A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “You instructed him?” I was still trying to get this all straight.

  “Don’t you see, Faith, it’s a measure of my love and trust for you that you’ve been permitted to learn these things? These are things that no one else in the world knows, except for myself, Roberto, Harry—and now you. Dear Harry’s gone. That leaves only us three, and Roberto doesn’t really count.”

  I glanced at her gnarled fingers weaving in and out of the fur of her blanket. She was looking around at the walls. Her skin was translucent in the flat winter light.

  “You’re almost finished here, I see,” she said.

  “Mrs. Griffin, why on earth have you gone to all this trouble?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t want anything fake or second-rate in my life. I only want real things, the best things . . . So,” she continued brightly, “just the face of the girl left to paint.”

  “Tell me something—”

  “Anything,” she replied eagerly.

  “If Harry knew you long before he knew me, was he the one who told you about me?”

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I mean was it my article on Veronese or your other friends or Harry who told you about me?”

  “It was Harry, of course. He gave me your article.”

  “So you knew about me long before I knew anything about you?” I said.

  “Why yes, my dear,” she replied in a sympathetic tone. “But I don’t think you quite understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Harry became friends with you because of me. He found you for me.”

  “Found me for you?” I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about.

  “Faith, Harry adored you. Please don’t ever think he didn’t. But he’d been looking for you for a very long time, and when he met you, he knew that you were the one.”

  “The one?” I repeated.

  “You were the perfect one to replace Cassa,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’d heard about you, you see,” she went on. “And you fit the bill perfectly. First of all, you were around the age Cassa would have been had she lived. You were alone in the world. You were an artist with a great sensibility and an appreciation of beauty, which is so important to me. It all seemed right, so Harry arranged to meet you. I believe some mutual friends brought you to his apartment years ago, did they not?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “He told me he couldn’t believe it when you walked in the door that night!” Mrs. Griffin said jubilantly. “He called me up right after you’d left, going on and on about how much you reminded him of Cassa. He was so excited. He said the resemblance, the demeanor, the enthusiasm—everything was uncanny. He was beside himself with delight. And then as he got to know you, he grew to genuinely love you. He told me you could have been Cassa’s sister you were so like her—including your attachment to difficult and unworthy men, such as Mr. Noland.”

  “You know about John too?” I said, absolutely stunned.

  “I made it my business to know everything there was to know about you, dear,” she said in a kindly way, as though there was nothing odd about this. “Harry and I used to joke that you were so much like my daughter, you might have been an illegitimate child of Holt’s,” she giggled. “It was all too perfect, like the will of God, don’t you see?”

  “Tell me something,” I said, trying hard to digest the notion that Harry had initially befriended me in order to “acquire” me for Mrs. Griffin. “Why did you wait so long to meet me? I met Harry over thirteen years ago.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Faith, dear, there was one other young woman we were considering.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “You’re kidding!” I said.

  “Harry knew she wasn’t right.” But she was a little less independent than you are, and at first I felt she might be more amenable to the task.”

  “So what made you decide on me?” I asked politely.

  “Time,” she said, smiling. “We watched the two of you over a period of years. For that matter, Harry took a cursory look at some others as well, but they wouldn’t do at all. You see, we had to be sure that our final choice was the sort of person who could appreciate all this—” she gestured in the direction of the house, “and handle it correctly when the time comes. It became clear to both of us that this other young woman—who shall be nameless—was not equipped in the way you are to take on such a position in life. Oh, she was a sweet enough girl, but ultimately unsatisfactory for reasons I won’t go into. You, on the other hand, have all the prerequisites, Faith. Harry observed your character year in and year out, and he and I both concluded that you were perfectly suited for this . . . place.”

  “I see,” I said, nodding.

  “Faith, I’m old and rich and dying,” she went on, without apparent emotion. “I’ve lived a sinful life for which I need to atone. Some time ago, I thought that if I could make things up to Cassa, I’d be forgiven in God’s eyes—perhaps even in my own. But that’s impossible, because Cassa’s dead. I need to make things up to someone in my old age,” she said, staring at me intently, her eyes looking bluer and colder.

  “I need a companion whom I can love and trust—not a paid companion, of course,” she said with distaste. “A paid companion is a fake, and I only like real things, as you know. I need a child—a daughter—someone who will love me and find it in her heart to forgive me and accept me as I am, even knowing everything about me.”

  I let her take hold of my hand.

  “That first day I came to see you in your studio, I knew Harry had found you for me. I knew you were the one. In fact, I wanted to tell you right then and there.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Well, I suppose I had to get to know you, to see if I liked you,” she said, as if this made perfect sense.

  “To see if you liked me?” The thought amused me.

  “Well, I loved you right away, because you reminded me so much of Cassa, but I didn’t know if I was going to like you. You see the difference, don’t you? I must confess, I didn’t like Cassa very much, though I loved her deeply. If I hadn’t liked you, I wouldn’t have chosen you, because I think when one is acquiring something as important as this, one should get exactly what one wants.”

  “Oh. Yes, I can see that you would feel that way,” I said.

  “Everything must be exactly right in this kind of delicate matter. Otherwise the thing has little value.”

  I knew she was using the word right in the way that curators and dealers use it, to describe the authenticity of a piece of furniture.

  “And if I hadn’t been right,” I said, emphasizing the word, “what would Harry have done? Looked for someone else?”

  “No,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “We agreed I was getting too old for him to start the search all over again. It’s such a long process. If you hadn’t worked out, I’d have given up the idea entirely. But, you see,” she went on, oblivious to my growing amazement, “I do like you, and I love you, Faith. And I know you and I will be very happy together in the time I have left.”

  She paused as if she were waiting for me to return the compliment.

  “Mrs. Griffin,” I said, clearing my throat, “what exactly is it that you want from me?”

  She glanced at the faceless young woman in the mural, then looked back at me.

  “Faith, you are to be the most important acquisition of my life. You are to become my daughter.”

  I recalled the trompe l’oeil painting of the mother and child Harry had left me. There it was: the message from the grave.

  “What does that mean?” I asked her.

  “Well, it means you’ll come and live here, that all that I have will be yours one day. That you will forgive me and tak
e care of me until I die.”

  “Forgive you? For what, Mrs. Griffin?”

  “For Cassa . . . for all my sins . . . Think how I felt all those years, Faith,” she said softly. “Think how I felt.”

  I suddenly had a vision of this woman sitting alone in her bedroom, paralyzed with fear and denial while her ghastly husband abused her daughter nearby. Mrs. Griffin must have known, I thought. They all must have lived in a hellish symbiosis with one another, locked into that terrifying secret, unable to confront it, unwilling to break the pattern.

  “I’ll atone through you,” Mrs. Griffin went on, sounding hopeful, “by doing everything for you that I should have done—that I wanted to do—for her.”

  “Do you honestly think you can atone for your daughter’s death through me?”

  “I . . .” she stammered, “I hope so. I’m hoping it will make some difference in how I feel. I feel so badly now.” She coughed away the catch in her throat. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, shaking her head. “These moments are never what one imagines they’ll be, are they? Prick them and they burst—all empty.”

  “Just out of interest, Mrs. Griffin,” I said, purposely ignoring the melodrama of the moment, “was Harry supposed to get a commission on me?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she said simply, “upon my signing the adoption papers.”

  My eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Oh, Faith, you mustn’t be too hard on Harry,” she pleaded. “He was a dealer, after all, and acquisitions were his business. I know he needed the money, but that aspect of it had nothing to do with his feelings about you. He’d come to love you very much, and I know he thought he was doing you as much of a favor as he was doing me.”

  “I’m sure he did,” I said, trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.

  “As Frances Griffin’s daughter, the world will be yours,” she said grandly. “Look around you, my dear. You’ll inherit all this one day.”

  I knew what she meant, but all I could see were the painted figures on the walls, and the faceless portrait of a girl who’d been abused and murdered by her own father.

  “All this,” I repeated dully.

  “I know it must be a shock to you,” she said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But is it so wrong for me to want a daughter for the final part of my life, Faith? Is it? Is it so wrong to want you?” she said plaintively.

  “No, it’s not wrong,” I said, feeling completely defeated by the truth. “It’s just sad.”

  “Sad? Why sad?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because it shows how lonely people can be, that’s all.”

  “Yes, how true. The human condition, loneliness. And yet now, two lonely people have found each other and can give each other comfort. Hmm? Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do,” she said briskly. “And since I’m older than you, and wiser, you must trust my judgment. The sooner we get all this settled, the better. My lawyers have prepared the papers. Once you agree, we’ll petition the court. It shouldn’t take too much time after that. Meanwhile, I’ll have Deane help you move out of your apartment. You can keep whatever you like from it, of course. We’ll put it all somewhere. You’ll move out here with me. You can have your choice of rooms. The ballroom can be your studio. Later this year, provided I’m well enough, we’ll take a trip somewhere—wherever you like—Europe, South America. I’ll buy you anything you want. We’ll have such fun, looking for wonderful furniture and paintings together. I’ll introduce you to everyone as my daughter—my daughter, Faith Griffin.”

  She patted my hand, beaming at me. I didn’t know what to say.

  “How does that sound, hmm?” she pressed.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Griffin, I just, um . . . I have to think about it.”

  She frowned.

  “What is there to think about?”

  “There’s quite a lot actually. Please, I need some time.”

  She looked genuinely astonished.

  “But why? Your own mother’s dead. You’re alone in the world, like I am. Look what I’m offering you, Faith. And,” she added, as if it were the final flourish to the bargain, “I don’t have long to live.”

  “Please, Mrs. Griffin, I must think about it.”

  “All right then,” she said. “Give me your answer tomorrow.”

  Chapter 19

  That night, alone in my little apartment, I sat on the bed, stroking Brush, mulling over the events of the past few days. I still couldn’t quite believe that Harry, whom I’d loved and trusted all those years, had always been working secretly for Mrs. Griffin, that his friendship with me had been predicated on an elaborate scheme. I thought back on many of the moments and confidences we’d shared, wondering if they’d been genuine, or if Harry had cultivated our relationship with an eye to his commission.

  Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . The figure seemed absurd and arbitrary, making me overpriced and undervalued at the same time. Three quarters of a million dollars for a surrogate daughter. I wondered how on earth they’d arrived at that particular figure. How much negotiation had been involved? Was it a flat fee or a percentage of the amount they thought a daughter was worth? Would the sum have been different for the other woman had she been picked? Was she worth a million, or, perhaps, only six hundred thousand? It was so strange. I wondered briefly if poor old Harry had collected any of the money in advance to pay for expenses. No wonder he’d entertained me so well over the years, I thought somewhat bitterly. After all, I was an investment.

  Now lots of little things began to make sense. The gift of the dress, Harry’s subtle urging that I accept Mrs. Griffin’s commission, his resourcefulness in finding Madi, his insistence I go out to Colorado to see him, not to mention the fortune cookie from Foo’s. And Rodney? Had all that business about Rodney been a sham? Harry knew full well I had a soft spot in my heart for romance and would have encouraged him to use my interest in finding Madi as a ploy to contact his old lover. Naturally, I’d never expected him to produce any results, but when he did, it seemed too fortuitous a coincidence not to act on. Now, however, it was obvious that Rodney had nothing to do with it. Harry had invented the whole story, following Mrs. Griffin’s instructions to make uncovering the whereabouts of Madi look plausible.

  My mind drifted back to the early days of our friendship when I’d confided to Harry on an almost daily basis about my trials with John Noland. I remembered how we discussed my difficult childhood, how Harry had managed to pry out the innermost secrets of my heart. He’d made himself available to me at all hours to talk about my problems. He must have been comparing me to Cassandra every step of the way and reporting back to Mrs. Griffin. The miracle was that I never once suspected any motive on his part other than kindness.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Harry for what he’d done. I didn’t feel betrayed so much as I felt let down by him. I wondered, had he lived, would he eventually have told me of his involvement with Mrs. Griffin? Or was this a secret they would have kept between themselves forever?

  Every aspect of our friendship now seemed tainted by my knowledge that it had started under false pretenses. Yet I was certain that Harry had loved me and been a genuine friend. I kept reminding myself of what Mrs. Griffin had said: that he believed he was doing me a great favor by arranging my adoption by one of the richest and most elegant women in the world.

  Other thoughts crossed my mind as I made myself and Brush some dinner. I wondered if Roberto Madi had known all along about Mrs. Griffin’s plan. I suspected not, for it was he who warned me to be careful, that she was up to something, and I should be on my guard. I decided that Madi had simply done what he’d been told to do and gotten carried away in the process, reliving old memories. I wondered where he was now. Had he really left to go around the world, o
r was that a ruse as well, to get me out there on their timetable?

  I had no appetite. Brush licked some of the scraps off my plate and seemed surprised when I didn’t shoo him away. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit a fire, set to contemplate the biggest decision of my life.

  All that money, all those beautiful things . . . I could see pieces of gold dancing in the flames. The paintings alone were enough to make me think of selling my soul . . . And what was her price? Not that much. A couple of years—maybe less—with a woman I mistrusted, true, but mainly felt sorry for, and might possibly grow fond of. Would it be such a terrible life being her companion? She’d pamper me, confess her sins, confide her fears and longings. And in return, I’d live at The Haven in the lap of luxury with my own studio, under no pressure to make a living. I’d comfort her in her last days and try to grow to love and understand her as a daughter. Then, afterward—of course I’d always be waiting for the afterward—I’d be rich. What a life I could lead! Buy anything I desired, help other artists, travel everywhere, live surrounded by treasures, never having to worry about money or security again. All very tempting. Yes, I thought, why not? What were a couple of years compared to all that privilege and ease of mind, not to mention the good I could do?

  I thought of my own dear mother and wondered if she’d approve? Yes, I thought, of course she would. She’d encourage me to do it. She’d always wanted the best for me, and Frances Griffin was indisputably the best of a certain tradition. It was not a question of Frances taking Mother’s place in my heart. It was simply a matter of expediency, of opportunity, of luck.

  “Do you want to be filthy rich, Brush? Hmm?” I said to the little cat, curled up by my shoe in front of the fire.

  I began to look around my apartment, mentally going over the things I’d discard, the things I’d keep. The little brass hourglass Harry had given me for Christmas—I’d keep that. I’d keep all the things Harry had given me. My shabby couch—would I keep that? It was so comfortable. No, I suppose that could go. My needlepoint samplers, my botanical prints, the quirky little Victorian chairs with the tattered fringe, my dog’s-head andirons, the coal scuttle I used for dried flowers, the books I’d collected over the years . . . They weren’t things of much value, but . . . I caught myself before I finished the thought. Was I falling into Mrs. Griffin’s trap? Was I too dependent upon the possessions I’d accumulated? Why not just walk out clean and unencumbered?