Breaking the Bank (5 page)

“Here, this one is new,” said Courtney. Eden offered a wrist, which Courtney sprayed lavishly. Closing her eyes, Eden sniffed.

“It smells fruity. Like peach. Or an apricot.”

Mia could not stop looking at Eden. Since when had she become so poised with adults, especially ones she barely knew? Was this the same child who was sullen with her teachers, mute with the school psychologist? And calling the perfume fruity—how sophisticated was
that
for someone her age? After Courtney sent them off with a cache of samples in tiny, gold-tipped tubes, Eden led Mia back up to the main floor, to a large tank of exotic fish, where she pointed out a yellow-and-blue striped creature that was as big as a pie plate and another, whose filmy, ruffled fins looked as if they were made of organza. By the time they reached the escalator, Mia was actually starting to relax. So far this had been fun, and it had not cost a red cent. There were four crisp hundreds
purloined from the secret stash fairly pulsating in her bag, and she was primed to spend them.

The children's department was on the seventh floor. Eden got to the top of the escalator first and darted off, a little ahead of Mia. She clearly knew her way around, and Mia watched her flit past the racks, pulling out the garments that interested her, a merry little bird in a garden of her own improvising.

“Eden? Is that you?” A saleswoman with brilliant red hair and lizard cowboy boots approached. Eden looked up.

“Hi, Victoria.”

Again, Mia was stunned. Was Eden on a first-name basis with all the sales help here?

“And this”—Victoria turned to Mia—“must be your
mother.
” She said it like being Eden's mother was some kind of prize. Which, of course, it was, but Mia was not used to other people seeing it that way. Victoria looked at Eden, whose arms were laden with clothes, and she hurried over to take them from her. “I'll just put these in a dressing room for you,” she said, bustling off.

While Mia settled herself on a folding chair, provided by the solicitous Victoria, Eden tried on clothes—a denim jacket lined in hot pink satin, a dropped-waist, pale green dress—with feverish energy. Victoria came over from time to time to offer comments or advice, but mostly, Mia and Eden were left alone, to mull over the options—and their varying, dizzying costs—by themselves. Is this what went on when Lloyd brought her here? Mia could not imagine her enormous ex squished onto this diminutive seat, sitting passively while Eden flung garments all over the dressing room floor. No, Lloyd probably strode around the place as if he owned it, sprinkling his wit and his brilliant aperçus like pixie dust, charming the saleswomen, hogging all the oxygen. And why the royal treatment? Lloyd must have spent a fortune here. Mia fumed, thinking of the delayed child support checks and
imagining a secret stash of expensive clothing that Lloyd must have kept somewhere in Queens. She was just getting herself all worked up about Lloyd—again—when Victoria reappeared, cradling something soft and blue in her arms.

“I thought you might want to see this,” Victoria said. “It just came in.”

“This” was a coat made of the softest, most exquisite material imaginable—the skin of a newborn lamb, no, of an
unborn
lamb, fetal skin, that was what it was, Mia thought as she tentatively reached out to touch it. High-waisted, with covered buttons, the coat flared out toward the hem, full and swingy. It looked like it belonged to a czarina, circa 1900. Mia could practically see the snowflakes sparkling on the coat's shoulders as the czarina stepped into an elaborate sleigh pulled by white horses—then she blinked, and she was back at Barneys, unable even to conjure a price for this coat. However, Eden, with her aversion to meat, would not even be interested in such a thing, would she? Wrong.

“Can I try it?” she asked. Her face had opened like a rose in June.

Mia was about to say “I don't think so” when the price tag for the coat fluttered into view. One hundred and twenty-five dollars. How could it be? Was it defective? Stolen? Cursed in some invisible but most definitely lethal way? One hundred and twenty-five was reasonable. One hundred and twenty-five was doable. One hundred and twenty-five was just a little more than what Mia might have spent if she ordered Eden a coat—and Eden needed a coat—from the Land's End catalog that was somewhere on the floor under her bed.

“I think it's your color,” Victoria purred, helping Eden into it.

“Wow, it feels great,” said Eden, running her small hands with their painted—black—nails along the sides of her body.

“And it's warm, too,” added Victoria, leading Eden to a full-length mirror. “You won't even know it's winter out there.”

Mia was still puzzling over the price when she spied the rack from which the coat must have been taken. While Eden and Victoria were
engaged in admiring Eden's appearance, Mia inspected the garment label sewn inside one of the coats.
One hundred percent polyester. Cold wash; delicate dry.
No wonder it was so cheap—it was a magnificent, glorious fake. Mia strolled over to where Eden was preening.

“What do you say we get it?” she asked.

“Could we?”

“We could.” Mia thought about the bills and smiled a small, guilty smile.

“Wow, oh wow, oh wow!” said Eden, slapping Mia a high five and then breaking into a goofy little circling motion with arms that looked like she was stirring a large pot; she called it her victory dance.

“Good choice, Eden,” said Victoria approvingly. She waited for Eden to unbutton the coat, and then sashayed over to the register. The lizard boots made a little
tap, tap
sound on the polished floor as she went.

When Mia paid, she almost expected the bills to emit a strange glow or smell, alerting Victoria to their possibly illicit nature. Nothing of the kind happened; Victoria took the money, made the change, and handed Eden the black shopping bag with its discreet, silvery lettering. There were hugs—well, for Eden anyway—and a promise to return. And then they were on the escalator again, heading down. Eden clutched the shopping bag in both arms, as if not trusting the handles. But just before they spun through the revolving door, Eden stopped.

“We didn't get anything for you,” she said.

“That's all right. This was your day,” Mia answered.

“But it's not a shopping spree if you're not shopping, too.”

“I didn't know this was a shopping spree.” They were blocking the door, and Mia motioned for Eden to step out of the way.

“Of
course
it's a shopping spree,” said Eden, sounding magnanimous and condescending in equal measure. “So you have to get something, too. What do you want?”

What did she want? Mia was stumped. And even if she had known, she didn't think she would find it at Barneys.

“Sweetie, I don't think there's anything for me here,” she began. But when she saw the disappointment seep across Eden's face, she added, “Maybe somewhere else, though. Let's keep looking.”

They began ambling downtown and west and, because Eden said she was hungry, decided to stop at a small noodle shop whose entire clientele consisted of Asian businessmen with cushioned laptop cases, skinny ties, and glasses. They ordered vegetable dumplings and two kinds of noodles. Eden liked the chopsticks—which she handled with some dexterity—and Mia suspected their novelty encouraged her to eat. Whatever the reason, Mia was happy. Maybe she should home-school Eden. Then they could have field trips to Barneys to study the fish, followed by geography lessons in which they sampled cuisines from around the world. Very educational. And so much less stressful than Eden's present situation. Of course Mia wouldn't be able to work any longer, but she didn't care; she wouldn't miss Mommy Mousie for a New York minute. Not even for a New York nanosecond.

“This has been the best day ever,” Eden announced when they were back outside.

Better than the time you went with your father?
Mia wanted to ask. But didn't. She did, however, sense that it would be permissible to drape her arm casually across Eden's shoulders. She only half listened as Eden chattered, really just wanting to feel the subtle architecture of Eden's small bones, to inhale the familiar girl-child scent of her as they walked.

“Mom.” Eden slowed and pulled her arm. “Look at this.”

“This” did not turn out to be anything so remarkable: a small, easily ignored jewelry store wedged in between a deli and a florist. The faded sign read
MOFCHUM AND SONS. ESTATE JEWELRY
. Through the grimy window, which had probably not been cleaned in a decade, Mia saw watches and chains, bracelets and pins, all heaped together with little or no apparent care. It was exactly the sort of shop that Lloyd would have loved and wanted to make a documentary about; she could see
him striding in, surveying the scene, taking over. All the more reason for Mia to avoid it.

“Let's go in,” Eden said. “This might be the place.”

“The place?”

“Where we find something for you.”

Mia had hoped Eden had forgotten about the idea of Mia's buying something for herself. Wrong. Reluctantly, she followed Eden inside. Behind the counter sat a slope-shouldered man with a broad, freckled forehead. His watery green eyes looked Mia and Eden over, though he didn't say anything, just nodded in their direction.

“This is
so
pretty,” said Eden, gesturing to a cameo brooch pinned to a piece of black velvet. “Look at her face—it's, like, perfect. How did they do that?” Mia leaned over to see. The girl's tiny features were expertly carved, and a tendril of hair escaped from her chignon, grazing her smoothly rendered cheek. The thing was no bigger than a domino.

“That's one of the best pieces in the shop,” said the man behind the counter. His voice was reedy, as if he didn't use it often. “You have a good eye.”

“I know,” Eden said serenely. “People have said that to me before.”

“Are you looking for cameos? Because I've got others.” He began to look around, his head stretching on his neck like a large turtle. Mia didn't know how he could locate anything in all the mess. The displays—if you could grace them with such a word—were no better than those in the window, everything crammed and jumbled. But Eden seemed entranced—touching this, exclaiming over that.

“All this stuff is really old, right?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” said the man. “And every piece has a story.”

“Really? Tell me about this one.” Eden pointed to another pin. Eight little gold birds sitting on a golden branch. Several sparkling chips— red, blue, green—were set into their tails.

“Oh, now that. Well, that piece was made in Canada, yes, it was. And an older gentleman bought it for his granddaughter, who must
have been, let me see . . .” He looked at Eden, clearly trying to assess her age. “Eleven. Yes, that was it. Eleven.”

“I'm almost eleven,” Eden said proudly.

“Well, this little girl's name was Alice, and she . . .”

Mia stopped listening. She was trying to figure out a way to extricate herself without actually having to buy something. Eden's impulse was undeniably sweet and even laudable, but the last thing Mia needed now was a piece of jewelry when she was worried about her rent, electric bills, and Eden's impending orthodontia. Then she saw it. A flat gold locket, maybe two inches across, suspended from a braided gold chain. It was perfectly round and sported no embellishment of any kind. Simple, but elegant. Rich, but restrained. The kind of thing that looked like it would be passed down, woman to girl, for generations. She had to touch it, to try it on.

“Now those earrings—the stones are topaz, by the way—were worn by a famous actress on the Broadway stage . . .” the man was saying to an increasingly enchanted Eden.

The locket seemed to settle into the perfect spot on Mia's neck. It was heavy enough to feel substantial but light enough to be worn every day. Peering down, she clicked open the cunningly hidden clasp at the bottom. A pair of time-bleached photographs, a tow-headed boy and girl, squinted back at her. Someone's darlings. She closed it again. Under her fingers, the gold tablet felt smooth and almost edible; she had an urge to take it in her mouth. What would gold taste like anyway?

“Ah, you found it!” He turned his gaze to Mia. “Keats's locket.”

“Keats? Who's he?” asked Eden.

“An English poet who lived a long time ago.”

“Did he own that necklace?”

The man smiled. “Not likely. I just call it that because it seems like something he would have liked. Something he might have given to Fanny.” He directed this comment to Mia.

“Fanny?” Eden asked.

“His beloved,” the man answered. “But he died young and didn't get to marry her.” When he saw the look on Eden's face, he continued. “Fanny would have cherished that locket; she would have worn it every day of her life, to remember him when he was gone.”

“That's so sad,” said Eden, seeming to forget that this was all an invention.

The man nodded. “She might have put a little picture of him inside. Not a photograph, of course. But a tiny drawing. Or a lock of his hair.”

“Hair? Eeew! That's so creepy!” said Eden. But she was clearly delighted by these morbid details.

The man bent over and began hunting for something now; he lifted yellowed newspapers and moved aside crumpled paper bags. “Here,” he said, offering Mia a hand mirror with a beveled edge; the glass was speckled with dust, and a jagged crack ran down its center.

“Bad luck?” she said, but she was teasing; her bad luck had happened already, and it had had nothing to do with a mirror.

“You have to buy that,” Eden declared.

Mia hesitated. The locket felt so good around her neck. Like it belonged there. But it wasn't as if she really needed it. Then she looked at Eden, whose expression had turned oddly serious.