Someone bumped her. “Are you going to get on the plane?” the man behind her asked.
Jerking her Louis Vuitton rollerboard, Lola shuffled through first class to the back of the plane. If she were Schiffer Diamond, she’d be riding in the front, she thought bitterly, heaving her suitcase into the overhead compartment. She arranged herself in the tiny seat, smoothing down her jeans and kicking off her shoes. She examined the cover of Harper’s Bazaar again and nearly wanted to cry. Why was Schiffer Diamond ruining her dream?
Lola leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She wasn’t finished yet, she reminded herself. Philip hadn’t broken up with her, and on Sunday, he was going to Los Angeles for two weeks. He’d be busy with his movie — too busy, she hoped, to think about Schiffer Diamond. And while he was away, she would move the last of her things into his apartment. When he returned, there she’d be.
Arriving at the house in Windsor Pines, Lola saw that the situation had indeed taken a turn for the worse. Most of the furniture was gone, and all the precious artifacts from her childhood — her plastic ponies and Barbie Fun House and even her extensive collection of Beanie Babies —
had been sold in a tag sale. All that remained was her bed, with its lacy white bedskirt and frilly pink comforter. This time around, Beetelle insisted on being determinedly cheerful. She dragged Lola to a barbecue at the neighbors’, where she told everyone that she and Cem were so happy to be moving to a condo where they wouldn’t have to worry about upkeep on a house. The neighbors tried not to acknowledge the Fabrikants’ situation by showing off pictures of their new grandson. Not to be outdone, Beetelle exclaimed how Lola herself was almost engaged to the famous writer Philip Oakland. “Isn’t he a bit old?” said one of the women with disapproval.
Lola gave her a dirty look, deciding the woman was jealous because her own daughter had only married a local boy who ran a landscaping business. “He’s forty-five,” Lola said. “And he knows movie stars.”
“Everyone knows actresses are secretly whores,” the woman remarked.
“That’s always what my mother said, anyway.”
“Lola is very sophisticated,” Beetelle jumped in. “She was always more advanced than the other girls.” Then they all started talking about their little investments in the stock market and the falling prices of their homes.
This was both depressing and boring. Glaring at the woman who’d made the remark about Philip, Lola realized that they were all just petty and narrow-minded. How had she ever lived here?
Later, lying in her bed in her barren room, Lola realized she would never have to sleep in this bed, in this room, in this house, ever again. And looking around the nearly empty space, she decided she wouldn’t miss it one bit.
15
Connie Brewer promised Billy never to wear the Cross of Bloody Mary. She kept her promise, but as Billy hadn’t said anything about framing it and putting it on the wall, two weeks after Sandy purchased it for her, she took the cross to a renowned framer on Madison Avenue. He was an elderly man of at least eighty, still elegant with slicked-back gray hair and a yellow cravat at his neck. He examined the cross in its soft suede wrapping and looked at her curiously. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“It was a gift,” Connie said. “From my husband.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I have no idea,” she said firmly. She wondered if she’d made a mis -
take by taking the cross out of the apartment, but then the framer said nothing more, and Connie forgot about it. The framer, however, didn’t.
He told a dealer, and the dealer told a client, and soon a rumor began to circulate in the art world that the Brewers now possessed the Cross of Bloody Mary.
Being a generous girl, Connie naturally wanted to share her treasure with her friends. On an afternoon in late February after a lunch at La Goulue, she invited Annalisa back to her apartment. The Brewers lived on Park Avenue in an apartment in which two classic-six units were combined into one sprawling apartment with five bedrooms, two nannies’ rooms, and an enormous living room where the Brewers hosted a Christmas party every year, with Sandy dressed up as Santa and Connie as one of his elves, in a red velvet jumpsuit with white mink cuffs.
“I have to show you something, but you can’t tell anyone,” Connie said, leading Annalisa through the apartment to her sitting room, located off the master bedroom. In consideration of Billy Litchfield’s insistence that the cross remain a secret, she had hung the framed artifact in this room, accessible only through the master bedroom, making it the most private room in the apartment. No one was allowed in except the maids. The room was Connie’s fantasy, done up in pink and light blue silks, with gilt mirrors and a Venetian chaise, a window seat filled with pillows, and wallpaper with hand-painted butterflies. Annalisa had been in this room twice, and she could never decide if it was beautiful or hideous.
“Sandy bought it for me,” Connie whispered, indicating the cross. Annalisa took a step closer, politely examining the piece, which was displayed against dark blue velvet. She didn’t have Connie’s interest in or appreciation for jewelry, but she said kindly, “It’s gorgeous. What is it?”
“It belonged to Queen Mary. A gift from the pope for keeping England Catholic. It’s invaluable.”
“If it’s real, it probably belongs in a museum.”
“Well, it does,” Connie admitted. “But so many antiquities are owned by private individuals these days. And I don’t think it’s wrong for the rich to guard the treasures of the past — I feel it’s our duty. It’s such an important piece. Historically, aesthetically ...”
“More important than your crocodile Birkin bag?” Annalisa teased.
She didn’t for a moment think the cross was real. Billy had told her that Sandy had been buying Connie so much jewelry lately, he was developing a reputation as an easy mark. Knowing Sandy, he’d probably bought the piece from a shady dealer and had made the guy’s day.
“Handbags are not important anymore,” Connie admonished her. “It said so in Vogue. Right now it’s all about having something no one else possesses. It’s about the one of a kind. The unique.”
Annalisa lay down on the Venetian chaise and yawned. She’d had two glasses of champagne at lunch and was feeling sleepy. “I thought Queen Mary was evil. Didn’t she have her sister killed? Or have I got the story wrong? You’d better be careful, Connie. The cross might bring you bad luck.”
Meanwhile, a few blocks away in the basement offices of the Metropolitan Museum, David Porshie, Billy Litchfield’s old friend, hung up the phone. He had just been informed about the rumor of the existence of the Cross of Bloody Mary, which was said to be in the hands of a couple named Sandy and Connie Brewer. He sat back in his swivel chair, folding his hands under his chin. Could it be true? he wondered.
David was well aware of the mysterious disappearance of the cross in the fifties. Every year it appeared on a list of items missing from the museum. The suspicion had always been that Mrs. Houghton purloined the cross herself, but as she was beyond reproach and, more importantly, donated two million dollars a year to the museum, the matter had never been thoroughly investigated.
But now that Mrs. Houghton was dead, perhaps it was time — especially as the cross had surfaced shortly after her death. Looking up Sandy and Connie Brewer on the Internet, David discovered exactly who they were. Sandy was a hedge-fund manager, of all things — typical that an arriviste should end up with such a rare and precious antiquity — and while he and his wife, Connie, deemed themselves “important collectors,” David suspected they were of the new-money ilk who paid ridiculous prices for what David considered junk. People like the Brewers were not generally of interest to people like himself, a steward of the great Metropolitan Museum, except in how much money one might extract from them at the gala.