The Goldfinch (104 page)

“Which is—?”

“Working in libraries, reading old newspapers, studying the old government records.”

“Why government records?”

Airily he waved a hand. “They are of interest to me. And of even greater interest to a close associate of mine, who sometimes manages to turn up quite a lot of interesting information in the course of things… I believe you two are acquainted with each other?”

“Who is that?”

“Lucius Reeve?”

In the ensuing silence, the babble of the crowd and the clink of glasses rose to a roar, as if a gust of wind had swept through the room.

“Yes. Lucius.” Amused eyebrow. Fluty, pursed lips. “Exactly. I knew his name would not be unfamiliar to you. You sold him a very interesting chest-on-chest, as you recall.”

“That’s right. And I’d love to buy it back if he could ever be persuaded.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Only he’s unwilling to sell it, as, as,” he said, shushing me maliciously, “as I would be too. With the other, even more interesting piece in the offing.”

“Well, I’m afraid he can forget all about that,” I said pleasantly. My jolt at Reeve’s name had been purely reflexive, a mindless jump from a coiled extension cord or a piece of string on the floor.

“Forget?” Havistock permitted himself a laugh. “Oh, I don’t think he will forget about it.”

In reply, I smiled. But Havistock only looked more smug.

“It’s really very surprising the things one can find out on the computer these days,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Well, you know, Lucius has quite recently managed to turn up some information on some other interesting pieces you’ve sold. In fact I don’t think the buyers know quite how interesting they are. Twelve ‘Duncan Phyfe’ dining chairs, to Dallas?” he said, sipping at his champagne. “All that ‘important Sheraton’ to the buyer in Houston? And a great deal more of same in Los Angeles?”

I tried not to let my expression waver.

“ ‘Museum quality pieces.’ Of course—” including Mrs. Barbour in this—“we all know, don’t we, that ‘museum quality’ really depends the sort of museum you’re talking about. Ha ha! But Lucius has really done a very good job of following some of your more enterprising sales of late. And, once the holidays are over, he’s been thinking of taking a trip down to Texas to—Ah!” he said, turning from me with a deft little dance-like step as Kitsey, in ice-blue satin, swept in to greet us. “A welcome and ornamental addition indeed! You look lovely, my dear,” he said, leaning to kiss her. “I’ve just been talking to your charming husband-to-be. Really quite shocking, the friends in common we have!”

“Oh?” It was not until she actually turned to me—to look at me full-on, to peck me on the cheek—that I realized Kitsey hadn’t been a hundred percent sure that I would show up. Her relief at the sight of me was palpable.

“And are you giving Theo and Mommy all the scandal?” she said, turning back to Havistock.

“Oh, Kittycat, you
are
wicked.” Cozily, he slipped one arm through hers, and with the other reached over and patted her on the hand: a little Puritan-looking devil of a man, thin, amiable, spry. “Now, my dear, I see you are in need of a drink, as am I. Let’s wander off on our own, shall we?”—another glance back at me—“and find a nice quiet spot so we can have a good long gossip about your fiancé.”

xxxii.

“T
HANK HEAVENS HE’S GONE,
” murmured Mrs. Barbour after they had wandered away to the drinks table. “Small chatter tires me terribly.”

“Same here.” The sweat was pouring off me. How had he found out? All the pieces he’d mentioned I’d shipped through the same carrier. Still—I was desperate for a drink—how could he know?

Mrs. Barbour, I was aware, had just spoken. “Excuse me?”

“I said, isn’t this extraordinary? I’m
astonished
by this great mob of people.” She was dressed very simply—black dress, black heels, and the magnificent snowflake brooch—but black was not Mrs. Barbour’s color and it only gave her a renunciate look of illness and mourning. “
Must
I
mingle? I suppose I must. Oh, God, look, there’s Anne’s husband, what a bore. Is it very awful of me to say that I wish I were at home?”

“Who was that man just now?” I asked her.

“Havistock?” She passed her hand over her forehead. “I’m glad he is so insistent about his name or I would have had a hard time introducing you.”

“I would have thought he was a dear friend of yours.”

Unhappily she blinked, with a discomposure that made me feel guilty for the tone I’d taken with her.

“Well,” she said resolutely. “He is very familiar. That is to say—he has a very familiar manner. He is that way with everyone.”

“How do you know him?”

“Oh—Havistock does volunteer work for the New York Historical Society. Knows everything, and everyone. Although, just between us, I don’t think he’s a descendant of Washington Irving at all.”

“No?”

“Well—he’s altogether charming. That is to say, he knows absolutely everyone… claims an Astor connection as well as the Washington Irving one, and who’s to say he is wrong? Some of us have found it interesting that many of the connections he invokes are dead. That said, Havistock’s delightful, or
can
be. Very very good about visiting the old ladies—well, you heard him just now. Perfect trove of information about New York history—dates, names, genealogies. Before you came up, he was filling me in on the history of
every
single building up and down the street—all the old scandals—society murder in the townhouse next door, 1870s—he knows absolutely everything. That said, at a luncheon a few months ago he was regaling the table with an utterly scurrilous story about Fred Astaire which I don’t feel can
possibly
be true. Fred Astaire! Cursing like a sailor, throwing a fit! Well, I don’t mind telling you that I simply didn’t believe it—none of us did. Chance’s grandmother knew Fred Astaire back when she was working in Hollywood and she said he was simply the loveliest man alive. Never heard a whisper to the contrary. Some of the old stars were perfectly horrible, of course, and we’ve heard all those stories too. Oh,” she said despairingly, in the same breath, “how tired and hungry I feel.”

“Here—” feeling sorry for her, leading her to an empty chair—“sit down. Would you like me to get you something to eat?”

“No, please. I’d like you to stay with me. Although I suppose I shouldn’t hog you to myself,” she said unconvincingly. “Guest of honor.”

“Honestly, it won’t take a minute.” My eyes sped round the room. Trays of hors d’oeuvres were going around and there was a table with food in the next room, but I urgently needed to talk to Hobie. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

Luckily Hobie was so tall—taller than virtually everyone else—that I had no difficulty spotting him, a lighthouse of safety in the crowd.

“Hey,” said someone, catching my arm as I was almost to him. It was Platt, in a green velvet jacket that smelled like mothballs, looking rumpled and anxious and already half-sloshed. “Everything okay between you two?”

“What?”

“You and Kits get everything hashed out?”

I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer this. After a few moments of silence he pushed a string of gray-blond hair behind one ear. His face was pink and swollen with premature middle age, and I thought, not for the first time, how there’d been no freedom for Platt in his refusal to grow up, how by slacking off too long he’d managed to destroy every last glimmer of his hereditary privilege; and now he was always going to be loitering at the margins of the party with his gin and lime while his baby brother Toddy—still in college—stood talking in a group which included the president of an Ivy League college, a billionaire financier, and the publisher of an important magazine.

Platt was still looking at me. “Listen,” he said. “I know it’s none of my business, you and Kits…”

I shrugged.

“Tom doesn’t love her,” he said impulsively. “It was the best thing that ever happened to Kitsey when you came along and she knows it. I mean, the way he treats her! She was with him, you know, that weekend Andy died? That was the big important reason why she sent Andy up to look after Daddy, even though Andy was hopeless with Daddy, why she didn’t go herself. Tom, Tom, Tom. All about Tom. And yeah, apparently, he’s all ‘Endless Love’ with her, ‘My Only Love,’ or so she says, but believe me it’s a different story behind her back. Because—” he paused, in frustration—“the way he strung her along—leeched money constantly, went around with other girls and lied about it—it made me sick, Mommy and Daddy too. Because, basically, she’s a meal ticket to him. That’s how he sees her. But—don’t ask me why, she was crazy for him. Completely off her head.”

“Still is, it seems.”

Platt made a face. “Oh, come on. It’s you she’s marrying.”

“Cable doesn’t strike me as the marrying type.”

“Well—” he took a big slug of his drink—“whoever Tom
does
marry, I feel sorry for them. Kits may be impulsive but she’s not stupid.”

“Nope.” Kitsey was far from stupid. Not only had she arranged for the marriage that would most please her mother; she was sleeping with the person she really loved.

“It would never have panned out. Like Mommy said. ‘Utter infatuation.’ ‘A rope of sand.’ ”

“She told me she loved him.”

“Well, girls always love assholes,” said Platt, not bothering to dispute this. “Haven’t you noticed?”

No,
I thought bleakly,
untrue.
Else why didn’t Pippa love me?

“Say, you need a drink, pal. Actually—” knocking the rest of his back—“I could use another myself.”

“Look, I just have to go and speak to someone. Also, your mother—” I turned and pointed in the direction where I’d seated her—“she needs a drink too and something to eat.”

“Mommy,”
said Platt, looking like I’d just reminded him of a kettle he’d left boiling on the stove, and hurried off.

xxxiii.

“H
OBIE
?”

He seemed startled at the touch of my hand on his sleeve, turned quickly. “Everything all right?” he said immediately.

I felt better just standing next to him—just to breathe in the clean air of Hobie. “Listen,” I said, glancing round nervously, “if we could just have a quick—”

“Ah, and is this the groom?” interjected a woman in his eagerly hovering group.

“Yes, congratulations!” More strangers, pressing forward.

“How young he looks! How very young you look.” Blonde lady, mid fifties, pressing my hand. “And how handsome!” turning to her friend. “Prince Charming! Can he be a moment over twenty-two?”

Courteously, Hobie introduced me around the circle—gentle, tactful, unhurried, a social lion of the mildest sort.

“Um,” I said, looking around the room, “sorry to drag you away, Hobie, I hope you won’t think me rude if—”

“Word in private? Certainly. You’ll excuse me?”

“Hobie,” I said, as soon as we were in a relatively quiet corner. The hair at my temples was damp with sweat. “Do you know a man named Havistock Irving?”

The pale brows came down. “Who?” he said, and then, looking at me more closely, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

His tone, and his expression, made me realize that he knew more about my mental state than he’d been letting on. “Sure,” I said, pushing my glasses up on the bridge of my nose. “I’m fine. But—listen, Havistock Irving, does that name ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

Somewhat erratically—I was dying for a drink; it had been foolish of me not to stop at the bar on the way over—I explained. As I spoke, Hobie’s face grew blanker and blanker.

“What,” he said, scanning over the heads of the crowd. “Do you see him?”

“Um—” throngs milling by the buffet, beds of cracked ice, gloved servers shucking oysters by the bucketful—“there.”

Hobie—shortsighted without his glasses—blinked twice and squinted. “What,” he said shortly, “him with the—” he brought his hands up to the sides of his head to simulate the two puffs of hair.

“Yes that’s him.”

“Well.” He folded his arms, with a rough, unpracticed ease that made me see for a flash the alternate Hobie: not the tailor-fitted antiquaire but the cop or tough priest he might have been in his old Albany life.