She flopped onto the unmade bed, staring at a large brown-rimmed water stain on the ceiling. She’d pinned her whole future on that audition—on getting the part. And now, two hours later, it was over. What was she supposed to do with her life now? Rolling over, she checked her e-mails. There was one from her mother, wishing her luck on the audition, and a text from James. James, she thought. At least she still had James. “Call me,” he’d written.
She punched in his number. It was nearly five o’clock, meaning it was a little late to be calling, as his wife sometimes came home early, but Lola didn’t care. “Hello?” James asked in a stage whisper.
“It’s me. Lola.”
“Can I call you right ba
ck?”
“Sure,” Lola said. She hung up, rolled her eyes, and tossed the phone onto the bed. Then she began pacing, walking back and forth before the cheap full-length mirror she’d placed against one of the bare walls. She looked damn good—so what was wrong with those producers? Why hadn’t they seen what she saw? She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying not to cry. New York wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She’d been in New York an entire year, and not one thing had worked out properly. Not Philip, or her “career,” or even Thayer Core. Her phone rang—James. “What?” she said in annoyance. And then, remembering that James was one of her last meal tickets left at the moment, she lightened her tone. “Do you want to come over?” she asked.
James was outside in the Mews with Skippy, not daring to make this call in his own apartment. “I need to talk to you about that,” he said tensely.
“So come over,” Lola replied.
“I can’t,” he hissed, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “My wife found out. About us.”
“What?” Lola shrieked.
“Take it easy,” James said. “She found your sex column. And apparently, she read it.”
“What’s she going to do?” Lola asked with interest. If Mindy divorced James, it opened up new possibilities.
“I don’t know,” James whispered. “She hasn’t said anything yet. But she will.”
“What did she say?” Lola asked, growing irritated.
“She says we have to buy a house. In the country.”
“So?” Lola shrugged. “You’ll get divorced and she’ll live in the country and you’ll be in the city.” And I will move in with you, she thought.
James hesitated. “It’s not that simple. Mindy and I…we’ve been married for fifteen years. We have a son. If we got divorced, I’d have to give her half. Of everything. And I don’t exactly want to do that. I’ve got another book to write, and I don’t want to leave my son.”
Lola cut him off. In a steely voice, she said, “What are you trying to say, James?”
“I don’t think we can see each other anymore,” James said in a rush.
Suddenly, Lola had had enough. “You and Philip Oakland,” she screamed. “You’re all the same. You’re all a bunch of wimps. You disgust me, James. You all do.”
Act Five
In anticipation of the date for Sandy Brewer’s trial, The New York Times did a series of stories about the Cross of Bloody Mary. A famous historian claimed the cross was the cause of not just one crime but, over the last four hundred years, several, including murder. A priest, guarding the treasure in eighteenth-century France, was bludgeoned to death in a routine robbery of the sacristy. The list of stolen items included four francs and a bedpan, as well as the cross. The robbers likely hadn’t known what they had, and it was speculated that they sold it to a junk dealer. Nevertheless, from there the cross appeared to have ended up as part of the property of an ancient dowager duchess named Hermione Belvoir. When she died, the cross once again disappeared.
Now it was back, and Sandy Brewer was to be tried for art theft. If Billy had lived, Annalisa reminded herself, he probably would have taken the fall for the crime. But dead men couldn’t talk, and the defense had never been able to find the mysterious wooden box left to Billy by Mrs. Houghton—or, for that matter, anything else connecting him to the crime. So the prosecution opened its jaws on Sandy Brewer. He tried to plea-bargain, offering to pay a huge fine of over ten million dollars, but in the months since the discovery of the cross, the stock market had dipped precipitously, the price of oil had surged, and regular people were losing their houses and retirement savings. A recession was just around the corner, if not already in the backyard. The people, claimed the DA’s office, demanded the head of the grotesquely rich hedge-fund manager, who had not only made more than his share of money off the little people but had stolen another country’s national treasure as well.
As a corollary, there was renewed interest in Mrs. Houghton. Her good works, personality, and motivations were examined in another big piece in the Times. In the seventies, when the Metropolitan Museum was nearly broke, Mrs. Houghton had single-handedly saved the venerable institution with a donation of ten million dollars. Nevertheless, the rumor that she had taken the Cross of Bloody Mary resurfaced. Several old coots who had known her were interviewed, including Enid, all of whom insisted that Mrs. Houghton was incapable of such an act. Someone remembered that the rumor was started by Flossie Davis, and the reporter tried to interview Flossie, but Enid intervened. Flossie was a very old lady with dementia, she said, and was easily agitated. An interview might literally kill her.
Taking advantage of the moment, Sotheby’s held an auction of Mrs. Houghton’s jewelry. Now deeply curious about the apartment’s previous owner, Annalisa Rice attended the preview. She wasn’t a great lover of jewelry, but as she stared down into the cases that contained Mrs. Houghton’s extensive collection, she was overcome with emotion. A sentiment, perhaps, about the connective thread of tradition and how one woman’s life might lead into another’s. It was why mothers passed things on to their daughters, she supposed. There was a transfer of power in the transference of possessions. But mostly, Annalisa decided, it was about belonging, and about things being in their rightful place. Mrs. Houghton’s jewelry belonged where it always had been, in the penthouse apartment in One Fifth. Bidding fiercely at the auction, she was able to buy twelve pieces. When she brought the jewelry home and placed it in the large velvet jewelry box on her bureau, she experienced an odd sensation, as if the apartment were nearly complete.
Now, on the evening of the King David gala, Annalisa Rice planned to wear Mrs. Houghton’s jewels for the first time. Leaning in to the mirror in the vast marble bathroom, she clipped on a pair of diamond and pearl earrings and stood back to study the effect. The large pearls were a natural yellow, which complemented her auburn hair and gray eyes. This reminded her once again of Billy and how pleased he would have been with the apartment and with her. Adjusting the earrings, she was startled by Paul’s voice.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She looked up and found him standing in the doorway, staring at her. “Nothing,” she replied quickly, then added, “What are you doing home? I thought you were going to meet me at the gala.”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “It’s our big night. I thought we should go together.”
“How nice.”