She needs to de-obsess. And she needs to keep up the conversation with Tommy Daulair, who suddenly returns her every e-mail. By some stroke of fortune or accidental charm, not only did Merry get Nick Greene into the sack, but she got the loyal guardian of the duplicitous Mort Lear’s estate to use the word compromise. “It will only happen after a lot of legal shoptalk, a lot of ifs,” Tommy said as they parted on Sunday, “but I would like to see Ivo in New York, which is where he came from in the first place. As Dani told you.”
Merry is forbidden, for the moment, to say anything to Sol or the other directors, but right now they are so head over heels with their flashy architect in his plush velveteen trousers and his exotically shaped eyewear that the contents of the museum itself are of less concern, even with Stu threatening a takeover. To be fair, Jonas Hecht was Merry’s top choice. Her only objection to the man is that he doesn’t seem capable of eye contact with women over the age of thirty. (Maybe glasses as expensive as the ones he wears render them invisible.)
“Linus,” she says, “if only he knew how hot I secretly am.”
Linus utters a noncommittal bark.
Merry’s heart lunges at the sound of the phone. But of course the call is not from Number 7.
It’s the real estate broker in Brooklyn. That she’s calling after hours is probably good news, but it means Merry must shift gears from fantasy back to reality, from reaching for the stars (hey, sometimes they reach back) to settling for less. Surely she can find an affordable place to live where she can learn to feel she belongs.
As the broker lists the allegedly rare, definitely underpriced virtues of a condo she must drop everything to see pronto, Merry walks through her soon-to-be-former home until she is sitting on the end of her bed. Linus jumps up beside her.
When she disconnects from the call, she looks at the picture on the shelf and says, “Well, boy, new chapter.” It’s time to take her borrowed Ivo back to the museum, whether that’s where he belongs or not.
—
Tommy’s list grew incrementally shorter today. With a child’s sense of satisfaction at earning praise for chores completed, she checks off these items:
Appraisals (Franklin)
Finalize memorial service (Angelica)
Talk to Tucson (Juanita)
Call Scott
After Sunday’s memorial at the Met, where she will deliver a succinct introduction to eulogies by eight of Morty’s closest friends and colleagues (none of them truly “close,” but Tommy would be the last to dispute their delusions), she will stay overnight at a hotel and meet her old flame for breakfast near Washington Square. Scott will be in the city, visiting the daughter.
But she cannot think about Scott just yet.
She sits at the kitchen table, which seems to have become her command post. She realized today that, except for satellite trips to the studio, usually with Franklin, she lives between kitchen and bedroom, as if she’s regressed to the days of her tiny apartment on Avenue A. Good practice for the future. The near future, she hopes.
Loose papers and folders fan out haphazardly from where she sits, but her focus is on the laptop Nicholas Greene unearthed in Morty’s bedroom, open to the bewildering contents of the folder titled Leonard—and on the three letters Franklin pulled from the Greek vase.
What would she have made of these letters had Nick never shown her Morty’s side of the correspondence? Would she simply have thrown them away?
The first of the letters from Tucson is dated September 23, 1999. It’s written on a piece of workaday lined paper, which seems to keep the writer’s unruly penmanship from yielding to the sloping habit shown in the address on the envelope:
Dear Mr. Lear,
I will go right to my point and then introduce myself although I think you will remember me. Are you the grownup Mordecai Levy who lived at Eagle Rest about 50 yrs ago? My father died resently, but about 5 yrs ago he figured out the famous author “Mort Lear” was you. He was exited and told me and my sister. He said he always knew you were a “tallented” kid. He kept “drawings” of yours that you did when you were little. That’s when he was the gardener at Eagle Rest tho he left that job a long time ago. I would call them “nature drawings”—flowers and birds. Some are signed “Mord. Levy” and I guess this is how he knows you changed your name. Of course I remember you my own self, how we used to play our “games” the times you came home with dad. Do you remember the fort we made? Do you remember that one game we made up, I don’t think you would forget it.
Anyway, our dad died resently as I said. He left us nothing really except his detts. It’s sad to say but he wasn’t a good father to us and caused us a lot of misery when we were little and then more resently when we had to take care of him because he lost his apartment. He was good at losing stuff, but he did not lose the “drawings” done by you. He said he always knew you would be famous. So he told me to sell them after he died because they might be worth a lot of money. I don’t know how we are supposed to do that and wondered if you could tell me.
For a famous person, you are easy to find on the web, you know.
I hope you will answer. I remember you pretty well and think you will remember me too. Maybe not my sister, who was a baby in those days. I’ll bet you come to Arizona sometimes and I would like to see you if you do. Do you?
Yours truly,
Reg
The second letter isn’t dated, but the postmark is June of 2000, eight months after the bank transfer Morty made to pay for the drawings.
Mr. Lear:
I guess you figure it was all about money. The money helps, it’s not nothing. But you go silent? I asked if you come out this way, you don’t even answer. It’s all about the pictures I tell you I have and now you have. Which now I wonder if you paid their “true” value (figuring you of all people would know!) My father was messed up but he wasn’t a bad man. He said you and your mom “disapeared” and it was a shock to people at the hotel. He thought you were our friend. People wondered if your mother was “running away” from something like a crime, dad didn’t believe that.
I figure you won’t answer this now that you got the pictures. You’re famous now and don’t have to pay attention to losers like me. I get it. But I remember “stuff” you might not. Just so you know.
Yours truly,
Reg
Again, the handwriting is arduously legible, as if each letter was traced, but with the writer’s ill-accustomed hand. The third and last letter, undated and less legible, is written on a piece of blank, unlined paper.
You cannot just be rid of poeple, “Mr. Lear.” People have feelings. They get hurt and then mad. Dad had some photos, you know, I found them after he died. I would never share them, but I’ve got them. Just so you know. I think they include somebody you know. I was nieve to think we could be friends. Well, OK, you’re a “busy” guy. Famous people are always busy, aren’t they. I’m curious. What comes first, Mr. Too Important, being busy or being famous? “Chicken and the egg” right? If you’re so busy, maybe I could visit you there. My sister says we should leave you alone. She thinks you gave us plenty of money for your pictures. But she’s nieve too is my guess.
Yours “Truly”
Reg