The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  “There is someone who could help you figure this out, who knew them both,” said Janice.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Irving Lorette. He used to run the Grand Central School of Art. I saw him recently at an opening. He and his wife live downtown and are still active in the art world. You could start there, to get a sense of whether Darden and Zakarian knew each other well, get some backstory. They’d be able to point you in the right direction.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Use my name when you do. I have to admit, this is exciting, what you found.” She paused. “Where did you get it again?”

  Virginia’s mind went blank. What should she say? That she’d accidentally trespassed into the Grand Central School of Art? The truth was complicated. “Um, an aunt of mine had it for years. We just discovered it after she passed away.”

  “Good for her for saving it. When you think of the remarkable works that have been lost to the garbage heap.”

  “So true.” In fact, if Virginia hadn’t found the watercolor, it would have eventually been destroyed by a demolition crew. The thought alleviated her guilt a smidgen. Virginia tucked the portfolio under her arm and left, promising to keep Janice in the loop.

  * * *

  “I’m calling for Dennis Huckle, please. It’s Virginia Clay.”

  Virginia covered the mouthpiece with her hand as she waited to be connected. Privacy was not an option in the information booth, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to use the phone for personal calls. But she’d been sweet-talking Terrence since she arrived that morning and had delivered the ten-thirty coffees to the staff at ten fifteen, even stealing a couple of sad-looking donuts from the employee kitchen at the back of the Station Master’s Office.

  She’d already called the Lorette residence and briefly explained the situation to Mrs. Lorette, who seemed quite kind and set up an appointment for Virginia to stop by on Friday. But that was two days away, and in the meantime she’d decided to reach out to Dennis, stop waiting around for him to call her. After all, she was a modern woman.

  This morning at breakfast, her brother and Xavier had cracked each other up, laughing at some story in the paper, and their silly joy had made her miss having a partner. She wouldn’t mind trying another round of sex as well. The first one had stirred up something in her that she hadn’t felt in years. On top of all that, she was dying to show off her new haircut. The crew in the booth had given it two thumbs up. Well, all except Doris, who told her she looked like a boy.

  Long lines starfished around the information booth. Thanksgiving was the next day, the concourse brimmed with passengers, and Doris had even put down her nail file in order to keep up with the constant inquiries. These weren’t the regular commuters, who knew where they were headed and wouldn’t be caught dead asking a question. Instead, the terminal teemed with train travel neophytes who showed up at the information booth helpless and harried, unsure of where to buy a ticket or how to get to the correct platform. But the swarm kept Terrence off Virginia’s back for being on the phone twice in one morning.

  “Virginia!” Dennis sounded pleased to hear from her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Terrence glanced over at her, and she held up one finger and mouthed, I’ll be quick. A man in line at Terrence’s window rapped on the glass to get his attention, complaining he’d been pickpocketed.

  “Hi, Dennis. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “It’s a madhouse up here.”

  “Down here as well. Everyone’s heading out of town at once.”

  “We’re preparing to file a brief with the court next week, so I’ll be lucky if I get any turkey at all.”

  She heard the sound of shuffling papers through the phone. “What are you filing?”

  “We’re asking the judge to declare the landmark designation unconstitutional.”

  “If you have time for a quick break, I was hoping I might pop up and take a look at the model of the new building, like you’d promised.” She hoped she didn’t sound too needy.

  The pickpocket victim spotted a policeman and barreled over to complain to him instead. Terrence peered over at Virginia.

  Dennis took a beat. “Sounds great. It’d be nice to see you.”

  She hung up the phone, unable to hide the huge smile on her face.

  “One of your paramours?” asked Terrence. Totto’s ears perked up, and Winston shifted around so he could keep one eye on his line and the other on what was going on inside the booth.

  “No. That was just a friend.” She offered him the last donut, but he shook his head.

  “How’s the studying going?” Terrence pointed to the binder.

  “Fine.” While she loved the historical summary, the dry facts bored her. “How long did it take you to learn all this?”

  “About a week.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Terrence has a photographic memory,” offered Totto. “Sees something once and never forgets it.”

  “Do you as well?” asked Virginia.

  “Me?” Totto looked confused. “No. Why would I?”

  “I thought you were brothers.”

  Totto laughed. “You kidding? I’m way better-looking.”

  “He is,” added Terrence. “I’ll give him that.”

  By now, Virginia knew what to expect from her coworkers: Doris bemoaning her sciatica and the sister-in-law who lived with her and her husband in Queens; Totto’s constant cursing how the city had changed and how rude New Yorkers were these days; Winston missing the warmth of Savannah; and Terrence keeping them all in line. Once she’d gotten over her initial claustrophobia, she’d found it was nice to be with people during the day, even if the job was a bore. Back when her days were wide-open, she’d filled them with nonsense, like committees that accomplished nothing.

  She opened the binder but wasn’t in the mood to study. “Terrence, have you heard about this plan to demolish part of Grand Central and put up a skyscraper on top of it?”

  Terrence propped up the WINDOW CLOSED sign and directed the next customer over to Totto. “Never gonna happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This place has a legacy; it’s an important part of New York City’s history.”

  “I happen to know one of the lawyers involved in the court case, and he says it’s a shoo-in.” She didn’t mean to sound like such a know-it-all. “I mean, the place isn’t exactly a shining example of New York City anymore. Everyone tries to avoid it if they can.”

  She thought Terrence would get mad, as he seemed to take any affront to the terminal personally. But instead, he lowered his voice. “You don’t see it the way I do. You know how when you’ve known someone a long time, you still see them as youthful?”

  She knew exactly what he was talking about. To her, Ruby was frozen in time, the happy girl with grand plans and knobby knees, even when she knew Ruby was a grown woman. “I get what you mean.”

  “I still see this place as it was in the forties.” Terrence looked about, and she did as well, trying to picture what he described. “Gleaming and beautiful. A masterpiece. The red carpet rolled out for the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago right there on track 34.”

  She smiled as if she hadn’t heard the same thing a week earlier from Dennis. Boys and their trains.

  “You see up there?” He pointed to the blackened ceiling. “That used to be a vivid turquoise color.”

  Virginia laughed. He was teasing her. “No way. I don’t believe that one bit.” But he didn’t crack a smile. “In any event, it’s like a cave now, dark and scary. I don’t think many other people see it the way you do.”

  “I suppose so.” His face took on a sad cast.

  An irate man in a black top hat banged on the window. Terrence sighed, removed the WINDOW CLOSED placard, and patiently explained that the man’s masti
ff would not be allowed on the train to Greenwich, under any circumstances.

  After work, as Virginia waited for the elevator to the Penn Central offices, the metal grillwork above the doors caught her eyes. Like the filigree, the design was complicated and showy. A slew of wrought iron vines twisted around the floor indicator, and recessed in the marble trim immediately above was a leaf-and-acorn wreath in bronze. The terminal was like a giant gallery of hidden art; you just had to know where to look. What was that expression from her art major days? Memento mori, where an object in the artwork served as a warning of death. Usually, it was a skull or an hourglass, a bowl of rotting fruit. Grand Central, in its decaying splendor, was the embodiment of a memento mori work of art. If it came down, Terrence’s heart would be broken.

  Virginia put on fresh lipstick as the car rose. She asked the receptionist to announce her to Dennis and planted herself in the same chair she’d waited in a week ago.

  Dennis shambled out, looking tired, but when he saw her, he put his hands on his hips and laughed. “Look at that haircut. I love it. Very French.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Come right this way. I don’t have much time, but I think you’ll be impressed.” He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her, leaving it there a little longer than necessary, and she felt a zing of desire.

  On a table inside his office, a large white model rose up three feet. Dennis’s description of the proposed skyscraper was apt. The building literally sat on top of the front half of the station, with long supports like spider legs jutting out onto the transverse. It was rectangular, windowed, and boring.

  “What do you think?” Dennis asked.

  She thought for a moment. “It’s very modern.”

  “You bet. Think of all the rent money that will pour in, as well as the taxes for the city. It’s good for everyone.”

  “Where will your office be?” she teased.

  “Right there.” Dennis pointed to the top floor.

  He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss before his phone rang. “Give me a sec.”

  While he spoke, she studied the model further. Grand Central would become even darker, with the new building blocking most of the windows. Terrence and Winston and the others would be stuck belowground, like mole people.

  Dennis hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, I have a meeting I have to get to.”

  “Of course.”

  She wanted to ask more questions about the new building, find out how exactly it would affect the railroad terminal, but before she could speak, Dennis kissed her, long and slow. When they drew apart, she was glad for his arms around her, or she might have wobbled to the floor.

  She really shouldn’t have waited as long as she did to get out in the world after her divorce. With men like Dennis around, smart and just the right amount of burly, a woman could get everything that she didn’t get in a marriage: compliments, sex, and downtime when she could just be herself. Of course, he still didn’t know her secret. But for the first time, she could imagine telling him about the cancer. About her missing piece. As she walked down the hall, knowing he was watching her, she added a little kick to her step, a sway to her hips. It was nice being wanted.

  Instead of going back down by elevator, Virginia headed to the art school, clutching the can of mace Dennis had given her last week, just in case any hoodlums might be lurking about. She tucked it back inside her purse as she wandered through the rooms, keeping an eye out for anything that might help identify the artist behind the watercolor. The lockers contained ancient paints, brushes with hardened bristles, and other detritus of no value. The narrow wooden slots for storing large canvases were mostly empty, and the few artworks that remained had faded, paint chips forming a mosaic beneath them. How sad for this place to be lost to time, with no one left to mourn it. The same could be said for the entire terminal, if Dennis got his way.

  She combed through the desks in the small offices but discovered nothing other than a fountain pen, a jar of dried black ink, and a couple of pencils. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but in any case, nothing jumped out as important.

  At the entrance to the storage room, though, she froze. Two new crates had been opened and pulled into the center of the room. The wall of artwork had changed again. Two bright monochromes in orange, which definitely hadn’t been there before, were tacked up in the very center. Someone had been in here, digging through the crates, putting paintings up and taking them down. Looking for something.

  This was no ghost.

  A muffled moan sounded from another room. She froze, hoping to hear Dennis’s baritone calling out her name. Had she locked the door behind her? She couldn’t remember.

  Those thugs, the ones she’d encountered last week, might be back. If she screamed, who would hear her? No one.

  She was trapped. She unzipped her purse to retrieve the can of mace, the sound louder than expected, and heard footsteps in response. A shuffling, followed by a loud bang.

  Now there was no doubt in her mind.

  Someone else was inside the school.

  Virginia ran through her options. Whoever else was inside was somewhere between her and the front door. She looked about for a place to hide, a closet or under a desk. But the thought of staying put terrified her.

  Running as if she was on fire, Virginia made it to the exit without looking right or left, staring straight ahead at her goal, sure that at any moment an arm would reach out and grab her hair, her clothes, and yank her backward.

  She fumbled with the doorknob, breathing heavily, her hands shaking, and finally turned it. Bursting into the hallway, she headed right, to safety.

  A man in a suit stood in front of the elevator. Thank God. Not Dennis, but not a thug. She looked behind her for the first time since her sprint. No one was there; no one was coming.

  “Are you all right?” The man’s eyes showed a wary concern. She could only imagine what she looked like, rumpled, her face red, eyes wide.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” The elevator opened.

  “After you.”

  She rushed inside, breathing hard, relief setting in only after the doors had closed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  May 1929

  They’ll be here any moment, Clara. Do hurry.”

  Clara nodded at Oliver through the reflection of her vanity mirror. He looked as handsome as ever in a natty yellow bow tie and two-toned oxfords, his face flushed with excitement at the arrival of their dinner party guests and from the martini he’d drunk while dressing.

  He drew close and kissed her on the top of her head. “Sorry. I know you must be tired. You’ve been working all day, and now I’m forcing you to hobnob with strangers. You aren’t mad, are you?”

  “Of course not, my love. I know how you enjoy your salons.” She tilted her face up, and he kissed her properly, slowly, until she was dizzy and breathless. It still amazed her that this beautiful boy was all hers.

  So much had happened since she’d signed the contract with Vogue last year. At times, Clara’s new apartment at 25 Fifth Avenue was unrecognizable, the squeaky cot from her Tenth Street studio replaced with a macassar bed fit for a queen, with an inlaid parchment headboard. Oliver had laid eyes on it in some uptown furniture store and insisted she take it. They weren’t exactly living together—he still had his bachelor pad in the Village—but he spent most of the day and many of the evenings here, answering her correspondence, arranging social events like tonight’s dinner, and generally making her life run as smoothly as possible.

  “What were you working on today?” He sat at the edge of the bed and adjusted a cuff link.

  “They want a dozen new illustrations for a piece on the ‘Well-Dressed Secretary.’ And of course, the September cover.”

  All day she’d been working on the cover, a woman at the wheel of an automobile facing out, the door open, one
hand casually resting on the steering wheel and the other on the back of the seat. The figure had come easy enough, but she’d been struggling over the details of the car when Oliver had told her it was time to wash up and dress. Like an obedient child, she’d cleaned off her brushes and palette and closed the door of her studio behind her.

  She’d never have attained the success she had without him. Between the commissions and teaching, she was even able to sock money away. The school term would end in a few weeks, and she was thrilled to have had a class of thirty this term, with no dropouts at all.

  She slid a pair of crystal combs into her unruly mane. “I forgot to mention, Mr. Lorette at the art school said my class would be moved to a bigger studio in the fall. To fit the additional students.”

  “Isn’t that tiring, though? Why teach when you don’t have to?” The smile on his face belied his concern, she knew. Lately, he’d complained they didn’t spend enough time together, suggesting a long weekend at Compo Beach or a jaunt to Europe. But now that she finally had the work she had craved for so long, she couldn’t bear to walk away.

  She also had a terrible fear that it was all going to be taken away at any moment. That was what had happened to her father, after all. One day they were eating steaks and caramel custard, the next she was scrounging in a vegetable garden for potatoes to make soup. She understood that, rationally, it was her father’s own fault. But that sense of fragility, of everything all coming crashing down, stayed with her always. She was like one of those squirrels in Washington Square Park, tucking nuts in their cheeks and burying the rest of the bounty. The taste of success had only increased her urge to accumulate more. More work, more money.

  And it had all come so quickly. The months flew by in a blur. Yet every morning when she rose, she peered out her bedroom window, the rectangular buildings and conical water towers sharp against a blue sky, and gave a moment of thanks for Oliver, for her work, and for this lovely city.