Mrs. Houdini(58)

“How is Abby?” Gladys asked.

“She’s doing much better, as of this morning. Stella is relieved, obviously, but she’s also a bit sad. Abby decided she wants to keep the baby for herself. The scare changed her mind, I’m sure.”

Gladys nodded. “That is sad for Stella. She thought she was going to have a chance to be young again.”

“I remember saying once, in California, ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed; I’ll behave when I’m old.’ And now, of course, I am old, and so is Stella.” She looked at Gladys. “Will I see you tomorrow at the tearoom, our usual time?”

“I’m not sure. It depends what time I get back to the city.”

“Oh.” Bess frowned.

“I’ll try,” she said.

They stayed another hour, but Bess could tell Charles was uncomfortable in the extravagant gardens. She said good-bye, but as the car was being brought around, Gladys took her aside privately. “Who is that man you brought, really?”

“I met him in Atlantic City. He’s a photographer.”

“I know. You said that.” Gladys seemed agitated.

Bess laughed. “It’s not romantic between us, but I don’t think you should fall in love with him either. He’s thinking of becoming a priest.”

Charles was waving them over. “The car’s here,” he called. “Are you coming?”

Bess kissed Glady’s cheek. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”



Bess woke in the middle of the night, struggling for breath. She fumbled for the lamp and sat up in the yellow glow. She couldn’t remember what she had been dreaming about, although she felt much more clearheaded than she had when she’d fallen asleep. And she was hungry. Her stomach groaned.

She wrapped herself in a robe and padded downstairs, barefoot, to the kitchen. As she passed the library, she realized the fireplace was lit, and there was a lamp on next to Harry’s desk. Charles was sitting in Harry’s old chair, hunched over, his back to her.

“What are you doing?” she said. “That’s Harry’s desk.”

He spun around. But instead of looking guilty, he looked stricken. His face was white as a ghost’s. “Bess,” he said. “What is this?”

In his palm was a tiny rectangular photograph. Bess took it and came up beside him so she could hold it to the light. A young boy gazed back at her from the creased cardboard. He was posing in a studio in front of a painted backdrop of cherubs and clouds, his face solemn.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why were you looking through Harry’s things?” Was he trying to steal from her? She realized she didn’t know Charles well at all. And she rarely had guests in the house. She felt a small shiver run through her; George was not here tonight, and they were alone.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was looking for a book to read.” Charles retrieved the photograph, pinching it delicately between two fingers. “I found this inside one of the books. A Forster novel—one of my mother’s favorites. And this picture—this is me. As a child.”

Bess stared at him. “Are you sure?” It barely looked a thing like him.

“This photograph was part of my mother’s possessions. Why would you have this in your house?” He seemed eerily calm.

“I don’t know. My husband was a collector. He bought all kinds of things.”

“But don’t you see,” Charles insisted. “This is more than a coincidence. There’s something to this. Clearly your husband is trying to come through to us here.”

Bess felt her pulse quicken. “What are you saying?”

Charles grabbed her hands and pulled them to his chest. “I’m saying he’s chosen me, Bess. Just like you said. I have to admit I was skeptical when you came to me. But why would my photograph be in your house? It must have been sold with my mother’s things and somehow Harry came into possession of it. In some antiques store, maybe. Some auction.”

In her exhaustion she couldn’t quite muster up the same enthusiasm. She wasn’t sure he was being rational. Instead, she felt a wash of sympathy for him. He seemed suddenly very young, boyish almost, behind his glasses.

“What was it like on the orphan train?” she asked gently. “Was it dreadful?”

“They were very poor conditions.” Charles looked away, toward the window. “There was not enough room for all of us. We were not told where we were going. Some of us, who were older, thought we were being taken into the wilderness to be left.”

Bess gasped. “But was your new family loving to you, when you arrived?”

“They were kind enough. But they never loved me. They loved their dead son, who had died of fever. I stayed until I was seventeen, but then I left with another boy who hated it out there, too, and came back east.”

“What about the rest of your family? There were no brothers or sisters? No aunts or uncles? What about your father?”

Charles shook his head. “I never knew my father. He was a criminal, and died in prison.”

Bess wanted to reach out and wrap her arms around him. He was so vulnerable, standing there before her.

“What was your mother like?”

“She was beautiful.”

“How did she die?”