When I opened the door, I found Mr. Cartier, briefcase in hand, standing there himself. I was disappointed and surprised and tried to hide my reaction, but my voice came out too high and loud as I welcomed him.
“Mr. Cartier! What a pleasure—I didn’t expect you. Please come in.” I gestured to the foyer.
He smiled charmingly. “I know it’s unusual for me to do house calls,” he said, as he took off his hat and held it in his hands. “But out of respect to your father, I wanted to take care of this myself.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, and led him inside. I offered him coffee or tea, and he said he’d prefer coffee.
I made it and brought it out on a silver tray, along with a plate of my father’s favorite biscuits, which I kept stocked. We sat in the parlor, drank our coffee, and exchanged small talk for a few minutes.
“Now, for the pearls,” Mr. Cartier said. “I fear the light isn’t right in here to show them. Too many shadows.”
I showed him both the dining room and the library, and he found them equally unsuitable. But the greenhouse with its skylights was perfect.
We settled into the wicker chairs in front of the card table, and he pulled several items out of his briefcase. A maroon leather-bound notebook. A gold pencil. And two maroon velvet cases. He opened the notebook and then the larger of the two cases, which revealed my necklace with the offending pearls and clasp missing. He then proceeded to open the second case, which held about two dozen loose pearls sitting in a circular recession.
“I had your pearls cleaned. It was definitely time; besides, I couldn’t match them without seeing their true color.” One by one, he showed me the new pearls against my necklace and kept up a running commentary. “This one is a good match but perhaps a bit white. Your pearls have a slight creamy tint to them.” He tried another. “This one is a better match in color, but it is ever so slightly larger.”
And on and on it went.
“I had no idea it would be so difficult,” I said, after we’d looked at them all.
“Yes, it is quite difficult to match pearls. Due to differing temperatures and conditions. Every pearl is unique, and it can take years to find a full set.”
Now I felt guilty that I’d purposefully damaged three of them. I hadn’t known what a complicated process this would be. And what a shame that, given how complicated it was, Mr. Asher hadn’t arrived as I’d hoped. If I’d gotten him alone, I might have been able to make a connection with him that could have granted me access to behind-the-scenes secrets about Cartier and the Hope.
“None of these is one hundred percent perfect,” he said. “They are a good match, but if you like, we certainly can keep looking.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
He examined the pearls for a few moments.
“We could choose the ones that are closest in size rather than shade, since there are always shadows cast altering the coloring anyway. But that said, while they are a good match, I could do one more search.”
If I said I wanted another search, I might get another chance to spend time with Mr. Asher.
“Maybe we should look a bit longer.”
“I think that’s the right decision. While I’m here, we should discuss the clasp,” he said. “I wasn’t sure whether you wanted us to repair what you had, or are you in the market for a different closure?”
I had meant Cartier to fix what I had, but now it occurred to me a new clasp gave me even more of a chance to draw out the process, which would buy me time with Jacob Asher.
“I think a new clasp. That one might be a bit old-fashioned now.”
He looked delighted. “Shall we discuss designs?”
And we did for another half an hour, eventually settling on a few ideas, which he sketched out in his notebook and said he would have more formally drawn up so I could examine them in better detail.
Finished, he closed his leather notebook, swiveled the lead down in his mechanical pencil, and replaced both in his briefcase. He hadn’t mentioned the Hope Diamond, and neither had I. Quite clever of him, I thought, because I assumed the Hope had been the reason for him coming here himself instead of sending Mr. Asher.
“This is a most enchanting room,” he said, as he closed the larger of the velvet cases, the one holding my pearls. “What a delight to have such an elaborate garden in the middle of the city.”
“My uncle designed it. Percy Winthrop. Had you ever met him?”
Mr. Cartier nodded. “Several times, yes. He was a true visionary. It must have been so difficult to lose both him and your father so close together.”
“It was very difficult for us, yes.”
“In times of grief, it’s always such a blessing to have a sibling. My brothers and I—for all our competitive nature—are a family first. When tragedy has struck, we’ve relied on each other.”
“Yes, my sister and I have as well.”
“I imagine you must be close for you to be considering giving her such a generous gift.”
Aha, I thought. He’d found a way to tie the conversation to the Hope.
“Well, my father wanted it to be a very special gift, and my mother is intrigued by the idea. She just hasn’t decided yet.”
“I don’t want to pressure you, but I should tell you that none of the interested parties has dropped out.”
“The bad luck legend doesn’t seem to be dampening enthusiasm, then?” I asked.
“No. If anything, it seems to be encouraging interest.”
“Why, do you suppose?”
“I’m not sure. But honestly, if no one ever bought it, that wouldn’t matter. For the House of Cartier to own one of the great diamonds in the world would be just fine.”
“I think I’d like to take another look at that book of stories you have collected. I need to settle my mind about the legends and the myths. Try to separate the real from the exaggerated. Perhaps when you have the drawings for the clasp, you’ll let me spend some time reading the articles you’ve collected?”
“Of course.”
“And I would ask again that if any of the other interested parties becomes even more interested, you will let me know. I wouldn’t want to lose it because I acted too late.”
“As I promised before, I would be delighted.”
After he left, I spent an hour in the greenhouse taking care of the plants. Pruning and deadheading the flowers, shrubs, and trees were among my father’s favorite hobbies. Since he’d passed, I hadn’t taken enough care of his garden, and it was almost criminally overgrown and derelict. I resolved to spend time bringing it back to life.
As I worked on the wisteria, cutting back the tendrils, I thought about how poorly my plan to gather information about Mr. Cartier was going.
I’d always found in covering stories that you need to come at the truth from either underneath or inside. And Mr. Asher was inside. Maybe I needed to get a job as a charwoman, sweeping up the Cartier offices, I thought. Then I’d have access to everything.
I attacked the rosebushes next. My father favored antique roses, but how he made them flourish so high above Manhattan was a mystery to everyone who was lucky enough to see and smell them. Despite my neglect this past summer, they had bloomed nonetheless. Each glorious pink multipetaled flower giving up a wealth of perfume. I vowed that I’d do better for them. One summer of bad treatment hadn’t killed them, but as with any of us, too much inattention could do irreparable damage.
Frustration overtook me as I put away the shears and gardening gloves. I’d thought an hour of gardening would help me sort out my thoughts. My father always said a brisk swim in the ocean or getting your hands dirty in a garden could clear up any messy, muddled head.
Except it hadn’t worked for me. I still needed a plan to get to Mr. Asher. I couldn’t just stand in front of 712 Fifth Avenue and wait for him to leave for the day and accost him.
But then again… why couldn’t I? The simplest solution was often the best. The Cartier offices were only a couple of blocks from Garland’s. Why couldn’t I just be walking by and bump into him?
Was it too jejune a solution? I was ashamed that I couldn’t come up with something better. Maybe I should wait until our press group met again and see if anyone had a more elegant idea.
As I closed the greenhouse door, I decided there was no time to wait. I needed to start getting material on Mr. Cartier now. I walked to the windows in the parlor and looked down at Fifth Avenue and across the street. I craned my neck as far as I could, down to Fifty-sixth Street and Cartier’s.
And then I knew what to do. Conaway’s bookshop was right there, directly across from 712 Fifth Avenue. And bookshops closed a bit later than other concerns to take advantage of those on their way home. I frequented it often. I tried to picture the inside of the shop. Was there a window looking out at the street? I couldn’t remember. I shut my eyes and tried harder, but I just couldn’t remember. I was always so content at Conaway’s, browsing its shelves while the store’s two tabby cats roamed. Mr. Conaway was a true bibliophile, who loved nothing more than to brew a cup of tea for a customer, sit with you in the armchairs in the back room, and discuss either latest offerings or old classics. He and my father had known each other for years, and my father frequented the shop even more than I did. I wondered now if he had helped my father amass his secret collection of homosexual literature.
Would the timing work? I tried to figure it out. Conaway’s closed at six p.m., I believed. Cartier’s closed at five. Mr. Asher would probably need to straighten up and attend to last-minute things for at least ten minutes before he left. So if I was in place by five, I’d probably be able to catch him on his way out.
At a quarter to, I shrugged on my coat to fight off the evening chill, went downstairs, and walked the two blocks downtown.
As I approached, I saw that Conaway’s did, in fact, have a large picture window looking out at Fifth Avenue. I entered. Mr. Conaway was with a customer but waved hello. I picked up the first novel I found, The Man in Lower Ten by Mary Roberts Rinehart. The book was a best seller I’d heard of but hadn’t read yet, and I was about to position myself in front of the window and peruse it when I had a better idea.
First, I checked my watch. Yes, I had at least five minutes to spare. I found a clerk and asked if the store had a copy of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.
“Indeed, we do, madam,” he said, and went off to find it, returning in less than two minutes with a copy.
As I took it from him, I asked if he minded if I had a look first, and he assured me that browsing was more than welcome.
I took The Moonstone over to the window and positioned myself so that when I looked up, I could see the doorway to 712 Fifth Avenue.
To make sure that no one bothered me, I held the book at such an angle that made it appear I was reading but also gave me a clear view across the street. Mostly, I watched the doors to Cartier’s building, but occasionally, I would look down at the book and read a sentence or two.
I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.
My object is to explain the motive which had induced me to refuse the right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle…
I looked up and out the window. There was no activity at 712’s doorway. I continued watching for another few moments and then looked back down at the book and read some more.
The Reserve which I have hitherto maintained in this matter had been misinterpreted by members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit. I request them to suspend their decision until they have read my narrative. And I declare on my word of honor, that what I am about to write is strictly and literally, the truth.
I looked up and out the window again. Still no activity. How long could I stand there and read the book before Mr. Conaway or the clerk approached? No sooner did I have the thought than the clerk came up to me.
“I’m so sorry, madam, but we will be closing in five minutes.”
I’d thought the store would be open until six. Clearly, I’d guessed wrong. There was nothing to do but leave. Another plan derailed. Except first, I had to pay for the book. If Mr. Cartier was in fact borrowing its story, then I should at least read it.
I paid, took my parcel, and exited onto the street, walked to the north corner, and waited for the light to change.
“Miss Garland?”
I recognized the accent and turned to see Jacob Asher behind me. I sucked in my breath and then worried I’d let my astonishment show. And then I felt a wave of anger. I’d arranged for him to bring my pearls, and he had not done so. I should have at least wondered if that had been Mr. Cartier’s choice, but instead, I assigned the blame to Mr. Asher.
“Good evening,” I said a bit coolly.
The light changed, but neither of us crossed.
“I’m sorry the pearls didn’t meet with your satisfaction,” he said.
“They were fine,” I said. “But Mr. Cartier suggested that if I wasn’t in a hurry, he might find an even better match.”
“And search we will.”
“I had thought you were going to show them to me.”
“I’m at Mr. Cartier’s mercy.” He gave a slight bow while that same rakish smile I’d seen before played at his lips. An expression belonging more to a lord than a servant. That he worked for someone instead of on his own suddenly struck me as incongruous.
The light had changed and now was back to green.
“Shall we?” Mr. Asher indicated the crossing.
With my first step off the curb, I tripped. My back had healed as much as it ever would, but a stiffness remained that sometimes caused me to be clumsy. Such things happened all too often and were very frightening.
As I lost my footing on the stone, I saw myself heading for the pavement. But before the expected happened, Mr. Asher’s strong arms grabbed me and pulled me up and back onto the sidewalk.
He held me while my heart raced, my adrenaline pumped, and I fought to catch my breath.
“Thank you,” I said, hearing my voice quiver.
“I’m just glad I was here to catch you. That could have been a nasty spill.”
I became ever more aware of his touch, and it was making me uncomfortable. I stepped out of what now felt like an embrace. Instead of showing embarrassment, he raised a corner of his mouth in what looked like amusement. He reached down and collected the wrapped book I’d let drop and handed it to me.
“Your parcel?”
I took it. “Thank you again,” I said, still a little breathless.
“Are you all right? Really?”
“I will be.”
“Were you on your way somewhere?” he asked.
“Just home.”
“Let me walk with you, then.”
“No, no, please. I’m totally fine. It must have been my heel getting caught in a crack in the stone.” I never spoke about my injury. Certainly not to strangers.
“Be that as it may, what kind of gentleman would I be to take a chance and leave you on your own?”
“I’m fine on my own.” I knew I should allow him to accompany me, but I was uncomfortable around him now. I’d have to come up with another way to get my story without Mr. Asher.
“Think of what Mr. Cartier would say if I abandoned a client on the street.” There was a gleam in his eye. We both knew that the implication in his offer had nothing to do with what Mr. Cartier would say.
“Forget Mr. Cartier,” he continued in a deeper and more intimate voice. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
It was so outspoken and improper for him to speak that way to a client that I was startled.
He laughed out loud. “I’ve breached social etiquette, haven’t I?”
“Well…” I found myself at a loss for words, which was quite unlike me.
“I don’t much care for etiquette. And for some reason, I don’t think you do, either.”
“You don’t?” Now, that was an odd thing for Vera Garland to say. Vee Swann was outspoken, but it wasn’t done for a lady to speak in such a way. There was something in his manner and tone that made me react out of character.
“No, I don’t. Now, give me your arm, Miss Garland, and let me walk you home.”
There was no mistaking his teasing or his interest.
I offered my arm. Mr. Asher took it, and we began to walk down the street toward Garland’s. The entire way, I was aware of the exact spot where our bodies were in contact, even through our winter coats and layers of clothes. November had arrived and with it the chill of late autumn.
I wanted to ask him why he’d been so sure I didn’t adhere to a more strict code of social etiquette but was suddenly afraid I’d get a mundane answer, and I didn’t want to hear him say anything ordinary.
I was thirty-two years old and had lived like an old maid for the last several years. It was too complicated for me to become close to any man… to take a lover or certainly to consider marriage.
If I met someone as Vera Garland, he would undoubtedly be from society, which would require me to conceal my occupation. If I met someone as Vee Swann, he would most likely be a fellow reporter or editor, perhaps a writer or poet, which would require me hiding my wealth and family background. The world Vera Garland lived in and the kind of fortune that she would inherit were bound to intimidate any man I might encounter as Vee Swann. Or else, it would tempt him to like me more than he might otherwise.
Rich or poor, banker or newsman, if either found out the truth, my deception would prove my undoing. It was one thing to be a reporter searching for the truth, but for that same reporter to be living a lie—how sympathetic would any decent man be?
Overall, I preferred mousy, bespectacled Vee. She was braver and bolder and far more interesting than Vera. She paid attention to the world around her in a serious, concerned, engaging way. She was angry and fought for what she believed in.
Vera was a fan of classical music, loved shopping for clothes and jewelry, enjoyed museums, and sped through book after book. She was sensitive to beauty and the arts. But without Vee’s passions for truly making a difference, trying to effect change and help the cause of justice, Vera was a bit boring and even old-fashioned.
It’s an odd thing to be able to examine two sides of your personality so dispassionately. My father and I had often talked about the two of me, laughing over who I might be at any given moment or in any situation. During one such conversation, about a week before he died, he told me that until I found a way to integrate these two women into one, I would never be truly happy. He made me promise that I would use his gifts to do that. I asked him what gifts, but he’d grown tired and never answered.
Now, as I unlocked the door to my father’s apartment—my apartment—with Jacob Asher beside me, I wondered again what gifts he had meant. But then I stopped wondering, as I, Vera Garland, allowed a man into my home whom Vee Swann found interesting.
“You were so kind to escort me,” I said. “Now that I’m safely delivered, would you like some coffee or tea? Or a glass of sherry?” And then I added, “Or a malt whisky? I keep my father’s liquor cabinet stocked.”
“I would appreciate the malt, yes. Your father’s cabinet?”
As I led him inside, I explained about the apartment.
He followed me into the parlor, with its stained-glass-bordered windows, exotic decorations, and elegant furniture. He looked around, not saying anything for a few minutes.
“This is exquisite,” he finally uttered. “Is that Tiffany glass?”
“Yes, my father was good friends with him. He created all of the lamps and glass in the apartment based on my uncle’s designs. He was the architect Percy Winthrop.”
“I’ve read about him,” Mr. Asher said. “He was quite avant-garde, wasn’t he?”
I nodded and finished pouring the whisky. I handed him one of the two tumblers. “Come this way. I’ll show you the pièce de résistance.” I led him to the conservatory with its pool and fountain and domed-glass ceiling.
“I feel as if I’ve walked into the English countryside,” he said. “But one inhabited by a patron of the arts.”
“Are you from England?” I’d been wondering about the unusual accent since the first time I met him.
“Not originally. I was born and lived in Odessa till I was fourteen, but my parents sent me to school in England and then…” He hesitated.
I sensed that he didn’t talk about himself too often. And certainly not with clients, though I doubted he was still thinking of me as a client.
“Yes?” I encouraged.
He gave me a probing look, as if judging how serious I was about hearing his story.
“I stayed on in England after school and went to work for the jewelry firm of Catchpole and Williams. Then Asprey. After that, J. W. Benson. And I went to work at Cartier’s when the shop opened in London, and when Mr. Cartier decided to open a New York branch, I accepted his offer to come with him.”
“But didn’t moving here mean being even farther from home?” I asked.
“Odessa?”
I nodded.
“There was no one left there by then. We had a small family. I was an only child. My mother died when I was twelve. My father died in 1904. I have a few cousins left in England but none so close that I felt compelled to stay there.”
In 1903, I was already working for the New York World when the stories broke about the pogroms in Russia. I remembered reading about the horrific situation and the utter devastation and loss of life, especially in Odessa.
The anti-Jewish riots were part of a well-laid-out plan for massacre. The first attack was led by priests, with the mob crying out, “Kill the Jews!” According to the news reports I read at the time, the violence came as a total surprise, and the Jews were not prepared. Hundreds were beaten and injured. Many died. One of the worst things I read, which stayed with me for a long time, was that the police did nothing to stop the attacks, and at the end of the day, the streets were littered with corpses.
Over the next two years, more than six hundred other towns suffered the same fate. One of the women in our group of journalists had gone over to Russia. When she returned, she told us that the tsar was not only cognizant of but encouraged the riots and killings and gave clemency to anyone arrested for participating.
“In 1904? During the pogrom?” I asked softly. “I read the articles. Was your father a victim of the riots?”
Mr. Asher nodded. “Yes, while I was in London making pretty baubles for fancy ladies, my father’s store was attacked. When he tried to stop the monsters from stealing his extensive stock of diamonds, they kicked him and beat him senseless. He was dead by the time he was found.”
I put my hand out to cover his in a gesture totally heartfelt. For a moment, we sat there in silence, the terrible words hanging in the air of the fairy-tale greenhouse on the fifth floor of a department store, as far from Odessa as one could get.
“I will never forget what was done to him,” Jacob Asher whispered in a furious rush of words.
“There is no end to the injustice and cruelty in the world, is there? It makes me wonder about faith and the human capacity for delusion. How can people hold on to their belief in a benevolent God when such things happen? And not just once but over and over from time immemorial?”
Mr. Asher gave me a curious look. “You are not quite what I expected.”
I smiled. It was a familiar comment made by the few men who ever sat down and really talked to Vera Garland.
“How is that?” I asked, knowing but curious how he would respond.
“I don’t want to be insulting, Miss Garland.”
“Don’t fear, Mr. Asher, you can’t be more insulting to my kind than I am myself. And please, if we are going to converse like intelligent beings rather than mannequins at a ball, do call me Vera.”
“Vera.” He said it as if he was tasting the name. “I like your name. It has energy.”
“As did the woman I was named after.”
“Vera, then. And please call me Jacob.”
“So tell me, Jacob, what is it about me that you didn’t expect?”
“An unorthodox conversation about religion while sipping fine whisky in a magical aerie. It’s far from what I would have anticipated when I caught you on the street.”
“I don’t think that orthodox conversations are worth having. Nor is sipping ordinary whisky. And I hate stuffy rooms.”
We both laughed, and it felt good after the serious talk we’d been having.
“My mother and my sister, to a slightly less degree, can be quite aghast at how I behave, but I’ve been rebellious to one degree or another since I was a child. Going the same way as everyone else is hardly an adventure.”
“And is having an adventure that important?”
“My father always used to say that we were given only one life and that our job was to experience its infinite passion.”
“And have you done that?”
“I have tried… I’d stopped for a while… but I’m thinking about returning to the land of the living.”
“Well, that pleases me,” he said.
There was no doubt he was flirting. Seducing him had never been my plan. Even though I knew a reporter or two who’d exchanged sex for information, I’d never stooped to that level to get a story. It would go against everything my friends and I were fighting for. So while I certainly hadn’t considered entrapping him, charming him couldn’t hurt my effort to get to the truth about Cartier. That the jeweler was handsome and well spoken would make my job easier. Perhaps even pleasurable, I thought, as I took another sip of my father’s liquor.
“Forgive my asking, but I’m intrigued by your earrings,” he said then.
I felt my earlobes, not even remembering what I was wearing.
“They were my grandmother’s,” I said. “I know they are only paste, but I loved her so much, and she gave them to me. And honestly, I can’t tell the difference.” I realized what I’d just said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say such a blasphemous thing to a jeweler, should I?”
“Not at all. There is a great art to paste jewelry. My grandfather excelled at it. Do you know much about it?”
“Very little other than knowing the value of a paste piece is lower because it’s just glass.”
“Well, it is glass, yes. Lead glass made when—” He broke off. “Is this boring?”
“Not at all. To tell you the truth, it’s society talk that bores me. I’d much rather talk about invention or innovation or science or art and design… please continue.”
“The ancient Romans excelled in creating colored stones from a highly polished glass paste. There are wonderful examples of their lapis lazuli and emeralds in the British Museum. But it was in the eighteenth century when paste was perfected. We don’t know who is responsible. There are conflicting stories. Some say it was a goldsmith in Vienna named Joseph Strasser in 1758, and others say it was a French jeweler named Georges Frédéric Strass in 1724. The closeness in their names always struck me as very strange. But either way, the result was leaded glass polished with metal powder that produced stones that matched the diamonds and other gems in the crown jewels. To the naked eye, even jewelers couldn’t always tell the paste from the mined stones. And they were very valuable, always set in real gold or silver. More recently, Daniel Swarovski, a man living in Austria, has invented a glass-cutting machine that creates even finer stones. But I like to think my own grandfather’s secret formula creates the most realistic paste. He taught my father, who taught me. He called it ‘evil knowledge.’ ”
“Why is it secret? And why evil?” I asked.
He shook his head and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s not something I talk about. Ever. I’ve already said more than I should.” He seemed genuinely confused by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Why did you decide to, then?”
“I honestly don’t know, Miss Garland. Maybe this fine whisky has loosened my tongue.”
“If you get tipsy that easily, you should take care. And it’s Vera.”
“I don’t easily get tipsy,” he said in mock indignation.
“I’m still intrigued, though. Why is the formula for the paste a family secret?”
He sighed. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“But it’s the formula that is the secret, correct? Not the reason to keep it a secret.” I laughed. We were being a little silly, but it felt good. “Certainly, you can tell me why it’s evil?”
“That I can. The ability to create glass stones that mimic real stones worth thousands of times more could be used for very nefarious purposes of all kinds.”
I realized instantly what he meant. “Oh, yes, I see. Like an art forger, you could be a jewelry forger.”
“I couldn’t be,” he said quickly. “But yes, someone could.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply…”
He laughed and waved his hand. “Would you like to hear one of my favorite stories about paste jewelry?”
I nodded.
“Its popularity reached its height during Victorian times, when a secret language of stones was created by a jeweler on Bond Street. He assigned a different romantic message to each colored gem. A customer of his was courting a young woman against her parents’ wishes. So he taught her the code and bought her a new piece of paste every week, speaking to her through the colors. But as it turned out, the young woman’s mother knew the code as well and confronted the young man and insisted he break off the courtship immediately.”
“What happened?”
“The next day, the man delivered the final gift—a very real and very valuable diamond—and they eloped that very evening.”
“True love conquers all,” I said, with a bit too much sarcasm in my voice.
Jacob raised one of his fine dark eyebrows. “Such cynicism.”
“I’ve earned it.”
“Ah, that makes me sad.”
“Why is that?”
“Because love can conquer all.”
“Has it for you?”
The light was growing dim in the conservatory as dusk settled on the city. Jacob didn’t answer me right away, and for a few silent moments, we sat as encroaching darkness enclosed us.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I said.
Jacob reached out and took my hand and brought it to his lips.
“I am taking a chance here that I’m not insulting you, Vera. But I would like to invite you to go for a walk with me on Sunday and then have dinner.”
“And why would that be an insult? Usually, women are flattered when attractive men ask them out.”
“Well, I’m aware of social conventions, and it’s not done for a member of the Four Hundred to be seen with a member of my class.”
I laughed. “Which is exactly why I’d be delighted. You’ll find that nothing pleases me more than defying convention, much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“And your father’s as well?”
“No, he encouraged my wild abandon.”
“You miss him. I recognize the tone in your voice. It’s what I hear in my own voice when I speak of my father.”
“I do miss him. Every day. The worst part is that he shouldn’t have gotten sick. He shouldn’t have died. It was this whole rotten world and its antiquated beliefs and conventions that sent him to his grave.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “The specifics don’t matter anymore. But the injustice does.”
Jacob looked at me with deep understanding in his dark, dark eyes.
“You and I, Vera, might have more in common than I ever would have guessed. We have both lost our fathers to the same terrible world. Both of us are angry survivors.”
“Angry survivors…” I thought, and nodded. “Yes, that’s what I am.”
And then he leaned forward, and there under the shadows of the palm trees and hanging vines, with the scents of roses, dahlias, and lilies perfuming the air, Jacob Asher kissed me. And I didn’t think I’d ever been kissed quite like that before. It would have been brutal if it wasn’t shared. It would have been harsh if it wasn’t so passionate. It would have been foreign if we both hadn’t been through the same war.
Lovemaking can be gentle. It can be a game. It can be frivolous. Or desperate. Or an escape. Or boring. I’d had all kinds. But what Jacob showed me was the one kind I’d never experienced. A soulful, painful kind of lovemaking that comes from despair and shouts to the world that you still exist, that you are not giving up, that you are going to grab what you can and make the most of it, because waiting on the other side is nothing but oblivion, and damn, you are not ready for that.