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That won’t be a problem for Josh. He grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the son of a legendary gallerist, and he’s a smooth, polished fortysomething-year-old guy, probably totally at ease in front of a crowd.
“You’ll want to saysomethingwhen I’m done,” he adds, “but it can be short and sweet. Though maybe as we get closer, you’ll change your mind and want to say more.”
“Sure, I’ll let you know.”
But I won’t change my mind. I suffer from a form of anxiety that, for more than a decade, has left me a wreck in most social settings. Though I’m hardly what you’d call dazzling in situations with only a couple of people, I do okay; it’s when I’m in a group of five or more that everything goes to hell. My heart races uncontrollably, my head throbs with a weird fizziness, and I generally end up blushing, sweating, and stammering. The few times I’ve met with Josh, it’s only been the two of us with the gallery assistant hovering in the background, so he hasn’t a clue.
“Thanks, Josh,” I say. “Um, was there anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it. And I can’t wait to see the piece.”
I tell him goodbye and sign off. Though I’m freaked out about the new deadline for the collage and the potential size of the party, at least he hadn’t been calling to report a legal issue.
I glance at the time on my phone. It’s close to four, meaning the law office will surely be closing soon. If I don’t want this weird voicemail to eat away at me for the entire weekend, I need to return the callnow. Steeling myself, I tap the number. A secretary or receptionist answers with the name of the firm—something, something, Harrison, and something—and after I tell her my name, she says she’ll transfer me to Bradley Kane right away. While the hold music plays, I glance out the studio window and across Second Avenue. The October sky has already darkened like a mottled bruise, and I’m suddenly ambushed by an intense sense of unease.
“Ms. Moore, thank you for returning the call,” Kane says when he picks up. “I have some information of importance to you, but for security purposes, I need you to verify your identity first.”
I exhale, feeling my tension release as I realize I have nothing to worry about—it’s a scam. Like those people who claim to be calling from someplace like Social Security and are trying to trick you into revealing personal data they can use to hack into one of your accounts.
“I bet you need my iCloud password, don’t you?” I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice.
“Pardon me?”
“How do you people even look in the mirror?”
“Ms. Moore, please, all I need is for you to do is confirm your address.”
“Oh, so now you want to break into my apartment?” I say facetiously.
“I can understand your hesitancy, and please forgive me for calling before I mailed you an official letter.”
I start to lower the phone to end the call when he tells me, “Please, it’s essential that you hear this, Ms. Moore.”
I hesitate. Because if Iamin some kind of hot water, I need to know what it is.
“Thank you,” he says when it must seem apparent to him that I’m still on the line. “Ms. Moore, a client of mine passed away recently, and the purpose of my call is to inform you that you’ve been left an inheritance by him.”
Before I can stop myself, I experience an involuntary swell of giddiness. Aninheritance. Maybe there really is a God, and things for me are about to take a turn for the better. It’s possible I’ve been named in the modest will of some long-lost relative of my father’s. My dad died of a sudden heart attack when I was only five, two years after my mother, Margo, left him, and though it’s been forever since I was in touch with any of his relatives—a wayward brother and several cousins—one of them might have bequeathed me a little something.
“What was your client’s name?” I ask, and then hold my breath.
“Christopher Whaley.”
The name draws a total blank in my mind, meaning there’s clearly been a mistake. I feel a gush of disappointment as reality smacks me back down to size. Whatever inheritance Christopher Whaley left will certainly not be going to me.
2
Now
I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR CLIENT,” I SAY TO KANE, “BUT I DIDN’Tknow him. There must be a mix-up of some kind.”
Even as I utter these words, though, I’m ransacking my mind to see if the name Whaley is burrowed deep in there. Could he be a distant relative on mymother’sside? I know she has cousins with the last nameWheeler, but no Whaleys, I’m quite sure.
“You’re certain of that?” Kane asks.
“Yes. You’ve confused me with another person.”
“Ms. Moore, I assure you I haven’t. Do—”
