After her bout with the flu, which had lasted ten days in the end, she had been drained, a bit weak in the legs. But last night she had decided she did not want to put off visiting Harte’s any longer, and she had made the decision to come to the store today.
Earlier that morning she had washed her hair, done a skilful make-up job and dressed with care. Her choice was a stylish black trouser suit which emphasized her slenderness and height, and black leather boots. Over the suit she wore a long, black wool coat that came down to her ankles, and was not only well tailored and elegant but had a certain dash to it. Adding a flash of bright colour to the ensemble was a long red wool scarf which she had thrown around her neck. Other than this accessory her only adornments were gold earrings and a watch.
Although Evan did not realize it, she cut quite a swathe as she strolled on through the cosmetics department; a number of people turned to look and admire.
But she was totally oblivious to the attention she drew, endeavouring to feel more at ease and relaxed. She was lost in her thoughts as she headed towards the information booth.
The young woman in the booth looked up and smiled as Evan came to a standstill in front of the window, and asked pleasantly, ‘Can I help you, madam?’
‘Well. Er. Yes. What floor are the management offices on?’
‘The ninth,’ the young woman answered.
‘I’m assuming Mrs Harte’s office is on the same floor,’ Evan ventured, staring at her questioningly.
‘Mrs Harte,’ the young woman repeated and frowned, shook her head. Then she exclaimed, ‘Oh, you must mean Mrs O’Neill … Mrs Paula O’Neill. A lot of people get her confused with her grandmother.’
‘And her grandmother is Emma Harte?’
‘Was. Mrs Harte is dead. Has been for quite a while.’
Taken aback though she was, and instantly dismayed, Evan said quickly, ‘Yes. Yes, I was getting them confused, that’s true. And Mrs O’Neill’s office is on the ninth floor, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Evan murmured, and with a quick nod she hurried away, not quite sure where she was heading in the store. But it certainly wasn’t towards the bank of elevators which would whiz her up to the management offices.
At this moment what she really wanted was to sit down and have a cup of coffee and think about her grandmother’s last words to her. Because the words uttered by the girl at the information desk had just negated her grandmother’s instructions to ‘go and find Emma … your future is with her.’
Emma Harte was dead. Had been for quite a while, the young woman had said. That could mean anything. A few months, a year, or maybe even a few years.
It struck her now that her grandmother and Emma Harte must have been about the same age, since they had seemingly known each other in the Second World War. Mrs Harte had probably passed away recently, just as her gran had. Well, so much for that, she muttered, and glanced around.
Evan had been walking without paying much attention to her surroundings, and now she realized she was in the jewellery department. Approaching a sales person she asked politely, ‘Excuse me … Is there a restaurant on this floor?’
‘There’s the Coffee Café on the other side of the food halls. Just keep walking straight ahead, you’ll come to it,’ the young man told her with a smile.
‘Thanks,’ Evan said, and walked on. Within a couple of minutes she had traversed the huge, well-stocked food halls and was standing in front of the Coffee Café. Pushing open the opaque-glass doors she went inside, glancing about as she did so.
The café was small and attractive, and redolent with the smell of coffee. It was almost empty; she made for a booth where she sat down and took off her scarf.
A moment later she was ordering a pot of coffee, and as she waited for the waitress to bring it, Evan pondered on her predicament. She had come to the store hoping to see Emma Harte and hoping to get a job; without this important contact there was no possibility of that now.
Sighing, she leaned back against the banquette and closed her eyes, filled with dismay again. Her thoughts were on Glynnis. Almost two months ago now, as she lay dying, her gran had told her to come to London to seek out Emma Harte, and she had implied that Emma Harte had something to do with her future.
Had her grandmother been delirious? Or living in the past? Didn’t that sometimes happen to people when they were dying? Didn’t parts of their past lives flash before them like a reel of film unravelling? She’d read that somewhere. She had believed her grandmother that day, because she had no reason not to do so. And yet just before she had left, her father had pointed out that she might not get a reaction from Mrs Harte, since Glynnis had known her in the Second World War. And that had been sixty years ago, after all. Over half a century ago. Too long.
How foolish she had been to take everything on face value. Why hadn’t she checked things out? Because she had trusted Gran. Irritation with herself swept over her and she experienced a rush of frustration. Here she was in London, with nothing to do, no prospects. The trip had been a waste of time, and, more importantly, money.
No, that’s not really true, she thought, sitting up straighter on the banquette. The pot of coffee had materialized while she had been lost in her thoughts, and she poured herself a cup, added milk. As she sipped it she decided she deserved a vacation, and she also reminded herself she had no real reason to worry, at least not for the moment, thanks to the money her grandmother had left her.
Immediately she zeroed in on the legacy that she, her siblings and her father had received from his mother. The overall amount Gran had left was enormous, at least to them it was, and was something of a mystery. Her father had attempted to explain it away, yet it did seem incredible to her that Gran had accumulated such a princely sum.
Her grandparents had lived comfortably, but there had never been any great wealth. In fact, it struck her that they had always lived rather modestly. Why? They could have indulged themselves a little bit with the kind of bank balance Glynnis had obviously had. On the other hand, perhaps Gran had been hoarding the money for her son and granddaughters.
Suddenly her father’s puzzled expression flashed before her eyes … how truly surprised he had been in the lawyer’s office that day. Startled and confused. Just as she had been. Her grandmother had been a dark horse.
Her father deserved this windfall from his mother, deserved to inherit his parents’ apartment, which Glynnis had left to him. Evan was glad he had finally decided to keep it, rather than put it on the market, something he had been contemplating doing. The apartment was on East Seventy-Second Street and Madison Avenue, a great location; real estate was bringing excellent prices at the moment, so the idea of selling it had been tempting to him.
Evan regarded the apartment as an escape hatch for her father, much to be desired, and she was relieved when he said he planned to use it instead of unloading the place. It pleased her that he now had somewhere to stay overnight when he went into Manhattan; also, it was his own private space, a safe haven away from her mother, and to Evan that was of immense importance. Marietta had become a depressed and lethargic woman, listless and without any interests, and she had turned into a recluse. But why?
Evan bit her lip, shook her head sadly. So many mysteries in her life … so many questions … and no answers. She pushed these thoughts away from her. Mysteries were for another day.
The cup of coffee had warmed her, given her a boost, and she felt much better, more relaxed. And slowly she began to formulate a plan.
She had given up her job in New York, so why go back? There was no reason.