“Don’t forget that even chestnuts can go bad,” I said, wishing I hadn’t.
He rapped his knuckle twice on the table, rose from his chair, and whispered, “Stay right here while I run upstairs and get that Meursault for Nicole.”
While he was away, I rose and walked to the railing at the edge of the veranda and, shading my eyes against the sun lowering itself in the west, looked for Nicole down by the water’s edge. A southbound train, perhaps the Lake Shore Limited out of Chicago, given its sequence of sleeper cars, temporarily blocked my view as it shot through the station, air horn blaring. After a minute, I located her sitting on a riverside bench with her book, and a surge of love for my daughter swept up through my chest—love, and an urgent, almost aching imperative that I protect her at all costs. She was gifted beyond her years, always had been, but stood at the precipice of adulthood in a much more precarious situation than I think she understood. I couldn’t retrofit the architecture of my life, so to speak, couldn’t replace some of the rotten building materials I’d used to construct who I was. But I could make sure that my every decision going forward was in the interest of keeping her, Maisie, and their mother as free from strife as I possibly could. With Nicky’s invaluable help, unwitting or not, this Poe conspiracy, this high-stakes confidence game, had to be seen through to its inevitable end. It was the only way for everyone involved—or, rather, most everyone—to slip away unscathed. I had only two paths. Either to turn myself in or to trust Atticus. And I wasn’t about to turn myself in.
“Lovely view, isn’t it?” he said, standing behind me with a canvas bag dangling from his fingers. “Here’s your daughter’s Meursault. It’s even better than the bottle we’re sharing. Comtes Lafon Meursault-Genevrières. Tell her it doesn’t want to be overchilled.”
“I’ll tell her, and thanks, really,” I said. “Meantime, if you don’t mind, I do have one more question for you.”
“We have another glass apiece left,” he said, waving his hand back toward the table. “Let’s not let good wine go to waste. I too wanted to ask a question, but you first.”
“When you said earlier that Meghan would not present a problem, was that intended to sound menacing? If so, it’s more Slader’s style than what I’d expect from you.”
“Another reason his usefulness here may have reached its end,” Atticus said, almost as if making a note to himself. “But no, not menacing. Encouraging, rather.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You can’t see how just yet,” he responded. “I don’t mean to be cryptic, but you’ll understand in retrospect how this all needed to unfold.”
Seeing he had no intention of revealing what was set in motion, I told him, “You know we’re leaving for the city sometime tomorrow. Any further unfolding, by which I assume you don’t mean unraveling, will need to take place down there.”
“So I figured,” he said, carefully pouring the rest of the wine. “Now a question for you, Will. How well situated are you at your auction house? I mean to say, I know you’re not the head of the house or the auctioneer, but as their specialist in literature—”
“Autographs.”
“You do both, from what I understand. Either way, how deep does their trust run for you? How would you characterize your level of sway at the house?”
Trust—that vexatious word again. “So far as I know, my status there is solid. Over the years I’ve proven myself, made few mistakes, and of course everyone there loves Meg.”
“Who doesn’t? She’s consigned them some pretty stellar lots over the years from what I’ve heard,” he said, offering no reason why he’d have such information. “What I’m getting at is, I know you conversed with Henry about the probability of your handling the Tamerlane when it manages to surface. That still good by you?”
Another train came in, this one northbound, judging from the direction of the horn sounding around the bend below Rhinecliff station, and, after an exchange of passengers, set off toward Albany. The clamor temporarily brought our dialogue to a halt, during which I studied Atticus as he watched an oil tanker ply the shimmering Hudson, leaving behind a burnt-gold wake the sailboats were forced to negotiate. Again I was struck by an intuition that he wasn’t well. The persistent cough. The wan paleness of his skin that I didn’t recall from years past. The cane—I now saw it wasn’t for show—and milky eyes. Maybe it was a matter of simply having aged, since his personality and movements were as vigorous as ever.
Once the train had pulled out, I told him, “I’m still willing. You haven’t filled me in about how you’re going to go about consigning it, since your Abigail Fletcher might well catch wind and reasonably wonder how two copies of Tamerlane could possibly be handled by a single dealer—”
“Oh, there’s an historical precedent. If I’m not mistaken, the late great New York barrister and collector Frederic Robert Halsey owned two copies at one point,” he said. “But the pamphlet won’t be coming directly from me, so don’t concern yourself about that.” In the soft pinkening light he glanced at his watch, a vintage Patek Philippe not unlike one Meg had inherited from her brother.
Interpreting the gesture, I said, “I need to be getting back home myself.”
We stood, and Atticus extended his hands, which I took in both of mine. “It’s been good to see you again after so long,” he said. “For what it may be worth, I think your earlier path on the straight and narrow seemed to be serving you well. I’m sorry to be a part of temporarily dislodging you from it.”
“Let’s hope we both survive the detour.”
“My best to Meg and Nicole,” he finished, before turning away. “And please promise to give Maisie a special hug and kiss for me. She has no clue who I am, but I was furious to hear how the Tamerlane was transferred. Henry may have made a fatal mistake there.”
Hearing this, I wanted to ask Atticus more questions. Such as, how deep did his relationship with Slader continue to go after all these years? And speaking of fatal mistakes, what misstep had Ginger-head made to meet the end he had met? How did Atticus plan on secretly recompensing me for my illicit efforts and, indeed, my daughter’s? And why the special hug and kiss for Maisie? But before I could summon any words, he was gone.
Leaving the country for the city at summer’s end was usually a bittersweet exercise. In years past, my husband and I always found it hard to give up the pastoral simplicity of life at the farmhouse, even as we felt refreshed and ready to return to the swing of all things urban. In years past, trading our neighborhood hoot owl and songbirds for the sirens and shouts of city life was made easier with the knowledge that we would be back upstate as apple-picking season rolled around, and afterward when the leaves changed color and came fluttering down. But this year, our haven had been tainted. Rather than return on autumn weekends, I thought, maybe Will and I should consider the once unthinkable idea of selling the house and resettling elsewhere.