Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  “Okay, I’m back!” Elinor Ann announced.

  I didn’t respond. I’d become transfixed by a photograph of two men. They’d exchanged vows at a ceremony in Great Neck the previous weekend.

  “Dana?”

  The groom on the right was Bert Sugarman.

  I was never, ever going to unearth the identity of my mystery caller.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD

  “Oh my god.” Vivian was pacing back and forth in front of the portrait I’d just brought down to the shop—the first Hannah to feature a live subject.

  “Oh my god.” I couldn’t tell if she was horrified or struck nearly dumb by genius. Her expression was inscrutable, much like Dinner’s in the painting.

  “Oh. My. God.” Finally she turned to face me. “We are going to make so much fucking money!”

  As happy as I was to hear it, I was a little annoyed by her use of the word “we.” I was the one doing all the work—especially now that the blowsy woman with the Galerie Naifs business card was doing all the buying. If I could just learn her identity, I could pose as a dealer based in Maine.…

  “How many more do you think you can bang out by the weekend?” Vivian wanted to know. “If I call Graciela and tell her Hannah’s struck out in a bold new direction, she’ll probably come running over here on Saturday.”

  I decided to play dumb. “Graciela who?” All I needed was a last name to cut out the middleman.

  “You know—the Comme des Garçons addict.”

  Crap.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know where the fuck she’s putting them all.”

  I had a pretty good idea where she was putting them all: into the homes of clients, at double or triple or octuple what Vivian was charging her. Unfortunately, I’d already thought to google the phrase “Galerie Naifs” and been confronted with a mind-boggling 779,000 results—779,129, to be precise.

  “Why are you still here?” Vivian said. “That pig isn’t going to paint himself, is he? Oh—and be sure to put that faux-sapphire necklace in the next one.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “You know those cocktail dresses that came in a couple of weeks back?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you still have the blue satin Jean Desses?”

  “Are you kidding? That dress is so fucking tiny, I can’t even fit into the damn thing. Thank god it only set me back a hundred—the guy running the estate sale had no idea how to price couture. And it does class up the inventory to have a museum-quality piece like that.…” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  As if on cue, the bell over the front door jingled and Lark walked in. “Here I am!”

  “So that’s why. I’ll go get it,” Vivian said, adding in a low voice, “Don’t forget—I have a key to your apartment. If you tell your friend over there what I paid for the dress, I’ll kill your cat.”

  But not even Vivian could hide her admiration once a beaming Lark emerged from the dressing room. “Holy shit. I hate you, bitch.”

  Lark giggled and spun around, causing the chiffon underskirt to billow, cloudlike, around her waist. The sleeveless bodice, a masterpiece of overstitched pleating, hugged her torso perfectly. “Sandro will love this!”

  Sandro will hate that, I thought, smiling in satisfaction. Forget my Twenty-Men-in-New-York theory—there’ll be three times that many guys in the gallery Friday night, and they’ll all be lined up to meet her. Let’s hope one of them manages to make a favorable impression while Sandro sits fuming on the sidelines with his wife.

  Lark went off to inspect herself in the three-way mirror, and I turned to Vivian. How much? I mouthed.

  In response, she held up ten fingers, then made fists before flashing two more. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, but she just shrugged.

  Sighing, I tilted my head in the direction of Dinner’s portrait, which got her down to seven fingers. “Are you kidding?” I telegraphed with my expression. Vivian folded her arms and met my eyes, defiant.

  “I feel like a princess!” Lark called from the back of the store.

  She looked like one. What the hell, I thought, gesturing again at the portrait and holding up two fingers of my own.

  Vivian’s eyes narrowed as she leaned across her desk to whisper in my ear. “Who the hell is this chick—your long-lost daughter or something?”

  More like my long-lost self, I silently responded. And if it was going to take two Hannahs to get Sandro out of Lark’s life, well, that would be cheap compared to what the alternative would cost her. “Do we have a deal?” I whispered back, just before Lark rejoined us.

  “You know, that dress looks so good on you, I’m only going to charge you a hundred bucks for it,” Vivian told her. Lark erupted into shrieks and skipped off to the dressing room while Vivian and I glared at each other behind her back.

  The message light on the answering machine was blinking when I returned to the apartment.

  “Hey—it’s Ray, uh, noon on Tuesday. I’m in your neighborhood—had an idea about buying you lunch. Oh well. Maybe next time. Take care of yourself, Dana.”

  “Well, that was quick,” Elinor Ann said, approximately three seconds after I’d replayed the message for the dozenth time. “Just under forty-eight hours. Still think he’s not your hang-up caller?”

  “It’s possible he was in the area.”

  “Oh, sure. Refresh my memory. How many stops did you tell me it was between your subway station and his in Brooklyn?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “So it isn’t exactly like the guy wandered a few blocks out of his way, is it?”

  “Good point.” Was one phone call really all it took to summon Ray Devine to the East Village? More important, would he try it again, and what would I do—wear—say—if he did? “Where are you, anyway?” I asked my friend.

  “In the car, on my way home from work. It’s the first Tuesday of the month.”

  Of course—it was smelting day. The plant took advantage of reduced energy rates by starting the process at three in the morning.

  Perfect timing, I thought. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for ever since researching Elinor Ann’s condition the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

  “Are you on Route 22?” I said.

  “Just coming up on Krumsville.”

  “Then do me a favor. Get off at the exit.”

  “Are you nuts? What makes you think I can do that?”

  “It’ll just be for a second. Then you can get right back onto the on-ramp.”

  “Oh, I get it. Force the patient to confront her phobia in small, manageable doses.”

  It was called exposure therapy, and it was the only treatment I’d found on the Web that seemed logical. It was also the only treatment that didn’t want to sell me a series of self-actualization tapes at breathtaking prices. “Are you getting off?”

  She didn’t answer, but I could hear the ding-ding of the turn signal on her car’s dashboard. I held my breath and listened to what seemed like an hour of silence before I heard the signal ding again. We exhaled in unison.

  “How do you feel?” I asked her.

  “Terrified.” She was breathing heavily, but at least she was breathing. “Which is why I’ve never had the guts to try this on my own before.”

  “You know about exposure therapy?”

  “You’re not the only person with an Internet connection, you know. Don’t you think I’ve googled agoraphobia by now?”

  “Is that the only word you googled?”

  “What are you talking about? That’s what’s wrong with me, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure. According to my findings, you’ve got panic disorder.”

  “Well, that’s a load off my mind. Tell me—what the hell’s the difference?”

  The difference was, Elinor Ann was lucky. Her condition was more easily treatable. All she had to do was keep making herself panic until she got used to it—or sick of it—and learned how to control it. At least
, that was how easy the article I’d read made it sound.

  “This isn’t nearly as serious as agoraphobia,” I told her. “Something triggered it. And if you ask me, it’s Angus. As soon as he got his learner’s permit, you got panic disorder.”

  “How come?”

  “Because he doesn’t need you as much as he used to.”

  “That’s what you think. If it weren’t for me, he’d starve to death under a mountain of dirty laundry.” She paused. “But I guess that’s… plausible.”

  “I know it is.”

  She sighed. “I suppose this means I have to get off at the Krumsville exit again tomorrow, doesn’t it?”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you get better.”

  “Terrific.” I heard her turn signal again; she was just a few miles from home now. “Dana?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks. But… Dana?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you were trying to get me off the subject of Ray Devine, you could have just asked me about the weather.”

  I replayed Ray’s message once more before retrieving Vivian’s costume jewelry from a box at the foot of my bed. The necklace she’d requested for the next Hannah had become hopelessly enmeshed with a drop earring as long as an earthworm, and far less attractive.

  But the faux sapphires were actually quite pretty—teardrop-shaped and arranged to cascade down to a single, much larger stone that would end cunningly in cleavage range. Dinner will look fetching in these, I thought, especially if I set the painting up like a formal portrait.… Maybe use that oval canvas I picked up at Utrecht last week…

  The phone rang.

  I jumped, and the necklace went flying, hitting the wall and disappearing behind the headboard. I looked at my watch: a quarter to two. Had Ray been hanging around all this time?

  “Hello?”

  “Why, what in the world is the matter, honey chile? You sound plumb scared to death!”

  Land sakes, I thought. My mother just addressed me as honey chile.

  “I’m fine,” I responded. “Just, uh… wasn’t expecting to hear from anyone at this time of day.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine why not! I’m calling about the guest list for your father’s birthday, of course.”

  Of course. It was less than four months away. The caterers must be up in arms. “I tried to get hold of Tom-Tom a few weeks ago,” I told her. “He was out of town—how about I try again tonight?”

  “That’s my girl!”

  “How’s Dad doing, anyway?”

  “Just fine and dandy! Your uncle Jim and aunt Connie drove down from Saint Augustine this morning.” My mother was referring to his old business partner, Jim Masters, and his glamorous wife, a former model whom I’d never caught in the act of ingesting solid food—unless ice cubes could be construed as food. Uncle Jimmy had been the first person to ever give me a twenty-dollar bill. I was in nursery school at the time. “How long are they staying?”

  “Why, I don’t rightly know. The Commodore’s fixing to take us all down to Twofers in a little while.”

  Ah, the boat. Dad always referred to it as his very expensive bar—which was certainly accurate. It had barely left its mooring slip since he’d purchased it seven years ago.

  “Are you actually going out on the ocean?”

  “Good heavens, no! Connie’s just had her hair done! But it’s a lovely day for margaritas on the deck.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Unless a hurricane watch was in effect, it was invariably a lovely day for margaritas on the deck.

  “Besides, Jimmy showed up with a box of Cuban cigars, and I just had to put my foot down,” she continued. “You can’t imagine how long the smell of smoke lingers in the living room curtains.”

  Not for the first time, I marveled at my father’s ability to party. He probably hadn’t missed a cocktail hour or turned down a good cigar in eighty years, and he didn’t look a day over—well, ninety, but still.

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, although just the thought of overindulging in tequila under a blazing Florida sun was enough to make my temples throb. “Give everyone my best—I’ll get back to you as soon as I get hold of Tom-Tom.”

  “Splendid. Now, you’re sure everything’s okay, young lady?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Woof! Woof!” the dog portraits seemed to admonish me after I hung up. “That’s what you get for not screening your calls.”

  I left my half brother a message, then prepared to go spelunking under my bed for the necklace. But last Sunday’s Times Magazine on the nightstand, still open to the completed crossword, caught my eye. I hadn’t yet tackled the diagramless puzzle on the preceding page. What would be the harm in postponing my next Hannah for just a tiny bit longer?

  I flopped on the bed and grabbed a pencil. Pens were fine for the regular crossword, but too much could go wrong in a diagramless, even if they did tell you which square to start in. Surveying the empty grid, I recalled a comment Hank had made as he watched me cruise through yesterday’s puzzle. “Heck,” he’d said. “If I had to do one of them things, it’d look exactly the same an hour later—all blank squares.”

  Blank squares. Hmm.

  What if one were to construct a crossword where the word “blank” was represented by…

  Fill in the [blank]! Point [blank] range! [Blank] verse!

  Oh my god. Beach [blank]et Bingo! Pigs in a [blank]et! [Blank]ety-[blank]!

  The possibilities were myriad. I grabbed a sheet of paper and began to compile a list—or rather, a clue set, as Billy had called it.

  Within the hour, I had more than a dozen blank-themed phrases. Surely that was enough to get the ball rolling. I typed the list into an email, added a short note, addressed it to Gridmeister, and just before I hit Send, I did something highly uncharacteristic. I thought about the consequences of my actions.

  On the one hand, having a crossword puzzle appear in the Times would be an unparalleled thrill. On the other, reestablishing contact with Billy Moody could turn out to be a major lapse in judgment. Adorable boys who engaged in flirtatious banter with women old enough to be their aunts could inflict serious damage on one’s primary relationship.

  But it was such a good idea for a puzzle.…

  “What the blank,” I said, sending my clue set into cyberspace with a decisive click.

  I finally got around to retrieving the necklace, positioned the oval canvas on my easel, and applied a coat of gesso to its surface. The process took a bit longer than usual, since every three seconds or so I retreated to the bedroom to check the computer for email activity. No response from Billy Moody was forthcoming, but Amazon was brimming with gift suggestions for everyone on my Christmas list.

  I printed out a full-frontal headshot of Dinner for reference and immediately realized I had a problem. Pigs’ necks were not designed to wear certain items of jewelry. Such as necklaces. The sapphire pendant that would land in the vicinity of human cleavage would dig into Dinner’s Adam’s apple—if he had one, and if the necklace managed to make it all the way around his neck in the first place, which was unlikely.

  Ah. But if I concealed the ends of it behind his ears, the necklace would drape beguilingly, with the pendant falling at midforehead—if that was the correct anatomical term for it.…

  The phone rang. This time I managed to hold on to the sapphires.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh dear,” Tom-Tom said. “Whoever you were hoping to hear from, it obviously wasn’t me.”

  “Don’t be silly! How are you? How was London?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. Le Veau d’Or? Seven thirty?”

  I called Hank to let him know I wouldn’t be around that evening. We hadn’t made definite plans, but we were at that point in the relationship where one would call the other late in the day, and we’d wind up getting together more often than not.

  It sou
nded as if a 747 were idling inside the brownstone when he answered the phone. “It’s Dana!” I hollered.

  After a moment the noise began to recede. I heard the front door slam shut; he must have gone out to the stoop. “Sorry about the racket,” he said. “I got the floor guy here sanding down the front parlor.”

  The floor guy? I thought, eyeing the pine planks beneath my feet. I’d gone over to the hardware store on Avenue B, rented a sander, and refinished them myself one weekend shortly after moving in. Granted, it was probably the single most grueling experience of my young adulthood, but I lacked a man’s upper-body strength. Besides, I didn’t drive around town in a truck with the words BROWNSTONE RENOVATION SPECIALISTS painted on the side of it.

  “He’s pretty near done for the day,” Hank said. “How ’bout you come on by in an hour or so?”

  “Tonight’s not good.” I explained about Tom-Tom, and Hank made me promise to come over the following evening, and then he reminisced about the blow job I’d given him the night before, reeling off a string of highly complimentary adjectives, and after a few minutes I came to the conclusion that a person would have to be crazy to sand his own floors if he could afford to pay somebody else to do the job for him.

  I spotted my half brother’s mane of snow-white hair as soon as I walked into Le Veau d’Or. He was leaning against the bar, engaged in a heated argument with an inebriated elderly couple. “Finally,” he said when I reached his side. “Can you please tell these charming but misinformed bibliophiles that it was Harold Robbins, and not Sidney Sheldon, who wrote The Love Machine?”

  “I always thought it was Jacqueline Susann.”

  “Of course!” all three of them shrieked in unison, drawing stares from the conservative clientele. Tom-Tom raised his gin and tonic in a toast.

  “To Jackie!”

  “To Jackie!” we chorused. My brother was nothing if not festive. In that regard, he reminded me of our father, but in all other matters there was no resemblance. Dad, for example, would never dress up as the opera diva Beverly Sills on Halloween and lip-synch arias all night with the help of an MP3 player hidden in the bodice of his gown. And Tom-Tom, for his part, would never consider going duck hunting with Lee Iacocca.