The Gift of a Charm

by Melissa Hill

  ‘And what’s that?’ Danny asked, pointing to a crescent-shaped object that looked a little bit like a tadpole.

  Holly had been wondering about that one herself from the outset. She’d thought at first that it could be a chilli, but there was a definite wave to the design that suggested otherwise. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, honey.’

  ‘Well, what about these wedding bells – you think that maybe the owner of the bracelet is married?’

  Holly nodded; she had already considered that, but unfortunately it didn’t open any other doors for her. After all, people got married every day, and nothing on that particular charm gave a when or a where.

  ‘I thought about that, but it doesn’t lead me to anything – not that I can think of, at least.’

  Danny inspected further. ‘How about this one?’

  Holly leaned closer to see what he was looking at. It was a horseshoe.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘See on the back there’s some kind of stamp?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had taken note of that too: a series of letters and numbers. She had no idea what they meant, and just assumed it was a jeweller’s mark. ‘I saw that, but I didn’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘Did you run it through Google?’

  ‘What?’ She looked at him, feeling stupid. ‘No. Actually, the thought didn’t even occur to me.’ Leave it to her technologically savvy son to inspire a new avenue for the search.

  Danny rolled his eyes in feigned disbelief. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t do that first thing … Here, let me get the computer.’ He scurried off to get Holly’s laptop and then sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘Can you read off what it says?’

  Holly looked closer at the charm and deciphered the letters and numbers. Danny’s fingers, entirely adept to a computer keyboard, quickly typed in the information and waited for the search to populate. Holly moved beside him and peered over his shoulder in curiosity as she watched her son do his magic.

  ‘What are you getting?’

  ‘Not sure, might be nothing. There’s a bunch of hits for books, library call numbers and some other stuff…’

  Holly looked at the search listings and, admittedly, it seemed like a lot of gobbledegook. A thought occurred to her. ‘Maybe it’s a date or an address? And since we know this bracelet’s home is most likely in New York, why don’t you add New York to the search terms? This might be a zip code or … something.’ She didn’t know what it could be, but she thought her suggestion was reasonable.

  Apparently, so did her son, who turned round with his eyebrows raised. ‘Who are you and what did you do with my mom?’

  Holly tapped him on the back of his head. ‘Enough with the wisecracks, kid.’

  She watched as he turned back to the computer and typed in her suggestion.

  ‘Huh,’ he said, after a beat. ‘Mom, you might be on to something.’

  ‘Why? What do you see?’ Holly looked closer and found that the search had returned a list of websites related to an artist named Gennaro del Vecchio. He happened to be based here in Manhattan, and he owned an art gallery on West Twenty-Fifth Street.

  ‘Do you think this means something, Mom?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d certainly say it’s a shot in the right direction,’ said Holly, feeling positive once again. ‘Does the address of his gallery happen to be six-eighteen?’ she asked, referring to the numbers on the inscription. Danny checked and shook his head.

  But maybe the horseshoe charm had some kind of connection to the gallery anyway. ‘Are you going to go there?’ her son enquired. ‘To the gallery?’

  ‘I’d say that’s my next port of call, wouldn’t you? Maybe this Gennaro fellow can tell me something.’

  ‘And maybe I should keep searching on the computer,’ Danny offered with raised eyebrows, wondering if his mother’s excitement over this new development might put off bed just a little while longer.

  Holly was so busy examining the horseshoe charm that she barely took note of Danny’s last suggestion. She nodded her head in agreement, albeit absently. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea, that’s probably what you should … Hey, wait a minute,’ she exclaimed, suddenly coming out of her daze. ‘Nice try, mister, but not so fast. School tomorrow, so it’s bed for you. Now.’ She smiled, amused by her son’s artful dodging.

  ‘Awww, Mom—’

  ‘Don’t “Awww, Mom” me. Bed. It’s only a few more days till winter break and then you can be the Watson to my Sherlock as much as you want.’

  Danny smiled. ‘Or you can be the Watson to my Sherlock. Don’t forget who took the search to Google.’

  He jogged off, laughing merrily as his mother nodded in agreement. Indeed, because of Danny, they once again had a warm lead.

  Chapter 10

  On Monday morning, Greg strode into the lobby of the New York Times building with his portfolio under his arm. He felt amazing. As he rode up in the elevator to Billy the photo editor’s office, he realised he had no plan, no prepared speech, nor had he done a Q and A with himself in the bathroom mirror; he was just going to go in and show what he had and what he could do.

  Billy’s floor was pretty much the same set-up as Rob’s, except that as a senior editor he was not only given a space on the common-room floor, but also a private office. As Greg was ushered in by Billy himself, he stopped to stare at all the photos on the wall. Every inch was covered. There was one of almost every New York mayor from the 1970s onwards, a few presidents and every angle of the city you could imagine.

  Suddenly Greg felt like grabbing his portfolio and running back out through the door. But, before he could, Billy motioned him to sit. He did, his knuckles white over the edge of the leather case.

  While the walls were covered with prints, the desk was clear except for a phone. It was a long, wide glass desk, with a light under it that would illuminate the whole thing to look at negatives and prints. Greg gripped his portfolio tighter.

  ‘So what do you have?’ Billy asked, getting straight down to business. He held his hands out to Greg for the portfolio. When Greg paused, the editor scratched his ear and laughed a little. ‘C’mon, they can’t be that bad. You’re here, aren’t you?’

  Greg slowly handed the portfolio over and held his breath as Billy untied the ends and dumped the whole thing out on his desk.

  He sat and slowly went through every single photo, sometimes turning them over to read the date and description, sometimes putting them aside in a separate pile to go back over. After what seemed like an eternity, Greg cleared his throat.

  Billy was behind a large print – one of the shots Greg had taken while out with the cops in Queens. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘Uh, no, I’m good,’ Greg managed. ‘It’s just, ah … you’re not asking me anything.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have to.’ Billy put the photo he was looking at down on the desk. ‘Your work should be able to tell me anything I need to know. I’m looking for photographers, not writers.’

  Greg nodded. ‘True.’

  ‘And these are quite good, really quite good.’

  Greg felt relief wash over him like a hug from his mother.

  Billy closed the portfolio and sat back in his chair. ‘OK, now here comes the questions … Ever been punched in the face?’

  Greg looked at him, startled, but could see from Billy’s expression that he was not joking.

  ‘Uh, I may have been in a bar fight in college once…’

  ‘Good. Ever had someone try to run you over with their car?’

  Greg shook his head, baffled.

  ‘Ever been in the middle of a shoot-out?’

  Greg shook his head again; this was an interview for photography and not the Marines, yes?

  ‘I only ask –’ Billy got up and perched on the edge of his desk – ‘because if I call you and say, “There’s a riot downtown and the cops are using tear gas,” you gotta go, right?’

  ‘Sure.’ Greg nodded, gulping a little.

&n
bsp; ‘I mean, you can’t be afraid to jump in there, and you may get hurt. You would get a press badge, of course, but when things get rough, no one’s going to be looking at it, you know?’

  Greg nodded again. ‘I understand,’ he said out loud. ‘I can do it. I’m not scared.’

  ‘Good, because I can reimburse you for broken equipment, but you’d be contract, so if you break your teeth, you’re on your own.’

  Greg felt his shoulders relax and smiled a little. ‘Fine by me.’

  Billy stuck his hand out. ‘OK, great, consider yourself officially on trial.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Greg grabbed Billy’s hand and shook it hard. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Oh no, that’s not it; there’s lots of legal now … papers for you to fill out and all that stuff. Mostly ’bout how you won’t sue us if you break your teeth –’ he tapped on Greg’s portfolio as he handed it back to him – ‘and how any shots you take on assignment belong to the NYT.’ He flashed Greg a big smile. ‘Legal and HR will call you to come in and fill that crap out. Now, let me think about what I want to do with you.’ He leaned against the desk and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘There’s Christmas coming up and one of my regular guys has been bitching about vacation, so you can take the assignment.’ Billy’s eyes remained closed and Greg wondered if he had everything in a file in his head. ‘Colour, of course – shots of all the traditional New York places New Yorkers go during the holiday season, so Rockefeller Center, Bryant Park … You figure it out, OK? The writer’s name is Suzanne Lee. She’s in our directory, which you need.’

  At this he whipped open a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers stapled together. ‘Copy it, I want it back. Call, introduce yourself as her photographer – it always goes better that way – and ask her what she wants. But you get that list.’

  Greg nodded, suddenly overwhelmed.

  Billy put his hand on his back and steered him to the door. ‘At least no chance of broken teeth on this assignment, huh? Although, knowing Suzanne…’

  Next thing Greg knew, he was standing outside a senior editor’s door with an assignment and a New York Times staff directory in his hands. OK, so it was just a trial assignment, but …

  He grinned, suddenly understanding how those football players felt when they dumped Gatorade on each other; it all made sense now.

  This was what getting your dream felt like.

  Chapter 11

  Holly gazed absently out of the window at work, still thinking about everything she had learned (or not) about the charm bracelet over the weekend. She was so deep in thought that it took her a moment to register a woman on the other side motioning like a mime.

  Oh no … After lunch she had been so distracted she’d forgotten to switch the sign on the door to ‘Open’. Thank goodness Carole was away with her family for Hanukkah today; she’d kill her …

  Holly raced to the door and let the woman in. ‘I am so sorry…’

  ‘It’s OK,’ the customer laughed. ‘’Tis the season to make you insane!’

  She was dressed beautifully and her long brown hair streaked with blonde was perfectly cut and framed her face well.

  Holly felt her hand self-consciously creeping up to the nape of her own neck. She had cut her own hair much shorter earlier this year because she could not afford the upkeep of it. No problem guessing which one of us works here and who shops here, she thought wryly.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ She gave the woman a huge smile and got straight into salesgirl mode.

  ‘Yes, my mother adores Gucci. I was wondering if you had anything in good condition – a bag or something? I want to really blow her away on Christmas morning.’ She gave Holly a knowing look. ‘My turn to be the favourite daughter, you know?’

  Holly nodded as if she did know, which of course she didn’t. She tried not to feel envious as she went about pulling bags off the shelves and giving a little back-story to each. She could count her relatives on one hand (and she included Kate in this, who was like a sister). That was the hardest part about the holidays really. The people she had in her life were special, of course, but she had always yearned to go to one of those big family dinners, where everyone sat around the table, joking and laughing over big piles of food. What was it like? she wondered wistfully, looking at her customer as she inspected a gorgeous Gucci satchel from the 1980s.

  ‘What’s what like?’ the woman asked, peering at Holly, who realised to her horror that she must have spoken out loud.

  ‘Well, this bag is like the one that Mia Farrow took to her in-laws for Christmas one time…’ she blurted, winging it.

  ‘Mia Farrow has in-laws?’ The woman looked at her with disbelief.

  ‘She did – but way before she met Woody and adopted all those children, of course.’

  ‘OK…’

  ‘She was still working for MGM at the time and had just married Frank,’ Holly continued, warming to her theme. ‘He took her to Hoboken to meet his mother – his dad was long dead. I mean, how old was Frank when he married her? Like fifty or something … So she ran out and bought a full Jersey ensemble: you know, Jackie O glasses, Gucci bag, pink Chanel suit … She thought it would make a good impression on Mamma-in-Law. And do you know what happened?’

  The woman was staring, her green eyes shining and her mouth agape with interest. ‘No.’

  ‘Mamma Sinatra started yelling at Frank in Italian to get that transvestite out of her house, he wasn’t fooling her.’

  ‘No…’ The woman’s eyebrows had crawled to her hairline.

  ‘Because she had just gotten that pixie cut? True story – or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Wow, that was great!’ The woman picked up the bag with delight and asked Holly to wrap it up for her. ‘I’m Alexandra by the way,’ she told her. ‘Alexandra Konecki.’

  ‘Holly. Nice to meet you, Alexandra – and I hope your mother loves the bag.’

  When the customer had left, Holly smiled, wondering how her mind managed to save all these stories she’d come across years ago and then have her pop them out at will just like that. She just had one of those brains, she supposed.

  Shortly after her most recent customer had departed, the doorbell chimed once again and Mona Sachs appeared.

  ‘So what the hell happened to my Halston?’ the stylist asked without preamble, and to her horror Holly realised she’d never sent over the garment as per Mona’s request from the other day. While her mind was great at storing useless information, clearly her attention to detail wasn’t up to the same level.

  ‘Oh, Mona, I’m so sorry, things have been crazy! I have it ready out back and everything. It just completely slipped my mind…’

  She waved an arm. ‘It happens, don’t worry about it. My society queen just had to make do with Versace. Poor dear,’ she added sardonically.

  Society queen …

  Holly paused, thinking of something.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise. But, Mona,’ she asked, ‘have you ever heard of a woman called Margot Mead?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Sweetie, that’s like asking me if I ever heard of Rudy Giuliani. Of course: Margot Mead is royalty among the Upper East Side set.’

  Holly’s expression brightened. ‘Do you happen to know her personally?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Nobody knows these women personally, not even their own damn husbands. I’ve come across her assistant a couple of times, though. Jessica, nice girl.’

  Holly’s eyes widened. An assistant … She cleared her throat, deciding she should share the information about the bracelet with Mona. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought about it before. It might even belong to one of her clients, although this was doubtful given that the box it was found in had been delivered directly to the store. And, as it was, Mona typically bought from them, and had never used them to sell anything.

  When she’d finished outlining the details, as well as Samuel from Tiffany’s suggestion that Margot Mead might be the one to hel
p identify the egg charm, Mona nodded slowly.

  ‘There’s a very good chance she would know who something like that belongs to – hell, it might even belong to Margot herself.’ The thought had crossed Holly’s mind too, but because she had no way of getting in touch with Margot, she thought she needed to explore avenues related to the other charms first.

  However, it seemed Mona might well be able to short-circuit the search. She scrolled through her trusty BlackBerry. ‘Here you go,’ she said, finding the details for Jessica, the assistant she’d mentioned before. ‘Give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’

  Holly couldn’t believe her luck. ‘That’s fantastic, Mona, thank you. I so appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. But if you still happen to have that Halston lying around, I have another use for it…’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Holly duly retrieved the shirt and wrapped it up.

  She was still buzzing with anticipation when, after Mona left, she quickly picked up the phone and dialled Jessica Edwards’s number. That buzz was soon deflated when she got voicemail.

  She left a garbled message about how she urgently needed to get in touch with Margot Mead, with a mention that Tiffany had suggested Margot might be able to help with a query – figuring that the mention of the store might pique the assistant’s interest enough to return her call.

  Then she looked at the clock. It was almost closing time.

  Having waited a few more moments for any late evening stragglers, Holly eventually grabbed her coat and turned the sign to ‘Closed’. She had a whole rack of clothes to take over to Thuma for dry-cleaning, and a box of donations to take over to Sacred Heart, as per Carole’s instructions.

  Having dropped off the dry-cleaning, she popped back to the shop to collect the donations and, lifting the heavy cardboard box to her chest, went back out and made her way slowly down the street.

  Pausing in front of Encore, she noticed how quiet it was inside. When she walked in, Frank the owner was waving at her from the register.

  ‘So slow over there that you’ve decided to come over and help me?’ he teased.