Page 38 of The Stolen Queen

“Exactly right. In an earlier version, Homer had two figures crouching on the rocks, but he later removed them. Whenever I’m posted to this gallery, I pretend that it’s a window, not a painting. I swear sometimes I can hear the rush of water if I listen hard enough.”

The security guard on duty came over and shook Billy’s hand, and then Billy took up his position, standing tall with his hands behind his back. A few tourists wandered by speaking French to each other. With its parquet floors and beautiful artwork, the gallery invited a sense of hushed awe upon its visitors, almost like a place of worship.

“I hope I’m not too chatty,” Billy said. “My dad says it’s like my brain never turns off, that my head is filled with words that just have to come out, like some kind of overstuffed ravioli.”

Annie giggled. “My dad used to say I was a magpie. I thought that was some kind of pie until he explained it was a bird who could talk.”

“You know, the magpie is a symbol of good luck in East Asia, you can find them all over Chinese artworks.”

He knew so much, it was a little intimidating.

“Cool.” What a stupid reply. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You seem like a quiet type to me,” said Billy. “Or maybe that’s because I take up all the oxygen in the room.”

“No, that’s not true at all. After my dad died, I didn’t talk as much.” Annie would never forget the day she answered the door to their apartment to find two men in suits staring down at her. They asked for her mother, and then Joyce was crying, and Annie heard them say her father had tried to stop some kids from harassing a woman on the subway and been shot. The men in suits offered empty platitudes and handed over her father’s bloodstained wallet and his set of keys before eventually letting themselves out.

Billy lightly touched Annie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. It’s funny, we used to come to the museum at least once a week when I was a kid, and now I wonder what he would think if he knew I was working here.”

“He’d probably be very proud.”

Annie blushed and thanked Billy for the chat and the tour. “I should let you get to work.”

“I hope we bump into each other soon,” said Billy. “Although maybe not so violently the next time.”

Annie giggled and agreed.

“You must come to me right away.” Mrs. Vreeland’s voice sailed through the phone receiver as if she were standing in Annie’s kitchen. Annie had just finished cleaning the dinner dishes from the night before when it rang. “I’m at 550 Park. Right away, I tell you.”

“Right away? Of course.” Annie hung up the phone and dried her hands on her jeans. Her mother was still asleep and probably would be until noon. Now that the modeling work had dried up and Brad was still away on business, she had little motivation to rise.

Annie left her mother a note and jumped on a bus to 62nd Street.Mrs. Vreeland’s building was the fancy prewar kind with an awning that extended the width of the sidewalk. The doormen wore white gloves yet treated Annie, in her jeans and messy ponytail, as if she were a high-society debutante. She appreciated their kindness.

She took the elevator up and knocked on Mrs. Vreeland’s door.

“Come in!”

Annie opened the door and stood there, gaping. Everything was done in vibrant shades of red: the boldly floral wallpaper, the dozens of patterned throw pillows, the floor-to-ceiling chintz drapes, the shag carpeting, even the floral arrangements. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did, the electrifying shock of color accented with tall Venetian screens and dark wood side tables.

Mrs. Vreeland lay sideways on the couch wearing a red dressing gown, a turban on her head. “It’s ravishing, isn’t it?” she said, lifting her arms wide. “I’m mad about red. I wanted my apartment to look like a garden in hell. All my life I’ve pursued the perfect red—I can never get painters to mix it for me. I’d tell them, ‘I want rococo with a spot of gothic in it and a bit of Buddhist temple,’ and they’d look at me like they had no idea what I’mtalkingabout! Sit there.”

Annie perched on a Georgian easy chair, unsure why she’d been summoned. The coffee table in front of her was covered with spiral shells of different sizes. “That’s quite a collection.”

“In this room you’ll find many small gifts from friends, including a collection of Scottish horn snuffboxes and Himalayan snow leopard throw pillows. I’m very lucky to have been surrounded by some of the best of people. Not growing up, unfortunately. My mother rejected me thoroughly, called me an ‘ugly little monster.’ But I was exposed to such artistry when we lived in Paris. I mean, Nijinsky and Diaghilev visited our apartment on avenue du Bois de Boulogne, if you can imagine such a thing. That more than made up for not being wanted. France taught me so much. How todance, how todress.”

Annie looked down at her jeans. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting your call.”

“Don’t apologize, dear. I love blue jeans. Blue jeans are the most beautiful thing since the gondola. They have fit and dash andline.”

Annie took a moment to consider the pronouncement. It made sense, in a weird way. “I remember you did an entire shoot featuring denim.”

“You know my work, then?” Mrs. Vreeland said, pleased.

“Of course. While all the other women’s magazines were writing about how to take care of your husband or how to please your mother-in-law, you filled the pages with women striding across the African desert.”

“Those were magical days, but life goes on. Now, Annie, I know this job is difficult, being my helper, and it’s only going to be messier the closer we get to the big night. But it’s the way I work, and if you’re able to put up with my many eccentricities, I assure you, you’ll go far. Myformerformer helper, a lovely Southern gentleman named André, has gone on to write forWomen’s Wear Daily.”

---