by Mary Marks
I turned left on Napoli Drive at precisely eleven and pulled into the driveway of a massive two-story French chateau–style home with gray stucco and a copper mansard roof. Dozens of lavender bushes filled her front yard, sending up blue clusters on long, delicate stems. I loved lavender and tried many times to grow it in the Valley, but it couldn’t survive the hot summers. In her yard, however, it flourished.
I checked my lipstick in the mirror, swiped my curls out of my face one last time, and got out of the car. My heart pounded faster the nearer I got to the front door. What was I getting myself into? I rang the doorbell and held my breath as the door swung slowly open.
A dark-haired Latina in a white work uniform led me to a massive living room with brown exposed beams and hand-plastered walls. A bank of mullioned windows looked onto a covered patio, with a pool beyond, and a wide vista of golfing greens in the distance. “Mrs. Giselle will be right with you.”
Warm, primary colors filled the room, with a riot of printed fabrics and red Persian carpets. The art on the walls looked original, including a pencil drawing by Picasso. I didn’t have long to wait.
Giselle Cole was much taller than me, at least ten years younger, and elegantly dressed in a sleeveless green silk dress that clung to her slender, athletic body. Her straight auburn hair, parted on the side, hung in an expert cut to her shoulders. Her face was suspiciously absent of wrinkles. The only thing even remotely hinting at a familial connection were her hazel eyes, the same color and shape as mine and Quincy’s.
“Martha?” She smiled and stretched out her smooth hand with shiny pink fingernails. “Good of you to come.”
Her grip was strong and brief. “You’re not at all what I expected. Please sit down.” She sat on the green and white striped sofa.
“Oh?” I sank into a plump chair upholstered in a flowery blue chintz directly across from her. “What, exactly, were you expecting?”
She shrugged her shoulders and glanced at my engagement ring. “I don’t know, really. Maybe some sad little divorcée who was forced to move to the Valley and live in one of those dinky little tract homes.”
I couldn’t hold back any longer and narrowed my eyes. “Are you always this insulting, or is that an acquired skill?”
She waved her hand. “Honestly, I’m not being judgmental. I just say what I think. You’ll get used to me. Would you like a mimosa?”
“No. And just so you know”—I leaned for ward—“I also say what I think. And right now, I’m thinking I was right last night to call you an idiot.”
Her laughter surprised me. “It’s really great to have a sister. I can see we’re going to become best friends.”
That’s not going to happen.
I stared at the simple gold band on her left hand. “You’re married. Children? Brothers and sisters?”
“I’m a widow. I have one son, Nicholas. He’s away at Harvard right now. Harvard Law,” she said for emphasis. “I never had any siblings. What about you? I’ve been admiring that ring on your finger.”
“As you guessed, I am divorced, but definitely not sad. I have a fiancé and one grown child.”
The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. “When I saw your name on the Deep Roots website last night, I also learned about your daughter, Quincy. Did you name her after Daddy? Where did she go to school?”
“As for the name, it’s a long story.” I wasn’t going to let her get away with dropping the H-bomb on me. Her son might be attending Harvard, but my daughter was no slouch. “Quincy was courted by Stanford. But she chose to attend Brown because they had a better department.” I sat back and watched a flicker of annoyance quickly pass through my half sister’s eyes.
“How nice for her,” she drawled.
I continued, satisfied I’d made my point. “Like your son, my Quincy also lives in Boston. She has red hair like yours, but it’s curly like mine.”
“We both get that color from Daddy. I remember he had thick, auburn hair.” She paused and blew out her breath. “I didn’t know he’d been married before.”
“He and my mother weren’t married. As soon as he learned she was pregnant, he deserted her. When my family couldn’t locate him, they were forced to leave their home in Iowa to avoid a scandal. I was born in Los Angeles. I never knew him. I don’t even know his real name. I’m hoping, since you obviously had a relationship with him, you’ll fill in the blanks.”
She studied me for a moment and then spoke softly. “His name was Jacob Quinn Maguire, but everyone called him Quinn.”
“My mother said he was an artist.”
“Yes, and a very successful one. Have you ever heard of him?”
That was why I couldn’t find him in a Google search! I was looking for an artist with the last name of Quinn. If he had married my mother, I would have been named Martha Maguire. Instead, I’d been given my mother’s maiden name of Harris. “No, I can’t say I have heard of him, but then I’ve never taken much interest in the contemporary art world.” I ignored the slight lifting of her chin.
“I don’t know why things didn’t work out with your mother. That was long before my time. I only knew him as a devoted husband and father. I’m sorry for you.”
The last thing I wanted was her pity. “We survived. Tell me about him. Do you have any photos?”
“Yes.” She reached over to a small mahogany end table next to the sofa and handed me a photo in a silver frame. “This was taken just before he disappeared.”
A chill traveled up the back of my neck as I saw my father for the first time. His red mustache and long sideburns reflected the style of the ’70s. He wore a short-sleeved shirt in a bright green Hawaiian print and smiled at the camera. I stared at his hazel eyes. Who would’ve guessed that this affable, handsome man had secrets? “Tell me more about him. Where did he come from?”
“His parents were from Ireland, but he was born in Massachusetts. He studied art at the Rhode Island School of Design in the late forties and traveled the country painting landscapes until the mid-fifties. Then he suddenly switched directions and became a portrait painter. That’s when he got noticed and his career took off. His study of Governor Hugh Carey hangs in the capitol in Albany, New York. Another one of his works hangs in the Whitney.”
“Did he have any other children that you know of? After all, he could’ve seduced dozens of gullible young women like my mother. Who knows how many other half siblings we might have out there?”
She wrinkled her forehead. “That’s not the father I knew.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
Giselle picked up a cell phone and typed in a brief text with her thumbs. “I think we should have those mimosas right about now.”
Almost immediately, a door opened down the hallway and the domestic I’d met earlier rolled in a tea cart with a bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket of ice, a pitcher of fresh orange juice, an assortment of cheese, slices of crusty baguette, and a bowl of plump, green grapes. I reached for the fruit and filled a small plate, placing it on the weathered wooden coffee table in front of me.
Giselle caught me looking at the label on the champagne bottle. “I know what you’re thinking. Why ruin an expensive champagne with orange juice? I mean, who does that, right?”
I shrugged. “I thought most people used the cheaper bottles for mixed drinks.”
“Well, I’m not most people. Inferior champagne makes an inferior drink. As long as you’re going to imbibe, you might as well treat yourself to the good stuff.” She poured the bubbly halfway up our crystal flutes and topped it off with the juice. “Cheers.” She raised her glass.
“L’chaim.” I took a thirsty drink, enjoying how the smooth bubbles seemed to spread through my body and relax my muscles. Almost immediately I sensed a shifting in my mood. It might’ve been before noon on Napoli Drive, but it had to be evening in the real Naples, and she was right. Those mimosas were the best I’d ever had. I began chewing a crunchy green grape, content to listen to
her story.
“My mother’s father, my grandfather Eagan, made a fortune in oil and built a beautiful home in Beverly Hills, which he filled with antiques and works of art. In the mid-sixties, he decided to have everyone’s portrait painted. At the time, my mother was a student at Marymount, studying music. She told me that one day she came home from school and there Daddy was, setting up his easel in Granddad’s office.
“Daddy lived in the small guest cottage for the next year while he painted all the family members. By the time he finished, he and my mother had fallen in love. When they married in 1966, Granddad built them a house right next to his in Beverly Hills. I came along in ’68.”
I couldn’t believe my father had been in LA all those years, so close to us. What would my mother have done if she knew? The Pico Boulevard area where I grew up was directly adjacent to Beverly Hills. Did their paths ever cross? How would she have felt seeing him with another woman? Another child? “You said last night that you were looking for our father. I take it he disappeared on you, too?”
Giselle poured herself another glass and didn’t bother with the orange juice. “When I was twelve, he kissed me good-bye and left for a trip to New York. At first, Mother told me he had gone there for a gallery opening. He’d traveled many times before, but he’d always called to say good night, no matter where he was. This time was different, though. He never called me.”
“How did your mother explain it?”
“She didn’t really. She just said he must be too busy. But I could tell she was upset, too.” Giselle’s voice caught in her throat. “We never heard from him again.”
“Looking for him couldn’t have been that hard. After all, couldn’t you trace him through his subsequent work? Especially if he was that well-known in the art world.”
She sighed. “As far as we know, he never painted again. It’s like he stepped off the face of the earth.”
“Did your mother report him missing?”
“Oh yes, but against my grandfather’s wishes. Granddad wanted to avoid a scandal, but my mother was determined to find Daddy. The art scene buzzed about it for months. But no clues ever turned up. His case quickly went cold.” She took another sip of champagne. “I was very young at the time. I didn’t understand what was going on. It’s only been recently I’ve started to understand some of the pieces of the puzzle. I was hoping you could shed some light, but clearly you know less than I do.”
“I have to admit, I’m intrigued by the mystery. Maybe my fiancé can help us discover what happened to him. He’s a federal agent.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying you’ll help me look for him?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty good at finding things out.” I popped another grape in my mouth and surveyed the paintings in the room. “You own quite a bit of art yourself. Are any of these pictures his?”
She smiled. “Absolutely. I kept all his paintings, including some of his early works. I’ll be happy to show them to you before you go. It might help you get to know him better.”
I looked at the pristine skin of her hands and manicured fingernails. I saw no signs they had ever held a paintbrush. “Did you inherit any of his artistic talent?”
“Unfortunately, no.” She sighed. “I’m more a pianist like my mother. Did you?”
“In a way, but not with paint. My medium is fabric. I’m an avid quilter.”
She brightened. “So was my grandmother. I have one unfinished top of hers packed away somewhere. She was in the middle of sewing it for me when she died. I’ll dig it out one day to show you.”
I finished the last of my mimosa, and Giselle walked me around the room, stopping in front of a group of landscapes. “These are Daddy’s earliest works.”
Quinn’s scenes were misty and bucolic, much in the romantic style of Turner. I could see why an impressionable eighteen-year-old girl would fall under the spell of his talent. The signature at the bottom read J. Q. Maguire.
She took me down a hallway into a formal dining room. “These are three paintings he kept for himself. I’ve displayed them in chronological order to show the progression of his talent.”
Giselle kept speaking, but I stopped listening and became lost in the pictures. The first portrait showed a young girl in a blue dress reclining in soft, green grass with a faraway expression on her face. What was she dreaming of as she twirled the stem of that dandelion? In this picture, Quinn’s brushstrokes were tentative, almost shy.
The next painting showed the same woman, a few years older, sitting in a café with an expression of satisfaction, as if she’d just finished a good meal. This time Quinn used rich, jewel tones and his strokes were more confident.
The third portrait showed the woman in early middle age, with sagging eyelids and more flesh around the chin. But the artist treated her with the same careful respect, softening some of the lines with reflected light and others with shadow. His regard for the subject of the paintings was unmistakable in the languid lines of his brush.
“Martha?” I gradually became aware Giselle was still speaking. “I think I lost you for a second.”
I blinked back tears, too moved to speak.
She smiled. “I can tell by your reaction that you like them.”
“You don’t understand,” I finally managed to choke out. “These are all portraits of my mother!”
Her mouth flew open. “But how can that be? You said Daddy vanished from your mother’s life before you were born.” She gestured toward the trio of paintings. “Obviously, these are studies of the same woman done over a period of years. Are you saying Daddy was cheating on my mother?”
I nodded dumbly as the world, as I’d known it, began to spin in my head.
CHAPTER 4
I pulled myself together enough to take photos of the portraits with my cell phone. I reached for Quinn’s framed photo. “Can I borrow this?”
Giselle hesitated. “Better yet, I’ll scan it right now.” She disappeared briefly and returned with a printout of the photo.
“Thanks.” I put the print in my purse and promised to touch base soon. Then I aimed my Honda Civic toward Uncle Isaac’s house. I needed some answers, and I needed them now. Did he know that leaving Iowa hadn’t ended my parents’ affair? Those paintings were proof of that. How much more was he hiding from me? To make things worse, I could feel a headache coming on.
“Faigela!” My uncle greeted me with a huge smile and his pet name, which meant “little bird” in Yiddish. “I wasn’t expecting a visit. Have you had lunch? I was just about to make a tuna sandwich. Come. Sit. I’ll make you one, too.”
I kissed him on the cheek and followed him into the kitchen. “Don’t bother. I just had a little something at a friend’s house.” He gestured for me to take a seat at the chrome and gray Formica table, where I had colored pictures and done my homework as a child. This room in the modest California bungalow hadn’t changed since Bubbie, my beloved grandmother, was alive. Green tile on the counter, cabinets painted with semigloss ivory, and pantry shelves sagging under the weight of cast-iron pots and pans.
Uncle Isaac moved slowly but efficiently, cutting two sandwiches on the diagonal and placing them on white Corelle lunch plates, with kosher pickle spears. When he finally sat down, he said what my bubbie would’ve said. “It’s only a sliver. Enjoy.”
I bit my lip, trying to decide how to begin.
“Nu?” he said. “I know that look. Something is bothering you.”
“You’re right, Uncle. Something big is bothering me.”
“So, out with it. What could be so bad?” He bit off the corner of his sandwich.
“Where do I begin? It all started when Quincy sent in her DNA.” I told my uncle everything about finding my half sister, Giselle. “Mother was right. His name was Quinn. Jacob Quinn Maguire. Turns out, he also lived in LA. And, a little over thirty years ago, he disappeared again.” The more details I revealed about my father, the slower Uncle Isaac chewed. “And here’s the most s
hocking thing of all.” I showed him the paintings of my mother on my cell phone. “Did you know about this?”
He swallowed hard. “These look like paintings of your mother.”
“That’s right. They’re portraits Quinn painted right here in LA! She must’ve been around forty in the last one. Don’t you see? Leaving Iowa never stopped their affair. They somehow found each other again.”
Uncle Isaac seemed to shrink as he slumped back in his chair. He looked at the table as he spoke. “Gottenyu! I knew she was meeting a man, but I had no idea it was your father. Your bubbie, may she rest in peace, had died, so everything was up to me. I was afraid your mamma would get herself into trouble again. You know . . .”
“You mean, like having another bastard child?”
He looked up sharply. “No, faigela! Don’t ever call yourself that. You were everything to us. But your mamma, she never had much sechel. I’m not saying she was stupid, she just didn’t have good judgment. So, I followed her one day to Kresky’s Kosher Market on Pico, where she met a man with red hair.”
I pulled Quinn’s photo from my purse. “Is this the man you saw?”
“Vey iz mir! It’s been a long time, but I think that’s the same man. Is that . . . ?”
I nodded. “Go on.”
He cleared his throat. “As they walked to his fancy Cadillac, I saw the sun glinting off a ring on his left hand. I followed them all the way to the Sunnyside Motel in Santa Monica.”
“Then what?”
“Then I left.” He shrugged.
“That’s it? Why didn’t you try to stop her?” Confusion and anger stirred in my chest.
He stared at his hands. “She was a grown woman. I had no right. If your bubbie was still alive, she’d know how to handle your mamma. But I’d already closed my shop for half a day to follow her. I had to get back to my customers if I was going to put food on the table. I tried talking to her that evening after you’d gone to bed. Find out who he was. Talk some sense into her.”
