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“Yes,” I say, still stunned by her presence.
“It was ages ago. Emma was a mere slip of a girl. And I couldn’t be more proud of the woman she’s become.”
She gives me another look.Thelook. And although that sense of surprise hasn’t left me, I realize how happy I am to see her. I didn’t think such a thing was possible.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harris-White,” I tell her. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
She mock frowns. “What’s with this ‘Mrs. Harris-White’ nonsense? It’s Franny. Always Franny.”
I remember that, too. Her standing before us in her khaki shorts and blue polo shirt, her bulky hiking boots making her feet look comically large.Call me Franny. I insist upon it. Here in the great outdoors, we’re all equals.
It didn’t last. Afterward, when what happened was in newspapers across the country, it was her full, formal name that was used. Francesca Harris-White. Only daughter of real estate magnateTheodore Harris. Sole grandchild of lumber baron Buchanan Harris. Much-younger widow of tobacco heir Douglas White. Net worth estimated to be almost a billion, most of it old money stretching back to the Gilded Age.
Now she stands before me, seemingly untouched by time, even though she must be in her late seventies. She wears her age well. Her skin is tan and radiant. Her sleeveless blue dress emphasizes her trim figure. Her hair, a shade balanced between blond and gray, has been pulled back in a chignon, showing off a single strand of pearls around her neck.
She turns to the painting again, her gaze scanning its formidable width. It’s one of my darker works—all blacks, deep blues, and mud browns. The canvas dwarfs her, making it look as though she’s actually standing in a forest, the trees about to overtake her.
“It’s really quite marvelous,” she says. “All of them are.”
There’s a catch in her voice. Something tremulous and uncertain, as if she can somehow glimpse the girls in their white dresses beneath the painted thicket.
“I must confess that I came here under false pretenses,” she says, still staring at the painting, seemingly unable to look away. “I’m here for the art, of course. But also for something else. I have what you might call an interesting proposition.”
At last, she turns away from the painting, fixing those green eyes on me. “I’d love to discuss it with you, when you have the time.”
I shoot a glance to Randall, who stands behind Franny at a discreet distance. He mouths the word every artist longs to hear:commission.
The idea prompts me to immediately say, “Of course.” Under any other circumstance, I already would have declined.
“Then join me for lunch tomorrow. Let’s say twelve thirty? At my place? It will give us a chance to catch up.”
I find myself nodding, even though I’m not entirely sure what’s happening. Franny’s unexpected appearance. Her even more unexpected invitation to lunch. The scary-yet-tantalizing prospect ofbeing commissioned to paint something for her. It’s another surreal touch to an already strange evening.
“Of course,” I say again, lacking the wherewithal to utter anything else.
Franny beams. “Wonderful.”
She presses a card into my hand. Navy print on heavy white vellum. Simple but elegant. It bears her name, a phone number, and a Park Avenue address. Before leaving, she pulls me into another half hug. Then she turns to Randall and gestures toward No. 30.
“I’ll take it,” she says.
2
Franny’s building is easy to find. It’s the one that bears her family’s name.
The Harris.
Much like its residents, the Harris is steadfastly inconspicuous. No Dakota-like dormers and gables here. Just understated architecture rising high over Park Avenue. Above the doorway is the Harris family crest carved in marble. It depicts two tall pines crossed together to form anX, surrounded by an ivy laurel. Appropriate, considering the family’s initial fortune came from the culling of such trees.
The inside of the Harris is as somber and hushed as a cathedral. And I’m the sinner tiptoeing inside. An impostor. Someone who doesn’t belong. Yet the doorman smiles and greets me by name, as if I’ve lived here for years.
The warm welcome continues when I’m directed to the elevator. Standing inside is another familiar face from Camp Nightingale.
“Lottie?” I say.
Unlike Franny, she’s changed quite a bit in the past fifteen years. Older, of course. More sophisticated. The shorts and plaid shirt I last saw her wearing have been replaced with a charcoal pantsuit over a crisp white blouse. Her hair, once long and the color of mahogany, is now jet-black and cut into a sleek bob that frames her pale face. But the smile is the same. It has a warm, friendly glow that’s just as vibrant now as it was at Camp Nightingale.
“Emma,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “My God, it’s nice to see you again.”