The Gilder (21 page)

“What do you think, darling?” The contessa directed her question at Thomas, who nodded his head without looking at her.

Marina recalled pedaling home through the streets that night as if the devil himself were chasing her, then not sleeping a wink as she turned the scene over and over in her mind. What were they up to? Was Thomas some sort of pervert or just a pawn in one of the contessa’s sordid schemes? She’d only had a glimpse of him, but something in his stance, in the way he’d nodded, made her think of a bullied child. Did Sarah know? She thought back over all the conversations they’d ever had on the subject of Thomas and the contessa, but she couldn’t decide. The fact that Sarah had been dishonest about other things gave Marina pause, and in the dark hours of night, her mind ran wild, imagining schemes and conspiracy. What if Thomas and Sarah had contrived to impregnate her and intended to keep the child for themselves? Even in her exhausted, confused state, she could see the absurdity of the idea, but she was unable to find a compelling reason in favor of telling Sarah about her pregnancy or Thomas’s moonlighting. Perhaps she’d taken the coward’s way out in telling Sarah that her father was ill and that she was needed at home. But what else could she have done?

CHAPTER 12

P
eter and Marina stood hip to hip in front of Lydia’s stove, where steam rose from pots of boiling vegetables, curling wisps of hair that had escaped Marina’s brocade headband. June bustled into the kitchen carrying a stack of serving bowls and platters. “Marina, you look like a cherub with those curls around your face.”

Marina rolled her eyes and Peter elbowed her. “She’s our little gravy angel.”

“Sure is,” replied June. “Are we almost ready?”

“Not quite,” Marina said in the same moment that Peter replied, “Yep, just about.”

“It still needs to thicken, Peter. You put in too much water. Look.” Marina tapped the edge of the pot with the whisk.

“Well, if you’d let me put in that can of gravy, it wouldn’t have needed the water.”

“It didn’t need any ...”

“Okay, you two,” Lydia warned with a brandish of the corkscrew in her hand. “Let’s not have the gravy crusades all over again. I thought you made a pact.”

“We’re still waiting to have it ratified by the Pope,” Peter responded.

“Funny, very funny.” Marina smiled into the rich, brown sauce that was finally beginning to show signs of thickening.

Marina glanced at Zoe, who sat at the island watching their antics with bright, eager eyes, and hoped she wasn’t giving her daughter the wrong impression. She couldn’t deny that she liked Peter immensely. He was easy to be with, funny, smart, sensitive, and attractive. With his red hair and freckles, he might easily be mistaken for a grad student rather than the well-respected antiques dealer that he was. But he was family, and she didn’t want to mess with that. He stood close to her now, even though he’d clearly let her take over the gravy, and she could smell his aftershave—something spicy.

Marina moved away from him slightly and announced, “Okay, we’re ready. Let’s get this bird on the table.”

Dinner was filled with laughter and a great clattering of plates and cutlery, seconds and even thirds for some, followed by a lull, during which the adults leaned back in their chairs with a groan, and told the children they were excused until dessert.

“Why is it that everyone always eats too much at a holiday dinner?” June asked no one in particular.

“Is this a riddle?” asked Peter.

“Because it’s delicious,” said Marina.

“Because we’re gluttonous creatures.” Lydia pushed out her chair and picked up the turkey platter.

“It’s a mystery to me.” June shrugged, following Lydia into the kitchen. “I always swear that I won’t, but I always do.”

Peter turned to Marina. “Are you coming into town this weekend?”

“I have a hair appointment on Saturday. Why?”

“Good. Will you come by the shop? There’s something I want to show you.”

“What?”

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.” When Marina frowned, he chuckled and added, “Don’t worry, it’s something nice.”

Marina had been in Peter’s shop many times for his annual Christmas party, but it was the first time he’d ever asked her specifically to visit, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Peter’s shop was located in the center of downtown Hudson where the shops had been renovated and now formed an upscale antiques district. Marina stood in front of the plate glass window as if admiring the antique maps on display. She liked what she saw, the freshly styled hair, crisp white shirt, and her favorite camel blazer. The one that made her feel put together regardless of the loose ends hanging from her life. She shifted her gaze from her image to the framed maps of ancient Africa that hung on a backdrop of charcoal gray suede. Below them in a glass display case lined with pale gray velvet, loose unfurled maps were held down with small glass weights in each corner. The one directly in front of her, of New England, had an elaborate, gilded cartouche around the edges.

All at once, she became aware of someone standing at her side. She stepped away as she turned her head. Peter stood with knitted brow and pursed lips, imitating her contemplation of the window.

“Oh, it’s you.” She blushed, hoping he hadn’t seen her admiring herself.

“It didn’t seem you were ever coming in, so I thought I’d better come out and get you.”

“The maps are so beautiful, I got caught up in them.”

“I could see that. What were you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing really, it’s silly... .”

“No, really, I want to know.”

“I was thinking about how much easier life might be if we were all given maps at birth.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Peter nodded thoughtfully. “But there would always be unexpected things, things you couldn’t see beyond the borders.”

“You’re probably right. Maybe a really, really big map? Do you sell anything like that?”

Peter smiled. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you come in and we’ll look.”

Before her first visit to Peter’s shop a number of years ago, she had imagined a dark, musty space with heavily carved woodwork covered in dust. But the interior, like the display window, was decorated in shades of gray, golden wood tones, classic lines, and soft lighting. It felt like a cross between an art gallery and a library. A recording of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” played overhead. She felt Peter watching her as she moved from case to case, running her fingers lightly along the edges of the cabinets, careful not to touch the glass. She was just beginning to feel awkward when he said, “Come. Let me show you what I found.”

She followed him into a small sitting room, then through a doorway into a dimly lit vault, where the air felt cooler.

“I hope it’s not too chilly for you. We have a climate-control system in here to help preserve the older maps.” A wooden table with a slick, polished surface took up the center of the room, and cabinets with wide, shallow drawers lined the walls. Peter put on a pair of white cotton gloves from a box on the countertop, opened a drawer that slid out with a sigh, and withdrew a large cellophane folder.

“I thought you’d enjoy seeing this. It’s from the estate ‘of a gentleman.’ We’re working on the provenance now.”

Hand drawn on heavy, discolored parchment was a primitive version of the city she had known and loved. A city that had grown in the few hundred years since the map had been set down, but whose heart remained the same: the Arno, the Duomo, the hills beyond—they were all there, lovingly rendered in colored inks muted with age. “It’s lovely,” Marina breathed, her eyes following familiar streets.

Peter looked pleased. “I have others from the same collection, not of Florence, but they’re quite beautiful.”

He shifted the maps and bent over to explain their features, but Marina found she was more interested in the nape of his neck where a crescent-shaped birthmark showed itself just above his collar. Again, she caught the scent of his cologne and was shocked by the yearning it evoked in her. What was it that kept her from reaching out, not just to Peter but to anyone?

Peter lingered over the maps for a few moments, then glanced at Marina. “I’m sorry. Here I am going on and on like a kid showing off his toys. How about a coffee? We can go across the street.”

Marina stepped away. “No, no, it’s okay, really. I love the maps. They’re beautiful. But I do have to go. I have things to do. I’m leaving for Florence in a couple of days, and I need to spend some time with Zoe.”

Peter nodded. “Lydia mentioned that she was having some difficulties.”

Marina stiffened. “She did?”

“She wasn’t specific,” he assured her. “Just teenage angst, I assume.”

“Yes, well ... I think she’s fine right now.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Marina shook her head. “No, but thanks. I have some things to straighten out. Everything will be okay. Anyway, I’ve got to get going.” Marina moved toward the door.

Peter followed her. “Are you nervous about your lecture?”

Marina nodded. “Among other things.”

“You’ll be great. I have no doubt.” He opened the front door and walked out onto the sidewalk with her. “But promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll send me a postcard.”

Marina blushed. “I’ll do my best.”

Marina lay on the couch where an hour before, after taking Sasha home, she’d sat down to have a quick cup of tea and flip though a magazine. She’d spent the morning finishing her packing while Zoe and Sasha slept in, then made them waffles. After breakfast she left them to clean up the kitchen and get on with their project, whatever it was, while she went out to clean her studio. Aretha set the tone, and Marina shimmied around the studio to “Jump” and “Freeway of Love” while she put things in order so she could get right to work upon her return. Christmas gifts needed finishing and time would be short. When she went back to the house in the late afternoon to take Sasha home, the girls protested that they hadn’t finished their research, but Marina was firm—they’d had plenty of time together and Zoe still had her homework to do.

She knew she should get up off the couch and check on Zoe, who, judging by the walloping beat that traveled down through the walls from her stereo, was unlikely to be getting much work done. But she wasn’t ready to move from her supine reverie. The last rays of sunlight slanted across the living room, imbuing the room with a tawny glow, and for the umpteenth time in the last twenty-four hours, her mind drifted to the nape of Peter’s neck. What if ...

A movement nearby pulled her from her stupor. She opened her eyes. Zoe stood just inside the living room, her face blanched of color, the skin around her eyes blotched and red. She looked tiny within the baggy jeans and oversized flannel shirt, as if her body had pulled away from its wrapping like a shriveled seed in a pod left out in the sun.

Marina sat up, swinging her feet to the floor. “Zoe, what is it?”

Zoe walked toward her on rigid legs, a small packet of crumpled papers in her fist. Her mouth was open, but she made no sound. She stopped a few feet from the couch and threw her arm forward as if she meant to fling the papers at her mother, but her hand didn’t release them.

“Zoe, what is it?” Marina repeated, reaching for her, but Zoe backed away, waving the papers in front of her. Marina wasn’t sure if she was showing them to her or warding her off.

“Zoe, stop!” Fear sharpened her words as she grabbed Zoe’s wrist, prying her fingers gently from around the papers.

“You lied to me,” Zoe said in a monotone.

“Zoe, sweetie,” Marina murmured, smoothing the papers on her lap. She recognized the newspaper clippings. One of them had a small photograph of Thomas with a camera slung around his neck.

“Zoe, where did you get these?” Her mind scrambled as she skimmed the articles, but she could not think what it was she was looking for. “These are about the accident, you already know this.”

Zoe was quiet, very still. Marina looked up from her frantic search. She watched as Zoe moved her hands to either side of her face, pressing her fingertips into her cheeks, dragging them slowly down her face, leaving streaks of pink on white, like war paint. She began to speak, emphasizing the words as if pressing each one into Marina’s flesh.

“It says he was killed in December ...
1983!
”

Marina nodded.

“That’s five years
after
I was born.”

Marina felt the words stick to her heart like leeches in search of blood.

“You told me he died
before
I was born.”

Marina watched, speechless, as Zoe’s eyes filled and overflowed.

“Why did you tell me he died before I was born?”

Marina stared at her daughter’s crumpled face.

“He was never coming to be with us! He didn’t want me, did he?” Zoe’s voice rose to a wail. Marina moved closer, taking Zoe’s hands into hers.

“No, no, Zoe, it wasn’t at all like that.”

“He hated me. He didn’t want me,” Zoe moaned.

“No, Zoe, he
didn’t
hate you.” Marina squeezed Zoe’s hands, willing her to believe. “He didn’t hate you, sweetie.” She hesitated and then stepped off the ledge. “He didn’t even know about you. I never told him.”