Greg didn’t need to be asked twice. It was exactly along the lines of his ‘People and the City’ portfolio and he couldn’t wait to get started.
When he got to the building, Billy’s wife was waiting in the huge marble lobby. She was short and energetic and zipped over to him with her hand stuck out.
‘Greg. Hi, I'm Ingrid.’ Before he could even say hello, she had pinned a visitor’s badge on him and was shepherding him into one of the galleries.
‘I'm sorry; it's always crazy when we plan a new show. We never have enough staff, or money … ’
She paused and blushed a little. ‘Speaking of which, did Billy tell you anything about money?’ she asked meekly.
‘Only that I probably wouldn't be getting much of it … ’
Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut, like a child trying to ignore a bad deed it had done.
‘How about … none?’ She opened one eye and peered at him hopefully.
Greg stood in the middle of the gallery, with its beautiful high ceiling, marble floor and heavy oak doors. He was standing in the oldest museum in New York City and they couldn't afford to pay him. Yet, in truth, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
‘OK, so what do I get?’ he chuckled. ‘A Hudson River Valley painting? Free membership for life?’
She laughed with him, relieved. ‘No, but I think we can put your name in lights. In here at least.’
Greg stuck his hand out this time, ‘Sounds great to me, I'm in.’
‘Phew!’ Ingrid shook his hand again and brought him through the empty gallery, pointing out where things were going to go, and showing him how she wanted the photos to be blown up and hung. When they got to the end of the gallery, she led him through another pair of huge wooden doors to the other end of the main hall.
‘Let's go up to my office, we can go over paperwork, and you can meet a few people.’
She pushed a big brass button for the elevator; when the doors opened, Greg found himself entering the largest elevator he had ever seen.
‘I know,’ said Ingrid as they stepped inside, ‘it's pretty amazing, isn’t it?’
They went up to the offices on the third floor and he followed Ingrid into her office. He sat and filled out paperwork, amazed at himself for making financial and copyright decisions without a lawyer, but feeling pretty confident anyway.
Ingrid beamed as she gathered up everything, ‘Wonderful, now you meet our resident photographer.’
They took the elevator back to the basement where he was led into a huge workroom. There a little man sat at a stool going over prints with an eye piece. ‘Greg Matthews, this is Ed Rushton, out staff photographer – he's in charge of the exhibition.’
Ed looked as if he were in his seventies, with short grey hair and rimless glasses. He had a slight build and was wearing a pale peach woollen sweater, which seemed to help him blend in to the cold white walls around them.
They shook hands and Ed motioned for him to sit. ‘I’ve already seen some of your stuff via Billy – it's great.’
The three of them spent a little while going over the preparations for the upcoming exhibition and what was required. By the time they were finished, Greg felt more confident that things would work out brilliantly. Imagine, his work being part of a major exhibition in the Historical Society. It didn’t get much better.
Eventually, Ingrid excused herself and Ed and Greg were left alone.
‘Coffee?’ Ed offered. Greg nodded, shivering; it sure was cold down in the basement.
Ed laughed. ‘Teeth chattering yet?’
‘Almost. How do you stand it?’
‘Have to, no money for oil in this joint.’
Greg warmed his hands around the coffee mug and let the steam warm his face.
‘So, just breaking into the business, huh?’ Ed continued.
‘Yep. Bit of a baptism of fire, I suppose.’
‘These sneakers aren’t just a fashion statement you know.’ He stretched out his feet to admire his own footwear. ‘I often have to run up and down the hall to warm up.’
Greg laughed.
‘I'm serious,’ Ed insisted.
‘No money in the arts, is that what you're trying to tell me?’ he said woefully, thinking about Karen’s likely reaction to his newest work colleague. ‘I think I’m beginning to figure that out.’
After leaving the gallery, Greg headed to First Avenue and Eighty-Seventh Street in the hope of racking up work that, while not quite lucrative, was at least paid.
Glaser’s bakery was right where it had been when he’d first visited with his mother so many years ago. He crossed the street to take some photos from the outside. When he thought he’d shot it from almost every angle possible, he went inside.
In almost thirty years, nothing had changed. The bakery string was still unwound from a spool that hung from the ceiling, the floor was still intricate marble mosaic, and the display cases the same wooden and glass. There was a huge cracked mirror on one wall and another slanted mirror on the other. The old cash register was just the same, big and bronze and old looking. He felt six years old again; hanging onto his mother’s hands as she picked out bear claws and scones.
‘Why is there a slanted mirror?’ he had asked her.
‘So they can see behind them,’ she had replied. ‘They’re looking for thieves.’
And Greg had felt sad. If you were hungry enough to steal from a baker, maybe you really needed it.
Greg snapped back to the present as a young woman, dressed in traditional baking cloths and apron, asked him if needed help. She looked to have come straight out of another era, save for the pierced eyebrow and arms covered with tattoos.
He took out the release forms the NYT had faxed him over earlier that morning and explained about the Christmas piece, asking for the owner.
The owner was young – a fourth-generation baker – and he willingly signed the forms and let Greg take as many pictures as he wanted. As Greg wandered around the premises and snapped away, he wished his mom was here to see this; she’d have loved it.
When he’d finished, he thanked the girl behind the counter and shook hands with the owner, who pushed a bag of fresh-out-of-the-oven doughnuts into his hands.
Greg took them willingly and strapped them to the back of his bike but not before taking one out to sample. Tasting the doughnut was like stepping back in time, and he felt nostalgic as he pedalled over towards Central Park and his next stop.
He had just taken photos of the bakery he and his mom used to visit when he was a child, and now he was going to take pictures of the ice-skating rink he used to frequent as a teenager. His throat constricted.
Wollman Rink was a popular meeting spot. In the past Greg and his friends would meet here for hot dogs and hot chocolate, and then speed off on the ice looking to bump into pretty girls.
Reaching Fifth-Ninth Street at the edge of the park, he got off his bike to walk the rest of the way. A thin string of fairy lights were looped around the edges of the rink and, as it came into view, Greg could see a few skaters making lazy figure eights on the ice. He chained his bike up and made his way down to the entrance.
He spoke briefly to the girl at the ticket kiosk, outlining his intentions, and waited while she took the time to clear it with the top brass.
He decided to get some hot chocolate as she did so. Sitting on the bench overlooking the rink, he gazed at the skaters and wondered what each of them did for a living.
A few teenagers skated by with their girl friendsobviously ditching school. They kept trying to bump each other on purpose to impress their ladies. Next came by a more reserved older couple making the most of a day off from work, perhaps? Or tourists even – the woman had a look about her that could have been European. Then an older woman with grey hair pulled into a ponytail passed by. She had on a purple cashmere sweater and a black skating skirt with black leggings. Greg raised his eyebrows; there was a story behind that one, for sure.
After about hal
f an hour or so, the girl from the kiosk finally reappeared, giving him the signed release forms and allowing him to shoot.
Greg duly took a few shots on the ice and then from the benches. As he did, the old lady in the purple sweater walked on her skates over to him. ‘You a student?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘No, I work for the NYT.’ He felt the words roll off his tongue as if he had been saying them his whole life.
She raised her eyebrows, ‘Really?’ Greg could detect a slight Russian accent. ‘Well, sorry to bother you, you were so tall and lean, I thought maybe you were a new skating student … ’
‘Why – are you a teacher?’
She snorted slightly, ‘Yes, you could say that. I am Madame Vera Treynovitch, ex-ballerina of the Paris Opera Ballet Company and full-time skating instructor. My specialty is pas de deux.’ She placed hands on her hips and Greg studied her; she looked at least ninety.
‘Can I take a picture of you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She said it in a no-nonsense tone (no coyness where she was concerned) and immediately struck a pose, her skates crossed and her hands lifted into a graceful position, her head tilted to something beyond his shoulder. As he raised his camera, Greg had the sense that she had suddenly gone back in time a few decades.
When he’d finished, he asked her if she gave lessons to couples.
‘Of course,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.
She gave him a card with her full name, Madame Vera Treynovitch written in purple script, and Greg thanked her, thinking that it could be an additional Christmas gift for Karen. Naturally her main present would be the big surprise proposal and Nonna’s vintage ring, but this might be a nice idea for a romantic outing over the holiday season.
His mother had adored skating and he recalled countless Christmas outings with her and Jeff here and at Bryant Park and over at Rockefeller. But sadly those days were over.
He noticed the older woman smile at him, a strange expression on her face, almost as if she’d been reading his mind.
‘This woman, she is very special to you, yes?’ Madame Vera asked, and Greg wasn’t quite sure if he was referring to his mother or Karen.
His response worked either way.
‘Very much so.’
‘Well then, come back soon and let me teach you and your lady how to move together as one. Skating, it is a bit like true love – both parties must move fluidly in tandem together in order to achieve true perfection.’
Greg gulped a little at her words. Ever since he’d packed in the job, it felt as though he and Karen were the very opposite of ‘in tandem’. Still, he reassured himself, the proposal would sort that, and soon he and Karen would be on course for ‘true perfection’ yet again.
Chapter 21
Later that day, Holly stood behind the checkout tallying store totals. Briefly, she checked her watch. Still two hours to go until close.
Glancing out through the front windows of the store, she saw that it was snowing again.
‘How are things?’ Carole asked, approaching Holly from behind. Somewhat startled, she jumped.
‘Oh, I didn’t hear you! I should put bells on you to stop you from sneaking up on me.’
Carole laughed. ‘You look a million miles away.’
She shook her head and shrugged, going back to reviewing the store totals. ‘Oh, I suppose it’s this bracelet. I have to admit, I’ve been somewhat consumed by it.’
Carole bent down to pick up a stray piece of the tissue paper that they used to wrap customer purchases. It had drifted to the floor like some sort of deflated ghost, tired of haunting.
‘Well, you’ve certainly been doing your due diligence in finding the owner, I’ll say that much. And from what you have told me, you seem to be making progress.’
Holly shrugged again, somewhat half-heartedly. She pressed print and waited for an inventory list to be ejected from the printer. ‘I’ve been trying.’
‘I salute your detective skills. Danny’s too.’
Holly smiled, thinking of her son’s brilliant insight into the horseshoe charm. ‘I probably wouldn’t have found the art gallery without him,’ she said, then gave a rueful smile. ‘He doesn’t get his technological savvy from me, that’s for sure.’
Carole pursed her lips. ‘Well, at least Nick contributed that much. Being a techie in today’s day and age isn’t a bad thing.’
Holly nodded her head in agreement. ‘There’s no denying Danny is his father’s child.’ She’d already told Carole about Nick’s sudden appearance that morning. Ranted, more like.
Carole held up a hand before Holly had the opportunity to take a walk down melancholy lane. ‘And he is also most definitely his mother’s son. He wouldn’t be the person he is today,’ she paused, and put a finger under Holly’s chin, raising her gaze to her own, ‘he wouldn’t have the opportunity to become the man that he will surely be, if it weren’t for you. Never forget that.’
Holly smiled and looked at boss, mentor and friend. ‘Thanks Carole.’ Carole moved to the other side of the counter, straightening a shirt on a hanger. ‘Anyway, changing the subject, do you have plans for New Year’s yet?’
This time it was Holly who snorted and rolled her eyes. ‘Carole, you know my opinion on all that. New Year’s Eve is pyjama time.’
‘Don’t let your life pass you by, Holly, you’re only young once.’
Holly was about to counter Carole’s advice when the front door of the store opened and along with a blast of cold in came a young woman. She was expertly coiffed with bright blonde hair and high black patent Christian Louboutins, and dressed head to toe black. Before she said a word, Holly knew exactly who she was.
‘Jessica?’
Holly had indeed pegged Margot Mead’s assistant to a tee from their telephone conversations.
‘Are you Holly? I brought the lists.’
‘Fantastic.’ She turned to Carole to give her a rundown on Jessica’s involvement in the search so far.
‘Sounds promising,’ her boss commented.
‘I hope so. But,’ she turned to Jessica, ‘first things first – didn’t we also talk about finding you something to wear for that New Year’s Eve work thing?’
Jessica smiled gratefully as Holly rushed forward to help her out of her coat, hanging it up on a store coat rack as gently as if it had been the Queen’s ermine cape. She flitted around the store, showing Jessica dress after dress, and giving her a keen account of who had owned what, what the garment had most likely experienced during its ‘other life’ and just how divine each piece would look when put on.
Her heart broke just a little when Jessica emerged from the dressing room in Anna Bowery’s amazing Givenchy. It was absolutely perfect on her. And as much as Holly loved the dress herself, at least Jessica would have somewhere to wear it.
‘It looks really good on you,’ chimed Carole as Jessica twirled the voluminous skirts and admired her reflection in the mirror.
She smiled and flipped her hair. ‘I suppose you have to splurge every now and then, and you know, you’re right, there’s something about this dress – a sense of magic or something,’ she said to Holly, who had wasted no time in giving her a rundown of the dress’s likely history. ‘You know, this store is just awesome. I can’t believe some of the great stuff you have.’
‘Thank you, and be sure you tell your boss that if she ever feels like getting rid of any of her clothes, we would be happy to take them and provide her a nice commission,’ Carole put in.
Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘Like she needs the money. I mean, she’s great, and smart, and she does a ton for charity, but really, I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice.’
‘Must be nice,’ laughed Holly. ‘So which dress do you think you are going to get? The Givenchy or the red silk curve-hugger that makes you look like Marilyn?’ she asked, indicating a very sexy and tight cocktail dress that very definitely channelled the late Ms. Monroe.
Jessica shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I�
��m really torn. I mean this dress is gorgeous, the tulle and the crystals and everything. But the other one is super sexy, and just a bit more modern. I’m trying to figure out which one I would get the most wear out of. Admittedly, both would be great for the benefit … The Givenchy, well, I could wear this forever too; it will never go out of style. Whereas the red one, well, you can’t wear stuff like that after you turn thirty.’
Holly couldn’t help but laugh. Jessica couldn’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three tops. Thirty probably seemed like a long time away. Holly wondered if she could convince her that turning thirty didn’t mean you had to start wearing burlap sacks.
‘Well, while you decide, I’ll take a look at those lists you brought me – see if anything jumps out.’
‘Oh of course, here you go.’ Jessica dug into her handbag and brought out a scarily thick sheaf of papers.
Holly gulped, looking down at the lists of names from the charity events. Right off the bat she had realised that there were several duplicates, meaning that some of the people on these lists had attended all three events. Where was she supposed to start? There were literally hundreds of people to sort through.
‘So you just found the bracelet in the pocket of a jacket? Wow, I’m guessing the owner must be frantic. You do know that egg charm cost over two thousand dollars?’ Jessica said airily.
Holly’s mouth went dry and she reached under the counter for her handbag, in order to take another look at the bracelet. ‘Two thousand, seriously?’
She laid the bracelet on the countertop, and Jessica moved closer for a better look. ‘Yep I definitely remember coming across this one,’ she said, pointing out the egg. ‘Or something very similar in any case.’ She began studying the others.
‘I so hope we can find something in this list,’ Holly said. ‘At least something that ties in with what we know so far.’
‘Which is … ?’
‘Well,’ Holly began. ‘Besides having attended one of your boss’s charity benefits, there’s a strong possibility she’s an artist and maybe a writer too. And perhaps has been affected somehow by breast cancer. She’s married, with children, possibly has a penchant for handbags, and has most likely spent time in Florence and Paris … ’
The Charm Bracelet Page 20
