Beatriz Williams The Secret Life of Violet Grant

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.I whisked my umbrella aside and winked an affectionate hello to the grime in the creases of the front door.The lock gave way with only a rusty minimum of rattling.Doctor Paul ducked below the lintel and paused in the vestibule.A patch of new sunlight shone through the transom onto his hair.I nearly wept.“This is you?” he said.“Only good girls live at the Barbizon.Did I mention I’m on the fifth floor?”“Of course you are.” He turned his doughty shoulders to the stairwell and began to climb.I followed his blue-scrubbed derriere upward, marveling anew as we achieved each landing, wondering when my alarm clock would clamor through the rainbows and unicorns and I would open my eyes to the tea-stained ceiling above my bed.“May I ask what unconscionably heavy apparatus I’m carrying up to your attic? Cast-iron stove? Cadaver?”Oh! The parcel.“My money’s on the cadaver.”“You don’t know?”“I have no idea.I don’t even know who it’s from.”He rested his foot on the next step and cocked his head toward the box.“No ticking, anyway.That’s a good sign.”“No funny smell, either.”He resumed the climb with a precious little flex of his shoulder.The landscape grew more dismal as we went, until the luxurious rips in the chintz wallpaper and the incandescent nakedness of the lightbulbs announced that we had reached the unsavory entrance to my unsuitable abode.I made a swift calculation of dishes left unwashed and roommates left unclothed.“You know, you could just leave it right here on the landing,” I said.“I can manage from here.”“Just open the door, will you?”“So commanding.” I shoved the key in the lock and opened the door.Well, it could have been worse.The dishes had disappeared—sink, perhaps?—and so had the roommate.Only the bottle of vodka remained, sitting proudly on the radiator shelf next to the tomato juice and an elegant black lace slip.Sally’s, by my sacred honor.I hurried over and draped my scarf over the shameful tableau.A thump ensued as Doctor Paul laid the parcel to rest on the table.“Whew.I thought I wasn’t going to make it up that last flight.”“Don’t worry.I would have caught you.”He was looking at the parcel: one hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair in that way we girls adore.“Well?”“Well, what?”“Aren’t you going to open it?”“It’s my parcel.Can’t a girl have a little privacy?”“Now, see here.I carried that.that object up five flights of Manhattan stairs.Can’t a man have a little curiosity?”Again with the glittery smile.I pushed myself off the radiator.“Since you put it that way.Make yourself comfortable.Can I take your coat and hat?”“That hurt.”I slipped off my wet raincoat and slung it on Sally’s hat tree, a hundred years old at least and undoubtedly purloined.I placed my hat on the hook above my coat, taking care to give my curls an artful little shake.Well, you can’t blame me for that, at least.My hair was my best feature: brown and glossy, a hint of red, falling just so around my ears, a saucy flip.It distracted from my multitude of flaws, Monday to Sunday.Why not shake for all I was worth?I turned around and sashayed the two steps to the table.Also purloined.Sally had told me the story yesterday, over our second round of martinis: the restaurant owner, the jealous wife, the police raid.I’ll spare you the ugly details.In any case, our table was far more important than either of us had a right to own—solid, square, genuine imitation wood—which now proved positively providential, because my mysterious gift from the post office (the parcel, not the blonde) would have overwhelmed a lesser piece of furniture.As it was, the beast sat brown and hulking in the center, battered in one corner, stained in another, patched with an assortment of foreign stamps.“Well, well.” I peered over the top.“What have we here?”Miss Vivian Schuyler, read the label.Of 52 Christopher Street, et cetera, et cetera, except that my first name appeared over a scribbled-out original, and my building address likewise.“It looks as if it’s been forwarded,” I said.“The plot thickens.”“My mother’s handwriting.” I ran my finger over the jagged remains of Fifth Avenue.“My parents’ address, too.”“That sounds reasonable.” He remained a few respectful feet away, arms crossed against his blue chest.“Someone must have sent it to your parents’ house.”“Apparently.Someone from Zurich, Switzerland.”“Switzerland?” He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward at last.“Really? You have friends in Switzerland?”“Not that I can remember.” I was trying to read the original name, beneath my mother’s black scribble.V something something.“What do you think that is?”“It’s not Vivian?”“No, it ends with a t.”An instant’s reflection.“Violet? Someone had your name wrong, I guess.”For a man who’d just walked coatless through the dregs of an October rain, Doctor Paul was awfully warm.I wore a cashmere turtleneck sweater over my torso, ever so snug, and still I could feel the rampant excess wafting from his skin, an unconscionable waste of thermal energy.Up close, he smelled like a hospital, which bothered me not at all.I sashayed to the kitchen drawer and withdrew a knife.“Ah, now the truth comes out.Make it quick.”“Silly.” I waved the knife in a friendly manner.“It’s just that I don’t have any scissors.”“Scissors! You really are a professional.”“Stand aside, if you will.” I examined the parcel before me.Every seam was sealed by multiple layers of Scotch tape, as if the contents were either alive or radioactive, or both.“I don’t know where to start.”“You know, I am a trained surgeon.”“So you say.” I sliced along one seam, and another.Rather expertly, if you must know; but then I had done the honors of the table at college since my sophomore year.Nobody at Bryn Mawr carved up a noble loin like Vivian Schuyler [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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