* * *
—
Yesterday, I started working on a guest room on the third floor. It was dusty and filled with cobwebs, and little of the furniture in the room had any meaningful provenance. But when I lifted one of the dust sheets I discovered a cabinet filled with brilliantly painted Meissen birds that gazed brightly at me from behind glass. I cleaned a few off and admired them before deciding that they were too cheerful to leave hidden up there in the dark.
I brought the collection down to the nursery and arranged them on a shelf near Daisy’s crib. I picked up Daisy from her swing and held her on my hip, letting her look at the goldfinch in my hand but keeping it just beyond her grasp.
Vanessa appeared in the doorway—dressed up for a photo shoot they had planned in the garden, her hair up in a casual bun, a sundress that revealed just the right amount of breastfeeding cleavage. She stopped short at the sight of us.
“It’s OK. You can give her the bird to play with.”
“She’ll break it. It’s worth a lot.”
“I know. I don’t care.” Her lips were set in a tight line, forcing themselves into a smile. “She shouldn’t be afraid to live here. I don’t want this place to be a museum for her, I want it to be a home.” She took the bird from my hand and handed it to the baby, who grabbed it with fat fists.
There are moments when I want to believe that Vanessa and I might someday be real friends, but I don’t know if the ravine between us will ever be small enough to close. We might look at the same thing, but will never see it the same way: a child’s toy or an objet d’art; a pretty bird or a piece of history; a meaningless bauble or something that might be sold to save a life. Perspective is, by nature, subjective. It’s impossible to climb inside someone else’s head, despite your best—or worst—intentions.
The fears that keep Vanessa awake at night are not, and never will be, the same as mine; except for the one nightmare that we both share. That one is big enough to tie us together for now; it’s the bridge that helps us cross that ravine, as precarious as it may sometimes feel.
Vanessa sat down in a rocking chair, and clutched her baby to her chest, her skirt settling around them both like a cloud. Daisy lifted the goldfinch with two greedy fists, inserted its beak in her rosebud mouth, and began to suck. “See?” Vanessa laughed, delighted. “It’s a teething toy now!”
I could hear tiny teeth clicking against the porcelain, the rhythmic rasp of baby breath. Daisy’s pale blue eyes, so eerily like her father’s, gazed calmly at me over the bird’s head, and I swear I could see the thought in her head: Mine.
Vanessa looked up to see me watching, and smiled.
“Where’s Benny?” she asked. “This would make a good photo.”
To Greg
Acknowledgments
FIRST, AS ALWAYS, I HAVE to offer my eternal gratitude to my agent, Susan Golomb, whose wisdom and counsel has kept me sane over the last thirteen years. You are my rock.
I started this book under one editor, and finished it under another, and feel incredibly privileged to have worked with them both. To Julie Grau, thank you for your stalwart belief in my writing over the last four books. To Andrea Walker, your insights and advice were critical in making this story shine. I couldn’t have asked for better editorial guidance.
If there is ever an appropriate time to use the term #blessed, it’s when I talk about the support I’ve received from the entire team at Random House. Many thanks to Avideh Bashirrad, Jess Bonet, Maria Braeckel, Leigh Marchant, Michelle Jasmine, Sophie Vershbow, Gina Centrello, Barbara Fillon, and Emma Caruso—not to mention the entire sales team that has worked so hard on my behalf.
Thanks to the terrific true-crime writer Rachel Monroe, and to Professor Jack Smith of George Washington University, for letting me pick your brains for insight into the world of crime, grifting, and international antiques theft. And to Dr. Ed Abratowski, for sharing your medical expertise.
Keshni Kashyap is not only a talented writer, but a fantastic reader: Your early feedback on this book was invaluable.
No writer exists in a vacuum, and my community of writers is responsible for keeping me focused and inspired. I’m lucky to be able to come into my office every day and see Carina Chocano, Erica Rothschild, Josh Zetumer, Alyssa Reponen, Annabelle Gurwitch, Jeanne Darst, John Gary, and the rest of Suite 8. I promise I’ll bring in more popcorn and LaCroix soon.
I’d be a wreck without my friends, who I turn to on a regular basis for emotional buttressing and wine consumption. You know who you are, and you know how much I adore you.
To Pam, Dick, and Jodi: the best PR team—I mean, family—a writer could ask for. Thanks for rearranging the books at Barnes and Noble to give me more facings, and hand-selling my book at Kepler’s. You make me feel like a superstar.
To Greg, my love and creative touchstone for the last two decades: I can’t say enough about all the wonderful things you’ve given me. My career owes everything to your enduring support and faith in me. And to Auden and Theo, who think their mother is the best writer who ever lived, even though they’ve never read a word I’ve written: You’ve helped me through this book in ways you could never imagine.
Last, but not least, a big thanks to the Bookstagram community that I discovered during the course of writing this story. They reminded me every day of the good that can exist in the world of social media, and I am continually heartened and inspired by their passion for books and support of authors. Readers like you are the reason I write.
BY JANELLE BROWN
All We Ever Wanted Was Everything
This Is Where We Live
Watch Me Disappear
Pretty Things
About the Author
JANELLE BROWN is the New York Times bestselling author of Watch Me Disappear, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything, and This Is Where We Live. An essayist and journalist, she has written for Vogue, The New York Times, Elle, Wired, Self, Los Angeles Times, Salon, and numerous other publications. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their two children.
janellebrown.com
Twitter: @janelleb
Instagram: @janellebrownie
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