The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  With that, Morrison took his last bite of chocolate soufflé. For a terrible moment, I feared he would leave without revealing the part of the story I had been the most desperate to hear from the very start.

  “This sure is intriguing,” I cut in. “But can you please tell us what happened between my mother and her parents that caused all those years of bad blood?”

  “Patience now, patience. All will be revealed. Hanna took full inventory of Glover’s collection at his insistence. Methodical as she was, it was really nothing more than a formality; she already knew every piece in Glover’s collection by heart. Hanna herself had maintained Glover’s register with utter diligence and precision. Everything between them was open and transparent, without the slightest room for doubt. Every time Glover bought or sold anything, Hanna would know of it immediately. There was never any gray area . . . until all at once, Hanna found herself staring into a world of gray, her eyes landing on a painting that made her heart stop.”

  “My God . . . the Hopper?” George-Harrison sputtered. I gasped.

  “Right you are! Girl by the Window. You cannot imagine how shocked Hanna was at the discovery, stumbling upon her father’s favorite painting in Glover’s safe. If Glover—her partner, her mentor, her confidant—had acquired it through legitimate means, why would he have chosen to keep it hidden from her? There was no coincidence here, no fluke or mere act of chance. It was impossible to think that the one secret he kept from Hanna happened to be the piece that meant more than anything to her. She burst into his office in a rage. Glover had seen her upset before, but never like this. His health ailing, the poor man had a hard time making sense of her accusations and found himself completely caught off guard. The fact that Hanna suspected him of wrongdoing upset Glover quite a bit, but he was far too weary to tell her off. Instead, he unleashed the signature British stiff upper lip with a simple question of his own. How could she be so surprised, he had asked, considering it was her own husband who had entrusted the painting to Glover in the first place? The look in her eyes was enough for the art dealer to see that the answer was a lot more complicated than he had thought.

  “He explained everything, racked with the guilt of unknowingly betraying her trust. A few years earlier, Robert had come to Glover in need of a favor. He desperately needed capital to start his liquor business. While Glover had immediately assured him he would help out in any way, Robert wished to leave something as collateral to prove he would keep his word and repay the loan. The object he chose was Girl by the Window. When Robert had paid back the loan in full, naturally Glover wished to return the painting. But for reasons he never fully understood, Robert asked Glover to keep the Hopper in the safe with his collection. Glover didn’t ask any further questions, adhering to the third cardinal rule: always be discreet. Glover suggested selling the painting, knowing Robert could have his pick of prospective buyers, but Robert insisted, ‘Hanna and I do not wish to sell the painting, not for any price. Not now, not ever.’ ‘Hanna and I,’ Glover insisted adamantly, longing for Hanna to believe that he never knowingly deceived her. Dumbfounded by the revelations, Hanna lied and apologized, claiming the sight of the painting had so shattered her emotionally that she briefly lost sight of reality.

  “That was how they left it. Glover was so crushed by the episode, he couldn’t bear keeping any more secrets. He revealed his illness to Hanna then and there. It was pointless for her to actually buy his collection; he was leaving everything to her, and any sum she paid would just come right back to her after his death, which was rapidly approaching. Glover assured Hanna he had more than enough money to attend to all his needs until he passed. Hanna was so overcome with emotion at this latest revelation, she cast aside any lingering questions about the Girl by the Window. She paid Glover several more visits over the following months and remained faithfully at his bedside from the very moment he entered hospice care. He died just six days later. Hanna took care of all the arrangements herself. Glover had been like a second father to her, and this new loss affected her deeply. His collection was shipped to the States. The sign in front of the New York gallery was changed in accordance with Glover’s last wishes, which he conveyed to Hanna in a letter.

  “Only art matters, for each work of art is eternal. Those who claim ownership of art are of little importance in the end, since no one can outlive it. Don’t you find that to be a delicious little slice of humility? One of the reasons I love and admire you so deeply is that you have never shown even the smallest amount of pride in having works of art within your possession. Like me, you have nothing but love and respect for art and art alone, so it is high time that you reap the rewards for all you have given.

  “In no way should you feel indebted to me, Hanna. You have been a source of light and joy in my life, not to mention an ample source of amusement, as I’ve always delighted in your many moods—the good and the bad, your uncontrollable laughter and your fits of rage alike. One could say I’ve led a charmed life. I’ve met scores of art dealers in my time, but none have ever measured up to you, my dear. From this point forward, I wish to have your name and your name only adorning our New York gallery. The pride I have in my pupil far eclipses how proud I am to have once been her teacher. May your life always be full of all the happiness and beauty that you deserve, my dearest Hanna. Yours sincerely, John Glover.

  “Only an Englishman could write something so dignified and restrained. And don’t be shocked that I’ve committed it to memory; I am a historian, after all! Retaining exact quotes is part of my craft.

  “But, alas, the hour grows late and there are still many questions to be answered. After Hanna had laid Glover to rest and settled his affairs, it was time for the full consequences of her fateful discovery to come to light. It never crossed Hanna’s mind that Robert was in it for money; he would have had countless opportunities to make a fortune off the Hopper. The fact that he had forbidden Glover from ever selling it proved that was never his intention. No, something far more troublesome was at play. Hanna remembered one moment from the night they fled the hunting lodge that had always bothered her: before they set out for Spain, Robert had insisted on going back to the lodge. It now made sense. It wasn’t for clothes, or that so-called secret map of weapon depots. No. It was the Hopper painting all along. Hanna could still picture the satchel Robert kept by his side for the entire escape, how he never let it out of his sight, not once during the crossing into Spain or aboard the ship. This led her to one inevitable conclusion: Sam had revealed the hiding place to Robert, and her husband had been lying about everything all along. But that wasn’t all. Remember back at the cemetery, when Jorge said that he himself had been suspected of betraying the others? Hanna had asked for news of Titon, Robert’s partner on the tandem for that ill-fated mission. She thought of him because of a lingering doubt still gnawing at her, one glaring discrepancy Hanna had observed as they first fled. An important part of Robert’s story made no sense. He claimed to have snapped the driver’s neck en route to the Germans, which would have left him stranded in the middle of a country road. So, how then had Robert managed to recover that tandem?”

  “I never thought of that,” I admitted. I looked at George-Harrison.

  “Me neither.”

  “No, but she did,” Morrison continued. “And the only logical conclusion to this discrepancy represented a grave dilemma for lovely Hanna. Because if Robert had been lying about the bike, it could only be for one reason: he had lied about his escape . . . because, in truth, it wasn’t an escape at all.”

  “And she didn’t try getting to the bottom of it by asking Robert what really happened?”

  “At the time, she had good reason not to question the man who was helping to save her life. But now, the truth had turned her life upside down. There was no turning back, and Hanna was never the same again.”

  “But why not just come out with it and tell him?”

  “Because of the ties that bind us. Because at times we need lies, or things le
ft unsaid, to avoid facing certain earth-shattering truths. On the trip over to see Glover on his deathbed, Hanna had been struck by several bouts of nausea. While she initially thought she was unwell out of concern for Glover, it soon became clear . . . that nature had finally given her the one dream she thought would never come true.”

  “But you said Hanna already had a child—my mother.”

  “Not quite. I said your mother came into the picture, and my choice of words was no accident. They had adopted your mother, Sally-Anne, because Hanna was convinced she was barren. Later, she got pregnant out of the blue. Alas, any joy came hand in hand with deep sorrow. Her future child’s father was the very man responsible for her own father’s demise. Hanna had no illusions about it: to gain his freedom, Robert must have divulged the location of the hunting lodge, and Sam and the Resistance fighters had paid the ultimate price for his betrayal. One can only imagine the Cornelian dilemma in which the poor woman found herself ensnared! Yet, Hanna wasn’t about to forget two of Glover’s cardinal rules of the art world: everyone knows everything, and discretion is essential. If the truth were to come out, it would ruin more than just their marriage. It would lay waste to their reputations, tainting their name forever. Bid adieu to the thriving art gallery. No one would even think of doing business with them after such a vile scandal.

  “So, Hanna placed the Hopper in a simple art portfolio that she bound with a wax seal and stored away in her husband’s safe. She told Robert that the portfolio contained a work to which she was especially attached. She made him swear on the lives of their children never to break that seal. It was a cruel and subtle breed of revenge. Every time Robert opened the safe, his eyes would drift to that portfolio, only to wonder if Hanna had discovered proof of his guilt, or if it was all in his head. Although seemingly untenable, this status quo was maintained over the next eleven years. Of course, Hanna was never again the close, loving wife she had once been. Instead, she saved all her affection for her son. Robert, meanwhile, grew to cherish his daughter most. Sally-Anne, who did not get along with her mother, returned that love unconditionally. Until one fateful day—”

  “When she was twelve years old.”

  “Indeed. It was around that time that she overheard a terrible quarrel between her parents. Sally-Anne learned that her father was having an affair, the first of many mistresses he would accrue over the years. In his defense, Robert was still a handsome man at the time and had long been neglected by Hanna, who was incapable of forgiving all he had done. As humans are wont to do, he sought to love and be loved. On the day in question, insults were hurled from both sides, and the fight escalated. Hanna at last revealed that Girl by the Window, the very painting he had taken from the hunting lodge in France, had been locked up for eleven years in Robert’s own safe, before also confronting him about his treachery. In the course of one evening, Sally-Anne learned her father was unfaithful and that he was not at all the hero she thought him to be. She saw him for the first time for what he truly was: a man who had done the unthinkable to save himself. Much less could have ignited the fiery rage of adolescence, and this triggered a veritable Molotov cocktail of emotion. Her fury and hatred rippled throughout the entire family.

  “Hanna was the enemy for fostering the lie for the worst of reasons. Robert was pure scum, irredeemable. And she hated Edward, too, for being the loved and cherished son, while she was nothing but the black sheep who would never measure up. Hanna feared her daughter would, out of a simple thirst for vengeance, expose the family’s shame to anyone who would listen. To prevent this from happening, Hanna had Sally-Anne sent to boarding school in England, where she stayed through early adulthood.”

  The professor downed the rest of his drink and carefully set the glass down on the tablecloth. “I must say this has been a particularly fine meal. I will leave you now to take care of the bill. We can do this again whenever you like; there’s a Chilean sea bass with truffle emulsion that I’d jump at the chance to try. Revisiting the Stanfield story certainly has whetted my appetite to at last complete the definitive family saga. I just hope you will keep your end of the bargain and grant me consent to publish. It was a true honor meeting the last of the Stanfields.”

  With that, the professor stood, shook our hands, and left.

  Back at the hotel, I lay sleeplessly in bed, consumed by the flood of revelations from dinner with the professor.

  Strangely, I felt closer to my mother than ever before, closer than we had ever been when she was alive. At last, I had a real sense of what she had endured during her forced exile. To experience such abandonment twice over—first by her real parents and then by her adoptive family—was completely unfathomable. In a way, she had been telling the truth when she described herself as an orphan, or very nearly the truth. But over the course of that long, sleepless night, I understood why she never told us more, and why my father had kept silent as well. It was to protect us. Despite all of that, I still wished she had shared her secret past with us. I would like to think I would have showered her with endless love to make up for all she had missed out on in her youth. And, what now? Did I tell Maggie and Michel the truth, even if doing so would be betraying my mother’s memory?

  These questions and others weighed heavily on my mind and kept me from getting even an hour of sleep. Had Professor Morrison exaggerated parts of the tale to get the consent he craved so badly for his book? Could he have known my true identity before we met? After all, if the professor wasn’t the poison-pen, then who could it be? The worst part was that I felt no closer to grasping just what it was the anonymous puppeteer had been after from the very start.

  I vowed I would fulfill my promise starting the next day. It was time to help George-Harrison find the identity of his father.

  35

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Baltimore

  There was a bitter chill in the air the next morning. The city seemed almost gray in the wan light, as puddles of dirty rain gathered on the sidewalks. I can’t stand those days in late autumn when the streets are so wind battered, they seem to wither in front of your very eyes.

  George-Harrison was waiting for me in front of his pickup truck. He wore an old denim shirt, a leather jacket, and a baseball hat, like a grizzled ballplayer past his prime. Most of all, he seemed to have got out of the wrong side of the bed. He studied my face for a long moment, then sighed and climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. As I got into the vehicle, I asked where we were headed.

  “You can go wherever you like, I’m going home. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and speaking of trees, I have to get back to my work.”

  “You’re giving up now, when we’re this close to the end?”

  “What end? And giving up what? I left to find my father, and ever since I got here, ever since we met, all we’ve done is uncover secrets about your mother—her struggles and her twisted family history. Fascinating as all this has been, mostly for you, I couldn’t afford to stay in this city any longer if I wanted to, twiddling my thumbs without making any progress.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’re right that we’ve made a lot more headway on my questions than yours. But I’m telling you, it was on my mind just before I fell asleep, and I told myself it was time for us to shift our search in a new direction today.”

  “And what direction is that? What exactly can we do?” he asked, temper flaring. I had no idea, and because I’m such a god-awful liar, all I could do was mumble excuses, until George-Harrison mercifully cut me off.

  “You see what I mean? You don’t have a clue, and neither do I. So, let’s just leave it at that. It was really nice getting to know you. And just so you know, I’m not a complete idiot or what have you. I haven’t forgotten what happened right here in this pickup, however brief it may have been. The way you leaned over and kissed me, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t also have wanted to kiss you . . . I mean, I’ve been wanting to kiss you, too. But you live in London, and I live in a sleepy little town
thousands of miles away from your big, beautiful metropolis. So . . . what good would kissing again do? Don’t answer, don’t even bother. You know there are no good answers. I’m going back home to my life and my job. As for my father, I know why he hasn’t shown up. I’ve known for a long time. So, to hell with the anonymous letter. To hell with your poison-pen. I’m not sure I even care who he is. You ask me, we’ve wasted enough time on that clown already. And even if it were the professor—who, by the way, and I don’t care how eloquent he may be, still eats like a pig—he did all this just to write a stupid book? He can go to hell, too. Him most of all. And here’s some advice for you: finish your article and go home. It’s the best you can do at this point.”

  I found myself struck with absolute panic, the type of feeling that twists your insides in knots and makes you want to sink right into the ground. Then, just like that, I suddenly learned how to lie. I pretended not to feel a thing, acting like I thought he was right, that turning and walking out of that pickup made all the sense in the world. I pretended that the idea of never seeing him again would be perfectly fine by me. I nodded and pouted, and didn’t say a single word. Unsure how long the Oscar-worthy performance would last and not wanting to push my luck, I leapt straight out of his shitty old pickup truck, proud and resolute . . . so resolute that I didn’t even shut the door behind me. It would have made Edina and Patsy proud, or they would have laughed at me and my misplaced confidence.

  The pickup started pulling away and I turned back, my eyes full of tears, just in time to see it disappear from view. Not only had that idiot all but thrown me away like an old sock, but I was feeling more alone than I ever had in all my trips around the world. The loneliness cut me to the core, only growing worse at the thought of my amazing father and wonderful siblings back home. I even found myself missing Vera. I was alone in the middle of a rotten city that had brought me nothing but heartache. With nowhere else to go, I turned back to the hotel. Just then, I heard a car honk twice behind me. I turned around.