Harry, despite having come precariously close to dying, had looked back on that weekend in Atlantic City with fondness. He had been entranced by the thick ocean air, the smell of chocolate fudge being mixed in huge stainless steel vats, the endless parade of lovers walking along the boardwalk, the women with their white parasols. He steadfastly swore he had heard his father speak to him when he was underwater. Years later, on the back of a photograph he had taken of her by the beach, she came across a note Harry had jotted across the bottom: Many a time I have looked at the silent remembrances of the past, and never have I forgotten the fact that life is but an empty dream. The experience had drawn his magic toward investigation of the paranormal rather than manipulation of the normal.
Even in the early days of his magic he could make mango trees bloom onstage, the roots bursting upward beneath a black cloth, the fruit flamed with orange, the black cloth floating to the floor and the crowd trembling with excitement. Once Bess had asked him if he felt like he was playing God. But even though his father had been a rabbi, Harry didn’t know where to find God. All he knew was that God wasn’t in his father’s books, and he wasn’t under the milky lights of the stage, and he wasn’t under the black cloth either. God was somewhere else.
On Tuesday afternoon, when Bess went back to her town house for the first time since leaving for Atlantic City, she was greeted by the sound of the dog sliding across the wooden floors toward her, and by George, white-gloved and nervous, in the foyer.
“Mrs. Houdini,” he began hesitantly. “There’s a gentleman in the library waiting for you.”
“A gentleman?” She rarely had guests at the house, short of Gladys and Stella, and preferred to do her entertaining at the tearoom.
“I wouldn’t have let him in, but he showed me a telegram you sent him.”
Bess’s pulse quickened. “Charles!” She rushed through the library doors. She had only telegrammed him that there had been an emergency, and she would get back in touch with him, but somehow he had found her.
He was standing by the staircase with his back to her, his luggage at his feet. He turned when she entered. “This is— I’ve never seen anything like this.” He craned his head to see the spiral stairs, which wound through all four floors. “It’s so grand.”
“You found me.”
His face turned red. “I found your address through the paper. Was it presumptuous of me to come? I didn’t know what had happened and I thought maybe I could offer some help.”
“No, no, it wasn’t presumptuous. It was my niece. She’s in the hospital, but she’s all right now.”
“Oh, that’s a relief.”
Bess nodded.
“I brought the photographs.” He gestured toward his luggage. “I brought as many as I could, but I simply couldn’t fit them all.”
Bess looked down at the leather case and felt herself become dizzy. She had hardly eaten a thing since Saturday, and hardly slept either. Her stay in the hospital at Abby’s bedside had stirred up feelings of loneliness she had buried for a long time, and it had called into question the importance of her fixation. Here was a real situation, right in front of her—Abby’s baby in danger, Stella’s family in crisis—and it made her hunt for Harry seem all the more imaginary, and silly. She simply didn’t have the energy or the willpower to sort through hundreds of photographs right then. She wasn’t even sure she believed in the message anymore.
“Charles,” she said, “what would you say if I invited you to a party tonight?” The bespectacled man Gladys had been conversing with at Niall’s party had become a full-blown romance, apparently. The man, Lloyd, a stockbroker, was having people out to his country estate.
“Tonight?” Charles blinked, surprised.
“You don’t have to go back right away, do you?”
“No, no. I can stay. I just thought—you were so eager to see these photographs.”
“I am.” Bess’s voice caught in her throat. “I am just so tired. And it sounds counterintuitive, I know, but nothing seems more relaxing to me right now than a fun party, full of strangers.” She usually spent so many hours in her tearoom, playing hostess and entertaining other guests, that the idea of simply being part of a crowd seemed liberating.
“I’m just not sure—”
Bess gripped his hands. “Please join me. I could use the company.”
Charles sighed. “Where are we going? I’m not much for parties.”
“I actually don’t know the fellow. I’ve only met him once, but he’s got a house out on Long Island. Harry’s sister, Gladys, is in love with him I think.”
Three hours later they were standing on the lawn of Lloyd’s estate, staring out at Long Island Sound. Across the expanse of green grass, Bess could see Gladys, wafting over the grounds on Lloyd’s arm, in a yellow dress, as if she had never been reclusive at all. Bess could hardly believe the change in her.
“What do we do now?” Charles asked, fidgeting. The place was swarming with people. A group played croquet, drunkenly, near the water. “Do we approach anyone?”
Bess thought about it. She looked around her at the white candles floating on the pool, the waiters serving lobster croquettes in the sunken garden. “I don’t suppose I usually do that. Usually people approach me.” She paused. “That sounded very narcissistic, didn’t it?”
“Yes, a bit.”
She turned to see Gladys and Lloyd making their way toward them. Lloyd greeted them but then was dragged away by a group of male friends. “Will you be all right here?” he asked Gladys as he left.
Bess found the question insulting. “Of course she’ll be all right. I’m here.”