Virginia told her.

Cassy's eyes filled. “Oh, how I wish it were true.” She sighed. She felt the tiniest little squeeze from Emma's hand. “But thank you, Emma, thank you for saying that.” She stood up to kiss her on the forehead. “You give me the mark to which I aspire.”

Emma's eyes opened. She looked past Cassy, searching for Virginia. Cassy sat down and the aide leaned close to Emma's mouth. “She wants to know if Rosanne's still here.”

“No, Emma, she went out,” Cassy said, still holding her hand. “With Althea and the baby and Amanda. They went over to Harriet's for tea.”

Mrs. Goldblum's eyes trailed back up to Virginia and her lips moved again. Cassy thought she said, “Are they gone?”

Virginia nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Goldblum, everyone else has left.”

Emma's eyes moved to Cassy and her lips moved, but there was no sound.

Cassy looked up at the aide.

“She's asking if she can go now.”

Cassy tried not to cry. “Yes, Emma,” she whispered, “yes, you can go now. It's all right.”

“Did you hear that, Mrs. Goldblum?” Virginia murmured. “She said it was all right for you to go.”

Emma did.