The High Season(32)
“Arrogant bastard,” Daniel said, grinning. “That’s why I love him. Didn’t he always say he was a misanthrope rather than a misogynist? And people couldn’t tell the bloody difference?”
“Actually he said people couldn’t tell the fucking difference, but yes.”
“Ha. I think it’s brutal in all good ways,” Daniel said. “The life force unleashed.”
“Yes, he captured spirit, didn’t he.” She gestured at the painting. “But I have to confess I still see the misogyny.”
“I don’t believe in misogyny,” he said. “It’s too limiting. I believe in tribalism.”
He reached over and touched her wrist, then lifted it. For a panicked moment she thought he was about to make a pass. But he only looked at the watch. “May I?” There was a detail on it, a slender piece of metal that she realized could slide as Daniel touched it.
Fairy sounds. Ding ding ding and then a higher ping ping ping ping…coming from the watch itself. Some kind of alarm?
“Lucky you,” he said. “I almost bought one once. Just for that minute repeater music. The vintage ones are hard to find.”
He gave her a look that indicated she was undergoing a reevaluation. “I’ll have to check out the Belfry sometime.”
“That would be great. I’m always there.”
“Dedication. I like it.”
A woman appeared at the end of the hall, dressed in a white polo shirt and black pants. A housekeeper. She stood still, and Ruthie had a feeling it was a signal. Nothing so crass as a raised hand, or a nod.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Daniel said. “Party details. My daughter always tells me she’ll handle everything and then halfway through she’s dancing on the beach. Take your time, explore a bit, enjoy the art.”
The two disappeared behind a white wall.
Ruthie peeked down a hallway and found another room, this one with a fireplace and an Ed Ruscha. She jumped when she saw herself reflected in a mirrored sculpture that looked vaguely like Louise Bourgeois but wasn’t, and then into another room, this one with glass walls that faced the activity on the lawn and four white leather Mies benches placed in a perfect square. One exquisite curved steel hook in the wall with a gray hoodie hanging on it. That was it, no other furniture. No art, but she sat down anyway.
Ruthie lifted her arm. The watch slid like a bracelet, or a handcuff. She had barely looked at the watch this morning, just strapped it on. She noticed, maybe for the first time, how beautiful it was. She examined the smooth moony texture of the dial, the elegance of the numerals.
The hair on her neck prickled.
She reached for her phone and plugged in Patek Philippe. Scrolling and searching. AUCTION PRICES…IMPORTANT WATCHES…IMAGES…
What the heck was a minute repeater?
Holy crap. She pinched the glass on her phone, and the image bloomed. She looked from her wrist to the screen.
If it were real, it wouldn’t be nickel or steel, it would be platinum.
With shaking fingers she unbuckled it, then looked at the transparent back. She pushed the metal slide again. Ding ding ding ding ding ping ping tring tring tring tring tring tring tring…
It was five thirty-seven. It had just told her the time.
Which meant she was holding at least a quarter of a million dollars in her hand.
How could it be real, tossed in a box for a six-year-old? But who could make a fake this beautiful, this intricate? Surely someone could. People faked everything.
What had Carole said? Vintage stores and Canal Street and the Brooklyn Flea. Canal Street vendors ran whole businesses on fakes.
Was it possible that it was real, and Carole didn’t know? She’d bought a box full of junk for dress-up. A jumble of jewelry, of glitter and glass. A little girl pawing through it, ignoring the utilitarian, going for the bangles. A fortune tossed aside.
But if it was real…The cost of the watch would be so little to Carole and Lewis, a fraction of an annual bonus. For her…she could pay off the mortgage. They could own the house clear.
How many of her fights with Mike had centered on money? Where to spend it, how to save it. Unlike her, he hadn’t grown up without it.
Mike wasn’t used to the scramble for rent, let alone the fear. The shock of his parents’ death in a car accident was followed by the shock of discovering that they weren’t just New England parsimonious, they were in debt. They had been running on the fumes of the Dutton family inheritance, and it had petered out years before. They’d sold the family house and were renting from the new owners. The erosion of his dreams, for Mike, had resulted in an aggrieved battle with a world that had cheated him.
In one of their most spectacular fights, Mike had called her on the big lie of their marriage: that they got the best of the house. They said it at Thanksgiving, as they sat around the fire. They said it at Christmas, they said it on snowy February afternoons, they said it when the forsythia bloomed. Oh, the spectacular fall! The fairyland winter! The explosive spring! Bullshit! Mike had cried, brandishing a spatula in the air. They lived in a summer town, they had never had it between Memorial Day and Labor Day, not after the first year, when the house was still crap and they were broke. We never made a home, we made an investment. Admit it!
They had been doing the dishes, and Ruthie had gone on primly rinsing a cup, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. She did not believe in hurling crockery during arguments. She didn’t believe in arguments. Mike had never raised his voice to her before. When he was angry, he just accented his consonants. He called her by her name and hit the R hard, his lips forming an angry rosebud. RRU-thie.