by Lynn Steward
“Whoa there,” Andrew said. “Back up the train. Did you say his wife?”
“He’s legally separated, but his wife Marsha wants him to give her a small fortune before she’ll sign any divorce decree. His hands have been tied for a while now. I told him last night that I thought it best if we went our own way. I wouldn’t have had the strength to end it if he were living in New York, but now that he and Marsha are under the same roof, I can no longer deny the fact that he’s still a married man. If I’d agreed to keep the relationship going, which is what Mark wanted, I’d only see him a few days here and there around board meetings and business dinners. Andrew, I’m going to miss him terribly, but I won’t date a married man or be at the mercy of Marsha and Amanda’s whims and moods. I hope the future brings us back together, but for now, I have to move on.”
“That’s a lot to assimilate in less than twenty-four hours. No wonder you look glum.”
Dana shrugged. “I’ll be okay. I’m still waiting to hear from Bob, but Helen reiterated that the space where the boutique was being built is no longer available.”
“There’s always Johnny. I assume that his offer to work for the House of Cirone is still on the table.”
“I thought of that briefly this morning after Helen took me down a few notches, but I think Mark was right about making such a move. Just look at how persistent Johnny’s been to get an answer from me, not to mention his insistence that I dump Mark. I don’t think I could work by his side with pressure constantly coming from a self-styled big brother, as well-meaning as he is. As for Uncle John, I want him as a trusted family friend, not my boss. Working at the House of Cirone would probably jeopardize my relationship with his family, so I’ve decided that it’s just not the right thing to do.”
“Do you want some company tonight?” Andrew asked. “We could go out to dinner or a movie.”
“No, but thanks. I need some peace and quiet to sort things out in my mind. I’m going to stay home and try to rest.”
“Makes sense,” Andrew said. “But I’ve got an idea. When was the last time you went to The Frick?”
“Early last year. Why?”
“They have a special exhibition right now—Goya’s Last Works. Miniatures painted on ivory. You visited a miniature collection while in London, didn’t you?”
“I did. I even brought home a book on eighteenth and nineteenth century portrait miniatures.”
“Then why not check out the exhibit this afternoon? Leave work early and spend some time doing something you enjoy rather than dragging through the day. You’ll still get home in time to walk Wills and be alone with your thoughts.”
“Maybe. Sounds tempting.”
Andrew looked at Dana after finishing his coffee. “Hey, kiddo, you’ll get through this. Correction—we’ll get through this. I had a pretty bad breakup recently, but I’m still standing, as they say. There’s life on the other side. I’m always here for you.”
“You are, Andrew. You’re a great friend.”
“Ditto,” he said with an encouraging smile.
Dana squeezed Andrew’s hand and got up to leave. Sitting at the adjoining table was a man in his seventies wearing a brown suit. He was doing the New York Times daily crossword puzzle, and Dana noted that he, like most other crossword puzzle addicts, had endless scribbles in the margins of the paper. He looked up and smiled, and Dana returned the gesture.
“I think that old geezer was listening to every word we said,” Andrew stated as they left the restaurant.
“He needs to get a life,” Dana said. “My woes must have bored him silly.”
They both laughed and returned to their offices.
• • •
Dana left work at two thirty, deciding to take Andrew’s advice and go to The Frick. As anxious as she was to speak with Bob, Helen seemed to be frequenting the fifth floor hallway for the last two hours, as if she were looking for an excuse to fire Dana were she to see her talking with the executive vice-president.
The Frick was an art collection on Fifth Avenue between 70th and 71st Streets. It was housed in a mansion once owned by industrialist Henry Clay Frick, the mansion having been converted to a public museum in 1931. It had the reputation for being one of the finest small museums in the United States, housing well-known paintings by European masters. It also contained porcelain, sculpture, and eighteenth-century French furniture. Some of its most famous paintings were by Johannes Vermeer and Jean-Honoré Fragonard.
Dana took a cab to the Upper East Side and found herself quickly immersed in the Goya exhibition after entering the mansion. In his first year in Bordeaux, 1824, Goya had experimented in the medium of painting miniatures on ivory. She walked several times through the two rooms where the exhibit was being held, stopping frequently to examine and reexamine the miniatures. On Dana’s final pass through the exhibit, she noticed a woman across the room who looked familiar even though she was facing the wall. Dana studied the back of the woman more closely, noting a slender frame and hair rolled into a bun behind her head. And there was something about the slope of her shoulders and the way her sweater fell to the top of her tweed skirt. Yes, it was none other than Abby Kempf, whom Dana had met at a lecture at the Wallace Collection in London.
“Abby?” Dana said, crossing the room.
The petite figure whirled around. “Dana!” Abby said. “How have you been? Why am I not surprised to see you here? Isn’t this exhibition exceptional?”
“It’s incredible,” Dana said, trying to keep her voice low.
“You know,” Abby said, “Goya’s miniatures bear almost no resemblance to Italian miniatures, or any others, for that matter. Not one to imitate anybody, him. Did you know that he blackened the ivory plaques and then put a single drop of water on the surfaces to slightly dissipate the black backgrounds, producing lighter areas where he would trace marvelous images with a tiny sharp instrument. It’s how he was able to achieve such a diversity of shadows and highlights. I could look at these all day. In fact, I literally have.”
“No, I didn’t know any of that, but it’s fascinating.”
Dana noted that Abby’s speech was far more animated than her conversation at the Wallace Collection or during their subsequent lunch. Her eyes sparkled, and her enthusiasm for the artwork shone through every word she spoke.
The two women moved to the foyer of the museum so they could speak more openly.
“I thought you weren’t going to be intown until the fall,” Dana commented.
“Yes, I’ll be traveling to France and Italy this summer to look at various works of art for an upcoming series of lectures,” Abby said, “but I have a few weeks before I’m due in Florence, so I thought I’d enjoy a little springtime in Manhattan and visit my family in Bernardsville. I just can’t stay still when I’ve got so many ideas going through my head.”
“That’s right! You mentioned your art lectures when we had lunch in London.”
“I just put the finishing touches on a lecture and slide show on miniatures that I’m delivering right here at The Frick since they’re staging the current Goya exhibit. I’m going to be comparing Goya’s techniques with those of other artists, such as the ones we saw in London. Isn’t it amazing that there can be so many variations in technique when dealing with small pictures on porcelain or ivory? I’ll never cease to be amazed by the diversity of the art form.”
“I agree,” Dana said. “Abby, my apologies for this urgent last minute request, but are you available to deliver your lecture on contrasting techniques at the Colony Club this coming Saturday? We have a luncheon scheduled, but the guest speaker had to cancel. She was going to talk on the rise of expressionism, but I know that your lecture and slide show would capture everyone’s attention, especially due to The Frick’s exhibit. Members have an opportunity to attend a private showing next Thursday evening, so the timing of your lecture would be perfect. “
“You don’t have to ask twice,” Abby replied. “I’d be delighted. The more pe
ople I can get interested in miniatures, the happier I am. I’m quite sure that we didn’t run into each other by accident today, Dana. This fits perfectly into my schedule and makes my little trip to New York even more worthwhile. Here’s my number,” Abby said, handing Dana the phone number of her New York apartment. “Call me with the details and I’ll be there! If I’m not home, just leave a message on my answering machine.”
“Thank you so much, Abby. Would you like to have some coffee now?”
“I’d love to, but I’m pressed for time,” Abby said, glancing at her watch. “I have an appointment to keep in Midtown.” She leaned forward and kissed Dana on the cheek. “It was wonderful to see you again. Until Saturday!”
Abby turned quickly and walked out of the museum.
Dana felt better than she had all day, not that she was exuberant by any means, but Andrew’s suggestion had been a good one. She’d enjoyed meeting Abby again, and the luncheon at the Colony Club would be a pleasant diversion.
Still, Abby seemed like a different person than the Abby Kempf she’d met in London, where she was quiet and subdued. And a kiss on the cheek? Ah well, Dana thought—she didn’t know Abby that well, and perhaps environment was everything. Maybe Abby displayed more decorum when in a proper, staid English environment as opposed to the noisy, bustling borough of Manhattan.
Chapter Forty-Nine
When Dana arrived home from The Frick, she was happy to finally see a letter postmarked London, England. Father Macaulay had responded, and as usual she couldn’t wait to see what he had to say, especially in reference to her last letter, in which she’d told him all about Amanda’s accident and her relationship with Mark. What he’d written, however, stunned and saddened her.
Dear Dana,
Please forgive the lateness of my response. I’m afraid I was hit with some tragic and unexpected news. My mother passed away shortly before I received your last letter. She was eighty-seven and died in her sleep. The doctors say she had a heart attack. My father died when I was in my thirties, and since then my mother and I have seen each other for tea once a week. The last time I saw her, she looked like her cheerful old self, and I was always convinced that she’d live to be a hundred. She was usually a gentle person, very intelligent, but had a bit of a feisty streak in her sometimes, which is why I think she lived so long. I’m not grief-stricken, mind you, since my mother had a rich and happy life, and I was blessed to have her for many years. Her death was sudden, however, and life is now so very different. I have felt numb ever since we buried her. Life goes on as it must, but it just isn’t the same, of course. Because of my faith, I know I will see her again one day, but for now I have no relish for singing songs in a pub or working out with the punching bag. It takes time, I suppose, to understand the losses in our lives, and for now I will simply go about my duties as parish priest and be content with that. The joy will return later.
The past several days have been a reminder of how short life really is and that we must make use of every single moment, which is a precious gift, whether we mourn or laugh. There is so much to accomplish in life, and we must somehow find a way past our setbacks.
I am so sorry to hear of poor Amanda’s accident. I do keep her in my prayers and hope that she will one day ride again. As for your relationship with Mark, your mind and heart seem to be in conflict. Pray for guidance and then trust your instincts. I have no doubt that you will know what to do.
Please let me know how things are working out. It sounds like both of us have been given certain trials lately, and I’m certain that we will both come through them. I will also pray for the success of your boutique.
God bless you,
Father Charles Macaulay
Dana could relate to everything Father Macaulay had written. They were indeed going through difficult times, and she was touched by his vulnerability and humanity. He’d been wounded by great sorrow but didn’t expect any kind of pious, superhuman reaction from himself. As he’d said, loss was an inevitable part of life, and one had to marshal on. Dana had trusted her instincts with Mark, knowing that Amanda’s welfare was more important than trying to grasp at a relationship that would not have allowed either of them to grow or move forward in a healthy manner.
Dana was particularly touched by Macaulay’s statement that one had to perform his or her duties until a spirit of joy returned to one’s life. Macaulay’s letter validated that she was on the right course. And wasn’t that the theme of all of his letters, that we must retain a balance in life? There was great joy and great sadness at times, but in between these extremes, there was so much to accomplish. She was much younger than Macaulay, but she would always remember his advice: not to take any day for granted. Tomorrow, she was determined to see where Bob Campbell stood on The British Shop. She’d done everything she could. It was now out of her hands. She had to trust that her efforts would pay off.
Chapter Fifty
Brett was putting on his suit coat, ready to leave his office for the day, when his secretary informed him that Tom Silver was calling.
“Put him through,” Brett said anxiously, taking his seat behind the desk. He hoped that Dana would no longer be able to hide her true financial circumstances and professional aspirations.
“Brett, I don’t have good news,” Silver began. “In fact, I think the entire renegotiation of your settlement is going to be a nonstarter.”
“What? Dana hasn’t been forthcoming with us, Tom. I’m not going to cut her a huge check when she’s poised to be so wealthy. It’s outrageous. Am I supposed to give her more than half our assets simply because I’m a partner?”
“Just hear me out,” Silver said. “First, Rudnick has sent me a formal response to our request. It details Dana’s current financial situation and doesn’t list anything in the way of astronomical future earning potential. In fact, it only lists her position as buyer at B. Altman.”
“She’s hiding something, Tom. I know Johnny Cirone, and he’s always been straight with me. I have no reason to doubt that Dana’s star is on the rise in more ways than one.”
“That’s my second point,” Silver continued. “As per your request, Dana has remained under surveillance. One of your investigator’s assistants, a man in his seventies, sat next to Dana and her friend Andrew at Charleston Garden early this afternoon and heard every word of their conversation while he pretended to work the Times crossword puzzle.”
“And? He must have gotten everything we needed!”
“Quite to the contrary, sad to say. Dana’s boutique idea with the store seems to have crashed and burned. She’s also decided against taking the position with the House of Cirone for personal reasons. As for Mark Senger, the guy is married. She broke it off with him two days ago. The bottom line is that Dana, except for becoming a buyer at B. Altman, is no different than when you two separated in terms of financial standing and her career, nor is there anything on the horizon that says she’s about to live a life of fame and fortune. In short, we’ve got nothing.”
There was a pause on the line while Brett tried to think of any remaining options.
“Then I want to at least change the payment schedule,” he said at last. “Just as you specified in the meeting.”
“Rudnick is having none of that. He knows you can afford to pay the settlement, and if you push Dana on the matter, my hunch is that he’s going to file suit for your dalliance with Janice. That’s old news, of course, but it’s not going to sit well with your partners, and at the very least, it’s going to cost you a lot of money and would drag on for months. Nothing but a headache. You’re going to end up losing money, not gaining it.”
Brett sighed and spoke in a weary, defeated tone. “Yeah, well … thanks, Tom. Can’t win ’em all. At least we tried.”
“Sorry, Brett. Just move on, and give my best to Janice. Try to be happy and put the past behind you.”
“I guess I have no choice. Bye, Tom.”
Brett hung up and sat in his chair, a scowl on
his face. He exhaled and rested his head against the back of his chair, looking at the ceiling. The private investigators, the plan to keep more of his money—it had all been a massive waste of time. Dana had caught him red-handed with Janice, but he thought he’d have the last word by renegotiating the divorce settlement. He didn’t hate Dana or wish her any harm or discomfort, but neither did he believe that she deserved so large a settlement, which he’d agreed to in a knee-jerk reaction given his fear of being exposed within the ranks of the firm after committing adultery. But there was nothing to do now but follow Tom Silver’s advice: move on with his life.
The door to his office opened, startling him from his musings. It was Janice.
“I’ve been waiting for you in my office for fifteen minutes,” she said. “I thought we were going out to dinner to celebrate our victory over Dana.”
“As it turns out,” Brett said dispiritedly, “our plans to celebrate were premature.”
“Now what?” Janice asked, closing the door and sitting across from Brett.
“Tom Silver just called. None of Dana’s career plans can be validated. I’d look foolish taking her to court.”
“Then we’ll just have to work harder to validate them,” Janice said harshly. “We can’t let Dana get away with—”
“She’s not getting away with anything,” Brett interrupted. “She was overheard today saying that the boutique fell through and that she’s taking a pass on the House of Cirone.”
“What?” Janice asked, fire in her eyes. “What about everything Johnny told you? Was that all just a pack of lies? Are you going to just give up?”
“Not lies, but things didn’t work out the way Dana anticipated.”
“But what about this Senger character that she’s involved with. His money could choke a pig?”
“You do have a way with words, Janice. Senger’s out of the picture. He and Dana broke up. Tom advises that we move on with our lives. There’s not going to be any amending of the separation agreement.”
