The Gift of a Charm

by Melissa Hill

  Then Holly’s mom and dad would sit on the tiny sofa, open a bottle of wine and turn Johnny Mathis up a little louder. Holly could hear them from her bedroom, talking and laughing, her father’s low, rumbling voice giving Eileen a rundown of his day.

  Finally Holly would drift off to sleep – then, as soon as the first slice of sunlight hit her bedroom, she would bound downstairs to see what Santa had put in her stocking. There would always be candy and foil-wrapped chocolate, usually a sample bottle of perfume, fancy socks with lace around the ankles, and – at the bottom of the stocking – a big fat orange. At this point, her mom and dad would be sitting on the couch, bleary-eyed, holding cups of coffee, and Bing would be back on the turntable. Finally her mother would let them all eat a hard-boiled egg to tide them through Mass and the three of them would make their way on the snowy, empty streets to the local church, where they would sit through a Christmas Day Mass that was twice as long as a regular Mass, and Holly’s stomach would groan and gurgle at the thought of chocolate and candy back home. Sometimes her father would slip her a peppermint, putting a finger to his lips not to tell Eileen, and Holly would gratefully pop it in her mouth and quietly suck it through the sermon.

  After Seamus died, they had stopped going to church altogether. Holly had come downstairs one Sunday morning, dressed and ready to go, only to find her mother still in her dressing gown at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee.

  ‘I just don’t feel like going today, do you?’ she had simply said.

  At the time Holly had seen it as just another memory of her father that her mother was destroying, another source of comfort her mother had removed. Christmas in the O’Neill household had been different after that.

  And Christmas this year would be completely different again. Because, for the first time ever, Holly and Danny would not be going to Eileen’s house in Queens.

  Instead her mother was coming to them.

  She still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d suggested to Danny they have Christmas dinner at their teeny apartment. But when Kate had mentioned that she wouldn’t be going home to Minnesota this year, and was complaining of being at a loose end, Holly had decided for sure that she was going to host a big, old-style Christmas at her house, the kind she’d always wanted. It obviously had something to do with what she’d been feeling lately, about wanting to give Danny something other than just the basics. She wanted to create traditions and memories like her father had done for her.

  Eileen had been surprised at first when Holly made the suggestion over the phone the night before.

  ‘Are you sure? You know I’m always happy to have you and Danny.’

  ‘I know, but this year I thought that maybe we could do something different. Danny would love it, and Kate would be here too.’

  There was a brief silence on the phone. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I was just wondering if you’d met anyone, anyone interesting?’

  Holly groaned. ‘Mom, you of all people should know that’s the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘Still nothing.’

  ‘OK, well, in any case, thank you. I’d love to come. Only problem is, because I thought we were having it at mine, I invited someone. A friend.’

  Holly stopped breathing. No, her mother wasn’t seriously … She couldn’t comprehend Eileen seeing another man.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking and don’t even go there!’ her mother trilled. ‘It’s a girlfriend. She doesn’t have any family left so—’

  ‘Well then, bring her along,’ Holly said before she could stop herself. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Although how the hell five of them were going to fit in the tiny living space was a mystery. Especially alongside the Christmas tree that Danny had been asking for. He was so excited by the prospect that she couldn’t turn him down.

  As Holly pondered over the complexities of fitting guests into her apartment, let alone those related to preparing Christmas dinner, her cell phone rang inside her pocket.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms O’Neill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Jessica Edwards calling on behalf of Margot Mead. I’m returning your call from yesterday. You said in your message you’re from Tiffany?’

  Holly straightened. For some reason Jessica’s tone made her feel as though she should be standing to attention. ‘Not quite, but a lovely man from there pointed me in Ms Mead’s direction.’

  ‘And this is concerning a piece of jewellery?’

  ‘Yes.’ Holly went on to explain about the bracelet she’d found, and Samuel’s belief that Margot Mead might be able to help track down the origin of the jewel-encrusted egg charm.

  ‘Really, I’m just hoping she could give me some more information about the egg charm and where it might have been purchased. The bracelet may even belong to Ms Mead herself, who knows?’ This was a long shot, but Holly was trying to get the assistant on side.

  ‘You do realise that Ms Mead is not a directory service?’ the assistant said snippily, and Holly reflected that navigating the world of the Manhattan elite was truly like living on another planet. After all, at the end of the day, people are just people, and she was pretty sure that Margot Mead put her pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else.

  But all at once, Holly felt sure that – whatever her love for jewellery – Margot Mead wasn’t the owner of the bracelet. Even without meeting her, Holly understood that Margot had to be the type of woman who allowed assistants and stylists to dictate the shape and style of her life. A charm bracelet like the one Holly carried in her handbag was too full of whimsy, and too unpredictable, to belong to someone who had a third party do her bidding. She just knew it.

  ‘Of course I understand that. But I just wondered if she could possibly take a look at the bracelet to see if she recognised it. The egg charm, I mean,’ she added. ‘I believe Ms Mead is quite the jewellery connoisseur.’

  ‘Well, she certainly buys a lot of jewellery, Ms O’Neill.’

  ‘Please, call me Holly,’ she insisted pleasantly, noting that the invitation to familiarity was not returned.

  ‘You said that this was found in a jacket where you work?’

  ‘Yes, I work at a vintage store in the Village. I found it in a Chanel jacket, a lovely one, and really, I just want to return it to its rightful owner. You see, I have one myself and –’ she automatically jingled her own bracelet at no one in particular – ‘I just figured if I could follow the breadcrumbs, so to speak, it might lead me back to the person who is missing this.’ She chuckled self-consciously. ‘I’m sure you’re thinking I just read too many fairy tales.’

  ‘No, it’s a nice thing to do.’ Jessica’s voice softened a little. ‘I’m sorry I was rude earlier. I apologise.’

  ‘It’s no problem, it’s the holidays – everyone is busy. But listen,’ Holly continued, hoping to make the most of the slight chink in Jessica’s armour. ‘Do you think Ms Mead might be able to take a look at it for me?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this,’ Jessica replied, her brusqueness returning. ‘Margot Mead serves on the board of about thirty different charities in the city. She has something going on almost every night, and barely has time to take a look at her own husband, never mind a…’ She trailed off and sighed. ‘Wait a minute, did you say it was a jewel-encrusted egg charm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s the strangest thing, I think I might have come across something like that a while back – at one of our benefits. Like I said, Ms Mead is involved in a lot of charities, benefits, auctions, that sort of thing. And those prizes are often jewellery.’

  Holly’s heartbeat quickened. ‘So you’re saying the charm might have been picked up at one of those auctions or given out as a prize?’

  Nice prize …

  ‘Perhaps. Obviously we keep records of such things for t
ax purposes. Could you possibly email me over a picture of the charm in question and I can see if it rings any bells?’

  ‘That would be fantastic. Are you sure you don’t want to see it in person, though…?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ll be lucky if I see the light of day for the next couple of weeks. There’s so much to organise over the holidays this year, a soirée at the Plaza, a cocktail evening at the Four Seasons, not to mention the library benefit…’

  ‘OK, I understand. Let me know your details and I’ll send a photo to you as soon as I can.’ Or, more likely, she’d get Danny to do it. But seeing as Jessica seemed to be so swamped with Christmas-related social arrangements, Holly didn’t expect to hear back from her anytime soon.

  ‘I can’t make any promises of course, but if it was given out as one of our prizes, then there is a possibility that we’ll have some more information about it. We rarely keep track of the winners, though…’

  ‘Honestly, any help you could give me at all would be amazing. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem. Where was it that you said you worked?’

  ‘The Secret Closet, just off Bleecker Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know the place.’

  ‘Oh.’ Holly was surprised. ‘Well, perhaps Ms Mead has sent stock our way on occasion. I’d imagine she has an amazing wardrobe – especially with all those charities and the events.’

  ‘I doubt it. Ms Mead certainly doesn’t need the commission on anything like that, and she takes great pride in her wardrobe.’

  ‘I’m sure she does.’ With the amount of money she obviously spent on her wardrobe, she wondered if Margot Mead realised the irony of spending money on designers, instead of simply donating that money to the many charities over which she presided. Then again, she sounded like a woman who could probably do both and still put groceries on the table.

  ‘You have to look good when you are raising funds for the children in Africa, or clean water in Southeast Asia, or breast cancer or what-have-you…’

  Holly’s ears pricked up. ‘Breast cancer, you said?’

  ‘Yes, among many others.’

  She thought again about the pink ribbon charm. Coincidence?

  ‘Does Ms Mead work on behalf of breast-cancer charities regularly?’ she enquired. ‘It’s just that there is another charm on the bracelet…’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Jessica said, when Holly explained her line of thinking. ‘That might narrow the search down a little. I can cross-reference to see if there were breast-cancer events or auctions at which that egg charm might have been used as a prize. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Honestly, I really can’t thank you enough.’

  Holly ended the call, new hope in her heart. Margot Mead’s assistant had not only promised to look into the egg charm, but might also be able to give her a lead associated with one of the others.

  This, taken with the information Danny had gleaned from the horseshoe, meant that she was getting somewhere. She planned to head down to the gallery at lunchtime to see if she could find out anything more on that end.

  Holly smiled. With luck she’d be able to reunite the bracelet with its (possibly by now frantic) owner very soon.

  Chapter 14

  At his apartment, Greg was on hold with Suzanne Lee, his contact from the NYT. Billy was right: to say that this particular writer was highly strung was a huge understatement.

  He picked up the tennis ball he had been rolling across the living-room floor to the opposite wall and sent it rolling again.

  Finally Suzanne’s clipped, businesslike voice came through. ‘So do you get it? Do you get what I want? I don’t want it to look like a Macy’s ad, OK? None of that happy-clappy stuff, you got it? I want classic, old-style New York, so you’re going to do Rockefeller, Wollman Rink, the Plaza,’ She paused. ‘Are you writing this down?’

  Greg looked at the scribbles he had made since the beginning of the conversation. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good, and I need a shot of Tiffany on Fifth and I want a bakery, one of those traditional kinds—’

  ‘I know a good one.’ Greg cut her off without thinking.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Glaser’s on the Upper East Side, German, been there for over a hundred years…’ He trailed off, uncertain.

  ‘OK, great!’

  Suzanne Lee hung up the phone and Greg was left to wonder about deadlines and how to get her the prints. He leafed through the directory and saw there was an email next to the number. He’d start right away; Suzanne sounded like the kind of person who wanted things ‘yesterday’. Obviously the woman was under a lot of stress, or maybe that’s the way she was all the time.

  Greg looked at his notes. He’d like to do the Rockefeller Center and the Plaza at night; they’d look especially festive and pretty all lit up. He would clean his equipment tonight, and tidy the darkroom, check fluids and that kind of thing. The bakery and Wollman Rink he could do tomorrow morning before heading over to his folks’ place for a while. Then maybe the night shots the following evening.

  He decided to do it in chunks and send digital photos through as he went: that way Suzanne could tell him if he was on the right track or not, which he suspected would be no trouble for her.

  But for now, he planned to take a trip downtown to work on the second phase of his new career plan, something that he hoped would boost Karen’s faith in him even more.

  * * *

  Holly walked with determination as she navigated the slush on Twenty-Fifth Street while taking special care not to ruin her black riding boots. She had to admit that she had possibly made a mistake in her wardrobe choice that morning and paid silent tribute to the Scotchguard she had applied when she first bought the boots in a Century 21 sale during the summer.

  She peered down the street and took a moment to check the address again. The street was awash with galleries, and she wanted to make sure that she had found the right one.

  ‘It should be just here.’ Holly looked up at the nondescript building in front of her and felt sure that she had found the correct one. Nothing said ‘art gallery of the highest standing’ like a brown brick building with no signs.

  She pulled her mink-coloured shearling coat tighter around her, taking a few steps forward to tug at the heavy and ornate oak door.

  A moment later she was welcomed by a blast of heat that was surprising considering the high ceilings in the space, and she welcomed the warmth.

  Dark wood floors complemented the red paint on the walls and reflected bursts of light from the track and recessed lighting fixtures above. The space could have easily been considered for a wing at MoMA, it was so elegant, and Holly’s gaze immediately wandered to the walls, which were covered in resplendent pop-art canvas paintings and photographs. Some were renditions of places here in New York, others of exotic locales around the world that Holly could only dream of.

  Fascinated, she started to wander along the perimeter of the room, almost forgetting why she had come in in the first place, until someone approached her silently from behind.

  ‘Welcome to the del Vecchio Gallery. Is there something I can help you with?’

  Holly turned round quickly to be faced with a dark-haired man who had the same sculpted jawline and arresting features as another man she had met in Manhattan many moons ago. The man in front of her spoke with an ever-so-soft Italian accent, an inflection that clearly indicated he had been in the US for some time, but had not yet given up his roots. His eyes were heavily lashed, but instead of blue like Nick’s, they were warm amber. A smile graced his lips, one that suggested he was a rogue and knew it, and Holly steeled herself, almost out of habit, not to fall prey to yet another charming man.

  However, as was Holly’s nature, she also had a hard time being rude to a stranger and a smile found its way to her lips.

  ‘Yes, maybe you can help me. I’m looking to speak to Gennaro del Vecchio.’

  The smile grew wider. ‘Well, then you are in luck, because I
am he.’

  ‘Oh,’ Holly stuttered, somewhat disarmed.

  The mere fact that she had asked for him directly seemed to make his body language suddenly click into overdrive, as if he was intrigued that he now had the audience of an attractive female.

  ‘And you are?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I’m Holly O’Neill.’

  ‘Well, Holly O’Neill, what brings you here today? Are you looking for a new piece of artwork?’

  Right, she thought to herself with a smile. Everything on the walls here probably costs more than I pay in a year’s rent.

  ‘The artwork is beautiful, but actually it’s about something else. And it’s sort of a long story. I wouldn’t want to interrupt you if you are busy?’

  She knew that she was the only person on the gallery floor just then, but she didn’t know if there was some sort of backstage business that the owner engaged in when there was no foot traffic.

  ‘Does it look like I am crushed with Christmas shoppers?’ he teased. ‘I run a business that is – how do you say it? – not the top priority when stuffing a stocking.’

  Holly let out a laugh at his somewhat broken English. She had to admit that she loved a man with an accent, and he was definitely handsome. Unfortunately he reminded her too much of someone she tried not to think about regularly.

  ‘And besides,’ he added pointedly, ‘I always have plenty of time for a beautiful woman.’

  I bet you do, thought Holly, as she mentally channelled some imaginary armour to shield herself from his charms. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So tell me your story, Holly O’Neill. What is it I can help you with?’

  Holly extracted the bracelet from her handbag and once again recapped her mission: how she was trying to track the owner by way of the charms, as well as her path to Gennaro’s front door. When she’d finished, she paused for breath and waited for the gallery owner to speak.