The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [65]
Nada bent her neck.
“Come,” Myra said, taking her hand. “I can’t wait to show you your room.”
They walked past the clock, through the door, and then turned right through another hallway, recently painted. Nada peeked through a large arch into a dining room, holding the impression in her head for examination later: Another fireplace, more portraits, fussy chairs. Myra’s cold, thin fingers intersected comfortably with Nada’s, as if the two were old girlfriends, and the chunky, colorful bracelets on Myra’s other hand made a clicking sound with every step. With Jameson tailing, they walked into the kitchen—painted a deep red and accented in white, with three Viking ovens, a dozen gas burners, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator as large as a two-person submarine and with the same polished steel surface. It smelled good here, like cinnamon and char. Afternoon talk mumbled low from a cheap radio. She had a glimpse at the corner of a large pantry and a small room with a window where a short, round woman in white polyester was playing rummy with a tall, thin man in a white shirt and black pants. They were both well into their sixties.
Myra waved at them. “That’s Molly and Hugh. You’ll meet them soon enough. In a week, you’ll believe they’re your own grandparents, I promise.”
Several turns later, they emerged into a bright atrium twenty yards wide and three generous stories high. At the center of it was a spiral staircase made of black steel and maple that twisted its way to the ceiling in wide, sensual turns. The railings were simple but elegant, like long ribbons suspended in air.
Nada was stunned by it.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” Myra Jameson said.
If she could have spoken at that moment, Nada might have said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“I don’t know if you’re into design, Canada, but Wes Woodward stairs are coveted from Hollywood to the Hamptons. Woodwards have made nine appearances in Architectural Digest and I personally know half a dozen people who ordered a Woodward spiral specifically to increase their chances of landing on the cover of that magazine. To Myra and me, it’s worth more than an ocean view.”
Nada nodded slowly.
Jameson continued, “Now Wes Woodward passed years ago. Way too young. Probably your age. Horrible tragedy. Killed himself.” He put his finger against the roof of his mouth to demonstrate and Myra batted it away. “Nasty stuff. But I found this twister—the term Woodward preferred—at an estate sale in Kentucky just as we were meeting with the architects about this place. A fellow down there died and left six heirs who couldn’t agree which one of them owned the house, so they decided to sell it off piece by piece. Clearly, the children didn’t know what it was. I had it brought to Chicago on a train car, but it was well worth the trouble. It’s a masterpiece. As pretty as a Renoir.”
Myra leaned close to her ear. “But this isn’t what we wanted to show you.”
As they ascended the staircase, Nada toed each step gently, as if trying to avoid leaving marks. The empty room below them turned, degrees at a time. They passed a short bridge to the second floor and continued skyward, floating toward the ceiling.
They alighted in a spacious hall painted gallery white, with large canvases on either side. Myra led the way to one of five tall oak doors on the left, turned the brass knob, and waved Nada inside.
Stepping into the room was like walking into light. White carpet, white linens, white walls, and white ceiling. White drapes framed a white windowsill and white hardware was attached to the doors and drawers. A large bathroom—white tile and porcelain and fixtures and towels. The fireplace bricks were painted white inside and out, and on the white mantel was a white box of fireplace matches. The only color in the whole room was a long and beautiful green reed tucked among white lilies in a white vase atop a white table.
“It’s beautiful,” Nada whispered.
Myra’s voice was low with satisfaction. “Gary gave me the article about you. When you were a girl. You described your perfect room. I wanted