The Goldfinch

“Yes. Lucius.” Amused eyebrow. Fluty, pursed lips. “Exactly. I knew his name would not be unfamiliar to you. You sold him a very interesting chest-on-chest, as you recall.”

“That’s right. And I’d love to buy it back if he could ever be persuaded.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Only he’s unwilling to sell it, as, as,” he said, shushing me maliciously, “as I would be too. With the other, even more interesting piece in the offing.”

“Well, I’m afraid he can forget all about that,” I said pleasantly. My jolt at Reeve’s name had been purely reflexive, a mindless jump from a coiled extension cord or a piece of string on the floor.

“Forget?” Havistock permitted himself a laugh. “Oh, I don’t think he will forget about it.”

In reply, I smiled. But Havistock only looked more smug.

“It’s really very surprising the things one can find out on the computer these days,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Well, you know, Lucius has quite recently managed to turn up some information on some other interesting pieces you’ve sold. In fact I don’t think the buyers know quite how interesting they are. Twelve ‘Duncan Phyfe’ dining chairs, to Dallas?” he said, sipping at his champagne. “All that ‘important Sheraton’ to the buyer in Houston? And a great deal more of same in Los Angeles?”

I tried not to let my expression waver.

“ ‘Museum quality pieces.’ Of course—” including Mrs. Barbour in this—“we all know, don’t we, that ‘museum quality’ really depends the sort of museum you’re talking about. Ha ha! But Lucius has really done a very good job of following some of your more enterprising sales of late. And, once the holidays are over, he’s been thinking of taking a trip down to Texas to—Ah!” he said, turning from me with a deft little dance-like step as Kitsey, in ice-blue satin, swept in to greet us. “A welcome and ornamental addition indeed! You look lovely, my dear,” he said, leaning to kiss her. “I’ve just been talking to your charming husband-to-be. Really quite shocking, the friends in common we have!”

“Oh?” It was not until she actually turned to me—to look at me full-on, to peck me on the cheek—that I realized Kitsey hadn’t been a hundred percent sure that I would show up. Her relief at the sight of me was palpable.

“And are you giving Theo and Mommy all the scandal?” she said, turning back to Havistock.

“Oh, Kittycat, you are wicked.” Cozily, he slipped one arm through hers, and with the other reached over and patted her on the hand: a little Puritan-looking devil of a man, thin, amiable, spry. “Now, my dear, I see you are in need of a drink, as am I. Let’s wander off on our own, shall we?”—another glance back at me—“and find a nice quiet spot so we can have a good long gossip about your fiancé.”

xxxii.

“THANK HEAVENS HE’S GONE,” murmured Mrs. Barbour after they had wandered away to the drinks table. “Small chatter tires me terribly.”

“Same here.” The sweat was pouring off me. How had he found out? All the pieces he’d mentioned I’d shipped through the same carrier. Still—I was desperate for a drink—how could he know?

Mrs. Barbour, I was aware, had just spoken. “Excuse me?”

“I said, isn’t this extraordinary? I’m astonished by this great mob of people.” She was dressed very simply—black dress, black heels, and the magnificent snowflake brooch—but black was not Mrs. Barbour’s color and it only gave her a renunciate look of illness and mourning. “Must I mingle? I suppose I must. Oh, God, look, there’s A

“Who was that man just now?” I asked her.

“Havistock?” She passed her hand over her forehead. “I’m glad he is so insistent about his name or I would have had a hard time introducing you.”

“I would have thought he was a dear friend of yours.”

Unhappily she blinked, with a discomposure that made me feel guilty for the tone I’d taken with her.

“Well,” she said resolutely. “He is very familiar. That is to say—he has a very familiar ma

“How do you know him?”

“Oh—Havistock does volunteer work for the New York Historical Society. Knows everything, and everyone. Although, just between us, I don’t think he’s a descendant of Washington Irving at all.”

“No?”

“Well—he’s altogether charming. That is to say, he knows absolutely everyone… claims an Astor co

“Here—” feeling sorry for her, leading her to an empty chair—“sit down. Would you like me to get you something to eat?”

“No, please. I’d like you to stay with me. Although I suppose I shouldn’t hog you to myself,” she said unconvincingly. “Guest of honor.”

“Honestly, it won’t take a minute.” My eyes sped round the room. Trays of hors d’oeuvres were going around and there was a table with food in the next room, but I urgently needed to talk to Hobie. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

Luckily Hobie was so tall—taller than virtually everyone else—that I had no difficulty spotting him, a lighthouse of safety in the crowd.

“Hey,” said someone, catching my arm as I was almost to him. It was Platt, in a green velvet jacket that smelled like mothballs, looking rumpled and anxious and already half-sloshed. “Everything okay between you two?”

“What?”

“You and Kits get everything hashed out?”

I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer this. After a few moments of silence he pushed a string of gray-blond hair behind one ear. His face was pink and swollen with premature middle age, and I thought, not for the first time, how there’d been no freedom for Platt in his refusal to grow up, how by slacking off too long he’d managed to destroy every last glimmer of his hereditary privilege; and now he was always going to be loitering at the margins of the party with his gin and lime while his baby brother Toddy—still in college—stood talking in a group which included the president of an Ivy League college, a billionaire financier, and the publisher of an important magazine.

Platt was still looking at me. “Listen,” he said. “I know it’s none of my business, you and Kits…”

I shrugged.

“Tom doesn’t love her,” he said impulsively. “It was the best thing that ever happened to Kitsey when you came along and she knows it. I mean, the way he treats her! She was with him, you know, that weekend Andy died? That was the big important reason why she sent Andy up to look after Daddy, even though Andy was hopeless with Daddy, why she didn’t go herself. Tom, Tom, Tom. All about Tom. And yeah, apparently, he’s all ‘Endless Love’ with her, ‘My Only Love,’ or so she says, but believe me it’s a different story behind her back. Because—” he paused, in frustration—“the way he strung her along—leeched money constantly, went around with other girls and lied about it—it made me sick, Mommy and Daddy too. Because, basically, she’s a meal ticket to him. That’s how he sees her. But—don’t ask me why, she was crazy for him. Completely off her head.”