Free Shades of Fortune by Stephen; Birmingham Page A

can’t fail, can it?”
    â€œOf course it can’t,” he says.
    But they both know that this is a business where there is never any guarantee of success, never any insurance against failure.
    The two sit quietly on the green sofa, sipping their brandies. Outside, the seagulls are slowly lifting from the lake and circling back to sea, a signal that the Atlantic storm has passed. Elsewhere in the apartment, Felix moves from room to room on silently slippered feet, turning out all unnecessary lights, leaving lighted only those that will guide his master and his mistress to their respective bedrooms at their respective hours. In the library, the portrait of Adolph Myerson scowls down upon his only granddaughter and his only great-grandson from under his museum lamp.
    Is the room talking?
    â€œPractice your curtsy, Mimi,” she hears her mother’s voice say. “Lower your body a little more, bend your right knee a little deeper, and the left foot a little further back. That’s better. Now hold out your right hand for balance, and say—”
    â€œGood afternoon, Grandpa, sir. Good afternoon, dear Granny Flo.”
    â€œ Much better. Now try it again: back straight, with your chin a little lower, but with your eyes looking directly into Grandpa’s.”
    â€œWhy is Papa unhappy, Mama?”
    â€œYour Papa is unhappy because your Grandpa is unhappy. But if you and I can make your Grandpa happy, and your Grandma happy, your Papa will be happy, and everyone will be happy—happy as happy can be. Now practice the curtsy, chin down, eyes up …”
    But from where he glares down at them from her library wall, her grandfather’s face fails to register even the slightest trace of happiness, or pleasure, or approval, at all.

3
    At number 3 Sutton Square, Edwee Myerson opens the front door of his house using four different sets of keys—one for the main lock, one for the deadbolt, one for the chain, and one for the heavy Fox lock that braces the big door from within (New York is no longer the safe place it once was)—and lets the three of them in: himself, his wife, and his sister, Nonie. His servants have all retired for the night, and the house is very still. He leads the two women down the dimly lit entrance gallery with its Oriental rugs and its dark walnut-paneled walls from which his famous collection of Greek amphorae are suspended from wrought-iron brackets, turning on lamps as he goes, toward his office in the southeast corner of the house.
    Edwee’s office, like the other rooms in the house, is arranged more like a private museum than a workspace. The office overlooks the East River and the city skyline and bridges to the south, as well as a more intimate view of Edwee’s small city garden, with its fruit trees and boxwood hedges as well as its raised centerpiece, which is Edwee’s herb garden, where he grows the fresh herbs for his second career as a gourmet cook. Within the office itself are displayed more of Edwee’s collections. Bookcases along one wall contain his collection of over two thousand cookbooks, some of them quite old and rare. More cases contain his even larger collection of art books, and against the wall between the two French doors that lead out into the garden are displayed his collections of antique dolls and miniature doll-house furniture, including complete living room and dining room sets signed by the Master Thomas Chippendale himself—the only such sets the Master is known to have executed, and which the Smithsonian has been after for years. Illuminated cases display his collections of coin-silver spoons and early American pewter serving pieces. There is much, much more. One table displays his collection of silver and crystal inkwells; another, a collection of millefleur paperweights; still another, a collection of old snuffboxes. Tucked between the books on the bookshelves are specimen pieces of Chinese Export