Two of a Kind Read online

  “No more for me,” she protested.

  “Come on, it’s a celebration,” he urged. “How often does a rogue Sargent turn up in a closet?”

  Reluctantly, Christina accepted another glass though she barely touched it. The candles in their votive glasses were beginning to blur before her eyes. Dessert was a complicated, multilayered cake with mocha frosting and crème fraîche that he insisted she try even though she was quite full from both the lamb and the wine. When it came time to leave, Derrick offered her a lift home. “Where are you parked?” she asked, weaving a little unsteadily alongside him.

  “Right here.” He pointed to a lipstick red Miata. “If you like, I can put the top down.”

  “That would be nice,” she said, thinking the night air would feel good. He took down the top and they climbed in. The breeze ruffled her hair, but it did clear her head too; she felt better, less cloudy. Derrick veered left on Union Street, past the dark, oily expanse of the Gowanus Canal; when he got to the other side, he stopped. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not a thing,” said Derrick. “I was just hoping you’d come in. I wanted you to see what I’d done with the painting.”

  “Ah, the painting,” she said. “It’s late, but I really would like to have a peek. . . .”

  “Good,” he said, and came around the car to open her door. Had he always been such a gentleman? Derrick’s shop was on the ground floor of the building. But he bypassed the metal security gate and instead led her upstairs to his loft above. “Why is the painting up here?” she asked.

  “I wanted to have it near me,” he explained.

  Christina nodded as he went around turning on lights and the radio—tuned to a classical station—too. She realized she had never been to his apartment before. The far wall was covered with books; a rolling wooden ladder made those on the top shelves accessible. There was a low-slung sectional sofa punctuated by several pillows in a folkloric, tribal print, a glass-topped coffee table, and, by the oversized windows, several potted plants. She thought she recognized the pillows; hadn’t she gotten those for him?

  “How about a nightcap?” he said. “I’ve got some cognac—”

  “None for me,” she said. “I’m already past my limit.” She continued to look around. “Where’s the painting?”

  “Follow me.” He’d poured himself a drink and was sipping from the glass as he took her hand and led her along. Christina was surprised by the gesture; years ago, she’d felt a mild attraction to Derrick, but it had been too soon after Will’s death and nothing had ever come of it. Had he felt it too? She couldn’t remember. “There,” he said. He led her behind a Japanese shoji screen; there was the painting, propped up on the bed that dominated the back wall of the loft.

  “You’ve done some cleaning, then?” she said as she got closer.

  “A little. It didn’t need much.”

  “So you think it’s the real deal,” she said.

  “I do.” He sounded excited. “Here, look.” He knelt to retrieve an oversized volume that was sitting on the floor and flipped open the pages. “See how the signatures match?”

  Christina peered at the book, whose pages showed several enlarged signatures. “It certainly does look like it.”

  “There’s something else too—Sargent pretty much gave up commissioned portraiture around 1907. So if this is his work, it was not a commission and may be even more valuable for that reason.”

  “The Haversticks will be happy,” Christina said.

  “He’s an idiot,” Derrick said. “And she’s the wife of an idiot. They don’t deserve this painting.” He turned to face her.

  “I knew you’d appreciate it,” she said nervously. Although she agreed with him about Ian Haverstick, his whole tone seemed unprofessional. “And that you’d—” She stopped, because Derrick had put an arm around her and kissed her. She was so surprised that she did not immediately protest, but the glass of cognac he’d been holding in the other hand sloshed slightly and a few drops landed on her neck. She stepped back.

  “Derrick, I don’t know what to say—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” He set down the glass and reached out for her. “We’ve always liked each other, Christina. The timing wasn’t right for us before, but maybe it is now.”

  “No, I’m sorry, it isn’t. I just don’t feel that way about you.”

  “Then why did you come back here with me?” His voice suddenly acquired an edge.

  “To see the painting,” she said. “Isn’t that why you invited me?”

  “Oh, come on.” It was practically a taunt. “You can’t have been that naive.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I can.” She tried to suppress the ribbon of fear that snaked through her. Derrick wasn’t a tall man, but with his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms he seemed a little, well, threatening. And just then, he moved closer and put his arms around her again. Tightly.

  “Come on,” he said again, but this time it was in a gentler tone, as if he was trying to persuade her.

  “I told you no,” she said firmly, and when he did not release her, she added, “I think we’ve both had too much to drink; I should go now.”

  “You’re right,” he said abruptly, and released her.

  Christina exhaled; she had not let herself truly taste the panic until it was no longer so imminent. She started moving toward the door when she realized Derrick was crying; he was bent over and his body heaved. “Are you all right?” she asked tentatively. She did not want to get any closer, but she was concerned.

  “Just go,” he said, voice muffled by his hands. When she did not move, he raised his head. “Please, Christina, I’m asking you to leave.” She did not wait to be asked again.

  SEVENTEEN

  Christina rushed into the house; she was running late and she still had to shower before Stephen came down to style her for the gala. Dumping her bag and sample books in her office, she went into the bathroom, turned on the water, and stripped. Minutes later, she was scurrying toward her room, head wrapped in a towel, dripping water as she went. Stephen appeared just as she was tying her bathrobe, and the doorbell rang. “That must be Magda,” he said.

  “Magda?”

  “She’s the hair and makeup person I told you about.”

  “Oh, Stephen, I’m sure she’s great, but how am I going to pay for her?” said Christina.

  “Relax,” he said. “She’ll barter her services. You must have something in that showroom of yours she’ll want. I’ll get the door; you just go in, sit down, and let her do her thing.”

  Christina did as she was told as Magda—an imposing creature with a white-blond crew cut and eyes dramatically rimmed in kohl—got to work. She was actually glad to be absolved of making any decisions for the moment. Using her fingers, Q-tips, triangular foam wedges, and an impressive assortment of brushes, Magda dabbed, dusted, rubbed, shaded, contoured, and covered.

  Christina had not told anyone, not even Stephen, what had happened with Derrick. Though she knew it was ridiculous, she did feel a little embarrassed by having gone up to the loft with him; maybe she had been leading him on. She had tried calling a couple of times but got no answer and her calls went unreturned. Then all of a sudden it was September. Jordan started her new school. A couple of old clients had returned from vacation with redecorating on their minds, which made up for some of the work Christina had lost the previous winter and spring. She made a trip up to the vast and dizzying flea market in Brimfield, Massachusetts—the issue with her car back in June had turned out to be minor after all—and came back with several major new acquisitions, including a couple of patchwork quilts for Andy Stern’s apartment. The evening with Derrick receded in her mind. But Andy didn’t. And now that the night of the gala was here, Christina was not sure what to expect.

  After about forty minutes, Magda pulled out a hand mirror
and gave it to Christina. Her own voluminous lashes blinked several times while she waited for the response.

  “It’s . . . quite a transformation,” Christina said. “I don’t recognize myself.” And she didn’t. It was her face yet not her face.

  “My God, you are stunning!” said Stephen when he surveyed her. “Wait until Misha sees you!”

  “I held off on the lipstick,” Magda said, clearly pleased by Stephen’s reaction. “I wanted to wait and see what dress you finally choose.” Cosmetic wedge in hand, she indulged in a last bit of blending near Christina’s chin. “But do you like it?”

  “Yes,” Christina said. “I do.”

  Stephen turned to Magda. “Girl, I knew you were good, but until today, I didn’t know how good.”

  Christina swatted him gently on the arm. “You’re making it sound like I was a train wreck before.”

  “Au contraire, darling. Your light was under a bushel, that’s all. Now we’ve just got to settle on what you’re going to wear.”

  Christina went upstairs to try on the blue dress. It had been made in the 1960s, and the color, she conceded, was very pretty. Hanging beads adorned the bodice and the skirt was covered in iridescent sequins. The shape was simple enough—sleeveless, scoop necked, with a zipper down the back. But something was wrong; the dress felt constricting. She took it off and reached for the other. The black lace dress was from the 1950s, and the sequins—also black, like moonlight on the water—and tiny rhinestones gave it a festive but elegant look. And when she slipped into it, she could appreciate the boned silk underlay and the meticulous satin hemline embroidered in a filigree pattern. The Empire waist gave her a long, lean line and the strapless bodice left her neck and shoulders bare. The full skirt allowed her to move freely, unimpeded. This was the one. She buckled the sandals and carefully descended the stairs; these heels were not made for walking. There was a brief silence when she appeared in the kitchen.

  “Oh. My. God.” Stephen stared at her. “I have to say it, Christina. You outstyled the stylist. You know I was campaigning for the blue, but this, this—” He paused. “Well, there are no words.”

  “It’s a fantastic dress,” added Magda. “And I know just what lipstick will be perfect.” She began looking through the many tubes she’d laid out on the table.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Stephen.

  “Where are you going?” Christina asked.

  “You’ll see; I’ve got the perfect accessory.” He darted up the stairs while Magda painted her lips an alarming shade of crimson.

  “I’ve never worn red lipstick in my life,” Christina said.

  “Well, this is the time to start. It looks amazing on you.”

  “What about her hair?” Magda said. “Can we take it down and brush it out?”

  “I always wear it up,” Christina said.

  “You can wear it up tonight,” Stephen said, “if you wear this.” From behind his back, he pulled out the rhinestone tiara.

  “Oh no!” Christina said. “Not the tiara!”

  “Just try it,” he begged. “For me.”

  Christina looked at his eager expression. How hard would it be to humor him? She’d put it on and then take it off in the car uptown. But when Stephen slipped the glittering tiara on her head, she had to admit it felt wonderful, like she’d returned to some more pure, innocent version of herself, the girl who had fallen in love with Will, not the woman who had buried him.

  “Shades of Audrey Hepburn,” breathed Stephen. He handed her one of the scarves he’d bought—a long, pink chiffon rectangle—to wear as a shawl, he explained, and Magda put the red lipstick in Christina’s black evening bag, in case she needed a touch-up later.

  “I’ll get it back to you,” Christina said, but Magda told her to keep it.

  Then they went upstairs to pose for pictures. Stephen had opened a bottle of wine and they were getting pretty silly, like kids on prom night, when Jordan walked into the house.

  “Mom?” She dropped her bag and walked over for a closer look. “Do you have a big date or something?”

  “It’s the New York City Ballet gala,” Christina said. “Remember I told you I was going?”

  “I forgot. Anyway, where did you come up with this outfit?” She circled around Christina, examining her from all angles.

  “It was a joint effort,” Stephen said, linking arms with Misha and Magda.

  “What do you think?” Christina asked.

  Jordan reached up to touch the tiara. “I think you’ll be the most beautiful mom there,” she said finally.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Christina said, reaching for her evening bag. Andy had insisted on sending a car for her and she had to admit it was a good idea; she did not want to be traveling to Lincoln Center by herself like this.

  Jordan stood by the stairs. “Who’s your date, anyway?”

  “Andy Stern,” Christina said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You’re going with him? Why?” Disbelief and distaste mingled in Jordan’s expression.

  “Well, because he asked me,” said Christina. “And because I like him.”

  “I can’t see anything to like,” she said, and left the room. Watching her go, Christina felt the heady little balloon of her excitement deflating slightly.

  “It’s not about him. It’s about you—she’s not used to sharing,” said Stephen. Christina nodded. But she would never be able to be serious about a man her daughter did not like. Magda was packing her things up when, outside, two sharp beeps sounded. Stephen looked out the window and then over in her direction. “Christina,” he said, opening the shutter wide to reveal the black Lincoln Town Car sitting in front of the house. “Your chariot awaits.”

  • • •

  The fountain in front of Lincoln Center spurted upward, spraying tiny droplets of water on the shoulders and back of Andy’s tuxedo. Not wanting to get wet, he stepped back and checked his watch. He’d told the car service he wanted Christina here by five thirty and it was now five thirty-two. All around him, people were clustered near the fountain, waiting to go into the theater; he could see the red carpet, along with the attendant paparazzi. The galas had become star vehicles of late, attracting all sorts of socialites and celebrities.

  Andy checked his watch again. Five thirty-four. The cocktail reception had just started. It would be followed by the evening’s performance, and then a two-thousand-dollar-a-plate black-tie dinner afterward. Rachel had been the balletomane in the family; Andy had always simply been along for the ride. But he found he’d been unable to forgo these tickets, even though they were expensive. Supporting the ballet was one more way of keeping his connection to his dead wife alive. And he remembered she had admired this new choreographer—Russian, and touted as the next Balanchine—and would have been so pleased that his was the featured work on the program tonight. Of course now that he knew Christina’s daughter was so involved in the ballet, he had another reason to learn more about it.

  Where was Christina? He could call her on his cell phone but decided to wait until five forty-five. And at five forty-three, he saw her emerge from the black Town Car, cross the plaza—endearingly wobbly on a pair of killer heels—and walk toward him. As she got closer, he could feel his jaw opening, almost without his volition, in surprise. Look at her, just look at her. Incredible black dress, the scarlet lips, the glittery thing on top of her head—was it a crown? Even in this celebrity-studded atmosphere—he’d already seen Meryl Streep, Sarah Jessica Parker, Ronald Lauder, and Ralph and Ricky Lauren—heads were turning in her direction. Bill Cunningham, a fixture of the New York social scene, was there with his camera and he snapped several shots of her as she passed; she looked that good.

  “Well hell-o,” he said, extending a hand. Close up, he could better appreciate the superb fit of the dress, which was strapless, revealing her pale arms and throat. He ha
d a sudden image of her nipples under the wet T-shirt and tried to imagine her breasts beneath the black lace and sequins. The thought drove him a little crazy. “Don’t you look terrific,” he said, a bit too loudly. “That’s some dress.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. The car came early, but there was traffic.”

  “No worries,” he said. “You’re here now. Shall we?” He took her elbow and guided her toward the entrance to the David H. Koch Theater at the southern end of the plaza. Just ahead of them was Barbara Walters talking to Candice Bergen. Stargazing was fun, but Andy was more interested in the woman by his side. There was something tantalizing about how she was at the same time both familiar and different. The dress and the thing on her head were certainly out there; the red lipstick was hot, but she still seemed like Christina, held together by a kind of reserve and poise that transcended what she wore. He bet she’d have that quality even when naked—if he was lucky enough to see her naked.

  All through the cocktail hour, he was aware that other people were watching her; it made him feel good. And when he ran into a former patient—there were at least three here he was aware of—he could tell she was very interested in his escort. During the performance, he kept stealing glances at her, though her eyes never strayed from the stage. Was she a true balletomane, or was she imagining her daughter up there one day?

  “Did you like that?” he asked during the intermission.

  “I thought it was brilliant,” she said. “I see why he’s being compared to Balanchine. There’s a similar precision and clarity to his vision, don’t you think? Also a wonderful economy that I think of as quintessential Balanchine.”

  Andy just nodded. He could not comment on the precision, clarity, or economy of what he’d just seen. Christina did not seem to notice that he had not replied and looked down at her program. The curtain went back up and again, when he attempted to seek her gaze, he saw only her profile, serene and silent.