He sat on one of the sofas against the near wall, dressed in a dark suit, legs wide to accommodate his belly. “You can’t sleep, either?”
“Sorry, sir. No, sir.”
“I prefer to visit my beauties late at night, when there are no other people about to bother me.”
She stepped back. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, no.” He indicated the cushion next to him. “Why don’t you join me?”
Only then did she notice what was on his lap: Miss Helen’s art book. Her heart sank.
It was supposed to be his December birthday gift, after Lillian had left.
“Turn on the lights before you do. It wouldn’t be proper to sit in the dark with a pretty young lady now, would it?”
She flicked on the switch. Individual spotlights gently illuminated each painting so that the landscapes seemed like windows to the outside and the portraits breathed with life. Lillian took a seat on the sofa, a respectable distance away from Mr. Frick. He touched the book on his lap with his hand, and her eye was drawn to a dotted white scar, like tiny teeth marks, that curved along the webbing between the index finger and thumb.
“My daughter gave me my birthday gift early this year. I accused her of thinking that I wouldn’t last that long—jokingly, of course—and that set her off crying, poor girl. She said she’d done it because she simply couldn’t wait to share it with me.”
But Lillian knew the real reason. Mr. Childs’s wife had given birth to a boy a few days earlier, and Miss Helen wanted to prove her own worth to the family, offer up her own contribution. “She’s a kind woman,” she offered.
He laughed. “I don’t know how many people would say that. My Helen is like me, temperamental, at times. When we have to be.” Another long look. “What do you think of that painting?” He pointed to the right, to the one hanging near the doorway.
She swallowed hard. “It’s quite grand.”
“Let’s walk over and study it, shall we?”
He got up with a loud exhalation, carrying the book with him. She and Mr. Frick were about the same height, although he must have weighed twice as much.
“Do you know what it’s called?”
Of course she did. It was one of the paintings that Miss Helen had asked her to write about in the bowling alley that long night. The last one in the book. “The Choice Between Virtue and Vice,” she said.
“Exactly right. By Veronese, painted in 1565. So long ago. My daughter wrote about it in her gift, would you like me to read it out loud?”
“You don’t have to, sir. It’s very late, I should go to bed.”
“No, I’d like you to listen.”
The painting was large, around five feet wide by seven feet tall, and featured a medley of bright colors and bold movement. In it, a man was twisting away from a woman in blue silk, and toward another in green, who clutched at him with both hands. Lillian squirmed beside Mr. Frick as he read out loud, his voice echoing around the room, a man who was used to being listened to and obeyed.
“A young man on his wedding day is lured into the arms of a woman in green, signifying envy, and away from the beautiful bride, whose hair is decorated with white flowers, signifying purity. The bride holds a piece of wedding cake in her left hand, and is about to toss it at him.”
What was she to say? It had been a very long night in the bowling alley after Miss Helen had left. Lillian had just wanted to go to bed, so instead of finding the correct description for the last entry, she’d quickly made something up, confident she wouldn’t be around for its unveiling.
“I noticed something interesting about this page, and the two before it,” said Mr. Frick.
“Is that right?” Her shoulders rose, like she was about to be tackled.
“The handwriting is different from the prior entries, which I know to be my daughter’s hand.”
“Right.” Better to be honest. “She’d asked me to help out, and I’m afraid I—”
He cut her off. “You made it up. This beautiful gift, ruined by a jokester.”
She’d been close, and then gone and ruined everything by her laziness. First thing in the morning, he’d point out her pathetic description to Miss Helen and she’d be back out on the streets.
Mr. Frick stood waiting for her response.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Frick. By the time I got to this entry, it was midnight, and I had a full day of work ahead of me. I know art means so much to you and your daughter, and it does to me, too, more than I can say. But I was simply so tired, I couldn’t think straight.”