Three Fates

for his money no matter what anyone says. Well, more fool he. She’s fooled your father, of course. Women like that always fool men. A good businesswoman, he says. A credit to the antiquity community. Hah! But where was I? I can’t concentrate. I’m just so out of sorts.”
    “What did she ask you?”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tia, I dislike speaking to the woman so can hardly be expected to remember some irritating conversation with her about some silly statues I’ve never heard of. You’re just trying to change the subject. Who is this man? What’s his name?”
    “Sullivan. Malachi Sullivan. He’s from Ireland.”
    “Ireland? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
    “It’s an island, just northwest of England.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic, it’s very unattractive. What do you know about him?”
    “That I enjoy his company and he appears to enjoy mine.”
    Alma let out a long-suffering sigh. One of her best weapons. “You don’t know who his family is, do you? Well, I’m sure he knows who yours is. I’m sure he knows very well who you come from. You’re a wealthy woman, Tia, living alone—which worries me to distraction—and a prime target for the unscrupulous. Shipping? We’ll see about that.”
    “Don’t.” Tia’s voice snapped out, surprising Alma into lowering herself back into her chair. “Just don’t. You’re not going to have him investigated. You are not going to humiliate me again that way.”
    “Humiliate you? What a thing to say. If you’re thinking of that . . . that history teacher, well, he wouldn’t have been so angry and upset if he’d had nothing to hide. A mother has a right to look after her only child’s welfare.”
    “Your only child is nearly thirty, Mother. Couldn’t it be, just on a wild whim of fate, couldn’t it be that an attractive, interesting, intelligent man chooses to go out with me because he finds me an attractive, interesting, intelligent woman? Does he have to have some dark, underlying motive? Am I such a loser that no man could want a normal, natural relationship with me?”
    “A loser?” Sincerely shocked, Alma gaped. “I don’t know what puts ideas like that in your head.”
    “No,” Tia said wearily and turned toward the windows. “I bet you don’t. You needn’t worry. He’s only in New York a few days. He’ll be going back to Ireland soon and it’s unlikely we’ll see each other again. I can promise if he offers to sell me some bridge over the River Shannon or pops up with a great investment opportunity, I’ll turn him down. Meanwhile, I was wondering if you know where Henry Wyley’s journal might be. I’d like to study it.”
    “How should I know? Ask your father. Obviously my concerns and advice are worthless to you. I don’t know why you bothered to come by.”
    “I’m sorry I upset you.” She turned back, walked over to kiss Alma’s cheek again. “I love you, Mother. I love you very much. You get some rest.”
    “I want you to call Dr. Realto,” Alma ordered as Tia walked away.
    “Yes, I will.”
    She lived dangerously and took a cab downtown to Wyley’s. She knew herself well enough to be certain if she went home in her current mood she would brood, and eventually decide her mother was right—about the state of her health, about Malachi, about her own pitiful appeal to the opposite sex.
    Worse, she wanted to go home. To draw the drapes, huddle in her cave with her pills, her aromatherapy and a cool, soothing gel bag over her eyes.
    Just, she thought in disgust, like her mother.
    She needed to keep busy, to keep focused, and the idea of the journal and the Fates was a puzzle that would keep her mind occupied.
    She paid the cabdriver, slid out and stood for a moment on the sidewalk in front of Wyley’s. As always, she felt a rush of wonder and pride. The lovely old brownstone with its leaded windows and stained-glass door had stood for a hundred years.
    When she’d been young, her father—over Alma’s dire predictions and dark warnings—had taken her with him once a week. Into that treasure trove, into that Aladdin’s cave. He’d taught her, patiently she thought now, about eras, styles, woods, glass, ceramics. Art, and the bits and pieces people collected that became, in time, an art of its own.
    She’d learned, and God, she’d wanted to please him. But she’d never been able to please them both, never been able to stay on her feet in that subtle and constant tug-of-war her parents had played