The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (31 page)

Eve wondered how he could possibly think that she hadn’t noticed, but realized it was probably less painful for him to believe than the truth, so she said nothing.

“And there were certain things that would just set her off. You’d step on a trip wire, without even knowing it, and she’d clam up. Go hide in her room. Weird things. A song playing on the radio. A poem in
The New Yorker
. The Vietnam War once, for heaven’s sake. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what would upset her.” He sighed again, a long exhale that seemed to let all the air out of his body. “Anyway, I got the feeling it all had something to do with New York. I offered to take her there once, for our anniversary, and she said, ‘God, no.’ Something must have happened, but she never wanted to talk about it. Not that I was one for asking about things.”

He sounded miserable. Eve didn’t know what was more surprising: her father’s insights or his candor.

“Oh, Dad.”

“Anyway. I won’t push. If you want to live in that treacherous town, you stay there. But please be more careful. No more walks late at night. And remember, there’s always a place for you here. And a job.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re really all right?”

“Yes.”

“I guess I’ll go on the computer and read all about it.” He paused again. “Think about coming for Christmas. Okay? I miss you, sweetheart.”

“I miss you, too,” said Eve.

   • • •

It was nearly six o’clock and she was starving. The fridge held little more than a yogurt and some almonds, of which she grabbed a handful. She collapsed on the love seat and turned on the TV.

Before she was able to take it all in, the phone rang. She let the machine pick up. “Are you watching TV?” It was Mark’s voice.

She dashed for the phone. “Uh … which channel?”

“Any channel. It started with the noon broadcasts, then the five’s, now the six’s.”

“I’m watching,” she said. It was so thoughtful of him to think of her when she felt so alone, so isolated.

He breathed slowly and loudly, in and out. “Were you put on earth just to screw up my life?”

“What?”

“Do you have any idea what happened today after you detonated your little bomb in the studio? As soon as the show was over, I was dragged into Giles’s office and ordered to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Explain why you did what you did. They thought it was my idea.”

“Oh God, Mark. No,” said Eve, looking at the TV, which now showed tape of her straddling the coat rack. She cringed and turned it off.

“And then all the other writers were called in—individually—in an effort to detect some sort of
plot
.” Eve was suddenly aware of traffic behind Mark’s voice.

“Mark, where are you?”

“On my cell outside. I can’t risk talking to you from the office.” Everything suddenly felt cloak-and-dagger, as if they were two characters in a Le Carré novel. “Can I ask you something?” Mark’s tone turned bitter. “Why the hell didn’t you think about the writers when you went off on Bliss like that?”

“The writers are exactly who I
was
thinking about,” replied Eve hotly. Didn’t he know that? A man she’d harbored a crush on for more than half a year should know that. “Look,” said Eve. “I’ll call Giles and tell him you had nothing to do with it. And I’ll call the writers to apolo—”

“No—don’t. Do not call anybody. And I’ve told all of the writers not to contact you. That could ruin everything. You wait till you hear from me.”

“Am I …” She almost couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Going to be fired?”

“I don’t know. If they were going to fire you, I think they would have done it already. Something weird is going on. There were a bunch of executives running in and out of meetings today. I heard the PR department sent out for pizza and they’re still huddled upstairs. Just lay low and try not to attract any more attention. And I’m sure this goes without saying, but absolutely no press. Okay?”

“Of course.” She coiled herself into the fetal position on the settee and closed her eyes, listening to static on the line for several moments after he hung up.

• • •

Around nine o’clock, the phone rang right next to her ear, startling her awake. She’d been dreaming about the Stiletto and her heart was pounding.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was so muffled she could hardly understand. “What?”

“We’re in my office,” said Quirine in a low voice. “We’re not supposed to call you. But we had to.”

“No matter what happens,” said Russell, “you did a great thing today. And whatever Mark says, we know why you did it.”

“Steve’s father even called, and they haven’t spoken in years,” said Quirine. “He was so moved by hearing his son mentioned on the show.”

Eve began to feel better. They spoke for a few more minutes and then Russell said he heard Mark in the hall and that they better hang up.

“Thanks for calling,” said Eve, suddenly missing them both intensely. “You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

Highball whined and paced the room, signaling she needed a walk. Downstairs, another cream envelope rested on the vestibule table.

Eve tucked the note into the inside pocket of her coat and went into the crisp night, once again brushing past the reporters gathered on the sidewalk.

• • •

Mercifully, Gwendolyn didn’t ask to come over. Instead, she invited Eve for lunch at her place. Gwendolyn met her at the door, took her coat, and offered her at least five different things to drink as well as a feast of takeout that spanned the nationalities from Greek to Chinese to Indian.

“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, but whatever we don’t eat you can take home. In case you don’t feel like cooking for a while.”

“Thanks,” said Eve, helping herself to stuffed grape leaves and samosas and realizing she was starving. “I want some of everything.”

Gwendolyn wanted to hear the Stiletto story in its entirety, and for the first time, Eve came close to explaining it exactly as she had experienced it, including the tangle of thoughts and memories that had confounded and incited her.

When she was done, Gwendolyn put a hand on hers. “Did you ever think …”

“What?”

“How proud your mother would be of you?”

Eve put her glass of wine down and turned to her friend. “That,” she said quietly, “is possibly the loveliest thought, ever.”

   • • •

Highball did not like water. She scraped against the edge of the tub, eyes wide with panic, trying to claw her way out. On previous attempts to bathe the dog, this was the point at which Eve had conceded defeat. But not today. They were going to an early dinner at Klieg’s and everyone had to look her best.

Klieg’s driver, André, greeted Eve at her front door with an umbrella to protect her from the snow that fell slowly and heavily through the darkening afternoon. He opened the car door for them and Highball hopped inside as if she’d been doing it all her
life. When they arrived at the townhouse, Marie ushered them in. “Mr. Klieg is on the telephone and asks that you and your companion wait upstairs in the drawing room. It’s at the top of the stairs, all the way to the left.”

They climbed the steps up to the residence. Eve couldn’t resist poking her head in several rooms, including a library. In contrast to the grand, airy first floor, this room felt like a cozy wooden cocoon. Diamond-patterned windows of deep purple and green glass filtered the light from the streetlamps to a soft glow. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling and two large leather armchairs took up the center of the space. One chair was perfectly smooth; the other, which Klieg evidently favored, was marked by a soft depression in the center. A stack of books towered on a table next to it. Eve touched her index finger to the spines, finding biographies of artists and emperors, and a picture book of the jewelry of sixteenth-century India.

Eve sank down onto the chair and ran her hands along the armrests. From this vantage point, she spied a deep shelf in the far corner that held dozens of framed photographs. She walked over and studied them. There were shots of Klieg at various times in his life, receiving awards or bowing with models at the end of a show. There were pictures of what looked like Klieg’s family back in Germany at weddings and Christmases. And there were several shots of Klieg with a pale sylph of a woman with short, dark hair, cut like Audrey Hepburn’s in
Roman Holiday
. Eve stared hard at her for several moments.

She scanned the other pictures for more shots of the woman. There was one photo so far back she couldn’t properly see it. She reached in and carefully brought it out without knocking over any of the others. It was a black-and-white of Klieg and the girl in front of the café Deux Magots, which was hung with bunting. The girl wore a simple but elegant geometric print dress with a sweetheart neckline and full skirt. Around them stood several other young men, most with slightly longer hair than Klieg’s. Some in ties, others in turtlenecks. Most with cigarettes. She heard a noise.

Klieg, in slacks and a sweater, strode into the room and Eve turned to face him. They’d always shaken hands when they met but this time he gripped her lightly by the shoulders and leaned down for a dry kiss on each cheek. “Here she is, the heroine.”

Eve blushed slightly. “I hope you don’t mind I came in here. It’s just such a wonderful room.”

“Not at all. Now tell me, your stitches. Do they give you much pain?”

“I barely feel them.”

“And this is your crime-fighting partner, I presume?” Klieg said, looking at the dog.

“Yes.” Eve instructed Highball to sit and was relieved when, with great earnestness, she managed it on the first try.

“Liebe,”
said Klieg, patting the dog lightly on the head. “So much valor in such a small package.”

“She’s a fighter, all right,” said Eve.

“Ready to eat?” Klieg asked. “I’ve had Marie lay a table in front of the fire.”

“Yes, but first, could you tell me about some of these pictures?” Eve held up the photograph she’d been staring at. “This woman in the middle, she’s in so many of them.…”

“Ah. Yes.” He paused and cleared his throat. “This is Louisa. On Bastille Day.” He smiled sadly, then blinked once or twice and said, “There is something about you that reminds me so much of her.”

“I suppose we do look alike.”

“Yes, but it’s something else. A spirit, perhaps. There is an expression you wear when you are listening intently, and this especially makes me think of her.” Eve felt a tingle as if a feather had passed across her neck. They stood side by side, looking at the photograph. In the quiet of the library, Eve could hear Klieg’s soft, regular breathing. “The first time you and I met, at the gala, it took my breath away. It almost hurt.”

Eve remembered his confused, haunted expression. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I do not know. Perhaps I did not want you to think I was expressing untoward interest in a lady as young as yourself.”

“Hmm.” Eve found this rather sweet. She wondered how long he’d been alone. “When did she die?”

“It was 1987. She was just forty-five.”

Eve noticed there were no children among the photographs. “Did you two ever have kids?”

“No,” said Klieg. “We wanted to but could not.”

“I’m sorry.” The naked pain in his tone made Eve want to change the subject. “I was wondering,” she said a few moments later, “if Donald might be in here somewhere?”

Klieg tapped his finger on the young man to Louisa’s left. Eve leaned in, and felt goose bumps rise on her flesh.

He looked right into the camera with dark, shrewd eyes under a gray beret and over a long, delicate pipe. His face was thin yet not feminine and a short, well-trimmed beard distinguished him from the clean-shaven crowd. But Eve went back to his eyes. They didn’t twinkle or beckon but pierced like the eyes of a man who’d taken one step back from the human condition and saw it more clearly than everyone else. Or at least thought he did.

“Incredible,” she said, under her breath. Klieg went on to point out the others: René LaForge, Lars Andersen, Ian Bellingham. All destined for fame, for world-class success. All except Donald, who didn’t possess the talent.

Klieg held his hand out for the picture and cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be rude but we really should go in.”