by Amy Meyerson
Deborah is about to flip the page, curious to find out whether the children made it out alive, when she notices a footnote: Four days after the revolution erupted in Budapest, on November 3, the children had to be spirited back to Vienna by their steadfast nurse, a young redheaded beauty who gallantly risked her life to deliver the children safely to their parents in Vienna.
Deborah squeezes Beck’s foot. “Red hair.” Beck raises her eyebrows. Deborah reads aloud the footnote about the nurse who saved the children. She pokes the paper for emphasis. “Winkler says the nurse who saved the emperor’s children was ‘a young redheaded beauty.’” Beck is still looking at her mother like she’s wasting their time. “It’s Flora.”
Beck reaches for the paper and reads the footnote herself.
“Did Helen ever tell you what Flora did before she was born?”
Deborah shakes her head. “But she was known for her red hair. If it was Flora, if she saved future generations of Habsburgs—”
Beck takes off her glasses and smiles. “The emperor might have given her the Florentine as a reward.”
Fourteen
Before Beck has a chance to tell her siblings about the redheaded nurse, before she pitches her theory to Tom, he stops her in the hallway at work to talk to her about her father.
“This is getting out of control.” He thrusts the morning’s paper at her. On the front page, Kenny quotes Helen’s diary, from which he claims to have proof she promised him the Florentine Diamond.
“Why would they print this? It doesn’t even make sense.”
“Tell me you’ve got some info on him.”
“Well...” Beck hesitates. “Is there another way? It’s just...things with him and my mom, they were so hard for her. They’re not even divorced. I just worry it might escalate.”
Tom snaps his fingers. “A divorce. How susceptible is your father to money?”
“I’d say pretty damn susceptible.”
“We frame it as a divorce settlement, throw a little money his way, get him to sign an agreement that he won’t talk about the case.”
“It’s worth a shot. We have fifteen thousand dollars from—” Beck pauses. Tom doesn’t need to know about the money Viktor procured from the sale of Helen’s diamonds. “We can offer him fifteen.”
“Is that all you can get?”
Beck thinks of the brooch, still buried in her nightstand, the few thousand still tucked away in coffee cans and potpourri satchels. “I can probably get a bit more, but let’s start with fifteen? I think he’ll take it. I’ll put a call in to him today.”
“No.” Tom grabs her forearm, then quickly pulls away. “Best if it comes from me.”
As always, her first instinct is to fight. She can handle her father. She doesn’t need a man, particularly her ex, coming to her rescue. Then she reconsiders, picturing Kenny cowering as Tom lays into him.
Beck doesn’t learn what Tom says to Kenny, only that it happens quickly. The following week when he passes her in the hall, Tom casually mentions, “It’s been taken care of,” and that’s the end of the discussion regarding Kenny Miller. That’s also the end of the fifteen-thousand-dollar cushion the Millers have from the sale of Helen’s diamonds.
* * *
In early August, Beck and Tom join the other parties in court to review the numerous motions they’ve all filed to slow down discovery. As anticipated, Judge Ricci rejects their motion to suppress the seizure. She also rejects the motions from all parties to delay the case. Beck sits beside Tom as the judge issues her rulings.
“Your Honor,” one of the Austrians’ lawyer protests. “Our witnesses and experts are all overseas. There’s simply no way we can bring them over for depositions within a ninety-day period.”
“Seems to me a plane ride takes ten hours,” the judge says.
“Your Honor.” The lawyer for the Italians stands. Beck recognizes his name from the letter she received three months ago. “We insist you grant us access to the diamond so our experts can inspect it.”
“Do you doubt the report from the International Gemology Society?” the judge asks.
“We simply feel it’s prudent to have our experts confirm that it is indeed the Florentine Diamond before we continue with discovery.”
“Us, too,” the Habsburgs’ lawyer chimes in. “We have no reason to doubt the grading report, but we need our historians to be able to confirm the diamond in Federalist Bank is the Florentine.”
The judge turns to Tom, who has no objections to their request. Before they can protest for more time, the judge announces, “Each party can submit a list of names to access the diamond, and I’ll issue an order to the bank to provide limited access upon presentation of satisfactory identification. But the discovery deadline stands. I see no reason why all this cannot be accomplished by the end of September.”
The parties agree because they have no other choice. As Beck watches Judge Ricci walk out, she notices the judge’s shoulders are slumped, a recognition that try as she might, this case is going to drain resources. Even if she keeps the parties to a speedy trial, there will be appeals upon appeals, possibly all the way up to the Supreme Court. And then there are all the meritless claims, which the paralegals at the Department of Justice must dismiss one by one. That will likely take another year. At least.
En route to their office, Beck and Tom walk through the courtyard in city hall even though it’s faster to go around the building. Tourists mill, necks craned for a glimpse of William Penn towering above them, but Beck loves the outdoor enclave of city hall, the centuries of people who have stood there. Long before their first kiss, on one of their earliest strolls back to the office from the courthouse, Beck told Tom this. Since that first time, they have always walked through city hall.
Tom swings his briefcase like a lawyer in a movie. She knows what he would be saying to her if she was just a client, not a colleague, not his ex-girlfriend. He would be focused on the positives, why a swift case is better. He would highlight the merits of their situation. Instead, he walks quietly beside Beck, a silence that speaks louder than any false hopes. A silence that makes Beck want to prove him wrong. Their position is promising. It has to be.
“I have a lead,” Beck hears herself saying.
Having committed the wording to memory, she recites Winkler’s footnote verbatim. “‘Four days after the revolution erupted in Budapest, on November 3, the children had to be spirited back to Vienna by their steadfast nurse, a young redheaded beauty who gallantly risked her life to deliver the children safely to their parents in Vienna.’
“We haven’t been able to find much, anything really, about our great-grandmother, Flora. One thing we do know is that she had red hair.”
They walk out the other side of the courtyard, where the crowd dissipates as they progress across Market. Tom raises his eyebrows. “Red hair?”
“Only 2 percent of the world’s population has red hair. I know it’s a stretch, but what if the nurse was my great-grandmother? She would have had access to the diamond.”
“And you know the nurse’s name was Flora?”
Beck shakes her head. For that information, they would need to visit the Haus-, Hof-und Staatarchiv, a branch of the Austrian State archives in the Innere Stadt in Vienna, where the Habsburgs records are stored. The empire kept files on each court employee. A file for the redheaded nurse would be included among the other die Kammer.
“Let’s say the nurse is your great-grandmother—you think the emperor would have gifted her the Florentine? A diamond that precious to a nurse?”
They stop outside their office building. Although they are both going to the eighteenth floor, they remain on the sidewalk amid the smokers and lunchtime amblers.
“We should at least look into it,” Beck implores.
“We’ll find someone in Austria to go to the archives,” he says, holding the
door for her. They step inside the cavernous lobby.
“Maybe I could go,” Beck says. Tom laughs, quieting when he realizes she’s serious. “The author, Winkler...his son lives in Krems an der Donau, near Vienna. In the author’s note, it says that Winkler kept extensive notes from his interviews with the empress. She may have mentioned something about the crown jewels. Or the redheaded nurse. I reached out, and he said he’d give me a look.” In reality, Beck still hasn’t heard from Peter Winkler, despite having sent him a fifth email. With the presence of that essential footnote, however, she’s confident that his father’s archives must contain something useful. “If I go talk to him, he may open up to me more than some private investigator. And I know stories. From Helen. I’ll be able to vet anything we find in a way a stranger won’t.”
Tom stares at her, before finally saying, “I’ll run it by the partners. If they okay it, I want you to bring the translator with you.”
“Not a problem,” Beck says, trying to hide her excitement at the thought of a week in Vienna with Christian.
* * *
“Your firm is going to pay for you and Christian to go to Vienna?” Ashley asks Beck through the speaker on her cell phone. “Because of some footnote Deborah found?”
Ashley has traded in her SUV with the moon roof and safety detectors on the mirrors for a used station wagon that does not have Bluetooth. Although she insists to Ryan that the Millers will sell the diamond, that they do not need to put their house on the market, she has agreed to sell off whatever unnecessary luxuries they can, including both their cars. The shocks on the station wagon are worn, and she feels each bump as she drives to pick up her children from day camp, something that has become Ryan’s responsibility. Today, Ryan is in the city, meeting with his lawyer, opening an account to hold the money for restitution to his company, and reviewing what he should do over the next two months while he awaits his sentencing.
“What can I say, I have the gift of gab,” Beck says. “And the gift of knowing how to make our lawyer feel singularly guilty.”
“I guess Tom wasn’t a total waste, after all.” Ashley regrets this as soon as she says it.
To her surprise, Beck laughs and says, “I guess not.”
“Do we even know Flora was redheaded? Maybe she was, like, auburn. Or maybe Deborah’s remembering wrong. That wouldn’t be a first.”
“It’s worth a shot. Plus, I want to get a look at Winkler’s archives. His son has them.”
“I thought you couldn’t get in touch with him.”
“Not yet, but I will.”
Ashley pulls into the camp parking lot and turns off the engine, staring at the field where children are running in the distance. She hopes Lydia and Tyler are among those playing tag and doing cartwheels, that they are able to tune out their family troubles while they are with their peers. When the counselor blows her whistle announcing pickup, Lydia and Tyler will be surprised to find their mother waiting for them. Tyler will ask, Where’s Dad? and she will tell him the truth, that he’s meeting with his lawyer. They have agreed to answer the children’s questions as honestly as possible, without excuses or euphemisms.
“Hey, Beck?” Ashley says as she continues to stare at the mass of campers playing. “Can I come with you to Vienna?”
As Ashley waits for Beck to say no, she anticipates all Beck’s questions because she’s asking them of herself: How can she afford it? What about the kids? Can she leave them alone with Ryan? What’s going on with Ryan? When is he getting sentenced?
Ashley starts to say never mind, it was a stupid idea, but Beck interrupts, “Of course. You can always come. We still have the money Helen left us in her will. We can use that for a ticket, and maybe Mom can watch Ty and Lydia, give Ryan time to sort everything out.”
* * *
Jake’s request to go on the trip is more surprising. Beck says no on principal, not that it’s her decision to make. “Should you be leaving when Kristi’s in her second trimester? What if something happens? She’ll never forgive you if you’re not there.”
“She’s only twenty-nine weeks. Plus, her mom is with her,” Jake says, leaning back on Rico’s lumpy couch. The lingering tanginess of frozen pizza bites hangs in the air, making Jake queasy. From the odor to the movie posters tacked to the walls to the dishes littering the room, Rico’s apartment is in need of a woman’s touch. Even with the water stains and fraying furniture, Jake’s apartment is lighter, seemingly more spacious, clean smelling. Assuming it’s still his apartment, that is.
“With all the media craziness that’s been going on, don’t you want to be there for her? I know it’s not my place—”
“You’re right, it’s not your place.”
“My firm won’t pay for you to come with me.”
“I’m not asking for a handout,” he says, even though he was. But he’s already accrued so much debt since he was fired, what’s one more plane ticket? “I’m telling you that I want to go to Vienna and find our family’s roots, same as you. This isn’t just your mission because you took control of the lawsuit.”
Jake can sense Beck wanting to defend herself—she didn’t take control of anything; she was served a search and seizure by the FBI. He’s about to apologize for coming on too strong when Rico walks in. They chat briefly about plans for the night; it’s Rico’s weekly poker game, an activity that Jake both can’t afford and has never been interested in. He makes enough bad bets on other parts of his life.
“Don’t worry,” Jake says to Rico. “I’ll make myself scarce.”
“Who was that?” Beck asks when Jake returns his attention to their conversation. “Where are you?”
The last person Jake wants to tell about his fight with Kristi is Beck. Still, when she asks him, “What happened?” he finds himself admitting, “Everything.”
Jake starts with the good, how despite the reporters stalking their building, it brought him and Kristi closer together. It made their home a harbor from the outside world. Then one day, a reporter touched Kristi’s arm. He’d only meant to get her attention, but she was late for work, and before she knew what she was doing, she was yelling, and the crowd of reporters slowly stepped away, hushed. She ran to her car, sat behind the wheel, and cried. She needed to talk to Jake. Since he was at work, she knew he wouldn’t answer his phone. So she drove over to Trader Joe’s to find him.
“Wait, when did you get fired?” Beck asks.
“Like, four months ago. The guy, who was following me... I realized he wasn’t when I clocked him in the face.”
“Jesus, Jake.”
“I know, okay. I can pinpoint each wrong turn, starting with the punch.” Maybe even earlier when he let the fear creep in and cloud his judgment. One bad decision after the other until he came home from the library, instead of Trader Joe’s, and found Kristi sitting cross-legged on the couch, cradling her small stomach. The moment he saw her, he sensed a seismic shift.
Kristi stared into the distance as he kissed her cheek and asked her how her day was. “And how was your day?” she said by way of an answer. “You were at work, right?” He felt an immediate dread as she continued. “Because you can imagine my surprise when I stopped by and discovered you haven’t worked there in over four months.”
“I can explain.”
“Really? I’d love to hear it.”
“I was planning on telling you, I swear. The moment I got home, when you asked me what happened to my hand, my brain was telling you what happened and then I just said something different.”
“You mean you lied.”
“I lied,” he admitted. “For what it’s worth, I was trying to protect you. I thought we were going to get the money from the Italians, and I didn’t want you to worry prematurely. Then when that didn’t happen, my script was going so well I thought the best thing was to keep working on it. But I’ll get another job. Tomorrow, I’ll go out a
nd—”
“To protect me?” Her voice raised to dangerous decibels. “You did this for you. You knew if you told me, you’d have to face all the ways you keep screwing up, and you didn’t want to do that, so you lied. For four months.”
She was right. Of course she was right.
He sat beside her on the couch. “I’m really sorry, Kris. I don’t know what I was thinking.” As he reached for her, she jumped up and retreated to the other side of the living room.
Jake and Kristi squabble about dirty dishes, rent. They’ve never had a big, blowout fight like this. It’s something he prided himself on, a sign of a healthy relationship. As he watched Kristi continue to pace, the argument quickly became a catalog of everything that’s wrong with him: his lack of follow-through; the death of his ambition; his inability to think any further than five minutes ahead; his insistence that everything will always magically be fine without any effort; the fact that she’s drowning in student loan debt, and she still always paid for everything. As he listened, he realized he was wrong. Never fighting wasn’t a sign of a healthy relationship.
Jake couldn’t get a word in, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to tell Kristi all the things that were wrong with her, because there wasn’t anything about her he disliked.
“What’s worse is I think you actually like this roll-with-the-punches lifestyle. You think it’s romantic or something. See how romantic it is when you’re pushing fifty and can’t even get a car loan.” She shook her head. “You’re thirty-seven years old. You can’t keep acting like this. Actually, you can keep acting however you want. Go into debt to write your script. Spend the next ten years living in some mold-infested apartment. Do whatever you want.”
Jake didn’t understand what she was saying, not until she opened the door.
“Please, Kris. I know how bad this is. I can fix it, all right? I’ll get a job. We can go to therapy.”
Her eyes widened. “With what money? This isn’t just about you getting fired, and you know it. You’re stuck, Jake. Since I first met you, you’ve been floundering. I don’t know if it was the movie or your fight with Beck, but you can’t follow through with anything. It didn’t used to bother me, only now, with the baby, all this lying—it’s just too much. I can’t ignore it anymore.” He could see it on her lips. I’m sorry. It pained her to have to tell him all this.