Three Fates (13 page)

“Now what’s all this fuss?” Tilly came in, carrying a tray.

“Tia’s ill, you only have to look at her to see it, and she won’t have the doctor.”

“She looks just fine to me, blooming like a rose.”

“It’s fever.”

“Oh, now, Miss Alma, girl’s got some color in her cheeks for a change, that’s all. You sit down and have some nice iced tea. It’s jasmine, your favorite. And I’ve got some lovely green grapes here.”

“You washed them in that anti-toxin solution?”

“Absolutely. I’m going to put your Chopin on,” she added when she set down the tray. “Real low. You know how that always soothes your nerves.”

“Yes, yes, it does. Thank you, Tilly. What would I do without you?”

“Lord only knows,” Tilly said under her breath and added a wink for Tia as she walked out.

Alma sighed and sat. “My nerves haven’t been good,” she admitted to Tia. “I know you felt this trip was important for your career, but you’ve never been so far away for so long.”

And according to Dr. Lowenstein, Tia thought as she poured the tea, that was part of the problem. “I’m back now. And all in all, it was a fascinating trip. The lectures and signings were well attended, and it helped clear out some of the cobwebs I’ve been dealing with about the new book. Mother, I met this man—”

“A man? You met a man?” Alma came to attention. “What kind of man? Where? Tia, you know perfectly well how dangerous it is for a woman alone to travel, much less to hold conversations with strange men.”

“Mother, I’m not an imbecile.”

“You’re trusting and naive.”

“Yes, you’re right, so when he asked me to go back to his hotel room to discuss the modern significance of Homer, I went like a lamb to the slaughter. He ravished me, then passed me to his nefarious partner for sloppy seconds. Now I’m pregnant and I don’t know which one is the father.”

She didn’t know why she’d said it, honestly didn’t know how all that had burst out of her mouth. She felt her own headache coming on as Alma went white and clutched her chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But I wish you’d give me some credit for common sense. I’m seeing a perfectly nice man. We have an interesting connection that goes back to Henry Wyley.”

“You’re not pregnant.”

“No, of course not. I’m simply seeing a man who shares my interest in Greek myths, and who, coincidentally, had an ancestor on the
Lusitania.
A survivor.”

“Is he married?”

“No!” Shocked, insulted, Tia got to her feet to pace. “I wouldn’t date a married man.”

“Not if you
knew
he was married,” Alma said significantly. “Where did you meet him?”

“He attended one of my lectures, and he had business here in New York, so he looked me up.”

“What sort of business?”

Growing more frustrated by the minute, Tia pushed at her hair. It felt suddenly, abominably heavy. As if it were smothering her brain. “He’s in shipping. Mother, the point is that in talking about the Greeks, and the
Lusitania
, we touched on the Three Fates. The statues? You’ve heard Father mention them.”

“No, I can’t say I have, but someone asked me about them just the other day. Who was it?”

“Someone asked you about them? That’s odd.”

“It’s neither here nor there,” Alma said irritably. “It was in passing, at some function your father dragged me to though I was feeling unwell. That Gaye woman,” Alma remembered. “Anita Gaye. She has a hard look about her, if you ask me. And no wonder, marrying a man forty years older, and so blatantly for his money no matter what anyone says. Well, more fool he. She’s fooled your father, of course. Women like that always fool men. A good businesswoman, he says. A credit to the antiquity community. Hah! But where was I? I can’t concentrate. I’m just so out of sorts.”

“What did she ask you?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tia, I dislike speaking to the woman so can hardly be expected to remember some irritating conversation with her about some silly statues I’ve never heard of. You’re just trying to change the subject. Who is this man? What’s his name?”

“Sullivan. Malachi Sullivan. He’s from Ireland.”

“Ireland? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s an island, just northwest of England.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, it’s very unattractive. What do you know about him?”

“That I enjoy his company and he appears to enjoy mine.”

Alma let out a long-suffering sigh. One of her best weapons. “You don’t know who his family is, do you? Well, I’m sure he knows who yours is. I’m sure he knows very well who you come from. You’re a wealthy woman, Tia, living alone—which worries me to distraction—and a prime target for the unscrupulous. Shipping? We’ll see about that.”

“Don’t.” Tia’s voice snapped out, surprising Alma into lowering herself back into her chair. “Just don’t. You’re not going to have him investigated. You are not going to humiliate me again that way.”

“Humiliate you? What a thing to say. If you’re thinking of that . . . that history teacher, well, he wouldn’t have been so angry and upset if he’d had nothing to hide. A mother has a right to look after her only child’s welfare.”

“Your only child is nearly thirty, Mother. Couldn’t it be, just on a wild whim of fate, couldn’t it be that an attractive, interesting, intelligent man chooses to go out with me because he finds me an attractive, interesting, intelligent woman? Does he have to have some dark, underlying motive? Am I such a loser that no man could want a normal, natural relationship with me?”

“A loser?” Sincerely shocked, Alma gaped. “I don’t know what puts ideas like that in your head.”

“No,” Tia said wearily and turned toward the windows. “I bet you don’t. You needn’t worry. He’s only in New York a few days. He’ll be going back to Ireland soon and it’s unlikely we’ll see each other again. I can promise if he offers to sell me some bridge over the River Shannon or pops up with a great investment opportunity, I’ll turn him down. Meanwhile, I was wondering if you know where Henry Wyley’s journal might be. I’d like to study it.”

“How should I know? Ask your father. Obviously my concerns and advice are worthless to you. I don’t know why you bothered to come by.”

“I’m sorry I upset you.” She turned back, walked over to kiss Alma’s cheek again. “I love you, Mother. I love you very much. You get some rest.”

“I want you to call Dr. Realto,” Alma ordered as Tia walked away.

“Yes, I will.”

She lived dangerously and took a cab downtown to Wyley’s. She knew herself well enough to be certain if she went home in her current mood she would brood, and eventually decide her mother was right—about the state of her health, about Malachi, about her own pitiful appeal to the opposite sex.

Worse, she wanted to go home. To draw the drapes, huddle in her cave with her pills, her aromatherapy and a cool, soothing gel bag over her eyes.

Just, she thought in disgust, like her mother.

She needed to keep busy, to keep focused, and the idea of the journal and the Fates was a puzzle that would keep her mind occupied.

She paid the cabdriver, slid out and stood for a moment on the sidewalk in front of Wyley’s. As always, she felt a rush of wonder and pride. The lovely old brownstone with its leaded windows and stained-glass door had stood for a hundred years.

When she’d been young, her father—over Alma’s dire predictions and dark warnings—had taken her with him once a week. Into that treasure trove, into that Aladdin’s cave. He’d taught her, patiently she thought now, about eras, styles, woods, glass, ceramics. Art, and the bits and pieces people collected that became, in time, an art of its own.

She’d learned, and God, she’d wanted to please him. But she’d never been able to please them both, never been able to stay on her feet in that subtle and constant tug-of-war her parents had played with her.

And she’d been afraid of making a mistake and embarrassing him, had been tongue-tied with clients and customers, baffled by the inventory system. In the end, her father had deemed her hopeless. She could hardly blame him.

Still, when she stepped inside, she felt another wave of pride. It was so beautiful, so perfectly lovely. The air smelled lightly of polish and flowers.

Unlike the house uptown, things changed here all the time. It was a constant surprise to see a familiar piece missing, a new one in its place, and a kind of thrill when she recognized the changes, identified the new. She moved through the foyer, admiring the curves of the settee—Empire period, she decided, 1810-1830. The pair of gilt-gesso side tables were new stock, but she remembered the rococo candlesticks from her visit before she’d left for Europe.

She stepped into the first showroom and saw her father.

Seeing him always struck her with pride, and wonder, too. He was so robust and handsome. His hair was silver, and thick as mink pelt, his eyebrows black as midnight. He wore small, square-framed glasses, and behind them she knew his eyes would be dark and clever.

His suit was Italian, a navy pinstripe that was tailored for his strong frame.

He turned, glanced her way. After an almost imperceptible hesitation, he smiled. He passed an invoice to the clerk he’d been speaking to and crossed to her.

“So, the wanderer returns.” He bent to kiss her cheek, his lips barely meeting her skin. She had a rush of memory of being tossed high in the air, of squealing with terrified pleasure, of being caught again by those big, wide hands.

“I don’t mean to interrupt you.”

“It doesn’t matter. How was your trip?”

“It was good. It was very good.”

“Have you been by to see your mother?”

“Yes.” She shifted her gaze, stared hard at a display cabinet-on-chest. “I’ve just come from there. I’m sorry, we had a disagreement. I’m afraid she’s upset with me.”

“You had a disagreement with your mother?” He took his glasses off and polished the lenses with a snowy white handkerchief. “I believe the last time that happened was sometime in the early nineties. What did you argue about?”

“We didn’t really argue. But she may be upset when you get home tonight.”

“If your mother isn’t upset every other evening, I think I’ve walked into the wrong house.”

He gave her an absent pat on the shoulder that told her his mind was already moving away from her.

“I wonder if I could talk to you a minute about something else? The Three Fates?”

His gaze and his attention snapped back to her. “What about them?”

“I had a conversation the other day that reminded me of them. And of Henry Wyley’s journal. It sparked my interest when I was a child, and I’d like to read it again. In fact, I’ve been thinking I may be able to work a section on the mythology of those pieces into my new book.”

“The interest may be timely. Anita Gaye brought them up in a conversation a few weeks ago.”

“So Mother told me. Do you think she has a line on one of the other two that still exist?”

“If she does, I couldn’t get it out of her.” He slid his glasses back on and gave her a wolfish smile. “And I tried. If she locates one of the others, it would be of some interest in the community. Two, and she’ll make a reasonable splash. But without all three, it’s no major find.”

“And the third, according to the journal, must be lost in the North Atlantic. Still, I’m interested. Would you mind if I borrowed the book?”

“The journal is of considerable personal value to the family,” he began, “as well as its historic and monetary value given its age and author.”

Another time, she would have backed off. “You let me read it when I was twelve,” she reminded him.

“I had some hope you’d show an interest in the family history and the family business when you were twelve.”

“And I disappointed you. I’m sorry. I’d very much appreciate seeing the book. I can study it here if you’d prefer I didn’t take it home.”

He made a little hiss of impatience. “I’ll get it for you. It’s up in the vault.”

She sighed when he strode off, then retreated back into the foyer to sit on the edge of the settee and wait for him.

When he came back down the stairs, she rose. “Thank you.” She pressed the soft, faded leather to her breast. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

“You’re very careful with everything, Tia.” He walked to the door, opened it for her. “And that’s why, I think, you disappoint yourself.”

“WHERE DID YOU go?” Malachi danced his fingers over the back of Tia’s hand and watched her attention shift back to him.

“Nowhere important. Sorry. I’m not very good company tonight.”

“That’s for me to decide.” What she’d been, all evening, was broody. So far she’d barely touched her polenta, though he was sure it had been prepared following her specific instructions. It was clear to him that her mind kept drifting, and when it did, a sadness came over her face that made his heart ache.