by Hy Conrad
“Yes,” Barbara said emphatically. “Too risky.”
“We can still do it, honey. What do you think?”
“Come on, Barbara,” Amy blurted out and was surprised by her passion. She had seen instantly what this was. It was like her own life with Eddie. “Do it. How many times will you ever get to sail on the Bosphorus?” It almost sounded like pleading.
“I think it’s safer if we don’t,” said Barbara.
“What about adventure?” Amy looked up over the rims of her glasses, her eyes meeting Barbara’s. “It’s the adventures we remember, not the perfect days. You remember getting caught in a thunderstorm. Running out of gas in the French countryside. What’s the worst that can happen? You get a little lost and you miss the flight? There’ll be another.” She saw Barbara’s look of alarm and instantly backtracked. “Okay, that’s not good. That’s a worst-case scenario. It’ll be a gorgeous day, and you’ll be so glad you did it. How many chances like this will you get?”
“How many chances will we get?” Evan echoed. “Honey?”
Barbara turned back to the railing and focused on the disappearing red and green lights. “We’ll get another.”
CHAPTER 12
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit,” Fanny said. Her tone was admiring and supportive, even as she reached up and picked an imaginary speck of lint from his breast pocket.
“It’s a uniform.” Marcus spotted himself in a mirror halfway across the store and felt he was looking at his own evil twin. The same crooked smile; the same hair, wavy and jet-black, but now combed straight back to reveal the beginnings of a widow’s peak. The black suit was evil twinish as well, sleek and slick. Not suit. Uniform. He still wasn’t used to the concept.
Fanny Abel went from picking imaginary lint to straightening the very real pins on his jacket lapels. Each was shaped like a pair of golden keys crossed in the middle. “Very snazzy,” she cooed. “I didn’t realize every concierge got the golden keys. Some hotels I’ve been to . . .”
“The keys are special,” Marcus said modestly, lowering his voice in the elegant, mostly deserted boutique. “You need five years of experience to earn them. I think there are other requirements, too. I didn’t check. The keys are a big deal.”
Fanny was impressed. “Five years’ experience. So that means you’ve been on the job at the Ritz-Carlton . . . ?”
“Two days. And yes, I came by them honestly. Bought them at a flea market in Tribeca maybe three years ago.”
Fanny wasn’t disappointed by his admission. Quite the contrary. “And you just knew they might come in handy one day? Bravo to you.”
“The Ritz-Carlton loves my keys. Unfortunately, the hotel where I earned them happened to burn to the ground, so they weren’t able to send over my employment records.”
“Pity. Burned to the ground, you say?”
“Electrical fire in Chattanooga. I found it online. Half an hour on Google and I pieced together a whole backstory for myself. By the way, if someone calls you for a reference, your name is Anita and you used to be my boss.”
“Wasn’t I killed in the fire?”
“It was your day off.”
Marcus would make a terrific concierge, Fanny was sure. His job would consist of getting his guests whatever their hearts desired, provided it was legal and they had the money. And there was no doubt that he had already proven his qualifications—by, in fact, getting the job without any qualifications.
“Is this going to happen soon?” Marcus shot back his left cuff and checked his shiny Faux-lex. It was still ticking. “I can’t be late for work, at least not for the first month.”
For the past ten minutes they had been browsing, wandering the display aisles in the Ellis Eyewear shop on Lexington Avenue. The boutique was filled with nothing but frames, although, in Fanny’s opinion, the price tags might have been borrowed from Tiffany, a few blocks away. She had never understood her daughter’s obsession with fancy eyeglasses, although she supposed they made her feel more interesting. Of course, if Amy really wanted to stand out in a crowd, she would follow her mother’s example and adopt a pageboy cut. Seventy bucks max, including a henna rinse.
“I’m sure we’ll get served in a minute,” Fanny assured him. It wasn’t that the service at Ellis Eyewear was bad. It was, as in many overpriced shops, quite good, with several well-dressed, well-spoken salespeople circling the premises like vultures.
“Are you sure I can’t help you?” a tall, toothy girl of twenty asked for the third time. Fanny inspected her green- and red-striped frames—really quite stunning, she had to admit—and wondered if the girl actually needed glasses or was just using herself as a walking advertisement.
“Thanks,” she said sweetly. “We’re still waiting for Gary.” She tilted her head toward the far side of the shop, where Gary, the oldest member of the staff, perhaps thirty-five, was sitting with a pair of teenagers in front of a mirror, trying on endless versions of black-rimmed, Justin Bieber–like spectacles. “Gary’s been dealing with me for aeons.”
“I’m sure I’d be able to assist you,” the girl said. “I’m quite experienced.” Moments later and she was slinking away under the glare of Fanny’s sweet, withering smile.
“Have you told Amy about your job?”
Marcus winced. “Not yet. Do you think she’ll approve? I mean, it’s a similar business . . . hospitality. She should like that. Of course, I’m still in my probationary period. But it’s the Ritz-Carlton.”
“Just don’t let her see your golden keys.”
“Oh, I can make up a story about those.”
Fanny patted his hand. How could her daughter possibly prefer that stick-in-the-mud Peter to a man like this? “Did you get this job because of her, dear?”
“Depends. Would she prefer it if I got it because of her or because I’m suddenly a reliable, responsible individual?”
“Responsible individual.”
“Then I did it for that reason.”
“Sounds like you’re serious.” Fanny looked up into his hazel eyes, a little more green than brown. “Or are you just jealous about Amy being away with Peter?”
“Which would she prefer?”
“You are serious.”
“No,” Marcus said, not even pretending to mean it. “I just miss talking to her. And seeing her. And fighting with her incessantly.”
“Excuse me.” Gary had managed to extricate himself from the Bieber teens and had silently sneaked up on them. “You wanted to see me?”
It took Fanny a mere second to turn her focus to the man with the shaved, perfectly shaped head and switch from heartfelt to devious. “Gary, darling,” she said in her best Long Island accent. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” She tilted up her lips and air-kissed in the direction of both his cheeks.
“Good to see you again,” Gary said, without a hint of hesitation. “You’re looking wonderful, dear. New diet?”
“Oh, you flatterer.” Fanny slapped at his hand. “I must have put on five pounds. By the way, those Chanels you sold me are fabulous. Fabulous. I wear them all the time.” She saw the salesman’s eyes focus on her eyes. Seamlessly, she amended her statement. “Except sometimes they pinch the bridge of my nose, so I’m taking a break today and wearing my contacts.”
“Chanel?” Gary winced and looked wounded. “We don’t sell Chanel frames. You must have bought them somewhere else.”
“You’re right,” Fanny corrected herself. Two mistakes in five seconds. She had to pay more attention. “Well, no wonder they pinch. If they were Ellis, they wouldn’t. Serves me right. Gary, dear, I’d like you to meet a friend.” She slipped her hand onto the small of Marcus’s back and gently pushed him forward. “This is Marcus . . . Aveeno.”
“Aveeno,” Marcus repeated, trying to make sure he’d heard the name right. Was that a body lotion? The two men shook hands. “Marcus.” He had no idea why Fanny hadn’t invented a first name for him, too. Apparently, even she could get flustered.
“Marcus is visiting town from Potsdam. Not the one in Germany. Somewhere else.”
“Potsdam, New York?” Gary offered.
“It could be. Is there a Potsdam, New York?”
“That’s the one,” Marcus said with an indulgent grin.
“Of course. I always get it mixed up with Potsdam, Connecticut.”
“Is there a Potsdam, Connecticut?” asked Gary.
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“She’s a kidder.” As much as Marcus was fascinated by Fanny’s brain melt, he felt it best to step in now and take control. “Every time I visit Fanny, I always tell her how much I love her glasses—except today, of course.”
“Yes,” said Fanny, “because I’m not wearing them.”
Were the two of them just bored? Marcus wondered. Or morbidly curious? Or perhaps really concerned about Amy and Laila Steinberg and the “if I die” note? That was also a possibility. Amy had called them from Istanbul and had told them about the near-death experience, and even though Amy no longer seemed as interested, they themselves had gone through more than a few bottles of wine in Fanny’s back garden, mulling over what it could all mean.
Their conclusion was, “We don’t have enough information,” which was the whole reason behind their little outing today on Lexington Avenue. In retrospect, Marcus thought, they should have rehearsed a bit more.
Early in their conversation with Gary, Fanny brought up the brilliant designer Laila Santorini. The things that woman could do with plastic and bone and whatnot. “Didn’t she get married some years back? To a Steinbeck? Steinberg? Maury Steinberg.” That was it.
“It so happens I knew a Maury Steinberg years ago,” Marcus said, picking up his cue.
“In Potsdam?” asked the salesman, looking dubious. “I don’t think either one of them is from Potsdam.”
“No, not Potsdam. From here in the city.” Yes. A rehearsal would have been a definite plus. “Short guy, gray hair, full of energy, maybe in his fifties by now.”
“That could be Maury,” Gary said.
“I’d love to say hello. Is he here, by any chance?” Marcus asked, knowing better, of course.
“No, no. They sold the business a few years back.”
“I assume it’s the same Maury Steinberg. Do you know him well?”
“I met him before Laila did,” Gary said, then chuckled. “By a few minutes. He came in the store one day, looking for frames. I called her out from her office and introduced them. I was the best man at their wedding.”
“So you knew him,” Fanny deduced.
“Is he still the same crazy guy?” Marcus asked. This was always a safe bet. Everyone in the world called everyone else a crazy guy. The phrase had a million definitions.
“Totally crazy,” Gary confirmed.
“I’ll bet you have a hundred stories,” Fanny prodded.
“A million stories,” said Gary with a thin, mischievous grin.
Good. They were back on track, Marcus thought. Who needed rehearsals?
CHAPTER 13
The morning mist flew by in layers, now thicker, now thinner. Occasionally, she could see the silhouette of a hill chattering by. But mostly it was the scrub and a few rows of trees, each row away from the train a little fainter in the distance. And, of course, the mist. Amy had assured her guests that it would burn off, and that once they pulled into the Agra station, the day would be fine. But several of them had been on this journey before and knew how unpredictable it could be. Mist was a better word than fog, and she would continue to call it mist, even if it lasted all day.
The train from Delhi to Agra was easily the best way to get to the Taj Mahal. Peter had done the trip once with a car and driver, but the anarchy of the roads, even at 7:00 a.m., had made it a long and harrowing ride. Here in the first-class compartment, officially called the AC chair class, the trip took a comfortable two hours, not counting delays for the occasional bull found lounging on the cool tracks.
Amy yawned and nodded and fought the urge to nap. The early call this morning at the Imperial New Delhi, the three-anda-half-hour time change from Istanbul, and the smooth rocking of the train all conspired to close her eyes. But the sight of MacGregor’s urn under the seat in front of her kept her awake. All right, perhaps this wasn’t precisely the maid or precisely her urn, but it did occupy the same emotional space that MacGregor would have if she hadn’t been dumped down a Turkish toilet. The last thing they needed now was to lose her to a theft of opportunity.
One row in front of her and across the aisle, Peter was seated at a small club table with Herb Sands and David Pepper. Back in Paris—it seemed so long ago—he had suggested that the Pepper-Sands organize an anniversary trip with friends. Herb had leapt at the idea, but the exact anniversary to be celebrated remained hazy. It would be sixteen years since they’d moved in together, thirteen since their commitment ceremony, nine since a civil union in Vermont, and two since their official marriage in New York City.
“We want to celebrate something,” Herb said. “But a second wedding anniversary . . . ?” He scrunched his mouth.
“Sounds small,” Peter agreed. “Maybe if we add the numbers together . . . combine your sixteenth, your thirteenth, ninth, second. . .” It took him a few seconds. “Perfect. We can call it your fortieth.”
“Cute,” said Herb, clapping his hands together. “I like it.”
“No,” said David and shook his head. “Makes us sound too old.”
“No it doesn’t,” said Peter. “It’s funny. People will get it.”
“They would,” said Herb. “But I’m afraid the invitation would freak David out. He doesn’t want to be associated in any way with the number forty.”
“Why not?” Peter’s surprise was genuine. “You mean the age? David, you’re not anywhere near forty.”
“Thank you.”
“Not anywhere near?” The look on Herb’s face was priceless, and it was only the chattering of the wheels that kept Amy’s little yelp of laughter from being noticed. “Sixteen years together. Do you think I stole him from a nursery?”
“No, no. I guess I didn’t think.”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” said David and reached out a hand to Peter’s knee. “He was being nice.”
“And how old do you think I am?” Herb demanded.
Peter turned white and stammered.
“He’s sixty-two,” David said.
“You sure don’t look it.” Peter almost shouted the words.
Amy straightened her smile and returned her eyes to the urn. The older man had been shamelessly pursuing Peter the whole trip—eye contact, compliments, fixing collars and brushing shoulders. Amy had finally decided to warn him. She had mentioned just last night, over drinks on a foggy, viewless balcony in New Delhi, that Herb’s interest in an anniversary trip might come with a few strings. But Peter continued to see it as nothing more than harmless flirting.
“You should see him in the morning,” Herb sniffed, refusing to let it go. “Then he looks his age.”
“I’d love for Peter to see me in the morning.”
“I’ve seen you both in the morning.” Peter wasn’t sure where this was going. Both men had taken his involvement as part of their game, something that could subtly change the balance in their ongoing power struggle. Peter Borg had gone from being a flirt to being the rarest kind of pawn, one that could be used by both sides, depending upon his position on the board.
“Don’t play innocent,” Herb growled.
Peter didn’t know who this comment was meant for. Had he been playing innocent? Had David? Luckily, it didn’t matter. A series of electronic chimes and a recorded voice—in three languages: Hindi, English, and French—filled the air and announced their impending arrival in Agra.
Amy got to her feet, along with most of the other first-class tourists, inserting herself into the aisle and gathering her things as quickly as she could. The plan was to assemble on the platform and make their way en masse
past the army of hawkers and food sellers and beggars and rug-shop guides to the row of chauffeured Audis waiting for them out at the curb.
Amy checked in front of her and behind. All her people were up and moving, a good sign. And then, out of the corner of her eye, by the door to the second-class car . . . It was one of those moments where a familiar size and shape and physical bearing somehow coalesced. Billy. Billy Strunk. Their savior from Istanbul. And then the mirage, whatever it was composed of, disappeared, leaving nothing but a fleeting sense of gratitude—and a reminder not to leave MacGregor under the seat.
Outside the train, the stubborn mist solidified into fog, and a directive as simple as “gathering on the platform” was proving to be tricky. First off, Amy saw, there was no space, just chaos. Meanwhile, the things filling up that chaotic lack of space were constantly moving and oddly disorienting—fruit vendors and water vendors going from window to window, whole families disgorging from a door and meeting other whole families waiting for them. Brazier fires somehow seemed to be moving, too. And the saris and suitcases. And everywhere the fog.
Peter was tall enough and brightly dressed enough to act as an assembly point. One by one and two by two, the others drifted toward his red Windbreaker, forging a brave little island amid the buffeting tides. Amy was counting them as they came—the Steinbergs, gray and thin and arm in arm; substantial Herb and golden David; the petite Nicole, falling into the wake of Evan and Barbara, large and ruddier than a pair of cherries. And, in the near distance, disembarking from the second-class car, Billy Strunk. Again.
Amy stood on her toes, stretching an inch or two higher than her full five-ten. This time it looked more substantial than a mirage of shape and size and bearing. It looked exactly like Billy, from the thinning hair to the slightly pear-shaped body. The man was facing her way, and their eyes met for a second over the bobbing sea. His eyes seemed to react in recognition. Then he turned away and began to barrel his way down along the platform.
A second later and the man disappeared into the fog.