Jamie stares. “What?”
The man stares back. “We found your address in her room. You must know. Where is she?”
And finally Jamie understands.
Memories Roadshow
Fourteen
A few days after the table read, even though I’d been determined to make Redwood get in touch first, I’d cracked and texted him. Just following up to make a plan for a totally normal, earthbound hangout.
I’d love that! Let me check my schedule and circle back.
But I hadn’t heard anything for another week, until he wrote, Hey stranger! My mother is in town and I’d love for you guys to meet. Come over for dinner?
When I arrived, Carol Feiffer was the one to answer the door. She keeled back for a hug, arms out, fingers extended into stiff prongs. “Here she is!” she cried, her voice redolent with Long Island. At first I thought she was talking about herself. Here I am! Her face was sharp as a hewn arrowhead; her hair was the ideal version of a practical bob. Under austere layers of charcoal linen, she carried herself with regal assurance, like a spiritual guru or a university president.
“I’ve been dying to meet you,” Carol said, leading me toward the kitchen by the arm. She leaned back, looked me up and down. “I’m not disappointed. You’re every inch the star.”
I gave a snorty little dismissive chuckle. “I liked your book.”
She turned to me, glowing. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you so much. I never expected this to come of it. I just wanted to tell a story. Leave it to my son to make a”—she waved her hands—“whole big thing. But, you know, Marian is so important to me. I had a terrible marriage, quite honestly, and in the very depths of it I found such comfort in Marian’s book. She got me through the darkest part of my life. She inspired me to seize my freedom. Which is ironic because I never would have known about her if not for the connection to my ex-husband’s family.” She reached to squeeze my arm. “And now you’re going to bring her to so many people. You’ll change lives, Hadley.” She nodded at me earnestly, rapidly, forestalling any skepticism. “You will.”
I didn’t tell her the only life I’d given much thought to changing was my own. I didn’t tell her about my covetous vision of myself hoisting a golden prize. “I hope so,” I said.
Redwood was in the kitchen, tending something in a pan. I hadn’t known anyone else would be there, but a girl in a white sleeveless jumpsuit and no jewelry except for a small gold ring in her nostril was leaning against the counter with a glass of rosé. She had curly hair up in a bun, a tiny, beautiful, dark-eyed face. Something about her reminded me of marzipan, the little animals you’re not quite sure are food or figurines.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Carol said, presenting me, and the girl put her hand on Redwood’s upper arm, like, mine, and in a flash I decided that this—she—was why we hadn’t hooked up, why he’d been AWOL. That dick had told me there wasn’t anyone. No one at all.
“Hey stranger!” Redwood said, and it rankled just like it had in his text, as though he were subtly chiding me for being out of touch, when he was the one who’d left me hanging. He kissed my cheek and gestured to the white jumpsuit. “This is Leanne.” Leanne waved from where she was, determinedly unfazed by my celebrity, and Redwood pointed out the window. “The Day brothers are here, too, and Mom brought a friend.”
I turned. So it was a whole convention. Redwood wanting me to meet his mother didn’t make me special. Outside, a wiry older woman with close-cropped silver hair was standing beside the pool, drinking a glass of red wine and, without visible reaction, listening to whatever one of the Day brothers was saying. She wore jeans and slip-on Vans and a big white button-up shirt. The Days were wearing dress shirts and chinos so tightly tailored they looked like superheroes’ unitards.
“That’s Adelaide Scott,” Carol said in such a way I knew I was supposed to recognize the name.
“Ah,” I said.
Leanne, seeing right through me, said, “She’s a famous artist.”
“A sculptor,” Carol said. “And installations. She actually met Marian Graves once, when she was a child. I brought her because I thought you might be interested in picking her brain. Not that she’s not excellent company in her own right.”
What was I supposed to take from a child’s memory at least sixty-five years old? What tidbit could this woman give me that I could possibly use? There should be an Antiques Roadshow for memories, and I would sit behind a desk and explain that while your memory might be lovely and have tremendous sentimental value, it was worth nothing to anyone but you.