by Tom Dolby
“Reproductions of jewelry,” Lauren said. “What does she think I am, a supplier to the museum gift shop or something? So tacky!”
“Think of it as charity work,” Phoebe said.
“I guess so.” Lauren lowered her voice. “What I really want to know is, when are you and Nick going to figure out what the next step is in his grandfather’s little treasure hunt? If that’s what it is.”
Phoebe shook her head. “We’ve been so busy with school, we haven’t really had a chance to come up with a plan.”
Lauren had a pleading look in her eyes. “Whatever you do, please come up with it quickly, okay?”
“We will,” Phoebe said. “We’ll do our best.”
Chapter Thirty
In the days following the Palm Beach trip, Patch thought about his situation and how similar it suddenly was to his grandmother’s. After he had returned from Isis Island, Genie revealed to him that she had dated Palmer Bell in the 1950s, and they had been engaged to be married. Palmer’s family intervened, however, and the night before their wedding, he had disappeared on an ocean liner to Italy. It had taken Genie nearly a year to recover from the shock, and she was grateful to have met Patch’s grandfather, George, whom she married within three months. Now Patch was in the same situation, dating someone not in the Society. Would it always be a boundary that divided people?
Genie was sitting in the living room and working on a needlepoint pillow while watching television. She looked up, just enough to catch Patch’s eye.
“I’m worried about you, Patchfield,” she said.
“What about?”
“You don’t look well. You’re too thin. You’re always sulking around in that ratty wool cap. What’s going on?”
He sat down. “It’s the usual. I mean, after everything that happened . . .” His voice trailed off. He had filled Genie in on the Society’s retreat, and how he had little choice but to become a member. She had been upset with him, but she also understood the precarious position he was in. “I thought what happened in December would be the worst of it,” he continued. “I thought joining would solve everything.”
“Solve what?” Genie asked as she raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
“All my problems. I thought it would get me a TV deal, or at the very least, give me some new opportunities even if Chadwick Prep didn’t work out. Big surprise: it didn’t. It’s the same with my friends. Phoebe’s not painting, Lauren hates doing her jewelry, Nick hasn’t organized any parties. Hey, at least I get to spin records at the Dendur Ball.”
“The Dendur Ball?” Genie looked curious. “Imagine that. They’re doing that again.”
“Have you been before?”
“No, I haven’t. By the time they started it, I was no longer running around with that crowd. But, your—well, Esmé, she cut quite a figure at the last ball.”
“I know. I saw the photograph of her. I could barely recognize her.”
“Those were the best days,” Genie said sadly. “She was so happy then. Before everything happened.”
“Did she and Dad go to things like that often?”
“Oh, yes,” Genie said. “She and your father and the Bells, actually. Parker and Georgiana had only been married for a few years. The four of them were such a group: your father and Parker, Esmé and Gigi. They were the talk of the town.”
“And then I came along.”
“Oh, dear, that had nothing to do with it. Your mother had a decline. You know that. It’s all . . . what’s the word, hereditary. I read an article about it. You can’t help what you’re born with.”
Patch sat down in an armchair and sighed. “Do you think she’ll ever get better?”
“I don’t know,” Genie said. “I certainly hope so. For your sake. I know how devastating it is. I can’t even remember what it was like to have her in our lives. It feels like she’s already dead.”
“Genie!”
“Patch, we have to be realistic about it. It’s not your mother that we visit in Ossining. She’s a shell, a reminder of the person she used to be.”
“So what do you think I should do about all this Society stuff? My TV show project has tanked for now, which totally blows. And my friends are all being threatened.”
“You take care of yourself first,” Genie said firmly. “I know Nick watches out for you, but I don’t know those other friends of yours. I’m sure they’re good people, and I know you’re a fair judge of character, Patch.” She gripped his arm. “But still, you have to be careful.”
Chapter Thirty-One
After a few weeks everyone at Giroux New York had thankfully put the awkward incident of the stolen earrings behind them. Sebastian Giroux had first called it “a misunderstanding,” as if Lauren had been some drug-addled starlet who had simply thought she had paid for something when she hadn’t. No, Lauren insisted, someone had planted the earrings in her bag. While no one particularly cared how or why this could have happened, they accepted it as a reasonable enough explanation, and the matter was dropped.
Several weeks before the incident, Sabrina, the store’s creative director, had set up a small office for Lauren in the basement, on the same corridor as Sebastian and the other designers. On the door was a placard that read: L. MORTIMER DESIGNS. Lawyers had drawn up papers specifying the exact relationship of her company to Giroux New York. Lauren would be licensing her designs to Giroux, and they would be in charge of the manufacturing. Sabrina handled the dealings with the factory in Red Hook, and Lauren visited the plant to view and critique prototypes.
Lauren dropped by Sebastian’s office for a meeting with him and Sabrina to discuss the Egyptian jewelry plan. She didn’t really want to do it, but Mrs. Chilton had upped the ante on her a few days after her initial request: she had, as promised, hired Lauren’s mother to do some decorating in their apartment. Diana had let Lauren know how important the job was to her, and Lauren could see it for herself. Her mother was getting up early in the morning to source materials and prepare sketches. For the first time in a while, Diana Mortimer was actually excited about her job. Lauren wanted it to stay that way.
Lauren knew, then, that she had little choice but to do the job for the Dendur Ball, even if it would lower her to the level of making a reproduction.
“I tried to get out of it,” Lauren explained to Sebastian and Sabrina. “I mean, I don’t want to create some tacky thing that looks like you could buy it at a museum gift shop.” The whole thing depressed her, but she felt as if she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“Let me guess,” Sebastian said, laughing. “Letty Chilton strong-armed you. The woman can be very persistent. God, what her daughter has put our salespeople through recently!”
“Really?” Lauren was curious, but she wanted to stay on point. “I guess I’ve warmed up to the idea. It could be fun.”
“The jewelry of that era is very beautiful,” Sebastian said. “Can you imagine that they could create that kind of thing thousands of years ago? It’s really quite incredible.”
“What are the materials?” Sabrina asked.
“We would use enamel and semiprecious stones,” Lauren said. “Nothing too expensive. Carnelian, lapis lazuli, turquoise. This would be a simulation, basically. But the important thing is that it has to look real. It will be really stunning to have all the young women wearing these, while the real thing is in a case just yards away.”
Lauren handed Sabrina a manila envelope with the specifications from the curator at the Egyptian wing.
“Now, we need to talk about something more important,” Sebastian said. “The jewelry is a hit. We’re actually selling even more abroad than we are in New York. I told you that Colette picked it up?” Colette was a boutique-style department store, similar to Giroux, in Paris. It sold everything from limited-edition books to one-of-a-kind fashion to the latest DJ mixes to designer waters. Lauren knew that to have one’s designs represented there was an enormous honor.
Lauren nodded. “That’s fabulou
s.”
“It’s better than fabulous. They want to do a window display for spring this year featuring your pieces.”
“Oh my God. Wow.”
“There’s a catch, though,” Sabrina said.
Lauren groaned quietly. There was always a catch.
Sebastian continued: “They want the designs to be Colette exclusives. They would only be sold in the store on rue Saint-Honoré and online.”
“Can we do enough volume there?” Lauren asked. “Does it make sense to do a line just for one store?”
Sebastian and Sabrina laughed.
“My dear, you take care of the designing,” Sebastian said. “We’ll worry about the business side of things.”
Lauren smiled weakly as she flushed a little bit. She resented when Sebastian—or any adult, for that matter—assumed that just because she was in high school, she wasn’t interested in the details. She wanted to learn all about fashion, not just about how to make jewelry or how to cut an A-line dress, but about merchandising, marketing, shipping, sales. Maybe she would have to wait until college to get that type of knowledge.
“So can you do it?” Sabrina asked.
“Of course,” Lauren said, with the air of an old pro. “Just give me my deadline, and I’ll make it happen.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The weeks leading up to the Dendur Ball passed quickly for Nick, though his grandfather’s challenge was never far from his mind. When he wasn’t thinking about it, Nick focused on his schoolwork, as he continued trying to repair the damage caused to his reputation during the previous semester. College applications were less than eight months away, and he had already started thinking about where he wanted to go. His entire family had gone to Yale, but he wondered if that option wouldn’t be open to him anymore if he was released from the Society.
That was a risk Nick would have to take.
On a string around his neck was the key Thad and Patch had procured from the opening on the Egyptian slab in Palmer Bell’s study. Nick couldn’t stop thinking about it, though he was unsure what the next move should be. Ever since coming back from Florida, Nick had kept the key with him everywhere he went, whether at school, going running, or in the shower. It never left him.
It was an old-fashioned key, not the flat kind used to open most doors, but the type with a long, cylindrical base and a set of teeth. It was weightier than the average key; it could have opened a door, a chest, or even a set of drawers.
In short, it could have opened anything.
Or it could be a dead end.
Before leaving Florida, Nick had tried it on every door, locked box, secretary, and trunk he could find in the Palm Beach house, with no success. Because the clue that Palmer had given them involved “both beaches,” Nick didn’t feel like the solution—if there was one—would be found in Palm Beach. The Florida house was only part of the puzzle.
On the first Saturday morning in February, a few weeks after their last trip, Nick and Phoebe drove out to Southampton, to his family’s house at the beach.
When Nick and Phoebe arrived at the Southampton house, they tried the key on every possible lock. When the caretaker, who happened to be on the grounds that weekend, asked what they were doing, Nick said they were picking up some ski equipment he had been storing up in the attic.
Nick and Phoebe searched every room meticulously, trying every chest of drawers, every closet, even an old campaign chest in the attic.
In the last guest bedroom, Phoebe wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “This feels hopeless,” she said, stifling a sneeze. “We’re kicking up dust you didn’t even know this house had.”
Nick nodded wearily. “I know. I’m just not seeing it here.”
It was an unseasonably warm day for February, so the two decided to go for a walk on the beach. In contrast to the summer, the beach was completely empty, the surf frothing up and then retreating, the ocean behind it vast and gray and unknowable. There had been a storm the week before, and some of the dunes had been nearly demolished.
They walked for a few minutes, the light breeze nipping at their cheeks. It felt like they had accomplished nothing.
“I don’t know where else to turn,” Nick said after a few minutes, with the frustration of knowing he had complained to Phoebe about this more times than he could count.
“You’ve tried every lock in your parents’ apartment,” she said. “You’ve tried Palm Beach. We’ve tried Southampton.” She reached out to him as they walked through the sand, to touch the key that was now hanging around his neck, grazing the V-neck of his cable-knit sweater. “What if it opens nothing? What if it’s all just an elaborate ruse, something to keep us occupied while the Society continues to cover its tracks?”
Nick felt the wind rustling his hair. “Remember what he said about my brothers and me playing on the beach? About the treasures being buried in the sand?”
“So what are we supposed to do? Start digging?” Phoebe asked. “Do you really think he buried something under the sand?”
“I don’t think so. I think he was just reminiscing. With all the winter storms, there’s no way anyone could keep something buried for long.” Nick stopped and glanced up at the dunes, just before the house, near the edge of the Bell family’s property line. There was a stone block that he had never noticed before, a piece of rough-hewn granite lodged into the ground. Nick loped up the embankment to it and walked through a few yards of dune grass.
He gasped when he saw what was carved onto its face. Phoebe joined him. The block read:
P.M.E.
1962–1997
“Is that . . . a grave marker?” Phoebe asked.
Nick shook his head. “I don’t think so. I remember my father telling me about this once, but I’ve never seen it. The storm must have uncovered it. It’s a memorial marker.”
“Who is it for?”
Nick paused. It was too much to think about—everything he knew, and everything he didn’t want to believe. “It’s for Patch’s father,” he said quietly. “He drowned near here. It was when our parents were close, and the Evanses were staying here one weekend. Patch and I were at summer camp. Patch’s dad was caught up in the surf while swimming one evening at dusk. No one thought to look for him until dinnertime. That’s what my father told me, when I asked him about it once.”
Phoebe blinked. “Does Patch know this is here?”
Nick shook his head. “It’s not really something we talk about. God, that memorial marker—I haven’t thought about that in years. If you mention to Patch about us being here, I’d rather you didn’t say anything—not that you would, but it just . . . well, it might upset him.”
Phoebe nodded. “I understand. Though you do know he’s trying to figure out what happened to his mother, right?”
“I know.”
“Do you remember her?” Phoebe asked.
“No, not really,” Nick said. “We were so young when she was taken away.”
They were still standing in front of the memorial marker. “Patchfield Morgan Evans,” he said. “I guess they left off the ‘Jr.’ Sort of hard to do that in initials.”
“Why initials? Why not his full name?”
Nick shrugged and smiled sadly. “You’ve been around my family enough by now, haven’t you? Everything’s a secret, everything’s encoded. Like they’re afraid for anyone to know the real story about them.”
Phoebe touched his shoulder. “Do you feel like you’re the first one to start asking all these questions?”
“Sort of. I know my brothers have, over the years. But they always get shut down. And they’re so ambitious—they care more about success than about knowing the truth about the Society or the Trust. They’re not screwups, like me.”
“I don’t think you’re a screwup,” Phoebe said. “And I guess, if you are, then maybe I’m in love with a screwup.” She smiled shyly, as if embarrassed at her revelation.
Nick tried not to look surprised, but he felt his heart beating more
quickly. He had felt this way for so long and had been afraid to say anything. Ever since the night last semester on the rooftop after Phoebe’s gallery show, when they had almost kissed. Before they had gotten together, before they had started dating. She had always been the girl he thought he could never have.
Phoebe looked so beautiful, her reddish-brown hair whipping in the wind. He pulled her toward him and kissed her. “Then I’m in love with someone who’s going to be a superstar someday. We’re going to leave all this behind, right? Soon?”
She nodded. Her eyes were damp.
Nick felt tears coming as well. “I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I feel like all this is my fault. My family. The Society. Everything they’ve caused. You should have never met me. Your life would be so much better.”
“Hey—I was asked to be part of this before I even knew you. You had no way of telling,” she said.
“I know—but still, it’s hard. It’s hard not to feel like I’m partially responsible.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to feel that way.”
He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater. “I don’t think we should mention the memorial to Patch. I’ll show it to him sometime in the summer. After things are more settled, you know?”
“You really think things will be settled?” Phoebe smiled. “You’re certainly the optimist now.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “I do.”
PART III
THE SCARAB OF ISIS
Chapter Thirty-Three
Over the past few weeks, Lauren had rushed through the prototype and manufacturing of the Scarab of Isis necklace. Now that she was finally walking up the plush black carpeted stairs of the Metropolitan Museum on February 13, the night of the Dendur Ball, she was happy about it. The fourteen girls on the Junior Committee—seven from her class and seven from the class above her—all looked stunning wearing the piece. Crowds gathered around the museum, hoping for a glimpse of the guests, and klieg lights had been set up on Fifth Avenue, swooping through the sky, movie premiere–style. A team of police officers manned the barricades as limousines, taxicabs, and town cars pulled up, one by one, and photographers swarmed anyone notable who hit the much-discussed black carpet, an innovation that the event designer felt was much more chic than red, and more in keeping with the Dendur Balls of years past.