“God, this is so boring,” said Miss Helen from the chaise longue.
Lillian couldn’t have agreed more. While the residence no doubt appeared magical from the outside, the actual running of it was as mundane as that of any household: ordering toilet paper and laundry soap, making sure everyone was fed. Luckily, Miss Helen received very few invitations, and those she did receive, she preferred to decline, which meant Lillian wouldn’t have to deal with mountains of correspondence.
“Is this what you do every day?” asked Lillian as the clock neared the time for supper. Part of her hoped there was some other aspect of the job of private secretary that she might enjoy. Something, anything, to make the paperwork even slightly interesting.
“It is. Why? Is it not to your liking?”
She’d spoken out of turn. “It is to my liking, Miss Helen.”
“No, it’s a complete bore. The only thing that gets me through the day now is a secret project I’ve been working on.”
Lillian perked up. “Secret project? What’s that?”
In spite of it being “secret,” Miss Helen didn’t need any urging. She rose and led Lillian down the back stairs, past the closed door to Mr. Frick’s office. They’d both heard the automobile pulling into the driveway a little over an hour ago. Miss Helen had run to the window as if her beau were returning from the war, then sat back down at the desk with an inscrutable expression on her face.
Now, though, she was brimming with excitement. They kept on down to the basement, where a door led to a game room with a handsome billiard table. Beyond that was a long hallway of some sort. Lillian laughed with excitement when Miss Helen turned on a light switch and she realized what it was.
“You have a bowling alley?”
“We do.” Miss Helen gestured around. “Hardly anyone uses it.”
With its red-tiled floors, paneled walls, and vaulted ceilings, this was like no bowling alley Lillian had ever encountered.
“Would you like to see how it works?” said Miss Helen. “The balls are terribly heavy.”
Using two hands, she lifted a ball from a curved stand at the top of the lane, readied herself like a cat about to pounce, and then stepped forward, the bowling ball clunking clumsily onto the lane of gleaming maple and pine. Three pins fell in a loud clatter. Lillian clapped appreciatively.
“Usually there’s a boy down the end to send it back. You’ll have to do so. Go on.”
Lillian walked alongside the lane, then carefully lifted the ball from where it lay in a shallow groove. She started to walk back, holding it close to her belly, when Miss Helen stopped her.
“There’s a gravity-driven return system. See that ramp? Place it on that and watch.”
Lillian laid the ball carefully upon a narrow wooden rail at hip height and let go. It began rolling, picking up speed, traveling the whole length of the alley as if an invisible engine were propelling it. The effect was quite magical, and Lillian gave a little hop of delight once it reached its destination, right where Miss Helen had first picked it up.
Maybe if she showed enough enthusiasm, she could convince her employer to play a few games with her each day, to break up the monotony. “What fun! So you enjoy bowling?”
“Goodness, no,” sniffed Miss Helen. “That’s not why we’re here.”
Or not. “Then why are we here?”
“That.”
To the left of the bowling alley, under a series of archways, was a narrow passageway. Several trunks and crates were lined up along the far wall, next to a wooden table and chair. On top of the table, amid piles of documents and photographs, was a handsome leather-bound book.
“This is my secret project.” Miss Helen walked over to the table and opened the tome with great care, like it was a sacred text. “The boxes contain research materials that tell the history of several of my father’s very favorite artworks. I’ve been compiling them into this book, so that he has the provenance behind the acquisitions at his fingertips. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Lillian peered over Miss Helen’s shoulder as she leafed through it. The top of each page contained the name and artist and the date created, followed by a list of who had owned it previously, and then a paragraph explaining the worthiness or story of each piece.
Someday, maybe someone would compile a similar book of all of the statues that Lillian had posed for. Simply thinking about it made Lillian stand up a little straighter, even after what had been one of the longest days of her life. They’d mention how she got started, working for the famous sculptor Konti on the Three Graces, how she’d disappeared for a time, only to reappear as a star of motion pictures.