“How come you aren’t drinking? Christy’s the one with the problem, not you. Never mind, forget I said anything. Happy wife, happy life.”
“You got it.”
* * *
Christy’s creativity returned to its previous level about the same time the girls went back to school in August.
“I know it sounds like a cliché,” she said, “but I have this whole new clarity with my art. Sometimes I don’t even have to do sketches, especially with the marble pieces. It’s like I see the sculpture in the block. I just chisel away until it comes out.”
I chuckled. “That’s pretty much what Michelangelo said.”
“And he was right!”
Fred saw her renewed energy and stopped by her workshop at least once a week. He emailed pictures of works in progress to May, and together they planned a one-woman gallery show in Los Angeles for the new year. He even convinced Christy to hire two more apprentices to help with the workload.
“Can she really afford this?” I asked him.
We were standing on the driveway and watching through the big workshop doors. It was the only place we could talk without having to shout over the banging of hammers and hiss-whine of pneumatic polishers.
“Can she afford it?” Fred repeated with a chuckle. “Oh, God, yes.”
“For real?”
“Uh-huh. The show alone will pay their salaries.”
“The new ones?”
“All of them,” he said, “and then some.”
I wasn’t convinced, so he started listing pieces and their estimated sale prices. I stood there and showed off my molars.
“Yep,” he finished. “All told, we’re looking at eight hundred thousand, give or take. We won’t sell everything, of course, but she’ll net two-fifty or three hundred after we deduct commissions and expenses. If she can finish the big pieces she’s working on now, she’ll break four hundred, easy.”
“Holy crap.”
He grinned at me sideways. “That’s getting close to what you make, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I’m the CEO of a fifty-million-dollar company.”
“Anyone can do that,” he said flippantly. “Well, anyone with the experience. What Christy does is far less common. She creates unique pieces of art on a monumental scale. You can’t just waltz into your local gallery and pick up a life-size sculpture, much less in Italian Statuario or that Noir Belge.”
He sounded like a brochure. Then again, he was supposed to.
“And this is just the beginning,” he continued. “She’s early in her career. I wouldn’t be surprised if her pieces sell for three or four times as much in the next few years.”
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh. And May thinks I’m being conservative.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe. She knows her market better than I do.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said.
“Oh, I know I’m right,” he said confidently. Then he gestured at the slab of ebony stone that Christy and Gabby were shaping. “Judging by that, I’d say the sky’s the limit.”
* * *
We called Nana C. in September for her birthday. Rich and the girls sang to her, and Christy told her about the big show. She said she wanted to fly to LA to see it, and Christy volunteered Rich to travel to Boston and accompany her. They talked for a while longer and then said goodbye.
She sounded fine at the time, but we found out later that she’d been having headaches and double vision. She was probably suffering from a brain aneurysm, which ruptured two days later. She died in her sleep at the age of ninety-one.
Christy’s mother called to let us know, and the entire family converged on Boston. We held the wake on Saturday, and hundreds of people visited the house. Nearly a thousand attended her funeral on Sunday, including the mayor, several Kennedys, and even a few celebrities. Nana C. had been a fixture in politics and charities for seven decades, and everyone had loved her.
The attorneys for her estate scheduled a meeting on Monday morning with immediate family members. Christy and I left the girls with their older cousins and headed to the firm’s Back Bay office. Nana C. had recorded an updated video will about six months before she died. She looked as sprightly and alert as I remembered.
“If you’re seeing this, I must be dead,” she said dryly. “I’m sorry if that sounds macabre, Anne, but at my age I’m allowed.” She paused and sighed. “These messages get shorter every time I record a new one. I suppose it’s because I’ve said everything I want to say. I’ve been blessed with a long life and a wonderful family, and I’m ready for the end. If you want to remember me, light a candle on my birthday. Or maybe eat some ice cream. Any time, I mean, not just my birthday.” Her blue eyes glinted with amusement. “Now, on to business…”
She donned her thick glasses, and the old-fashioned chains swung gently as she looked down and read from a list of specific bequests. She left things like coin collections, cars, and season tickets to her grandsons. She left her jewelry to Christy, her only granddaughter. The video ended with another message to her family.
“Be nice to each other. All the money in the world can’t replace family.”
A junior attorney turned off the television, and the senior one outlined the rest of the will. Nana C. left a third of her estate to a list of charities. The second third included a trust that went to Anne and her younger sister, Evelyn, along with the house in Beacon Hill and a summer house on Cape Cod. The remaining trust was to be divided equally among her grandchildren.
Christy became an heiress in a few short sentences. Her new fortune wasn’t extravagant, but it would definitely change her life.
After the attorneys explained the probate process and what to expect in the next few weeks, Anne and Evelyn invited the family to gather at Nana C.’s house the following day. They wanted to give us a chance to take things that had sentimental value.
Christy and I were getting ready on Tuesday morning when Laurie appeared from the adjoining room.
“Dad, Mom… you need to see this.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “Can it wait? We’re running late.”
“I… I don’t think so.”
Something in her voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Christy heard it too, and we rushed into the other room. Emily stood with her arm around Susie, who was crying. At first I thought one of them had been hurt, but then I saw the TV.
It showed New York City from across the Hudson. Smoke rose from the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. They were burning.
Christy crossed herself and then covered her mouth.
“What happened?” I asked.
Laurie just shook her head, so Emily spoke up.
“A plane— An airliner, Dad. It flew into the building.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
* * *
Planes eventually started flying again after 9/11, so we were able to return to Atlanta. The world would never be the same again, but life went on. I had a company to run and the girls had school, so we were able to lose ourselves in routine. Christy’s work was more of a challenge, but that was exactly what she needed.
She had to get ready for her gallery show in time, and she went about it with her usual single-minded determination. She and Gabby focused on the two main pieces, while the others cleaned up and put the finishing touches on bronzes from the foundry and marble pieces from the workshop. Everyone worked for ten weeks straight, with only a break for Thanksgiving. Then all six of them spent two weeks on the big pieces, adding final details and polishing the marble to bring out its luster.
Christy called the first piece Femme Olympians. It was a trio of young women sculpted in luminous Carrara marble. They were dressed in short Greek tunics and stood in a circle facing outward. One held a lightning bolt aegis, a shield instead of a weapon. Another held a trident and a fish, an offer to feed the viewer. The third rested her hand on a three-headed dog, a companion instead of a threat. The whole thing was a clever feminist twist on those paragons of masculine virtue, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades.