Two of a Kind (24 page)

E
arly the nex
t morning Christina set out again for Union Street. The day was bright but frigid, and she hurried along, down past Third Avenue and the Gowanus Canal until she reached Derrick's building. She had called everyone they knew in common, checked out his Facebook page and Twitter account—all of it led nowhere. At Andy's suggestion she'd even phoned a private investigator, though once she'd heard the price, she decided not to meet with him after all; she simply wouldn't let Andy spend that kind of money.

She was greeted by the now-familiar metal gate and the darkened windows above. Derrick truly seemed to have vanished. In the relentless light of day, the empty space where his name had been shone unnaturally bright. She squinted upward, trying to see the windows, so she didn't notice the man—elderly, walking an obese dachshund—until she'd bumped into him. “Hey, watch where you're going,” he said irately.

“So sorry,” said Christina, stepping back. He must have come out of the building; maybe he could tell her something. “I don't mean to trouble you, but are you a neighbor of Mr. Blascoe?” she asked. The man stared blankly as the dog tugged at the leash. “Derrick Blascoe?” she tried again.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked finally.

“Well, I'm a friend of his and I've been trying to get in touch with him. He's not answering his phone and I'm beginning to get worried.”

“You his friend? How come I never seen you before?”

Christina did not know what to say. She dug her hands into her pockets—she'd forgotten her gloves and they were cold—and to her dawning delight, her fingers closed around a dog biscuit. One of her clients had recently acquired a puppy and she'd taken to bringing treats when she made her visits. “Is it okay if I give him this?” she asked the man, producing the biscuit. The dog, attention riveted by the possibility of food, poked its long, thin snout in her direction. The man looked at it too, and then down at the dog. His whole demeanor changed. “Yeah, sure. Is it liver flavored? He loves liver.”

“I believe it is,” she said, though she had not the faintest idea.

“So ya lookin' for Derrick?”

“I am,” she said.

“He hasn't been around much.”

“Yes, I know.” Christina looked down at the dog; he had devoured the biscuit and was looking up at her with wet, hopeful eyes.

“Other people been looking for him too,” he offered. “Not just you.”

“Really?” She wished she had another biscuit.

“Yeah, some guys come in the middle of the night, pounding on the door, cursing, you name it. I gotta get up early in the morning”—he gestured to the dog—“and I did
not
appreciate it.”

“Do you know who they were? Did they say anything?”

“They kept threatening to break the door down if he didn't open up, but they didn't. If they come back, I'm calling the cops.”

“That's a good idea,” she said. She extricated her hand from her pocket and reached into her bag. She was looking for her card and found instead another biscuit. She fed it to the dog and then gave her card to the man. “If you see him or find out anything, anything at all, will you call me?” she asked.

He took the card.
“Christina's World,”
he read. “You Christina?” She nodded. “Same as my wife, may she rest in peace. Yeah, I'll call you if he turns up. But don't hold your breath.”

Discouraged, Christina turned and went home. She had to find Derrick and, with him, the Sargent portrait that had been entrusted to his care. Phoebe had told her that Ian would be in London on business for a few weeks, which had given her a small reprieve. What she would do when it was over, she had not a clue.

Then she remembered—there
was
someone else she and Derrick knew in common. Someone she had not called yet. Her name was Helen something or other; Christina had done a small job for her and she had dated Derrick a while back. Helen Southgate. That was it. Maybe Helen knew something. But the number Christina had for her was not in service and it took her a full hour online to track her down. Helen was now living in New Mexico. Christina could not find a phone number, but she did find an e-mail address and she quickly typed a message. When she checked her own messages a little while later, Helen's name appeared in her box; she had written back right away.

No, I haven't seen Derrick in a long time. He and I parted ways and haven't been in touch. I heard he'd been having . . . issues of some kind. Something personal. I think I must have sensed that because I knew I didn't want things to continue with him. To be honest, he kind of scared me.

Christina read these words over three times. She was both amazed that Helen had opened up to her so readily and alarmed by the information she had divulged. Derrick had scared her too. She thanked Helen for her response and got up from her desk. This was futile. She had better turn her attention to something else or the entire day would have been wasted.

Around five, the doorbell rang and she hurried to answer it. She was expecting a package of samples from a factory in North Carolina and hoped this was the UPS man with her delivery. Instead, it was Ian Haverstick. “May I come in?” Ian said. But it was not really a question.

“Of course,” she said. Her heart began an unpleasant stuttering in her chest. “Would you like something? A cup of coffee or tea?”

“Not necessary,” he said. “But I would like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Christina led him into her office; it felt more professional than either the kitchen or the parlor. And she desperately wanted to feel professional: she had been catching up on some paperwork, wearing her oldest, softest jeans and an oversized cashmere sweater that had belonged to Will. Despite the frayed collar and the large holes at either elbow, she had not been able to part with it. Sitting across from Ian, she felt like she was in her pajamas.

“I want that painting back,” he said flatly. “I think you've deliberately been stalling about returning it.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked. It took a supreme effort to keep her voice steady.

“Because you know Phoebe and I don't agree about it.” He was a tall, slightly doughy man with pale, thinning hair and surprisingly dark eyes. Those eyes were at odds with the rest of his mild appearance and gave him a look of quiet menace. “And you're both hoping that she'll be able to wear me down.”

“It's true, Phoebe doesn't want to sell it. But you can understand that. It represents a connection to her aunt.”

“I know Phoebe has a soft spot for her; she's just a big softy all around. She lets the girls get away with murder, if you ask me—but that's another story. Anyway, as for the aunt—” He raised his hand to the side of his head and made a circling motion with his index finger. “Nuts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why else would she keep a painting worth that much money stuck away in a closet?”

“You don't know why it was there,” Christina said desperately. She could not keep up this charade. Sooner rather than later she'd have to tell him.
The truth always feels better when it's out there on the
table,
Aunt Barb had been fond of saying. Sister Bernadette had been more succinct
: A lie
burdens your soul.
“Maybe she was planning on having it cleaned herself.”

“Or selling it and leaving us the money,” he countered.

“But she didn't sell it and now it belongs to Phoebe,” said Christina.

“And to me.” How smug and proprietary he sounded. “Anyway, this so-called cleaning has taken long enough. I want the painting—
today
.”

“Today?” Christina's voice squeaked up, like a cartoon mouse. “That's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don't even know if the restorer is there.”

“So call him and find out. Or we could walk over there. You said he's on Union Street.”

“It's so cold out,” she said, wretchedly aware of how pathetic her excuse sounded. “Can't we wait for a warmer day?”

“Look, I'm sick of this.” He stood up, looming over her. “If you won't help me get it, I'll go over there myself.”

“I'm afraid that won't do any good.” Christina stood up too.

“What are you talking about?” His dark eyes glowered.

“He's gone. Vanished somewhere. I've been trying to find him for weeks.”

“What?” His voice was low and furious. “What are you saying? Does he have the painting?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“You don't know! But you recommended him. You said you'd known him for years, that he could be trusted.”

“And everything I said was true. I'm as astonished as you are. I would never, ever have guessed—”

“
You
would never have guessed!” he sneered. “And who are
you
anyway? Some two-bit, second-rate decorator I didn't even want to hire. I don't believe you! You're probably in cahoots with him—the two of you think you can steal this painting and actually get away with it.”

“Just leave,” she said. She was shaking—with rage, with shame. “Leave right now.”

“I'll leave, all right,” said Ian. “But as of this minute, you can consider yourself fired. And you'll be hearing from my lawyer. I'm slapping you with a lawsuit so big and so fast it'll make your head spin.” Christina recoiled as he marched past her. She beat him to the door, though, and deftly managed to stop it before it was slammed shut in her face.

A
lthough it was long past midnight, Christina could not sleep. Outside her window, the March wind whistled and blew. Even though Andy assured her that it was the Haversticks' responsibility to contact the police about tracking down the missing painting, she was still sick about it. And though she may not have had a legal responsibility, she did have a moral one, and so she had called Phoebe. But Phoebe did not return the call. She also failed to return the two subsequent calls Christina made. And she did not answer Christina's e-mail. There was really nothing else she could do. Still, the whole thing left her shaken and upset. That ugly scene with Ian kept replaying over and over in her mind. And even when she managed to banish it, briefly, it was supplanted by the worry over money—she'd gone and lost the biggest and most lucrative job she'd had in a while and right now there was nothing on her immediate horizon that would replace it.

But there was no point to lying here fretting; she would get up and make herself some hot milk. On the way to the kitchen, she heard the sound of coughing. Jordan. Standing outside her daughter's room, she listened to the ragged, nasty sound for a moment before tapping on the door. “Are you all right?” she said, switching on the light.

Jordan was sitting up in bed, fine light brown hair that was so much like Christina's hanging down over her thin neck and bony shoulders. Christina realized she had not seen her hair down in months and was actually relieved to know that Jordan did not go to bed wearing that tightly bound bun.

“I'm okay. It's just a little cough.”

“Hardly little. You sound terrible.” She looked over at the rabbits—Jordan had kept one of the babies—and they were both awake as well.

“I'll be fine, Mom. But since you're here, could you get me some water? Please?”

In the morning, Christina wanted Jordan to stay home from school. The Winter Ball was the next day and the girl had been pushing herself relentlessly. But Jordan breezed into the kitchen, hair pulled tight into its customary bun, digging through the cabinets for one of those atrocious bars she insisted on calling food.

“At least let me make you a cup of tea,” Christina said.

“No time for tea, Mom. But thanks.”

“I'll put it in this—” She held out a stainless-steel thermos. “You can have it on the subway.” Jordan looked exasperated—
I told you
I'm fine
—but she waited while Christina made the tea, and deigned to accept it before walking out the door. That evening, she had a rehearsal, and refused all offers of dinner when she got home, saying she'd had something to eat with her friends in the city. All she wanted to do was go to bed.

Christina watched her slender young back, straight and resolute, as she ascended the stairs. Then she returned to her laptop, where she had been researching some difficult-to-find silk fringed tassels for a bunch of pillows she was having sewn for a client. Jordan's self-discipline was formidable, and at times even just the littlest bit scary. This past month especially she had given herself no slack at all. She rose early, went to school, ballet classes and rehearsals, brought home superlative grades, and never once complained about her punishing schedule. And if Jordan had not come to love Andy, she was at least polite.

Here was some fringe that looked like it would work—thick and seemingly lush, the tassels were a full three inches long. But it was imported from Belgium and cost forty-two dollars a yard, which meant her estimate was too low; she wasn't sure the client would swallow the added cost. It was a small job, but she was in no position to jeopardize it. She sent an e-mail to feel her out on the price, bookmarked the page, and switched off the computer.

That night, she lay awake for a long time, once more plagued by sleeplessness. Finally she got up and went to Jordan's door. No coughing. Relieved, she went back to bed. She was more nervous about this performance than Jordan seemed to be. Andy had kindly arranged for Lucy to make everyone a light supper and then Jordan could head over to the theater from there. But that afternoon Christina received a call from the school nurse. “Jordan's running a fever and I think she should go home,” she said.

“Did she ask to come home?”

“No. She said she had a terrible headache and wanted some Tylenol. She actually was pretty insistent on staying in school. I'm the one who thinks she should leave.”

“She has a performance tonight,” Christina explained. “It's only a very small part, but she's been under a lot of pressure.”

“Maybe if she sleeps for a couple of hours, she'll feel better,” said the nurse. “But keep an eye on her temperature. It was a hundred and one when I took it.”

While she waited for Jordan, Christina called Andy to say that they would not be joining him for dinner after all. “How sick is she?” he wanted to know.

“One hundred and one,” she said.

“Any other symptoms?”

“Headache and a stiff neck.”

“Stiff neck? That could be serious. She should see a doctor.”

“I don't think she'll agree. And she says she strained her neck in ballet class.”

“Are
you
a doctor?” His tone sounded a bit condescending. Bullying even. “Also, she's not eating enough,” he said. “Have you noticed how thin she is? What does she weigh?”

“I don't ask her questions like that.”

“Well, you should.” Again that tone. “Are you really going to let her perform tonight if she's not well?”

“Let me see how she seems when she gets here. I'll pump her full of Tylenol and then take her to the doctor tomorrow.”

“You're her mother. If you insist she has to see the doctor today—”

Christina heard the key in the lock. “That's her now,” she said. “I'll call you back.” Honestly, he could be so pushy at times.

Jordan looked awful. There were two hectic spots on her otherwise pale cheeks, and her eyes looked glassy. “Oh, you poor darling!” said Christina. “Why don't you go right upstairs and lie down?”

“I'm
not missing the performance tonight,” Jordan said defiantly. “I'm
not
.” She let her backpack tumble to the floor; a couple of pens and a highlighter rolled out and scattered, coming to rest at the edge of the rug.

“No one said anything about not performing tonight. I just want you to rest now so you'll feel well enough to dance later.”

“All right, but you
have
to promise to wake me up in time. Otherwise I'll
never
forgive you.”

“I promise,” Christina said. “Now please—go upstairs!”

Once Jordan was safely in her room, Christina began to make plans. Jordan needed to arrive early, so she would call a cab for her. She would go a little later to the theater herself; she wanted to be nearby in case Jordan needed her.

When Jordan woke, Christina took her temperature—now down to ninety-nine—and made her drink a cup of hot tea laced with honey. “And you should eat something,” she urged. “Even something light. You need the protein.”

“I'm too nervous to eat,” Jordan said, expression darkening.

So Christina packed her one of those vile protein bars and a bottle of Tylenol. She noticed that Jordan kept pressing her fingers to the back of her neck. “Why are you doing that?” she asked. “Does it still hurt?”

“I strained it doing a
port de bras
,” Jordan said. “I told you.”

“Stay in touch, sweetheart,” she said as she watched Jordan get into the cab. Then she went back into the house, where a heavy blanket of unease settled over her. She found she couldn't concentrate on anything and decided to start getting ready for the ball.

She put on the blue dress she and Stephen had bought together back in September; why did it suddenly look so dowdy? If only she could have worn the black dress again, but she had loaned it to Stephen for a shoot. Christina's anxiety seemed to get louder, an irritating buzz in her ears. Maybe Andy had a point, and she
should
have insisted Jordan see a doctor. Was it too late now? Probably, but suddenly she wanted to get there as soon as possible, limp blue dress and all. What did it matter what she wore?

She shoved her feet into a pair of black pumps and on her way to the mirror to gauge the effect, the heel on one snapped. Oh no! Leaving the ruined shoe by the bed, she slipped out of the other one and went into the bathroom. Even though it was March, she could wear those black sandals she'd bought back in the fall; she wouldn't be outside all that much. She reached for her compact and, in her haste, sent it careening to the floor. The tiny, round mirror cracked and shards of glass mingled with the mess of pressed powder that remained. She threw the whole thing into the garbage, wishing desperately Stephen were here to help her. But he was on that shoot; he would be at the theater, along with Misha, later.

She put on the sandals, grabbed the faux-fur jacket Stephen had left for her, and stuffed her cosmetics into her evening purse. Then she hurried up the street to where her car was parked. Her feet, in the sandals, were freezing, but she wasn't going back. She turned the heat on high, pulled out of the spot, and drove as fast as she dared toward the bridge. But once she got there, she was forced to wait; the traffic was horrendous. Christina stared at an SUV ahead of her, willing it to move. The SUV, along with the long line of cars in front of it, remained impervious to her wishes. No one was going anywhere.

•   •   •

Jordan
felt horrible when she arrived at the theater. Her head was throbbing, her mouth felt dry, and her neck was aching. But there was no way she wasn't going to perform tonight. A ramp led down to the stage door at the southern end of the Lincoln Center complex; she had just started down it when a voice behind her caused her to turn. It was that stupid Andy Stern, the absolute worst boyfriend her mother had ever dredged up.

“Jordan!” he said, striding over. “I'm so glad I caught you.”

“What are you doing here?” she said, not caring whether she sounded rude.

“I was worried,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I'm fine,” she said. She reached up to massage her neck, which was killing her; she was so,
so
tense.

“I'm not so sure of that. Why are you rubbing your neck?”

“It's nothing,” she said. “Now could you please move? You're blocking my way.” He'd planted himself right in front of her.

“Your neck.” He acted as if he hadn't even heard her. “That's a bad sign. You need to see a doctor. I tell you what—let's go inside. I can give you a quick exam and if I think you need to see someone else, I can—”

“You!” She took a big step back. “I don't want you to touch me—ever!”

“Fine, then we'll find someone else, but you have got to see someone right away.”

Jordan felt the minutes rushing by. She needed to get inside, and get into her costume, put on her makeup. Also to sit down; she felt herself starting to sway. “If you don't let me by, I'm going to start shouting.”

“Jordan, you're being stubborn. I'm here to help you—” He took her arm. He had a strong grip and though she tried, she couldn't pull away.

“Help!” Jordan cried. “This man is bothering me!”

A security guard opened the stage door and poked his head out. Then he started up the ramp. “What's going on here?” he said when he reached the spot where Jordan stood wriggling in Andy's grasp.

“He won't let me go!”

“This girl is sick and needs medical attention!”

The guard looked at the two of them; recognition settled on his face. “Jordan,” he said. “Is this man someone you know?”

“Yes, but he won't let me go and I need to get inside!”

“Excuse me, sir, but you're going to have to release her.”

“I told you: she needs to see a doctor.” He held tight and Jordan thrashed like a fish on the line.

“Sir,” the guard said. “Don't make me call the police.”

Andy looked at Jordan and she glared right back at him. He finally released her arm and she clutched it to her chest. “Thank you, Willie,” she said to the guard. “Thank you for saving me,” she said, and hurried down the ramp without looking back.

•   •   •

Christina
was still on the bridge—had it
ever
taken so long?—when the call from Jordan came in. “Mommy!” she cried. “Mommy, I hate him
so
much! I never want him in our house again. Never!”

Mommy?
Jordan had not called her
Mommy
in almost a decade. “Slow down,” Christina said, trying to rein in the wild horse of her own anxiety. “Tell me what happened.”

“It's Andy! He came to the theater, Mommy! He tried to keep me from going inside. He said he thought I shouldn't be dancing tonight. Then he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go. I tried to pull away, but I couldn't. He
hurt
me! I started to yell and Willie, the security guard, came over and made him go away. I loathe and despise him!”

Christina felt herself go hot with rage. How
dare
he! Accosting her child, upsetting her, inserting himself into something that was none of his business—she snapped back to the immediate situation when she heard Jordan weeping softly into the phone. “Sweetheart,” she said. “Sweetheart, I want you to get a grip. I'm on my way and I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to go in the bathroom and wash up. Have a drink of water. Can you do that?” There was a strange noise, almost like a mew. “Can you?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Jordan said meekly. “I can. I'll see you soon.” She clicked off.

Poor darling,
thought Christina.
She's just at the end of her tether.
But she would pull herself together; Christina was sure of it. The traffic started moving again and soon she was over the bridge and across Chambers Street. She was cruising along the West Side Highway when the phone buzzed again; she pounced on it, ready to dispense comfort to her daughter. But it wasn't Jordan. It was Andy. “You!” she said. “I cannot believe what you did! Can. Not. Believe. It. What were you thinking? You are so pushy sometimes!”