Page 47 of Endless Love

Slowly, I lifted my head and met her gaze.

“Listen, Ryan, I know what you went through, but you’ve got to get out of this funk. You’re a brilliant writer; you’re wasting your talent. Maybe the trip to LA will do you good or you need another change of scenery…”

A change of scenery. As she rambled on, offering remedies for my problem, those four words reverberated in my head. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. A writers’ retreat wasn’t the answer. But another type of retreat was.

Right after lunch, I hurried to a nearby antiques store on Broome Street. The one where I’d purchased my bed. My heartbeat quickened with each rapid step. Stopping in front of it to take a steeling breath, I swung the front door open. A bell chimed as I stepped foot inside, the scent of expensive furniture polish and potpourri wafting up my nose. Upon hearing the ding-ding-ding, the proprietor, a stocky aristocratic-looking fellow, made his way through the clutter of antiques, heading toward me. Though it had been almost five years, instant recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Madewell, good to see you again,” he beamed, extending his hand. “How have you been?”

“Not bad.” He didn’t need to know all the grief I’d been through nor the turmoil that was making my stomach churn as I shook his hand.

“I saw you a few weeks ago on Good Morning America. Congratulations on the movie.”

I thanked him politely, eager to change the subject.

“So, what brings you here today?”

I inhaled another fortifying breath and then spit out the words before I changed my mind. “I’d like to sell the bed I bought from you. Perhaps, I can put it on consignment or exchange it for something else.”

The dealer adjusted his half-moon glasses. “Actually, you’re in luck. A client of mine, who runs a small decorative arts museum upstate, has been looking for a bed much like the one you have. With its provenance, I’m sure he’d be willing to pay a hefty sum for it.”

My pulse in overdrive, I digested the dealer’s words. A museum?

“Sir, actually, I don’t want the money. I’d rather donate the bed on one condition.” A commemorative plaque. I told him how I wanted it worded.

Gift of Ryan Madewell IV

In Loving Memory of Allee Adair Madewell

July 14, 1988–June 10, 2013

After one phone call to the curator, we had a deal. And my Allee was going to at last have a tombstone of sorts. RIP, my beautiful angel. The bed was scheduled to be picked up tonight by the dealer’s movers. An unexpected peacefulness washed over me. Maybe it was just the proverbial calm before the storm and I’d made a terrible mistake I’d regret. Second thoughts flooded my head, but there was no going back. As my father always said, “A deal is a deal.”

The elated dealer broke into my thoughts. “You’re going to need something to sleep on. We just got a new shipment from Europe. Take a look around and let me know if there’s anything you like.”

Aimlessly, I meandered through the store. Nothing struck my fancy until I came upon a regal queen-size bed that had a tufted pale pink satin headboard. The upholstered fabric and color reminded me of the toe shoes that dangled from Willow’s childhood bed.

“What’s the story with this bed?” I asked the dealer, who was standing beside me.

“Rumor has it that it belonged to a famous ballerina who danced for the Ballet Russe. She supposedly wrote her memoir in it and then died peacefully in her sleep at the age of one hundred, surrounded by her loved ones.”

Holy shit! “I’ll take it.”

Adding that it came with a brand new high-end mattress, the dealer beamed. “Let me show you something else that belonged to this ballerina.”

Intrigued, I followed him to a jewelry case near the front of the store. Unlocking it, he slipped out a necklace from which hung a small pink-enameled pair of ballet shoes encrusted with diamonds. He set it atop a black velvet pad on the glass counter. Beneath the halogen lights above, the diamonds glistened.

“It is rumored to be a gift from her lover. It may have been designed by Fabergé, but unfortunately there are no markings.”

I studied the dainty jeweled shoes. They reminded me a lot of the pink satin toe shoes dangling from Willow’s bed. The dealer continued.

“Because you are an excellent customer, I can offer you the necklace at a very special price. It’s an investment piece and would certainly make a wonderful treat.”

Treat.The word reverberated in my ear. Trick or Treat. Everywhere I’d walked those words popped up somewhere. Even Balthazar was decked out with pumpkin decorations. Tomorrow was Halloween. Holy crap! Willow’s birthday. In the nick of time, I’d just found the most perfect present.

“I’ll take it.” The words tumbled out of my mouth.

Five minutes and several thousand dollars later, I was out the door, on my way to Bed Bath & Beyond.

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