Authors: Erica Orloff

Illuminated (6 page)

BOOK: Illuminated

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“How could they do that, if they were really her friends? Her children?”

“He had the Rose name. The family fortune. Trusts. Art. Homes in London, Geneva, Los Angeles, and three places in New York City alone. He owned their world. All of it. She was penniless when he married her. It was rather scandalous at the time.” He clicked some more keys, and I saw his cursor hover over a link. “If you read this article, a society reporter at the time was paid to ‘invent’ a little bit about her background. The real Miriam Rose came from nothing. And in this city, among members of that circle . . . money and power talks.”

I leaned in closer to scan the article.

“Oh, and this one. Wait.” Harry clicked and pressed the mouse button. A photo came up from the 1980s of her in an incredibly elegant ruby-red velvet gown. “This was her at a ball for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“I’ve seen that dress before . . . haven’t I?” I asked.

“It’s a Valentino. And remember that necklace Julia Roberts wore in
Pretty Woman?
The one she wore to the opera? It was modeled after Miriam’s ruby and diamond set. Look at it. Remember?”

“I do!” I said. I leaned in and stared at her. “She’s what? In her forties here?”

Harry mentally calculated. “I think so.”

“She’s still stunning.”

Harry sighed. “Forty is
not
the kiss of death, you know.”

I smiled at him. “Sorry, Crypt-Keeper.”

“Don’t make me kill you, favorite niece.”

“
Only
niece,” I corrected him. I looked back at Miriam Rose in her gown. “She’s smiling, but her eyes look sad. I feel sorry for her.”

“Me, too,” murmured August.

“I wonder,” Harry said, clicking back to her wedding picture, “if she had any idea, as that beaming bride, what lay ahead.”

“Do any of us?” August asked. “I didn’t know yesterday that I was going to meet Calliope.” He seemed to realize what he’d said, so hurriedly added, “Or be hunting for the author of a palimpsest.”

I felt heat rush through my cheeks. Harry grinned. He was oh-so-proud of his matchmaking skills. In his circle of friends, he’d already had three weddings attributed to him, and he was godfather to one baby born of his setups.

August stood. “I’ve got to get back home. Need to get some groceries for my dad, especially if I’m going to be gone all day tomorrow.” He looked at me. “What are you doing the rest of the day?”

I was about to say that I had to stay and work, when instead Harry blurted out, “Nothing.”

I looked at my uncle, shocked.

“She’s done for the day here. Off you go.” He gestured like he was shooing a fly out of his office.

August grinned. “What do you say? If you come with me to the grocery store, I’ll cook you dinner.”

“Sure.” I stood up. I wasn’t going to argue about spending more time with August. “I’ll see you later, Uncle Harry.”

“Do you have cab money? I don’t want you taking the subway late.”

I nodded.

“All right, sweetie. Have fun.”

I followed August out of Harry’s office. When we left the auction house, we walked to the subway station. I slid my MetroCard through, and so did August. Then we descended the stairs. My calves were only too happy to remind me I had walked ninety flights of stairs already that day.

“How come you can go on the subway, but not in an elevator?”

“I like trains,” he said. A train sped into the station, and its whoosh of hot air blew my hair around. August swept a piece from my face. In that minute, I didn’t care that people were all around us hustling off the train and onto the train. He grabbed my hand and we boarded, but it was standing room only.

August held on to the overhead railing. He was so tall, it was effortless for him. I was packed in, squashed between him, a man in a suit with a briefcase, and an older woman wearing headphones and listening to her iPod. I could hear an old Beatles tune playing.

The subway car lurched as it pulled away. I tried to reach up to the railing, but I was a little too short to quite reach it. August instead clasped one of my arms, and pulled me to him to keep me balanced as the car rocked the way trains do. As the train sped through the dark tunnel, with every side-to-side motion, I felt how close he was, how pushed together we were. And I could hear him breathing heavily.

The car was hot, and I felt even warmer against him. At one point, the train lurched, and we were shoved together even closer, my chest pressed against his.

I shut my eyes for a minute, not sure whether I wanted him to kiss me so we could get that first kiss over, or whether I was terrified because I had never wanted someone to kiss me so much in my entire life. And terrified that I didn’t have a whole lot of kissing experience. I kept my eyes closed until we came to our stop. Then I opened them. He was staring at me. “Come on,” he whispered.

Holding my hand, we slid through the crowd and up the steps to the street above.

“One block this way to the grocery store.” Holding hands, I felt my chest pounding, and I was grateful when we got to the grocery store because it was something to do, something to distract me from how badly I wanted to kiss him and how scared I was. I had never felt scared like this before. Maybe nervous with a guy, first-date-jitters kind of thing (not that I’d had many first dates). But this was different.

August found us a cart, and he pushed it to the produce section, choosing fruits and vegetables.

“What do you say to steamed asparagus, seared ahi tuna, and couscous?” he asked, picking green asparagus, tall and tapered.

“I’d say my only attempt at cooking my entire life was my Easy-Bake Oven, so it sounds good.”

He laughed. “An Easy-Bake Oven, huh? All right, maybe you can do dessert.”

I shook my head. “I burned my Easy-Bake cakes. I can’t believe you can really make a dinner like that.” Uncle Harry believed in takeout, and Gabe was always at the theater. At home in Boston, I would either eat at my best friend’s house, where her mother believes the Chinese restaurant around the corner is her personal chef, or, rarely, when he showed up, my dad and would I eat out at his country club. But most nights I lived on ramen and anything frozen that could be put on a cookie sheet in the oven, heated at 425 degrees, and called a meal.

“Well, my father obviously doesn’t go out to restaurants, so I started cooking so that it was
like
eating out, only we were eating in. I was thirteen when I learned to make hollandaise.”

“Impressive.”

“Well, reserve judgment until after I’ve cooked for you. My couscous is occasionally a little rubbery.”

We wandered the aisles, filling our cart with fresh vegetables, a loaf of bread, juice, and soda. He plucked a bouquet of fresh flowers from a bucket and handed them to me.

“For you.”

I smelled the freesia. August wasn’t like anyone I had ever met before. He was a lot more mature. He didn’t seem interested in things typical guys were interested in. I didn’t know what to think. Then again, I didn’t really want to think—just to experience being with him.

He paid for the groceries, and we walked the four blocks to his house.

“Dad?” He called out when we entered.

“In here, August.” I heard his father’s voice from down the hall.

“I have Calliope with me.”

I followed August into the kitchen, where he set down the groceries. Then we walked down the hall, and he poked his head into his father’s office.

I stood to the side. His father smiled at us.

“I’m making tuna, asparagus . . . Give me a half hour or so, Dad.”

His father waved his hands. “No. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how late you would be. I already made myself a sandwich and ate at my desk. You cook for Calliope.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. See you later.”

August started back toward the kitchen. I smiled and waved my hand at Professor Sokolov. He winked at me and beamed. I looked on his desk. No plate—he hadn’t eaten. He was as obvious as Uncle Harry with this matchmaking bit.

In the kitchen August turned on a Bose SoundDock with an iPod placed in it. He touched the screen and found what he was looking for. Norah Jones’s dreamy voice floated out from the speakers.

August put some of the groceries away. Then he started pulling out pans.

“Can I help?”

“Nope. You already told me you can’t cook. I’m not letting you
near
my pans,” he teased.

“Then I’ll just watch,” I pretend-pouted and moved to the other side of the granite counter.

“You’ll be able to see better over here.”

“I can see standing over here,” I said.

“But I can’t smell your perfume from over there.” He turned and got me a small vase for the flowers he had bought me. And then he cooked. I had never really noticed a guy’s hands before, but I liked watching him chopping parsley and garlic with the knife, the way his fingers curled. He hands looked strong and very masculine.

Soon, the stovetop was sizzling, and steam was rising from the asparagus. August pulled out a pitcher of water with lemon slices floating in it and walked out the kitchen’s back door to his garden. He stepped in and out a few times, carrying things, and I carried a couple of bowls to help him.

When I walked out into the garden, I felt my body instantly relax. The koi pond gurgled; the birds twittered. Strung along the fence were twinkling white lights. It wasn’t dark yet—not in summer—but I knew, come nightfall, the garden had to be absolutely enchanting.

I glanced at the table August had been setting. It was a simple wrought-iron table-and-chair set. He had covered the table with a white linen tablecloth and candles.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll be back with our plates in a minute.”

He returned with our dinner. Everything was perfect—even his couscous. And it was an awful lot like eating out at a restaurant. I gave him a lot of credit for adapting to his father’s eccentricities.

He asked me, “How did you get the name Calliope?”

“My mother was a singer, and the name is from a daughter of Zeus. It means ‘beautiful voice.’ I think she hoped I could sing, too. But if you heard my singing voice . . . I can tell you that my name doesn’t suit me, put it that way. I’m no Norah Jones. And how did you get the name August? Your birthday?”

He nodded. “Born in August, and my mother’s favorite sculptor was Auguste Rodin.”

We talked all through supper, about our families and about music. About everything and nothing all at once. When supper was finished, I could see the sky turning gray with a wash of pink. A summer sky perfect for how I felt.

August stood. “Come on, let’s feed the koi.”

We walked to the koi pond. Fat goldfish kissed the surface, waiting for their dinner. We fed them, watching them flip onto their sides in a dance for the most pellets of food. Then we sat on a bench next to the pond, the water gurgling and peaceful.

“Do you think Miriam Rose will lead us to A.?”

He shrugged and took my hand, tracing my palm with his index finger. Even though it was hot out, I shivered.

“I’ve learned that just when you think you have something all figured out . . . there’s another layer to it,” he said.

He kept tracing my palm, and then we just sat in the quiet of his garden, until the sun set and the garden was illuminated by the white twinkling lights, and the birds had quieted in their nests. Until it felt like we were the only two people in the entire world.

Storms rage. Passions thunder.—A.

A
ugust insisted on coming all the way home with me, in the cab, making sure I was safely back at Uncle Harry’s apartment. I waved good-bye, and as I watched the cab pull away with him in the backseat, headed to his own house, I thought my insides would spill into the street. He was gone for a minute, and it felt like forever.

Upstairs, Uncle Harry waited, glass of red wine in his hand, jazz on the stereo. It was his and Gabe’s nightly tradition. Uncle Harry waited until Gabe got home, then they shared a glass of wine, listened to Herbie Hancock or John Coltrane or Miles Davis, and talked about their day.

“Calliope,” Uncle Harry said with a smile, “tell me the dress from Barney’s and my matchmaking skills were a success. Did you have a nice time?”

I sighed happily, not sure of what to say. Instead, I blurted out, “He’s perfect, Harry. Absolutely perfect.”

“Better than that guy you were dating sophomore year . . . the one who got into Boston College on a lacrosse scholarship. What was his name?”

“You know his name is Charlie.” I shook my head. “You just never liked him.”

“And was I
wrong?
”

BOOK: Illuminated

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