by Janet Goss
“I think you’re asking the wrong person. I hate to say this, but I think you’re just going to have to confront him about this.”
But I didn’t want to confront Hank. Not on the day we’d finally put an end to our hiatus. Not right after he’d told me he loved me.
But what oh what had he been up to?
“Looks like I have no choice,” I conceded. “I’ll just have to ask him point-blank what’s going on. And who knows? Maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this.”
But I couldn’t fathom what that explanation could possibly be, and I was hardly in a hurry to hear it. Maybe I’d wait a week or so—a month, max—and garner a few more declarations of love before ruining everything, not least of all my future.
The phone rang so quickly after we ended our conversation, I assumed Elinor Ann was calling back. “Now what?” I said upon picking up.
“Mercy me! Can’t a mother call to wish her daughter a happy new year?”
“Of course she can! Same to you!”
“Did you spend it with that gentleman friend of yours?”
“I’d planned to, but something came up.”
“Oh dear.”
“An illness in his family—nothing serious, as it turned out.” At least, not as far as Dinner is concerned, I thought, wincing at my own gullibility. “How’s everything?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about the Commodore.”
Now it was my turn to say oh dear.
“It’s just… Well, he keeps going on and on about God lately.”
This was indeed cause for alarm. Tom Mayo had always been a hard-core realist. “There’s no god; there’s only nature,” he was given to saying. “Human nature. We’re on our own, kid.”
I didn’t want to pose the next question, but seeing as how my father was exactly ninety-nine and three-quarters—plus one day, I felt it was called for. “You don’t think he’s preparing to…”
“Good heavens, no! It’s dementia I’m worried about. Why, Cush Keating’s husband’s convinced she’s a spy. He makes her taste all his food before he’ll take a single bite.”
None of my mother’s childhood friends had normal names. There was Cush, and Git, and Mim, and Tig. They called her Boots, though I’d never been given a satisfactory answer as to why, nor had I ever seen her in any footwear other than heels and golf cleats. “Did you speak to Cush about Dad’s, uh, newfound faith?”
“Of course not! She’d be worried sick about me! And so far he hasn’t been showing any other signs of… slippage. He knows who the president is.”
“Then maybe there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I certainly hope not. If your father gets religion… well, there are an awful lot of sins I’ll miss like the dickens.”
After I hung up, I thought of calling Tom-Tom to discuss my mother’s concerns, but I didn’t see any reason to alarm him as well. Besides, wasn’t it fairly common for the elderly to take stock of their lives? A spiritual conversion seemed reasonable, given the amount of time Dad had left. There was nothing demented about it.
I hoped.
I wandered over to the window. Vivian was out front, draping a black velvet cape around the mannequin she placed outside the store to signal it was open for business. The first thing she was going to get from me was her unwieldy box of vintage hats, which had been taking up way too much space in my kitchen for the past several weeks.
I dragged the box down the front stoop, and together we pushed it through the shop door. “Does this mean you’re finally done?” she said.
“It does.”
“So where the hell are the Hannahs already?”
“Give me five minutes. I think you’ll be pleased with the result.”
“After all this time, I’d better be.” She reached for the phone.
Her smile grew broader with each canvas she pulled from the bags. “Fabulous,” she declared them. “I’m going to leave them up until February. They’re just what this place needs to draw customers on the slowest month of the year. Smart idea, turning them into a set like this—I bet Graciela will snap up the whole series!”
“That won’t be possible.” I pointed at the portrait I’d promised to Ray. “The leopard skin pillbox is already spoken for.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘spoken for’?”
“Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
She fumed for the next hour while the two of us hung the canvases according to my layout. “I can’t imagine what you were thinking. How you can break up a grouping like this is beyond me. Can’t you just grab another hat and bang out a replacement?”
Of course I could. But I was getting awfully tired of Vivian’s demands. “I’ll have to mull that over and get back to you.”
“Fine. But you’d better mull fast if you want to keep working for me.”
Come to think of it, I was getting awfully tired of her threats as well—not to mention the fifty percent commission she was about to receive after just one quick phone call to Graciela.
She placed the last of the paintings on its hook and nudged it level. “At least that’s over with. Now, before you leave, go into the dressing room. There’s a Victorian wedding dress in there, and I need to get a photo for the Web site.”
Swell, I thought. I’d heard the word “wedding” enough to last all year, and it was only the second of January.
The ivory satin gown had something like a thousand close-set buttons running up the back of its bodice, but I knew better than to enlist Vivian’s help with them when her mood was this dark. Instead, I stepped into the dress backward and started fastening it from the bottom up. I’d swivel it around when I reached the armpits and trust she’d have calmed down when the time came to close the final, unreachable top buttons.
I had barely begun when the bell on the front entrance jangled and a yelp pierced the quiet.
“They’re spectacular! My dear, I’m over the moon!”
Graciela. I figured she’d been on the receiving end of Vivian’s call.
“I knew you’d adore them. I think they’re Hannah’s best work ever.”
Temporarily trapped, I stood in the dressing room and listened to my patron’s jewelry rattle while she paced back and forth in front of the paintings. “They’re certainly her most cohesive. I’m sure you realize I’ve simply got to have the entire series.”
Uh-oh, I thought. If Vivian agrees to sell her all sixteen canvases, a very pissed-off half-dressed bride is going to have to go out there and put a stop to it.
But to her credit, and my amazement, Vivian stood firm. “Well, here’s the thing. My stupid little fag of an assistant mistakenly sold one this morning—but don’t worry. I’ve already called my picker up in Maine. He said he’d go by Hannah’s place tomorrow with more canvases and a ton of Cool Ranch Doritos and sweet-talk her into painting a replacement.”
“Do you think she’ll agree to such a request?”
“I’m sure of it.”
So am I, I thought. But first, Vivian’s going to have to apologize for calling me her stupid little fag of an assistant.
“I’d really love to pick them up next weekend,” Graciela said.
“I think we might just be able to pull that off.”
So much for leaving the series up all month, I thought. And Vivian had better be prepared to rethink her commission if she expects to get a new painting before Labor Day.
“You realize this is a breakthrough series for Hannah,” Vivian continued. “A milestone, really…”
Graciela heaved a theatrical sigh. “How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
Inside the dressing room, I gasped. But my reaction wasn’t due to the figure Vivian had quoted—not that it wasn’t gasp-worthy. I had just managed to turn the dress around and wriggle my arms through the sleeves, and the sight of myself in the most perfect wedding dress in the history of matrimony had taken my breath away.
I
had to have that dress.
And Vivian had to have one more Hannah.
How convenient.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLEANUP ON AISLE THREE
“Whatever happened to ‘Marriage is an outdated institution’?” Elinor Ann wanted to know when I called, bubbling over with particulars of ecru satin and flattering drapery that tapered to a train in the back.
“I know, I know. I always swore I wouldn’t be brainwashed by the wedding industry. But…”
But then I’d gone into Vivian’s dressing room and wound up in a parallel universe, wondering if Hank would agree to walk down the aisle to Sam Cooke’s “Nothing Can Change This Love” and picturing Dinner as our flower bearer, girdled in a gossamer pink tutu and carrying a wicker basket of gardenias in his mouth.
“Well, at least your boyfriend has something to wear to the nuptials,” Elinor Ann said. “Unless he got married in the tuxedo last weekend, of course.”
I’d been expecting her to raise the issue. I’d been trying to raise it myself, with Hank, but so far I’d been unable to come up with a conversational gambit that didn’t involve the word “snooping.”
“I’m sure he has a perfectly reasonable explanation for whatever he was doing in New Jersey last weekend.”
“Yikes, Dana. That must be some dress.”
Was it ever. The gown had transformed me into a pre-Raphaelite portrait by Rossetti, a vision I barely recognized. Its high neck and long, fitted sleeves gave me a regal bearing, one I accentuated by fishing a hair clip out of my purse to create a quick up-do of messy, yet artfully cascading, curls. As soon as Graciela exited the shop, I grabbed a nosegay of dried flowers from the vase sitting on the dressing-room table, then parted the velvet curtains.
“Holy crap,” Vivian said when I walked toward her. “You just doubled my asking price.” She reached for her camera, but I extended my newly elegant arm across the desk to stop her.
“Not so fast.”
She issued the sigh of the long-suffering. “Now you want a piece of the action? After all that money I just made for you?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I turned toward the mirror to catch another intoxicating glimpse of the new moi. “I was thinking we could work out some kind of… barter arrangement.”
Her eyes widened. “Since when are you in the market for a wedding gown?”
“I’m not.” As far as Vivian knew, I’d been chronically single since the day we’d met, and I saw no reason to enlighten her. Hank had visited my apartment on only a couple of occasions; there was so much more room at the brownstone, and Dinner was a more high-maintenance pet than Puny. “But a dress like this comes along once in a lifetime. I’d just like to be ready when—if—I meet the right guy.”
She pointed in the direction of the hat series. “You know, if you wanted to make it easy on yourself, I’d swap you for that painting in the upper-left-hand corner.”
“Like I told you, it’s spoken for.”
“Fine. Then the dress is going to cost you three Hannahs.”
I would have readily agreed to double that number, but I forced myself to look aggrieved as I nodded my acquiescence and returned to the dressing room. It seemed like a waste of time to unfasten all those tiny buttons. As soon as I got the gown upstairs, I was just going to put it back on and twirl around and around until it was time to meet Hank for dinner.
“Don’t forget—I need the replacement for the leopard pillbox first,” Vivian called after me as I walked out, the dress draped over my arm.
“No problem. I’ll have it for you early next week.”
But early next week would turn out to be too late. On my way home from the brownstone the following afternoon, I encountered a blank wall where the paintings had hung. Graciela had shown up right after Vivian opened the store, packed up her fifteen canvases, and driven off with them.
“What’d she do that for?” I said. “I thought she was willing to wait for the replacement.”
Vivian shrugged and handed me the portrait I’d promised to Ray Devine. “Do you want your half of the twenty-five grand or what?”
I entered my apartment in a state of extreme giddiness. The five-figure sum was by far the largest payday I’d ever had. Vivian had postdated the check (“You’ll wipe out my operating budget if you cash it before Graciela’s clears”), but I didn’t mind. For the next five days, I’d have a visual reminder that my creativity paid the bills.
There was only one problem. My creativity was paying Vivian’s bills as well, and I was becoming increasingly rankled by our fifty-fifty split.
Then again, what if Elinor Ann’s assertion was true? What if I was committing fraud by posing as Hannah—punishable-by-jail fraud? Maybe having Vivian serve as an intermediary between me and my patron provided me with a useful measure of protection.
Even so, the twelve thousand five hundred dollars she’d just pocketed struck me as an insanely high price to pay for it.
I slid the check into the edge of my bedroom mirror, topped off Puny’s bowl, then turned on the computer.
Billy Moody was back on dry land:
Hey, Dana—sitting in FLL waiting to board my flight to LGA and wondering if you could do me a favor. I’ve never constructed a Sunday puzzle before, so I thought I should find out if I was up to the job before tackling our red/green theme. The crossword cruisers were such an early-to-bed bunch, I finally had time to finish it. Would you mind test-solving it for me? I’m so locked into Saturday mode that I need to make sure the clueing is appropriately easyish.
If you’re willing to help me out, I’ll buy you dinner.
W.W.W.
P.S. Even if you aren’t, I’ll buy you dinner.
Of course I was honored. Of course I’d solve it. But dinner?
I raised my eyes from the computer screen and beheld the satin gown hanging on the outside of my closet door, then hit Reply.
Are you kidding? Being asked to test-solve a prepublication W. W. W. Moody makes me feel like crossword royalty. Send away.
The only drawback to helping you out is that some Sunday down the road I’m going to open up the Magazine section and curse when I realize I’ve already solved the puzzle. So instead of dinner, how about buying me brunch on the day it runs? You know—broad daylight, hustle and bustle, waaay less romantic…
There. I’d done it: I had finally sent a clear message that my relationship with Billy should be based on words, not deeds—especially not The Dirty Deed. And proven, perhaps, that I was worthy of that wedding dress.
But was Hank worthy of me?
Until the mystery of the boutonnière was solved, there was no way to answer the question.
Despite my ongoing suspicions, the events of the previous evening had brought us closer, in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
I’d arrived at the brownstone to discover him applying primer to a new set of balusters on the foyer staircase, although “set” was hardly the right term for them, nor was the adjective “new.” Each of the twenty or so antique posts was shaped differently, one with ornate curves and a ball top, another with a square base and fluted column, and so on.
“That looks so cool.”
Hank smiled. “I reckon it does. Wasn’t sure what I was going to come up with when I yanked out those old broken-down ones, but the client told me he wanted color and whimsy. In fact, he just about went ape last week when I sent pictures of the bathroom floor. So I figured I’d keep it up.”
“These are whimsical, all right,” I said, secretly rejoicing that he’d defined the word correctly. “What about the color part?”
“Ain’t thought that far ahead yet.”
“Mind if I give it a shot?”
His face brightened. “Would you?”
I examined a few of the balusters. Giving them the full Hannah treatment might be a little too raucous, especially if the client intended to hang art on the foyer walls. But if I toned the palette down to pastels…
“How about I tr
y one and you decide after that?”
He came down the stairs and put his arms around my waist. “I don’t need to wait—I seen your paintings. That’s good enough for me.”
I tried to remember what had been on my easel during his most recent visit to Ninth Street. Handbags, probably. It had been right after Vivian scored a slew of Judith Leiber evening clutches at a New Jersey estate sale. “Are you sure?”
“You’re hired. It’ll be real nice having you around during the day.”
Hmm. It would be nice. And illuminating as well, since I’d finally discover exactly how much of the brownstone renovation was actually being carried out by Hank. “What do you think a reasonable budget would be for something like this?”
He laughed. “Name your price. Some people are only happy when they’re blowing too much money, and this guy’s the biggest spender I ever had.”
I counted the balusters from the bottom step up, arriving at a total of twenty-two. “Do you think a hundred apiece is too much?”
“What the heck—make it two.”
I did a quick mental calculation. “Forty-four hundred dollars? For a paint job? Are you serious?”
“Shoot, that’s nothing to this guy. He paid at least three times as much for the bathroom floor.”
“Forty-four hundred dollars? For a paint job? Are you serious?” Elinor Ann said when I called to tell her about my new commission. “Dana, are you absolutely sure you’re going to receive this money?”
“I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” After all, the Timothy of “Tilework by Timothy” had completed his work in the bathroom. He wouldn’t have done the job for free, would he? “The brownstone’s really come a long way over the past few months. I wish you could see it.”
“Right. As if that’s ever going to happen.”
She had a point. Elinor Ann had been to visit me a grand total of once, shortly after I’d moved into my apartment. She’d decided New York City was too dirty and expensive and crowded to ever return.
