by A W Hartoin
He put Li Shou on my armoire and the bird began high kicking to the beat. “I love this bird.”
I gave him the stink eye.
“I love you, too, and I got you something.” He dashed out and came back with his giant poodle, Pickpocket, who jumped on the bed to begin his required fifty spins before he could lay down.
“Thanks. Just what I wanted,” I said.
“Not the dog.” Chuck placed Stella’s book on my lap and a manila envelope.
“What’s this?”
He sat on the bed and said, “Open it.”
Inside the envelope was a slim report from Harrison Heritage Jewelers. It was on the pieces that Big Steve found in his father’s safety deposit box. Simply stated they were worth a little over a hundred dollars, but the interesting thing was the hallmarks. They were made in 1902 in Prague by a jeweler that went out of business during the first world war.
“His father was French,” I said.
“Yes, he was,” said Chuck. “I think those pieces belonged to Constanza. They’re the kind of thing you keep for sentimental reasons.”
“They’re not worth much. They wouldn’t have been worth much back then either.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Just that you’re right. Constanza sold those tapestries and that expensive jewelry, at auction.”
“These wouldn’t have brought much,” said Chuck.
“But they’re from her real life. They don’t match those other pieces at all. They don’t go together. Those expensive pieces weren’t hers. She kept what was hers.”
“But the Bleds are so careful about the provenance of the things Stella smuggled out. I don’t see them giving Constanza something that didn’t belong to her.”
“Me either, but they did.”
Chuck stood up and tapped Stella’s book. “It’s in there somewhere.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“You said you’d seen Constanza before. It’s the best place to start looking. I’m going to make grilled cheese and tomato soup. Your favorite.”
I rolled my eyes. That was his favorite because it was the only thing he could cook.
Pick stopped spinning and flopped over as I opened the book and leafed through the pages. I wasn’t trying very hard. I had the pictures in that book memorized. Constanza wasn’t in there. But Nicky was. I stopped on a picture of him in British uniform. So handsome. He’d flown for the Brits before we got into the war. Stella was there, smiling and well. All the pictures from that brief period in England had her looking like that.
All the pictures.
There weren’t very many. The one of her and Nicky. Another in London, having tea at the Savoy. One with her at the Victoria & Albert Museum, standing with a young man we hadn’t identified yet and viewing a temporary Holbein exhibit with sandbags in the background stacked up to the ceiling. Florence only noted the man as Albert. He had a few facial scars and held his arm in a funny way. I assumed he’d been injured in the war. I flipped through again. There was another one. Where was it?
“This is the wrong book!” I slid out of bed, landing painfully on the floor, and grabbing my bathrobe.
Chuck came in holding a spatula. “Get back in bed.”
“It’s the wrong book.”
“That’s Stella’s book.”
“But it’s not in her book.”
“What?”
“The picture.”
He tried to put me back on the bed. “How many painkillers did you take?”
“One. She’s in Josiah’s book. Come on.” I dragged him through the apartment and flung open the front door.
“Mercy, you’re in your pajamas.”
“I don’t care. Come on.” I looked back and he was standing by the breakfast bar, holding the spatula like a scepter. “Mercy?”
“What?”
“Is this how our life is going to be?” he asked.
“Pretty much.”
He slapped down the spatula and said, “Just so I know. Come on, you nut.” He got me my snow boots, puffball hat, and ski coat, bundling me up with a scarf to boot. Then we ran down the stairs and outside into the chilly air, laughing our way to the place where my life began and kept circling back to.
We dashed down the street, across and over to the world of Hawthorne Avenue. The big houses were still awake and the street lamps cast their spells at the encroaching night. And there was the Bled Mansion, the warmest and most alit of all. The conservatories glowed brightly, showing off their palm trees and exotic blooms behind the wrought iron braces that couldn’t contain the beauty. The Girls were home.
My Godmothers. My family.
The light at the end of all my darknesses.
The End
