Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes

where a staircase on the left led upstairs. Dashiell took the stairs. I walked through the living room and looked at the view—the Hudson flowing south, New Jersey beyond, no sound of construction up here.
    There was a big, soft couch, pale gray, with lots of loose pillows on it, on the north wall of the apartment. An enormous painting hung over it: a worn wooden walk, flowers all around, bursting with color and energy. The coffee table was glass. There were already flowers there, roses the color of seashells in a crystal vase.
    I walked into Venus’s kitchen and found another vase. Filling it with water, I arranged the daisies for her. I put these on the dining room table, looking at the fine china in the breakfront, the silver candlesticks, the champagne flutes. Venus had a taste for the things I’d sent to Goodwill for a tax deduction, all the things that reminded me of Jack and a brief marriage that in retrospect didn’t seem brief enough.
    Or maybe it was Harry who’d liked the table set with bone china—the way Jack had, everything just so, his wife at home tending to his needs, not having any of her own.
    But Harry was different. He didn’t see Venus as the happy housewife. He believed her capable of managing the finances of Harbor View and, more than that, preserving his original intent. He’d put his money where his mouth was, too.
    How had they found each other, people who’d worked together all those years, meeting on-line? It was a curious thing, an annoying coincidence.
    I turned on Venus’s computer, and while it was booting up, I unscrewed the mouthpiece of the kitchen phone and checked for a listening device, not finding one. Dashiell was coming down. We passed each other on the stairs. There was no bug in the phone next to the bed either.
    I opened the closet, which held half Venus’s things, half Harry’s: suits, sport jackets, slacks, three pairs of loafers, some underwear, I was sure, in Venus’s dresser drawers, too, but I didn’t check.
    The bed was big, queen-size, with white sheets and a white cotton blanket—no dog to shed on it, leave his dirty footprints on the pretty blanket, keep Venus company while she read in bed or slept.
    Venus’s bedroom was a balcony overlooking the living room, the view of the river even more luscious from up here. There were roses here, too, on one of the nightstands, red ones. A man’s watch was on the other one; perhaps Harry had forgotten to put it on that last morning. And now Venus left it there. I sat on her bed, picturing her here, picking up Harry’s watch and holding it in her hand. I picked it up, felt its weight, warmed it in my hand. Then I got up, as she might have, went to the closet, and pressed my face into one of Harry’s cashmere jackets, for a moment thinking he’d be back, slip it on, take Venus out to Provence for dinner. I could see him then, smiling, his hand dipping into his pocket, the box coming out, that heart inside, lying on velvet.
    Back at the computer, I didn’t log on; I fished around the files, the things Venus had downloaded and saved. And found what I’d been looking for: conversations with Harry, and more than I’d hoped for, the answer to how they’d found each other.
    Harry’s on-line name was Skipper.
    The dog he had when he was a kid?
    Or maybe Harry owned a boat?
    It would be pretty funny if Skipper had been Harry’s dog, because Venus too had used a dog’s name, which explained everything. Venus had signed on as Lady Day.
    Lady Day.Of course, not a dog’s name to most of the world. A singer’s name. It must have made Venus smile, using the dog’s name, both of them covered with dreadlocks, the kids’ hands always reaching out to see what they felt like, Harry reaching out, too, at first, to a name that meant something to him, Lady Day, making everyone feel better, just the ticket, just what Harry needed, too, his wife dying a little at a time, all that money and nothing he could do to save her.
    I looked at Harry’s watch, which I’d placed on Venus’s desk. It was late. If I didn’t hurry, I’d miss the movement class, not get the chance to show off Dashiell’s game, help Samuel teach it to the kids. But I wanted to read what Venus had saved, and I didn’t know if I’d get the chance to come back.
    I looked at the printer. Then I pressed the button. Running back upstairs to put Harry’s watch back on the nightstand, Dashiell right behind me, I had another thought. The necklace.