“An oasis,” said Christina, extending her hand. “A home within a home.”
“Exactly!” Phoebe took her hand and shook it vigorously. She had a grip like a python and Christina resisted the impulse to massage her own hand until she was on the street and safely out of her sight. When she turned the corner onto Carroll Street, she noticed a man with a turban standing in front of what she judged to be her house. At his side stood a woman and a child. Both wore scarlet saris; Christina assumed they were mother and daughter. And yes, they were all standing directly in front of her house. Why? But before she could ask, they saw her and, appearing startled, retreated. The man ushered the woman and child into a black Mercedes that had been double-parked by the curb, and the driver took off, driving much too quickly down the street. She did not see the plates on the car, only two heads—hers sleek and dark, his swathed in its nimbus of white—as the car sped away.
The sound of a door opening attracted her attention and she turned to see one of her next-door neighbors, Charlotte Bickford, standing on the stoop with a sour expression on her face. Had she noticed the Indian family too? But Christina would not ask; she thought Charlotte—who never cleaned up after her wretched little dog and whose loud, drunken shouting matches with her husband were often audible—was a detestable person and she kept her distance.
Christina wondered about the Indians as she let herself inside. Yes, Park Slope had become a much more moneyed enclave in recent years. Still, this block and certainly her house were hardly the most outstanding examples of what the neighborhood had to offer. Why were those people looking at it? And why had they sped off when they saw her? They had seemed almost . . . guilty. But of what?
SIX
The sun was just coming up as Christina drove across the Brooklyn Bridge the following Saturday. There was scarcely any traffic and the white Saab sped merrily along, its windows rolled down to admit the breeze. The illuminated green numbers on the dashboard read 5:26; she’d be at Andy Stern’s apartment by 6:15. She slid a CD—South Pacific—into the car’s player and sang the words to “Happy Talk” right out loud along with the recording. She’d never, ever sing if anyone else was in earshot, but the warm June morning, with its pink-gold sky and fleecy clouds, was hers alone and she could indulge. Besides, she was in a good mood. Mimi had called to say Phoebe Haverstick had really liked her vision for the house and, while the job was not yet hers, she was in serious contention. And surprisingly, the job with Andy Stern had not been nearly as bad as she had anticipated.
She was over the bridge in a matter of minutes, and followed the signs for the FDR Drive. Now she could see the East River on her right, its rippling surface turned dull pewter in the morning light. Andy’s apartment had views of this river, and he did love them; appalling as Christina found the building, she found they seduced her too.
The FDR was as scantily trafficked as the bridge, and she decided to get off at the Sixty-first Street exit, park the car—an urban miracle—and duck into a café on First Avenue. She bought a latte and a scone; she enjoyed both while sitting in the parked Saab across from Andy’s building on East Sixty-ninth Street. She would have bought Andy a latte and a scone too, but she’d already been exposed to his tedious views on eating and didn’t think he’d permit himself either.
At exactly six fifteen, he emerged from the building’s doorway. He wore pressed khakis and one of those shirts with an alligator appliqué sewn on the front of it. The shirt was more revealing than the usual button-downs and blazers she’d seen him wearing and she had to admit that he was certainly in great shape, very lean and muscled. Slung across a shoulder was a backpack with the linked initials RL stitched all over its surface. Did he wear anything that didn’t double as an advertising platform? Well, yes—the logoless baseball cap that was on his head.
“You’re right on time,” Andy said as he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The backpack came off and was stowed by his feet.
“There wasn’t any traffic,” she said.
“You’d have been on time even if there had been traffic.” His approval was evident.
Christina just smiled. They were on their way to an estate sale in Dutchess County that had sounded promising; she’d mentioned to Andy that she was planning to go and he’d surprised her by asking if he could tag along. She was looking for a mirror, a coffee table, and the small chest of drawers she’d envisioned to replace his current nightstand. His apartment had been decorated by a notable downtown firm and was quite austere, with lots of sharp angles and sleek surfaces; the color scheme was confined to a muted palette of gray, ivory, taupe, and black. Christina could recognize the intelligence of the design and appreciate the care with which it had been executed, but it left her cold. Andy said he had loved the decor at first, less so now. “When Rachel was alive, she seemed to give the place personality,” he said. “But now that she’s not . . .” He said he wanted more of everything: more color, more pattern, more texture.
“So you think we can get there by nine?” he was saying now, strapping the seat belt across his chest. He consulted his watch—he did this constantly—a bulbous, complicated thing crammed with tiny dials that indicated the time not only all over the world but most likely on several nearby planets as well.
“Depends on the traffic,” Christina said.
He nodded, still looking at the watch. Then he looked up. “Have you eaten?”
She nodded. “But if you’re hungry, we could stop along the way.”
“No, I come prepared,” he said, and reached into the backpack to produce a power bar that was identical to the ones Jordan seemed to think were an essential food group. “We can split it if you like.”
“No, thanks,” Christina said. She’d tried one of those bars—never again.
“Twenty grams of protein in here,” Andy said, opening the foil wrapper. “And seven grams of fiber.”
Christina tried to keep her face a blank; why would anyone eat something that tasted so awful, protein and fiber notwithstanding? She concentrated on getting back onto the FDR, and then onto Harlem River Drive. Traffic slowed for a while; an accident up ahead turned the stream of cars into a trickle. But things opened up again and soon they were on I-95, heading north. She glanced over at Andy. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be dozing; the empty power bar wrapper was in his lap. She was relieved, actually, not to have to make small talk with him. He could be bossy and brusque and she’d had to contend with his pen-tapping-wristwatch-checking brand of impatience. But he was also willing to consider her suggestions with an open mind, and was refreshingly decisive, a rarity among clients. In the three or so weeks since she’d been working for him, he had selected all the paint colors, decided on a very expensive new rug for the living room, and approved her purchase of a new lamp, as well as a cunning little movable bar that was designed to look like an old steamer trunk.
She glanced out the side window. I-95 was so boring—the occasional rest stop, endless signs for McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and their kin—and she wished she could have turned on South Pacific again. But it seemed rude to wake Andy, and though she had headphones buried somewhere in the car, there was no way she could dig them out now. So she drove in silence, plotting her course at the sale. Caryn Braider needed a sofa and an armoire; she was also looking for a wrought iron chandelier and a folding screen—if she could find such a thing. Then there was the Haverstick house, but Christina wasn’t going to buy a thing for that; it might jinx her chances of getting the job. She was able to keep these running lists in her mind, though in the backseat, alongside her ample tote bag, was a three-ring binder with all this information and more—dimension requirements, color and material preferences, price ranges, fabric swatches, and paint chips. Inside the tote itself were a flashlight, rope, rubber gloves, sunblock, a baseball cap, a plastic rain poncho, and a bottle of water—she came prepared. Even her outfit—worn chinos, white T-shirt, Keds—
was utilitarian rather than fashionable. Her only nod to self-adornment today was the handwoven belt she’d bought on a trip to Mexico some years ago and her silver bangle.
Andy woke up just as they were pulling up to the house. He pressed his hands to his face. “I must have conked out.”
“You slept almost all the way up here,” Christina said. The dashboard clock said eight fifty; the sale started at nine. There were already cars parked and waiting; a couple of them had New York plates.
“I performed an emergency C-section last night,” Andy explained. “I didn’t get to bed until three o’clock.”
“Three o’clock!” said Christina. “You should have told me—I would have understood if you needed to cancel.”
“That’s all right,” Andy said. “I was looking forward to driving up here with you. It’s a nice change of pace.”
Christina grabbed her bag and binder and got out of the car. Then she and Andy walked across the lawn toward the house, which was set back behind a low and serpentine stone wall. She loved walls like this, each stone selected and set in by hand, the whole thing kept together by the dynamic tension of the parts. A house with a wall like this had promise, and her heart started its eager, anticipatory thrumming as they got closer.
This was the best part of her work—the hunt, and the sifting through the accumulated possessions of the dead, their precious lives both revealed and defined by what they had chosen to keep. In a way, she hated to carve it all up, the books and bibelots, the rugs, the furniture, the collections of candlesticks and teacups, thimbles and botanical prints. But she couldn’t buy it all, much as she sometimes wanted to. No, the accretion of these particular objects was over now; their story had ended. It was time for these things to return to the stream again, ready to be scooped up and made part of someone else’s life.
“Hey, wait for me,” Andy said as he came up behind her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get ahead.”
“You were practically jogging,” he said.
“I just get excited, that’s all.” She was at the house now, taking her place beside the other people waiting there. Just then the door opened and a frosted blonde with pale pink lipstick greeted them.
“Welcome, folks,” she said. “Most everything is marked; if it’s not, just come and see me. There’s stuff in all the downstairs rooms. Second floor too, though not the rooms with the red tape Xs on the doors; the stuff in there has been claimed by the family or sold already.” She had the eager air of a den mother about to release her charges into the wild. “Happy hunting!”
She stepped aside; the small group entered and quickly dispersed. Christina immediately went upstairs; if there was an armoire, it was likely to be up there. Andy trailed behind, but she barely noticed him; she had caught the scent and was not easily distracted. She made a quick tour of the rooms on the second floor. No armoire, but a big mirror shaped like a sunburst sat on the floor, propped against a wall. It was a gaudy thing, probably from the 1960s, but was also kind of wonderful in its way. And it might work very well in Andy’s place.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s a little over the top,” he said, kneeling down for a better look. “But I kind of like it.”
“So do I.” She checked the price: two hundred dollars.
“Seems reasonable,” Andy said.
“It is. But I can get it for less.”
His eyebrows moved up. “Really?”
“Really.” Christina left Andy standing watch while she went to find the woman with the frosted hair. After a few minutes of polite but firm negotiation, Christina had gotten the price down to one hundred and seventy dollars. A red SOLD sign was taped to the mirror.
“Hey, you’re good,” Andy said as he followed her into the next room. “Very good, in fact.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I have plenty of experience.”
There was nothing else of interest upstairs, but downstairs, in the sunroom, Christina found an ottoman in mahogany leather that Andy loved and a box stuffed with vintage tablecloths, napkins, runners, dresser scarves, and doilies. Many were yellowed or stained, but she could bleach and restore them. She didn’t have an immediate use for these linens; still, they were of too high a quality to pass up. Some of the runners had handmade lace trim and the jacquard weave of the napkins was exceptionally fine. She bought the whole batch for twenty-eight dollars. The dining room yielded an assortment of crystal glasses and goblets for any drink imaginable: champagne, wine, port, sherry, sidecar, and old-fashioned. And because they were odd pieces, they were only a dollar each.
“You have to get these,” Christina said to Andy, guarding the table where the glasses were grouped. “We can use some of them up in the bar we bought.”
“I have plenty of glasses,” he said.
She lowered her voice. “These are Baccarat. And they’re old. They’ll be perfect in that bar.”
“How do you know that they’re Baccarat?”
“Trust me,” she said. “I know.” Counting thirty-three pieces, she offered the woman with the frosted hair twenty-five dollars for the whole lot and then stood wrapping each one in a sheet of newspaper—some dating from the 1970s—because she did not trust anyone else to do it. When she was done, there were smears of newsprint on her white T-shirt and her hands were grimy.
Once the glasses were safely packed, Christina continued her hunt. Yes, there was a sofa, with pretty curving legs and down cushions, but Caryn wanted something more modern and she herself had nowhere to put it—her showroom was packed—so she reluctantly let it go. She did buy several unframed needlepoints that she would turn into pillows, as well as another small oval mirror in a simple cherry frame, a battered watering can, and a star-shaped nail cup—used, she told Andy, by cobblers to hold their various-sized fasteners. “How do you know this stuff?” Andy said as she picked it up to test the heft of it. Sometimes weight alone decided her; she hated anything that felt too flimsy or cheap.
“On-the-job training,” she said. The nail cup felt agreeably heavy in her hands; she would buy it.
“What are you going to do with it anyway? You can’t have too many clients who are cobblers.”
“Once it’s been cleaned up, it will make an excellent serving piece—see all these little compartments? They’re perfect for setting out different foods. You can put olives in one, roasted peppers in another, nuts in another.” Christina loved this kind of repurposing; it involved a certain slant of mind to take something intended for one use and put that thing to an entirely different one.
It was close to noon by the time they emerged from the house; by this time, the sky had grayed a bit and in the distance, a bank of clouds lay low on the horizon. It had gotten warmer too; Christina felt a fine sheen of sweat coating her face and arms. Andy helped her put all their purchases into the car. “I’m starved,” he said. “Do you have time to stop for something to eat?”
“I know a diner not too far from here,” she said. “They serve the best coconut custard pie; they make it right there.” As soon as she said it, she realized that Andy wasn’t about to eat a piece of pie. It was like being with Jordan. Still, she was hungry and needed some food before getting on the road again. Andy Stern could order what he wanted; she was having pie for dessert.
Christina located a box of baby wipes in the car and used several to clean her hands and face; she offered the box to Andy, but he shook his head. He seemed as fresh as he had this morning. Christina drove in the direction of the diner. “It’s coming right up,” she said. That red barn was familiar, and also that white church with the graceful steeple. Now there was a fork in the road and she needed to bear right—
“Whoa!” Andy said. “What’s that?”
The car gave a convulsive shudder and sputtered for a few seconds, seconds in which Christina was able to get over to the side of t
he road, and out of the line of traffic—not that there was any traffic; they seemed to be on their own here. Once the car was at the shoulder, the shuddering—and everything else—stopped.
Christina turned off the ignition and got out to inspect. She gamely popped the hood and peered inside, hoping she might somehow identify the problem. “I don’t see anything,” she said. Not that she knew what she was looking for; her ability to tend to her car was confined to empty gas tanks, flat tires, and overheating.
“Do you think it’s the battery?” Andy said. “Or the fuel pump?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But whatever it is, we’re going to need help.” She tried not to let her alarm show. What was wrong? How expensive would it be to fix? What if it couldn’t be fixed? She had to have a car; it was imperative for her work.
Andy seemed oblivious to her rising panic. “Help,” he said. “Right.” He pulled out his phone and began to punch some numbers in. His face settled into a scowl as his tapping on the keys grew more agitated. “I can’t get a signal,” he said. “We must be in some dead zone.”
“Really?” She reached into the backseat to get her phone. The result was the same. “I can’t believe it,” she said. They looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Was Andy going to blame her for this? Would she end up losing this job? And the day had been going so well too. “Maybe we can flag someone down,” she said, trying to sound hopeful.
“If there’s someone to flag down,” he said. He was right. In the several minutes they had been stranded here, not a single car had passed. It was a strange, even eerie feeling. Christina thought of the church and the barn they had passed; how far back were they? And how far ahead was the diner? Surely someone would be on this road in search of it; that pie was so good it was a destination experience.
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