Irene ignored the invitation to join Virginia on the bed, but drew a chair close. “I think I found someone for Anthony today,” she began, and Virginia’s eyes immediately brightened.
“Really? Where?”
“In the park. She’s just about the same age as Lenore.”
Virginia Estherbrook sighed. “I miss Lenore.”
“We all do,” Irene agreed. “But there’s nothing to be done, is there? It’s time for Anthony to move on.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
Irene sniffed. “Of course he is.”
“How do you know?” Virginia pressed. “Did he say something?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Virgie! What would he say? He’s a man. Men never say anything. But it’s time, and I’m sure this is the right woman.”
Virginia leaned forward, her eyes once again glistening with anticipation. They’d been talking about what the perfect woman for Anthony would be like for weeks now, but until today they hadn’t been able to come up with anyone at all.
“She’s a year or two older than Lenore was, but much prettier. And she doesn’t look anything like Lenore, which I think is a plus. If a new wife looks just like the former one, she never knows whether the man is in love with her, or the memory of his former wife. And wait until you see the children!”
Virginia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I do love children! But not too young, I hope. Babies can be such a lot of bother.”
“The girl’s about thirteen, and the boy a little younger.”
“Perfect!” Virginia crowed. “Oh, it will be so good to have more children around.” Then her expression turned apprehensive. “But are you sure Anthony will like her?”
“Well, he didn’t run away when we met her.”
“He was with you?” Virginia gasped. “Oh, dear, Irene. Do you think that was wise?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it was wise or not. There we were, and there she was with her little girl, and they both just looked so perfect that I couldn’t resist. Anthony made up some excuse and ran away, but I saw something there! I’m sure I did!”
“What are you going to do?”
Irene’s brows arched. “I should think it would be perfectly obvious. I’m going to find out everything about her that I can — which I’ve already begun. She told me where she works, and it couldn’t be more perfect. Now we shall simply rope her in. And wait till you meet her. You’re just going to love her, and the children, too!”
Virginia Estherbrook fell back against the pillows. “I just hope it works out,” she sighed.
“Of course it will,” Irene retorted, for the first time losing patience with Virginia. Why did she always have to be so negative? “Doesn’t it always work out, when we set our minds to it?”
CHAPTER 4
Claire Robinson’s anger hung even more heavily in the shop than the thick curtains that concealed the bare brick walls. Even as the tinkling door chime faded away, Caroline could feel her employer’s angry eyes boring into her, and the set of her jaw — which wasn’t soft even when she was in the best of moods — warned Caroline not even to attempt an explanation for the fifteen minutes that had passed since the time she had promised to appear. Not that the explanation would have meant anything to Claire anyway, since the importance of the home run that Ryan had hit in the bottom half of the ninth inning of his softball game would be utterly lost on her. To Claire, children were an alien species that she could sometimes enjoy at a distance, but had no tolerance for in close quarters. “The idea of being pregnant is bad enough,” she’d once told Caroline. “But the eighteen years that follow are utterly unthinkable. There has to be a better way to propagate the species than that — it’s barbaric!” Since Claire wouldn’t care how hard it had been for her to leave her kids home by themselves, Caroline held her words to a simple apology, which Claire acknowledged with a terse nod.
“Let’s both just hope I’m not too late for Estelle Hollinan’s demilune,” she said as she pulled on the worn trench coat that was her stylistic trademark. No matter what the weather, if Claire was outside her trench coat was on, and there had been a time when Caroline wondered not only how the trench coat held together under such constant use, but also how Claire made do with a single wrap, no matter what the elements might be dealing out. It was Kevin Barnes who finally explained the trick: “She has at least a dozen of them. I think she has some poor Filipino woman locked away in Brooklyn or The Bronx, or one of those terrible places, doing nothing but sewing them up and putting all the same wear marks on them. But all the linings are different — cotton batiste for summer, flannel for fall. Mark swears she even has a mink-lined one she wears to the opera, but I think he’s just being bitchy.” Caroline hadn’t quite believed him until she’d started surreptitiously checking the linings of the trench coats, and sure enough, she found four different ones, all sewn in.
Cinching the belt of the current coat tight, Claire started out the door, but suddenly paused, eyed a large oriental vase critically, then turned back to Caroline. “Add a zero to the price of this thing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Without another word, Claire stepped through the door, and a moment later vanished down Madison Avenue.
“And a very nice afternoon to you, too,” Caroline said to the empty shop. Hanging her own worn coat — that somehow managed to have none of the style of Claire’s — on the hook in the back room, she found a black marking pen in Claire’s desk, and went to the large vase sitting by the door. It had been sitting there since the day Caroline had begun working at the shop almost a year ago, and so far no one had shown the least bit of interest in it. It was nearly three feet tall, celadon green with a pattern reminiscent of bamboo leaves done in a mustardy yellow that Caroline found faintly nauseating. The price tag on it was $90.00, which Caroline thought was fair, but it would still take exactly the right person to want it, even at that price. But to mark it up to nine hundred? Surely Claire must have meant something else. But when she looked around, the only other items Claire could possibly have been referring to were an umbrella stand that was already marked at two hundred, and a coat tree at two hundred fifty. Another zero on either of them would put them so far out of reason that no one in their right mind would ever buy them.
Hoping she was doing the right thing, Caroline carefully changed the price of the vase, then began moving through the shop, rearranging the collection of porcelain figurines that stood on a Victorian sideboard, polishing a smudge off a silver teapot that bore the mark of Paul Revere himself, and tidying the display cases that were filled with a variety of flatware, snuff boxes, and a mélange of other items that may have been useful in another century, but seemed utterly useless to Caroline.
“Darling, it doesn’t matter if they’re useful! They’re pretty!” Kevin had explained, but to Caroline the contents of the cases were still nothing more than clutter. It was the big pieces she liked — the Chippendale cabinets and Queen Anne chairs and Duncan Phyfe drop leaf tables, and huge desks with cubbyholes for everything and hidden compartments tucked away in their deepest recesses. She was examining a partner’s desk that had just come in last week, hoping to discover some long-lost treasure behind one of its drawers, when she heard the bell tinkle. She looked up to see Irene Delamond come through the door, raise her hand as if to wave to Caroline, then suddenly stop short, her attention obviously diverted by something. “Why, this is perfect!” she declared, gazing downward. “Wherever did it come from?” Caroline moved closer and saw that it was the celadon-and-mustard yellow vase that Ms. Delamond was admiring.