In spite of my efforts to—inspire her.”
“Why can’t she speak?”
“Her tongue was cut out by agents of one of those starkly repressive Cold War governments. She wouldn’t reveal the whereabouts of dissident members of her family. She was just thirteen at the time.”
“Oh God, that’s so awful!”
“I’m afraid it’s the least of what was done to Taja. But she has always been like a—for want of a better word, talisman for me.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“She was a sidewalk artist in Budapest, living down an alley with whores and thieves. I first saw her during one of my too-frequent sabbaticals in those times when I wasn’t painting well. Nor painting very much at all. It’s still difficult for me, nearly all of the time.”
“Is that why you want me to pose for—a year?”
“I work for a year with my subject. Take another year to fully realize what we’ve begun together.
Then—I suppose I just agonize for several months before finally packing my pictures off to Cy. And finally—comes the inevitable night.”
He made a weary, sweeping gesture around the “Ransome Room,” then brightened.
“I let them go. But this is the first occasion when I’ve had the good fortune of knowing my next subject and collaborator before my last paintings are out of our hands.”
“I’m overwhelmed, really. That you would even consider me. I’m sorry that I have to say—it’s out of the question. I can’t do it.”
Echo glanced past at him, to the doorway where Peter was standing around with the other two men, trying not to appear anxious and irritable.
“He’s a fine young man,” Ransome said with a smile.
“It isn’t just Peter, I mean, being away from him for so long. That would be hard. But there’s my mother.”
“I understand. I didn’t expect to convince you at our first meeting. It’s getting late, and I know you must be tired.”
“Am I going to see you again?” Echo said.
“That’s for you to decide. But I need you, Mary Catherine. I hope to have another chance to convince you of that.”
Neither Echo nor Peter were the kind to be reticent about getting into it when there was an imagined slight or a disagreement to be set-tied. They were city kids who had grown up scrappy and contentious if the occasion called for it.
Before Echo had slipped out of the new shoes that had hurt her feet for most of the night she was in Peter’s face. They were driving up Park. Too fast, in her opinion. She told him to slow down.
“Or put your flasher on. You just barely missed that cabbie.”
“I can get suspended for that,” Peter said.
“Why are you so angry?”
“Said I was angry?”
“It was a wonderful evening, and now you’re spoiling it for me. Slow down.”
“When a guy comes on to you like that Ransome—”
“Oh, please. Comes on to me? That is so— so—I don’t want to say it.”
“Go ahead. We say what is, remember?”
“Im-mature.”
“Thank you. I’m immature because the guy is stuffing me in the face and I’m supposed to—”
“Peter, I never said I was going to do it! I’ve got my job to think about. My mom.”
“So why did he say he hoped he’d be hearing from you soon? And you just smiled like, sure. I can hardly wait.”
‘You don’t just blow somebody off who has gone out of his way to—”
“Why not?”
“Peter. Look. I was paid an incredible compliment tonight, by a painter who I think is—I mean, I can’t be flattered? Come on.”
Peter decided against racing a red light and settled back behind the wheel.
“You come on. You got something arranged with him?”
“For the last time, no.” Her face was red, and she had chewed most of the gloss off her lower lip. In a softer tone she said, ‘You know it’s not gonna happen, have some sense. The ball is over. Just let Cinderella enjoy her last moments, okay?—They’re honking because the light is green, Petey.”
Six blocks farther uptown Peter said, “Okay. I guess I–”
“Overreacted, what else is new? Sweetie, I love you.”
“How much?”
“Infinity.”
“Love you too. Oh God. Infinity.”
Rosemay and Julia were asleep when Echo got home. She hung up the gown she’d worn to John Leland Ransome’s show in her small closet, pulled on a sleep shirt and went to the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth. She spent an uncharacteristic amount of time studying her face in the mirror. It wasn’t vanity; more as if she were doing an emotional self-portrait. She smiled wryly and shrugged and returned to her bedroom.
There she took down from a couple of shelves of cherished art books a slim over sized volume entitled The Ransome Women She curled up against a bolster on her stu dio bed and turned on a reading lamp spent an absorbed half hour looking over the thirty color plates and pages with areas of detail that illustrated aspects of the artist’s technique.
She nodded off about three, then awoke with a start, the book sliding off her lap to the floor. Echo left it there, glanced at a landscape on her easel that she’d been work ing on for several weeks, wondering what John Ransome would think of it. Then she turned off the light and lay faceup in the dark, her rosary gripped unsaid in her fist. Thinking what if what if.
But such a dramatic change in her life was solely in her imagination, or in a parallel universe. And Cinderella was a fairy tale.
FIVE
Peter O’Neill was working the day watch with his partner Ray Scalla, investigating a child-abuse complaint, when he was abruptly pulled off the job and told to report to the Commissioner’s Office at One Police Plaza.
It was a breezy, unusually cool day in mid-September. Pete’s lieutenant couldn’t give him a reason for what was officially described as a “request.”
“Downtown, huh?” Scalla said. “Lunch with your old man?”
“Jesus, don’t ask me,” Pete said, embarrassed and uncomfortable.
The offices of the Police Commissioner for the City of New York were on the fourteenth floor. Peter walked into reception to find his father also waiting there. Corin O’Neill was wearing his dress uniform, with the two stars of a borough commander. Pete would have been slightly less surprised to see Elvis Presley.
“What’s going on, Pop?”
Corin O’Neill’s smile was just a shade uneasy. “Beats me. Any problems on the job, Petey?”
“I’d’ve told you first.”
“That you would.”
The commissioner’s executive assistant came out of her office. “Good morning, Peter. Glad you could make it.”
As if he had a choice. Pete made an effort to look calm and slightly unimpressed. Corin said, “Well, Lucille. Let’s find out how the wind’s blowin’ today.”
“I just buzzed him. You can go right in, Commander.”
But the commissioner opened his own door, greeting them heartily. His name was Frank Mullane.
“Well, Corin! Pleasure, as always. How is Kate? You know we’ve had a lot of concern.”
“She’s nearly a hundred percent now, and she’ll be pleased you were askin’.”
Mullane looked past him at Peter, then gave the young detective a partial embrace: handshake, bicep squeeze. “When’s the last time I saw you, Peter? Rackin’ threes for Cardinal Hayes?”
“I think so, yes, sir.”
Mullane kept a hand on Peter’s arm. “Come in, come in. So are you likin’ the action in the 7-5?”
“That’s what I wanted, sir.”
As soon as they were inside the office, Lucille closing the door behind them, Peter saw John Ransome, wearing a suit and a tie today. It had been more than a month since the artist’s show at the Mellichamp Gallery. Echo hadn’t said another two words about Ransome; Peter had forgotten about him. Now he had a feeling that a brick was sinking to the pit of his stomach.
“Peter,” Mullane said, “you already know John Ransome.” Pete’s father gave him a quick look. “John, this is Corin O’Neill, Pete’s father, one of the finest men I’ve had on my watch.”
The older men shook hands. Peter just stared at Ransome.
“John’s an artist, I suppose you know,” Mullane said to Corin. “My brother owns one of his paintings.
And John has been a big supporter of police charities since well before I came to the office. Now, he has a little request, and we’re happy to oblige him.” Mullane turned and winked at Peter. “Special assignment for you. John will explain.”
“I’m sure he will,” Peter said.
A chartered helicopter flew Peter and John Ransome to the White Plains airport, where a limousine picked them up. They traveled north through Westchester County on Route 22 to Bedford. Estate country. They hadn’t talked much on the helicopter, and on the drive through some of the most expensive real estate on the planet Ransome had phone calls to make. He was apologetic. Peter just nodded and looked out the window, feeling that his time was being wasted. He was sure that, eventually, Ransome was going to bring up Echo. He hadn’t forgotten about her, and in his own quiet way he was a determined guy.