The Necklace

A mere twenty minutes after she’d hung up, Emerson called and politely offered to deal with the contents of the farm on her behalf and at her direction. Vlad’s background and position at the Met would be an invaluable help in sorting the treasures from the trash. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the mechanics of the Quincys worked just that fast. The coolness in Emerson’s tone let her know that he’s been designated the one to deal with her, the one who can handle her. Actually, it was quite generous of Emerson to step into that mess. Both she and Pansy trust him implicitly, as does Baldwin. He had some good ideas for conducting a division, and so she’d agreed to come this weekend and start.

Louis’s subsequent texts had only encouraged her decision for a visit. She’s enjoyed his repartee, the slow getting to know each other through email and texts over the last few months. She’s been hiding behind work, but he hasn’t forced her. That patience is appealing, sexy even. She hasn’t seen him since that night at his place.

The first spring slush is melting in the streets when Nell pulls up at the white clapboard clubhouse of the hunt club next to the river, relatively small for the size of the membership and definitely discreet. Quincys have been members since the founding. The hunt is now a drag, and the polo is long gone, but the stables are still filled with the members’ horses.

She opens the front door, black lacquer with a brass fox-head knocker. Inside, a huge ginger jar filled with flowering quince branches sits on an austere Federalist table. The threadbare-but-still-good rugs are supposed to make you feel like you’re visiting Grandma’s. Silver horse trophies rest next to a curated collection of magazines on the side table—the most recent Town & Country and Country Life are fanned out next to today’s Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal.

Nell’s surprised to see Reema Patel leaning forward, in her myopic way, examining an old framed photograph of a man on horseback, who is leaning down with a fond smile to talk to a woman in a diaphanous white skirt and saddle shoes.

“How are you?” Nell asks, extending a hand. Patel is wearing a chic navy silk dress and seems not at all surprised to be meeting here.

Instead of shaking hands, Patel points to the caption and reads aloud, “Mr. Ambrose Quincy on the Ragman.”

“They say he was a natural seat,” Nell says.

“No name for her, though . . .” Patel trails off, waiting for Nell to supply detail.

“Typical,” Nell says, hoping for some sisterhood.

Patel straightens, her detached eye inspecting Nell as if she’s an artifact, and then her eyes get wide. “Are you actually wearing—” She stops herself.

“I thought it was safest on me,” Nell says, and because things are getting awkward, she points to the taxidermy on either side of the fireplace—a half-dozen snarling fox heads on small plaques labeled with dates. “My mom’s actually responsible for one of these.”

The closest head unfurls its black tongue, desiccated and turning to dust. She remembers her mother averting her eyes from them when they’d come here during summer visits. She’d told Nell that when she went on her first hunt, after the hounds caught the fox and killed it, her mother was bloodied in keeping with tradition. An oldster huntsman had wrangled the carcass from the dogs and then smeared the blood of the fox on her cheeks and forehead to signal she was part of the group now. She’d almost vomited. Nell had asked her mother which fox head it was, but her mother couldn’t bear to look at them too closely. Nell can’t imagine her mother, a fan of Greenpeace and PETA, riding out for the hunt. Though perhaps this was the catalyst for her affinity for animals. Nell has to admit she got an uneasy thrill from the sadistic glamour of the story. Her mother had been a different person at one point in her life, submitting to incongruous dark rites in the name of all things Quincy.

Nell’s just about to tell Patel about the tradition when Pansy comes out of a recessed door set into a panel next to the chimney.

“In here, you two,” she says cheerily, and turns around, certain Nell and Patel will follow.

In the small paneled nook lined with dingy volumes detailing horse bloodlines, Baldwin sits at a small table set for five with a white tablecloth. When she sees there are no other tables in the library, Nell’s stomach sinks. With Patel following and Baldwin already here, this has the whiff of an ambush.

Baldwin rises to hug her and usher her into the seat next to him, holding out her chair. She doesn’t want to sit next to him, but she has no choice. Patel sits and unfurls her napkin, unimpressed by the preppy surroundings.

“Do I need counsel?” Nell asks, trying to sound light as Baldwin scoots her chair in behind her, nearly taking her out at the knees.

“Last I checked, you are a lawyer,” Baldwin says, reseating himself.

“A lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client. Isn’t that the old chestnut?” she asks.

“I believe that’s attributed to Abraham Lincoln,” says a big man straight out of a toothpaste ad. “Charles Walker. You must be Cornelia,” he says, entering the room, hand outstretched, beaming around his gleaming teeth. “Or is Nell okay? Sorry to be late. We’re merging right now, don’t know if you know.” He says this directly to Pansy, as if they all should be up on law firm happenings. “I’m wearing so many hats right now, I’m like a Jamaican.”

Nell checks her retort while Walker shakes her uncle’s hand. Starting off by making an enemy is not the best plan.

“Baldwin, a pleasure,” Walker is saying. Then he introduces himself to Patel with a hearty handshake and a “Nice to put a face with a voice on the phone.”

Nell sips her sweating ice water, hoping it will calm the knot grinding in her stomach. The knot telling her that this is an inside job.

“Such a great old club,” Walker says, sitting down heavily in the only leather armchair at the table.

Nell feels the unseen wheels that have been turning while she’s been away.

Pansy settles herself, looking spookily like a hip, black-clad version of Loulou—the pearls, the tasteful makeup, the hidden agenda, and the air of entitlement.

The menus, bound in green leather, feature offerings unchanged for generations—shrimp salad in half an avocado to start, Welsh rarebit, and lobster bisque. Pansy snaps hers shut and orders sole meunière.

There’s a pause after the waitress leaves. All eyes are on Pansy, waiting for her to speak, and it’s then Nell realizes the depth of the setup, because it’s Charles Walker, the lawyer, who goes first.

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