The Book of Someday Part 24

Livvi isn't sure how she feels about this news of Christmas diamonds. An engagement ring, a request from Andrew to become his wife, would be slightly insulting-Andrew currently has a wife. And the gift of earrings, or a necklace, would seem like Andrew was trying to use their glitter to obscure the truth-the fact that Livvi is never quite on solid ground, that at any given moment she can be exiled by the whims of Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills.

And as Livvi is in the midst of thinking these things- -Bree is saying: "Wow. This truly sucks."

She's slipping into a chair at the table, commenting on the untouched food on Grace's plate. "You guys just got here, huh?"

"Ask for a hamburger too." Grace pushes a menu toward Bree. "And we can stay here for a while and not go home till later. Please?"

Bree checks her watch. There's sincere regret as she's telling Grace: "No way, doodle-bug. We gotta roll." Bree then looks at Livvi and says: "Sorry."

"Not even a couple more minutes?" Livvi asks.

"I wish," Bree replies. "But I'll be in huge trouble if I get her home late."

As Livvi is calling to the waiter, asking for the check and a carryout box for Grace's lunch, she's being torn apart by Grace's pleading gaze.

While Bree is explaining: "I have to get Grace back in time for the Christmas family portrait. It's this afternoon, at her grandmother's house."

Grace has gone back to her drawing-moving a crayon over the paper in a rapid blur. "Wait, wait," she's begging. "I need to finish this.

"It's for you," Grace tells Livvi. "It's special. For Christmas." She's frantically s.n.a.t.c.hing up one crayon after another. Working as fast as she can.

"It's all right, Grace," Livvi says. "We'll be together on Christmas Eve. You and Daddy and I are going to see The Nutcracker, remember? You can give it to me then."

Grace remains intent on her drawing. She doesn't see Bree looking at Livvi, silently saying no. Grace doesn't see what Livvi sees-Bree taking one of the crayons and scribbling something on a napkin.

Bree slides the napkin toward Livvi, showing her the message: Annual family winter vacation-Bermuda.

Bree's tone is subdued, sympathetic: "He hasn't told you, has he?"

It's as if Livvi is being hit by a speeding train. Everything seems to be happening at once. The news about Bermuda. The waiter handing her the carryout box containing Grace's lunch. Grace insisting she doesn't want to leave, begging Bree to let her stay. Bree producing an iPod from her purse and tucking the ear buds into Grace's ears, saying: "Hey, look what I've got. Muppet songs."

As soon as Grace is distracted by the music, Bree turns to Livvi. "I'm gonna get my Christmas spirit on, and give Andrew the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn't tell you about the family trek to Bermuda because he hasn't found out about it yet. I just got the info this morning-from Grace's other parent."

Bree checks to be certain Grace isn't listening, then tells Livvi: "That woman doesn't give a darn about Grace, all she's interested in is hanging on to Andrew." Bree glances at Grace again, then says: "The truth is I'm not a big fan of Andrew's either, but I know how much c.r.a.p he gets. This time Mommy Dearest is threatening to 'treat' Grace to a trip to Europe-like right this minute-and stay there until after New Year's Eve-if Andrew doesn't agree to be part of the family Christmas in Bermuda."

Bree leans close to Livvi, keeping her voice low. "If Andrew doesn't show up in Bermuda, he won't see Grace for the holidays. And if he fights it, he'll not only get world-cla.s.s c.r.a.p from his parents, but he runs the risk of Kayla going all psycho-meltdown and scaring the s.h.i.+t out of Gracie. The whole thing is a monster circle-jerk. I don't get why he doesn't just dump that nut-job and be done with her."

"I don't either," Livvi murmurs.

Bree is instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I shouldn't have said all that." She stands up, quickly disconnects Grace from the iPod, and lifts her out of her chair. "Come on, doodle-bug, you can finish your drawing in the car."

"But if we leave now, how will Livvi get it? I want her to have it today," Grace frets.

"I'll scan it on the computer, and we'll e-mail it to her. Come on, Gracie, be a good girl. We're gonna be late, we're gonna get in trouble."

Grace runs to Livvi, throwing her arms around her. "I love you." Grace's breath is warm against Livvi's ear.

Then Grace is gone.

Livvi leans forward and rests her head on the cool metal of the tabletop-consumed by the emptiness left by Grace's departure. And by the devastating news that she won't be with Grace, or with Andrew, at Christmas.

It isn't until hours later when Livvi has gone home and is working on Sierra's year-end bills that the feeling of emptiness lifts-and is suddenly replaced by an impulse to break free.

While checking a date on her December calendar, Livvi has discovered a note in the calendar's margin. And it's causing her to recognize something about herself she hasn't clearly seen before. When it comes to Andrew, she's been living her life as if she's still locked in her father's house, as if she's a powerless little girl, with no choice other than to endure whatever new misery is being delivered to her.

Livvi is seeing that her sense of being optionless and trapped doesn't have anything to do with reality-it's completely self-imposed. And this realization is bringing her to an entirely new point of view. I can't do anything to erase the hurt of being discarded at Christmas, she's thinking. But I can definitely do something to make it hurt less.

The calendar note that Livvi is looking at was jotted down several months ago, when she a.s.sumed she'd be with Andrew for the holidays and was postponing any other plans until she knew his exact schedule. It's a penciled, question-marked reference to the Manhattan Literary Luncheon.

When Livvi picks up the phone and calls David to ask if it's too late to change her mind about attending the luncheon, his answer is: "I'll move heaven and earth to make sure you're put back on the list."

"Thank you," Livvi tells him. "I'll book a cheap flight then get to work finding a hotel I can afford."

For the first time in months, she has a direction. A goal. Livvi is putting herself on track to go someplace where she's wanted. And valued. She feels excited. She feels strong.

"You'll be arriving at the height of the Christmas season," David says. "It may be tricky finding a decent place to stay at a reasonable price. But no worries. My grandmother read your book and was crazy about it. She has a big wonderful old house. She'll be thrilled to have you as a guest."

"Thank you doesn't seem like enough, David. But it's all I have. Thank you for everything. I can't wait."

There's a microscopic pause. Then David says: "I'm glad you're coming. What changed your mind?"

"I'll explain when I see you," she tells him.

Livvi suspects that whatever explanation she comes up with won't be the whole truth. Because it's too complicated. Because part of it is about getting away from the past. And part of it is about changing the present-making today something stronger and better than yesterday was. And part of it is about the future. About who Livvi will be after she goes to New Jersey and stands in front of her father. For the final time.

Micah.

Boston, Ma.s.sachusetts ~ 2012.

Micah has opened the door to the dimly lit room at the top of the stairs and is in pain. She is finally, at last, in the presence of the woman in the silver dress and pearl-b.u.t.ton shoes.

The woman has been in this room-year after year-waiting for Micah to come and to face her. Being with her again after all this time is taking Micah's breath away.

The woman, even though she is Micah's creation, is far more compelling-more vivid and disturbingly enigmatic-than Micah had remembered.

While Micah is crossing the room, there is only the faraway sound of the night wind. Like the murmuring of a distant ghost.

When Micah arrived at a stop in front of the woman-in front of the artist's easel and the photograph it holds. The wind is dying down. The ghostly murmurs, fading away.

Over the course of the past two decades this woman, this picture, has taken on mythological importance to Micah. And to the art world. "The Woman in the Pearl-b.u.t.ton Shoes" is the only existing photograph by the famous Micah Lesser that contains the likeness of a human being.

With a single exception, no one other than Micah has ever laid eyes on this unforgettable image.

It has become an invisible icon. Etched into the world's consciousness by the explosion of publicity that surrounded Micah's cover shot for the history-making rock alb.u.m. And by the fantastic tale told by Miles Gidney. About the heart-stopping photograph that convinced him Micah was worthy of the job. A work of art he described as "Astounding!"

After Micah, in her ambitious heat, had impulsively showed this photo to Gidney in his house on Acorn Street, she immediately regretted what she had done. Immediately wanted to repent. And knew it was too late.

Which is why, when she returned to her little apartment in Cambridge, she locked the photograph in a closet. And wailed. The way she imagined Judas must have wailed. Feeling the dead weight of those thirty pieces of silver, falling onto his grasping, guilt-stained palm.

And now Micah is wailing again. For the unforgivable wrong she has committed.

The entire scope of Micah's sin is captured in the details of this single, transcendent, and disturbing photograph. It is in the image of the quietly beautiful woman. And in the matrix of dissonance and contradiction that surrounds her. It's in the darkness of the half-shadow into which the woman seems to be retreating. It's in the hope and brightness that are s.h.i.+ning in her eyes. It's in the daring, blatantly s.e.xual way in which the woman is dressed-and in how guileless she is. It's in the plunging neckline and provocative gleam of her silvery gown. In the explicit, tantalizing embrace of the fabric as it cups the curve of her hip. It is in the delicacy of her pearl-b.u.t.ton shoes. And in the purity of the small detail on the floor, the outline of a child's toy-indistinct but recognizable, hidden in the shadow at her feet. It's in the innocent way the woman is facing the camera-the unquestioning trust she has in the photographer.

Micah is in agony.

While she's gazing at the woman in the photograph, asking: "What was it like for you? At the end, when the terror came? What did you see? Did you know what was happening?"

The thud of her own heart is all that Micah can hear. As she's wondering, Did you know what I had done?

AnnaLee.

Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986.

AnnaLee is halfway down the stairs. Frozen in place. Listening to a thud coming from the kitchen, from the area of the back door. Hearing the sudden noise of breaking gla.s.s. The chilling sound of a window being smashed.

Now there's m.u.f.fled commotion. Scuffling footsteps, muttered conversation. Someone-more than one someone-inside the house. Coming nearer.

AnnaLee is suddenly in motion. Racing up the stairs, into the dark of Bella's room.

She's opening the closet door. Pulling Bella's winter blankets from the shelf and piling them onto the floor, in the closet's farthest corner. Making a small nest.

Then AnnaLee is lifting Bella from her bed and carrying her into the closet-laying her on top of the blankets and closing the door. Fervently praying that Bella stays quiet and asleep.

Surely Jack must be aware of what's happening downstairs. He's in the living room. But the only movement, the only sound, that AnnaLee can hear is emanating from the back of the house. From the kitchen.

She quickly leaves Bella's room and hurries down the hall to her own bedroom-the one room upstairs that has a phone. She's trembling, p.r.i.c.kling with fear.

When AnnaLee puts the phone's receiver to her ear, the fear spikes. And becomes fever.

There's no dial tone.

Faint sounds are echoing through the earpiece. Footsteps. Low voices. Someone-a man-muttering the word f.u.c.k.

One of the downstairs phones (either the one in the kitchen or the one in the living room) must have been taken off the hook. AnnaLee has no way to call for help.

She's looking around the bedroom. Searching for something she can use as a weapon.

It's as if she's surrounded by objects in a trivia museum.

A hairbrush on the dresser. A nightgown at the end of the bed. Framed photographs on the nightstand. A leather-bound calendar on the arm of a chair, open to today's date, August 30. Nothing of substance. Nothing she can use to defend herself.

And with every pa.s.sing second the noise from downstairs-the threat beneath her feet-is getting louder and closer.

Where's Jack? Why haven't I heard his voice in all of this? AnnaLee is frantic. What will happen if Bella doesn't stay asleep and out of sight...in her hiding place?

AnnaLee has left her bedroom and is heading for the stairs. Her only option is to go down into the kitchen. And face whatever is there. Do whatever it takes to keep Bella from being found.

She comes down the staircase quickly. When she reaches the bottom step, the hallway in front of her is in semi-darkness. The door leading to the kitchen is to her left-slightly ajar. Allowing only the faintest bit of light to escape. The entry to the living room is on her right. Dark and soundless.

It seems to AnnaLee that someone is lurking at the other end of the hall. The danger doesn't stop her. She's being propelled by the rapid, rhythmic beating of her heart...Keep Bella safe. Keep Bella safe. Keep Bella safe.

AnnaLee is stepping off the last stair. Into the darkened hallway. And a woman is rus.h.i.+ng at her. Out of the gloom. Panicking her. Causing AnnaLee's eyes to widen and her mouth to fly open.

Within a microsecond, AnnaLee is understanding that what she's seeing is her own reflection. In a mirror. At the far end of the hall. A reflection she didn't recognize because she's still dressed in her glittering costume from the gala.

But this realization has come too late.

At the first glimpse of the woman in the mirror, AnnaLee has screamed.

And that scream is why someone is opening the kitchen door, flooding the hallway with light.

AnnaLee, her back pressed to the wall, is moving as rapidly as she can toward the living room. Toward her only hope of safety. Toward Jack.

And she's thinking as she continues to move that her chances of getting away, of survival, are nonexistent.

AnnaLee is watching the person in the kitchen doorway raise a gun. And aim it at her.

The brute solidity of the gun, the matte-black of its squat barrel, the darkness inside the neat circular opening at its tip, are terrifying.

But even more frightening is what AnnaLee is seeing out of the corner of her eye.

The thing that's taking shape in the shadows.

At the bottom of the stairs.

Livvi.

East Norwich, New York ~ 2012.