“Trust me, those folks will buy whatever you sell them. And Aaron will back your play. He wants this to disappear just as much as you do. You can pull this off, Carly. Just breeze on into that taproom with your head held high. Anyone tries to smart-mouth you…”
“I can sink my teeth into them.” Carly smiled, showing Des her teeth. They were nice and white, and looked exceedingly sharp. “It’s something I’m good at.”
“There you go. I’ll stay here a minute before I join you. We were never in here together. Never met. Got it?”
Carly took one more pull on her cigarette before she flicked it into the nearest sink and climbed into her big mink coat. She looked like a million bucks in it and she knew it. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she wondered, narrowing her eyes at Des suspiciously.
“Just doing my job.”
“Patching up my mess of a marriage is your job?”
“I do whatever needs doing in Dorset.”
“Well, I owe you one. And I hate owing anyone anything. You see, I’m really not a nice person.” Carly took a deep breath, steeling herself. Then she said, “Wish me luck,” and darted out of there.
Des sat herself back down in front of the mirror. She hadn’t been there for more than ten seconds when the door flew back open and in came Ada Geiger, a goblet of red wine clutched in her thin-boned, translucent hand.
“I believe you ordered this, my dear,” she said, gliding over toward her with it. The old woman had an uncanny way of moving, almost as if she had a cushion of air under her. Or maybe that tweed jacket she wore over her shoulders doubled as a set of wings.
“Why, thank you,” Des said, taking the glass from her. “You knew Carly was in here this whole time. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it was obvious that she did not wish to be found. I respect that. I respect what another woman needs to do. Besides, my grandson is an ass. He’s cheating on her, isn’t he?”
Des sipped her wine in discreet silence.
“Of course he is,” Ada went on, undeterred. “They’re terribly ill-suited for each other, you know. He’s needy and selfish, and she’s a fading debutante with a post-graduate degree in bullshit. I assume they’re drawn together by their mutual weakness. That is, after all, what passes for love among most couples-unless they happen to be very lucky. Are you lucky, Des?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
Ada eased herself slowly down onto the plump little chair next to Des and turned her penetrating, hooded gaze on her. “I wish to have a word with you. It’s rather important.”
“All right.” As Des studied Ada’s face in the mirror, she found herself recalling something her granny had told her once: Everyone gets old, but a rare few grow old. Ada Geiger was one of those- someone who had seen it all, done it all and, most significantly, savored it all. There was no regret in her proud, deeply lined face. No fear. Only wisdom. “What’s it about, Ada?”
“You, my dear. You need to be rescued.”
Des frowned at her. “Rescued from what?”
“I happened to take in the student show at the Dorset Academy yesterday,” she replied. “It invigorates me to see what young artists are doing. Mostly, what I saw them doing was dreck-lifeless, passionless, highly derivative. There was only one artist in the whole exhibit who genuinely moved me. I asked about this artist. I said, ‘Who draws the murder victims?’”
Sitting there, Des could feel her pulse quicken.
“I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to learn that you would be Mitch’s companion this evening.”
“Well, that’s life in a small town.”
“Spare me your modesty, okay?” Ada shot back. “We are kindred souls, you and I. When I was your age, I did the very same thing you’re doing-except with a camera. Ever hear of an old-time tabloid photographer named Weegee?”
“Are you kidding me? I love his work.”
“I thought so,” Ada said, nodding to herself in satisfaction. “I knew him well.”
Des gaped at her. “God, tell me about him. What was he like?”
“A horrible, unkempt little man. He lived in cheap rooming houses, reeked of body odor and awful cigars. ‘Crime is my oyster,’ he used to say. It became mine, too, Des. I followed him around like a puppy. Drove the streets of New York City with him, night after night, listening in on police calls on his two-way radio, hightailing it to murder scenes. He kept a key to the darkroom at the New York Post, where he’d develop his pictures at two, three o’clock in the morning. Then he’d head right out to peddle them to editors around town. He tried repeatedly to get me to go to bed with him,” Ada remembered fondly. “As if he had a prayer-I was a gorgeous broad in those days. And yet, I was utterly fascinated by the man, Des, because he understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That we are all victims in the end. That’s why his work needs no captions. No critics to ‘explain’ it. It’s all right there in front of you. Because the very best art isn’t ‘art’ at all-it’s reality. That’s what I’ve always tried to accomplish with my own work. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.”
“Me, too, I think,” Des said gingerly. Unlike the other students at the academy, she was not comfortable talking about her work. It felt very raw and personal to her, and she sure didn’t know what any of it meant.
“Which is precisely why you need to get out of that place,” Ada said to her urgently. “Des, you must stop taking classes at once.”
“But I’m learning so much. Why would I want to stop?”
“Because if you stay they will steal your soul from you. Don’t let them do it. Don’t let them mold you into one of them. That’s what they do, Des. That’s how the competent take their revenge against the truly gifted. It’s their sole satisfaction in life. It’s what they live for. Do you hear me?”
Des fell silent for a moment, floored by the old woman’s ferocious intensity. “I’m sure listening…”
“You’re already beginning to feel a bit restless there, am I right?”
“Now how on earth did you know that?”
“I already told you,” Ada said impatiently. “We’re kindred souls. Listen to your heart, Des. Get out before it’s too late.”
“And do what?”
“Go your own way-wherever that way takes you. But it will be your way, not theirs. I happen to be a cranky old woman. I know this because I was a cranky young woman. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned after all of these years, it is this: If you possess what other people want, and can’t have, then they will try to destroy you.” Ada paused, gazing around at the opulent ladies’ lounge. “It’s just like with this place.”
“Astrid’s Castle? What about it?”
“They will never, ever get it,” she said insistently.
“Who, Ada?” Des asked, wondering if the old lady was totally with it mentally. She seemed sharp enough, full of fire and strongly held views. But she also seemed to be up to her ears in paranoia.
Or was she?
“Promise me you’ll think about this,” Ada said, clutching Des by the wrist now. “Promise me you will never forget this conversation. Will you do that for me?”
“Ada, I will never forget this conversation. Count on it.”
“Thank you. I feel much better.” Satisfied, Ada Geiger released her grip on Des, then got slowly to her feet and glided back out the door.
Des stayed put for a while, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she sipped her wine. It was better this way. She was alone in there and no one else could see just how badly the goblet was trembling in her hand.
CHAPTER 5
“We cared not one bit about studio politics,” Ada told Mitch as she nibbled regally at the food on her plate. Dinner was a flavorful beef bourguignon, roasted root vegetables and good, crusty bread. “All we cared about was making our movies. We wrote them together. My dear Luther produced them. And I directed them, which the studio boys didn’t like at all. I was a broad. Broads are for sleeping with. Broads are for shutting up. I wouldn’t do either of those things. Nor would I back down, because I saw them for the complete boors that they are, and… Lester, must I compete for attention with this New Age crap?” Ada meant the vaguely Eastern-sounding music that was playing on the dining hall’s multi-speaker surround-sound system, something with tubular bells and wind chimes. “I feel as if I’m at one of those touchy-feely retreats where they stick needles in your feet.”