My vigil continued for two more days. On the third, the police came to the hospital to ask that I accompany them to the station to see if I could identify a man they’d taken into custody as one of the thieves.
As I was escorted through the precinct house, it occurred to me that I had never been in a police station as Vera Garland, member of society, and what very different treatment I was getting from that accorded to Vee Swann.
It was all so unfair, I thought, as the captain apologized for interrupting my day. But what wasn’t unfair? Since I had been a very little girl, I must have uttered that phrase more than a hundred thousand times. But it was what I saw. At every turn. Every day. On every street corner. In every factory and municipal building. In every restaurant and music hall. Not all people were given a fair chance. Or given the same respect. Or treated equally, even though the Constitution of the United States deemed it should be so.
The suspect sitting at the wooden table had the same hair color and skin color as the men I’d seen in Cartier’s shop on the night of the robbery. He spoke with the same Indian accent. But he wasn’t one of the men who had burst into the store. He was too short. Too stout. And he had a scar that cut through his right eyebrow. I would have remembered that.
The police captain encouraged me to be sure. But I was a reporter, trained to remember details. I couldn’t tell them that, but I didn’t doubt my memory.
“I’d have recognized that scar,” I told him. “It’s like a horseshoe, which is a symbol of good luck.”
The irony was astounding.
Reluctantly, they let the man go, and he gave me a grateful look as he exited. Fortune was smiling on someone, I thought. Though I could only imagine how difficult his life was here in New York as an Indian man. He would always stand out. At least, as a woman, I could fade into the sea of other women.
My sister’s anniversary fete was on the fifth night after the robbery attempt. The plan was for all of us to attend a performance of La Bohème and then have dinner afterward. I’d spent the day at the hospital but had left at six to return home and change, which gave me barely enough time.
As I screwed the post in my pearl and diamond earrings, I stared at myself in the mirror and realized how tired I looked. How red my eyes were. How pale I was. Every step at my toilette was an effort and felt like a waste of what little energy I had left. I was putting on jewelry and perfume and a fancy dress and elegant shoes, when all I wanted was to be sitting at Jacob’s bedside, holding his hand and whispering to him. Begging him to wake up. I wondered how I was going to get through the long evening without bolting.
I arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street with fifteen minutes to spare before the curtain. As I walked through the lobby and upstairs to our family box, I took notice of who was there for my column. I mentally made notes about everyone I said hello to. What designers they were wearing, what jewels they had on, who was with them. I was having a difficult time concentrating, though. My thoughts remained with Jacob, alone in the hospital room with no one by his side. What if he woke up confused? Who would answer his questions? Who would talk him through what had happened? I should be there. I was the reason he was hurt.
“Vera, you’re late,” my mother said when I arrived at the box. Letty, Jack, and Stephen were already there, talking to Aunt Carrie who had her own season seats.
“I was visiting someone at the hospital.”
My mother frowned as she took in my clothes and hair and jewelry, assessing me. “Your dress is wrinkled, and your hair looks quite disheveled. It looks like your ordeal at Cartier’s has left you the worse for wear.”
“It has,” I said as I sat, but I didn’t offer any further explanation.
“What were you doing at Cartier’s, anyway? You aren’t serious about buying that stone, I know you aren’t.”
“It’s all part of a plan, Mother. For an article I’m working on. That’s why I was there.”
“Putting yourself in danger for an article? Really, Vera. Again?”
“Father wouldn’t be criticizing me if he were here. He’d been proud of me. Just once, could you try that?”
Before she could respond, Letty interrupted, leaning over to kiss me hello. She took both my hands in hers and squeezed them.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “We all are just so thankful to see that you are all right.”
“Happy anniversary,” I said to Letty, and then looked over at Jack and wished him the same. I turned to Stephen, who reached out for me and pulled me into a hug. I hadn’t expected to react emotionally to his embrace. I hadn’t realized how exhausted and raw I was. But as soon as I felt his arms around me, I started to cry. And as hard as I tried to stop, I couldn’t.
“Do get a hold of yourself, Vera,” my mother said. “You’re drawing attention. People will gossip. If that awful columnist is here, she’ll surely write about you. She always focuses on our family if she can.”
My mother’s jibe at Silk, Satin and Scandals would normally have delighted me, but I hardly registered what she was saying. I was emotionally scarred and scared, and Stephen’s embrace had given me the sanctuary I needed to finally let go.
He took me by the arm and turned to the family. He told them not to worry if we weren’t back in time for the first act, and then he escorted me out of the box and downstairs to the club.
The Metropolitan Opera Club was a private men’s supper club founded in 1893. My father was one of its founding members, along with my uncle and Stanford White, who had designed the miniature stage where vaudeville was performed while members dined after the opera.
I’d been there many times with my family, but it had always been crowded. Now our footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. Stephen ushered me to an empty table set with gleaming crystal and silver.
He pulled out a seat for me. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He went off through the double doors to the kitchen. He was gone for only two or three minutes and returned with a chilled, opened bottle of champagne along with two glasses.
He poured the pale yellow wine and handed me a coupe.
“Take a sip,” he said.
I obeyed.
“And another.”
I obeyed again.
“Now, I want you to tell me what is going on. If you are writing an article, why were you at Cartier’s dressed as yourself so late at night?”
“I had been at the shop for a repair during business hours and left my satchel there. So I went back for it. That’s why I was there when the thieves arrived. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Stephen knew me well enough to know that I was still holding back.
“All right, but why were you there earlier?”
“I’m writing an article about the superstition surrounding the Hope Diamond, but I’m working undercover—as Vera Garland, a lady of independent means interested in purchasing the legend.”
“And why were you at the hospital today? Were you visiting the jeweler the article mentioned? Is he still in a coma?”
I nodded and felt my eyes fill with fresh tears. I didn’t trust my voice to explain further.
“Do you have feelings for this man?”
“Yes, we’ve spent some time with each other.”
“In a romantic way, you mean?”
I nodded.
“Oh, Vera, I’m so sorry. No wonder you are distraught.”
A fresh sob broke free. Stephen moved his chair closer to mine and put his arm around me.
“What do the doctors say?”
“They say all we can do is wait.”
“Do you want to leave and go back to the hospital now?”
“No lectures about falling in love with the help?” I asked, more bitterly than I intended.
“You insult me, Vera. That might be your mother’s style, but you know I couldn’t care less about his social standing. As long as he is a good man who treats you as well as you deserve.”
A jeweler, I thought, but yes, a good man.
“What is it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
There’s so much I haven’t told you, a guilty voice echoed inside my head. I hadn’t shared my plan to entrap Oxley. Or my thoughts about what really happened the night of the robbery. But how could I? I didn’t want him to become overprotective and lawyerlike and try to stop me for any one of a dozen reasons I knew would all be valid.
Stephen and I stayed at the club drinking champagne through the first act. He’d stepped into my father’s role, asking me more questions. I almost laughed when I realized he wanted to be sure Jacob wasn’t taking advantage of me.
We joined the rest of the family at intermission. Letty and Jack had more questions about the robbery and the subsequent recovery of the stone. I told them we could talk about it at dinner and complimented my sister on her amethyst anniversary earrings. As we chatted on, I continued to take notice of who came and went, but at the same time, my mind kept returning to the man I’d taken as a lover, who was lying in a hospital bed only a few dozen blocks away, sleeping as deeply as one could and still be alive.
And what if he died? Died trying to protect me from a thief with a gun? Died before I ever felt his arms around me again? Before we ever spoke of what had occurred between us? Before—
Aunt Carrie approached and pulled me into a tight embrace.
“I told you that stone was bad luck,” she whispered. “You tried it on, didn’t you? Look what happened to you. And what happened to that jeweler? Evalyn said it’s all so exciting she’s even more determined to buy it. Even after she’s read all the news. What am I going to do? You’re not still thinking about buying it, are you? I want someone to so Evalyn can’t. But I wouldn’t want you to take a risk like that.” She stepped back and began wringing her hands.
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I told her.
I had to keep the charade going that I was a potential buyer to get the information that still eluded me.
“I don’t believe what happened was bad luck, Aunt Carrie. If it had been, I’d be dead, not standing here talking to you. It’s a valuable stone, so of course, people are going to try to steal it—”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Exactly. And if Evalyn buys it, they will try to steal it from her. Vera, you have to help me. I wish I could persuade Mr. Cartier to make a paste copy of the stupid stone and give her that. You said you were going to talk to him. Did you? Tell him I’ll double what he’s asking.”
Suddenly, I had an idea. I tucked it away in my mind as I finished chatting with Aunt Carrie. When the bell rang to signal the end of intermission, I kissed her good-bye and returned to our box.
At dinner, in the now-crowded club room, my mother asked me what kind of repair had brought me to Cartier’s shop. I told her and showed her the pearls and the new clasp.
She admonished me for having treated her gift so carelessly, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from talking back to her. It was my sister’s night, and I didn’t want to ruin it by fighting with my mother.
I missed my father so much that evening. For so many reasons. If he were alive, I would have told him the truth about what I was planning. My confidant, who knew all my secrets, might have even helped me plot the perfect undoing of Mr. Oxley. My father had been so clever. I remembered several times when he exposed merchants who sold him inferior goods.
As one of the founding club members, his portrait hung in the dining room. It was one my mother liked but which he and I had thought made him look too stiff and senatorial. My father was full of life. He hated to sit still and was always jumping up to inspect something, a new bolt of fabric, a perfume, a piece of jewelry. I remembered him in Garland’s, going from counter to counter every morning, greeting every single member of the staff by name, asking after sick mothers, pregnant wives, and children in school. He treated everyone who worked for him like family, and they, in turn, had so much respect for him.
My brother-in-law, now sitting in my father’s place at the head of the table, saw me looking at the portrait. “I miss him, too,” he said. “It’s still so hard stepping into his shoes.”
“Jack, he didn’t want you to step into his shoes,” I said. “I heard him tell you he wanted you to go down to the men’s shoe department and pick out a pair of new shoes that fit you. He expected you to find your own style. And he knew that whatever it was, Garland’s would accept it.”
Jack gave me a grateful look. “Thank you for remembering that. I can always count on you,” he said.
“Well, I can’t,” my mother said bitterly. “So I’m glad someone can.”
“What else is wrong?” I asked her.
“I heard you turned down the opportunity to chair the ladies auxiliary luncheon when I specifically suggested to Marjorie Grant that you would be happy to do it.”
“Which you did without asking me.”
“Vera, you have nothing else to do, no reason not to accept.”
“I do, in fact, have something else to do. I told you I’ve gone back to work.”
“So you said. At the newspaper?”
“No, I’m working freelance. The article about the robbery was a one-off. I’m working on a longer piece for a magazine.”
“And you’re incognito again,” Letty said. “I’m always wishing I might run into you and see you in action. But I never do. Can’t we arrange a rendezvous?” Her eyes lit up. “Then I can tell all my friends I met—”
“Shh,” I said, before she spoke my pseudonym out loud in public.
Our mother shot her an angry look. “Must you glorify what she does?”
“What she does is admirable, Mother.”
“What she does debases this family.”
“It’s been a decade, and no one even knows Vee Swann is part of this family. Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, sotto voce but in an angry hiss.
“It is enough that your sister and brother-in-law and cousin know. That I know and your father knew.”
I burst out laughing. “Father? Don’t you dare suggest that he had any problem with what I did. He did nothing but encourage me, and you know it.”
She sighed and turned to look for a waiter, raising her hand and signaling the maître d’ that we were done with the main course and ready for dessert. Floating Island soon arrived, and we were quiet as it was served.
“Your situation is my fault,” my mother said morosely.
“Not this again,” Letty said, knowing, as I did, where this was going. She motioned to the wine carafe, and I nodded. She wanted me to prevent my mother from having any more wine. My mother must have had another glass of burgundy when no one noticed.
“No one failed me, Mother. I have the life I want,” I said by rote. I had been telling her the same thing for the last eight years, ever since I ended my relationship with Max.
“You say that, but you don’t know the life you are missing, and—”
“Mother, tonight is my anniversary, and Jack and I want to enjoy this supper. Not have you and Vera end up in another squabble,” Letty cut in.
“With my example of how rewarding being a wife and mother is, it confounds me that you wouldn’t want what I have,” Mother said, ignoring Letty’s request.
“If you had been a saint as a mother and a wife, it still would not have changed my mind. I’m missing some essential womanly characteristic. I don’t have the constitution to run a household and have children and see to a man’s needs. I thrive on being on my own and working and trying to effect some change. There’s so much that is unfair—”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “It’s always been that. It’s not fair that I can’t wear pants, it’s not fair that I can’t play baseball, it’s not fair that I have to have long hair, it’s not fair that I can’t go to school at Andover and study with Stephen. I heard it all.”
Letty had had enough. “We’ve all heard it. We’ve all heard this argument. Do we have to hear it all over again?”
Jack agreed.
I got up. “I think I’ll go.”
My sister started to protest.
“No,” I said. “It is late, and so far, we’ve mostly had a lovely evening. I don’t want to ruin any more of it with bickering. I’ll see you later this week.”
“Let me take you home,” Stephen said.
“No, you stay. I made you miss the first act as it is.”
I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, and then my sister and then Jack, and finally bent to my mother, who sat stone-faced. She started to say something about my father and how he wouldn’t have stood for me leaving, but I cut her off.
“Tell me what you want, but if you ever try to suggest that Father wouldn’t approve of me again, I’ll walk out and not come back. I mean it.”
I saw her mouth fall open as I turned and left. It was one thing for her to express her constant disapproval. I’d learned not to care anymore. We were from different generations, and almost every friend I had who was a reporter had a similar problem with her parents about her life choice. But the one thing I wouldn’t stand for was my mother suggesting how my father would feel.
I knew exactly how he would have felt. He was proud of me. But what I didn’t know was how I felt about his choices. Hurt that he had to keep them secret. Distraught that he had died for them. Determined to defend them and avenge them and right the wrong that had been done to him and my uncle.
And so, still wearing my evening finery, I went to the hospital to spend another night by the bedside of the man who might be able to help me do exactly that.