Chasing Manhattan

by John Gray

  Chase took hold of Matthew’s chin and turned his head, so he was now looking out the front window of the café, explaining, “’Cause it’s right across the street, silly.”

  Matthew noticed the Sotheby’s sign and replied, “Oh, duh. I keep forgetting that place is over there.”

  Matthew thought a moment, then added, “You sure you don’t want to hop in the car, let me drive around the block and then drop you at their front door like some big shot?”

  Gavin smiled, “Oh, that would be fun.”

  Chase interjected, “Nah, I’m fine walking over. I just want to go see what all that crazy expensive stuff goes for, and I figure if you’re going to be a lookie-loo you better dress the part or they might toss you out.”

  Gavin asked, “A look-e-what?”

  “Lou,” Chased replied. “You know, someone who just wants to watch.”

  Raylan offered, “Not my business, but I’m sure if you told them you’re the one who wrote the cover story for the magazine they’d treat you like someone important, whether you plan to bid or not.”

  Chase grabbed up her tiny Coach change purse and said, “I don’t like trading on stuff like that or getting special treatment. I just want to watch from the back.”

  Gavin ran upstairs to change, and Matthew, now without a client to drive, made his way to the counter to order some egg whites. Deb, the always entertaining hypochondriac, pulled the collar down on the shirt she was wearing, exposing her neck and asking, “Does this look like a rash to you?”

  Matthew raised his eyebrows in surprise and replied, “I flunked out of medical school. My specialty is driving, miss. I’ll just wait down here on the end of the counter for my eggs.”

  Deb could see there was no audience for her antics today, so she got busy making Matthew his breakfast.

  A very well-dressed Chase waited patiently for noon to arrive, noticing the curb across the street from the café was now filled with limousines, parking bumper to bumper outside of Sotheby’s.

  Gavin didn’t disappoint, turning the corner in a teal-blue Polo dress shirt and neatly pressed light tan slacks, both fitting him like a glove. He was also wearing the beautiful cowboy boots Chase had gotten him as a gift their first Christmas together.

  “Shall we?” he asked, holding his arm out formally for Chase to take hold. Together they walked the forty or so steps from the front door of the Fur-Ever Java café across to the entrance of Sotheby’s.

  The man working the front door knew many of the faces coming in, as these high-level auctions often attracted the same well-heeled crowd, so to his trained eyes Chase and Gavin were certainly new. There was no protocol on who to let in or keep out, but when he took one look at Chase’s perfect make-up and form-fitting designer dress, he opened the door wide and said, “Welcome.”

  The room was less formal than Chase imagined an auction house might be. Large and square with cherrywood walls, it contained six rows of chairs, each with comfortable red velvet cushions. A small stage sat at the head of the room, raised a good two feet high, so items that were placed on pedestals or easels could be seen by the bidders.

  The artwork was already arranged along the back of the stage, the single Monet the easiest to spot because of the unmistakable French Impressionist style. The expensive jewelry, once worn by Sebastian’s wife, Vida, was placed in glass cases under lock and key, with large, framed posters showing a close up of each piece next to them.

  There was also a beautifully framed painting of the Winthrop estate in Westchester County, New York. It was an elegant English Tudor, with a large stone chimney and weathered red stones covered in thick green ivy. A single spire reached up toward the pale blue sky, the structure filled with peaks and valleys, mystery and romance. It was exactly the kind of place Chase could imagine Sebastian and Vida living in.

  A man in a tuxedo appeared from a door behind the stage with a microphone already attached to his ear and cheek. It looked like something Brittney Spears might wear in one of her music videos. A small power pack clung to his belt on his left hip, and when he pushed down on the top with his thumb, the microphone came to life.

  “I won’t say testing one, two, three, I promise,” the auctioneer began with a chuckle. It was clear he knew faces in the crowd as well as they knew his. At one point he covered the mic with his right hand and whispered to a woman sitting in the front row, “I already know which one you’re taking home,” giving her a wink.

  Gavin and Chase didn’t feel comfortable taking a seat, since they had no intention to bid. There was a table at which to register, and each bidder was given a paddle with a specific number on it. Chase had seen enough auctions on TV to know that when someone wanted to bid, they’d raise their paddle up high. She and Gavin made their way to the back of the room to stand quietly.

  It was also obvious by the body language that some in attendance were not the actual bidders. The ones with the money were off in some far-away place, directing every move over the telephone that was glued to the ear of the person sitting at Sotheby’s.

  The auctioneer was everything Chase and Gavin assumed he’d be, fast and furious and speaking a language they could barely understand. An item would be held up by a lovely young woman in a black gown, the auctioneer would read a brief description, then paddles flew up and down like some very wealthy game of “Whack a Mole.” In a matter of minutes each and every item was bidden on and sold. Unsurprisingly, the Monet fetched the most money thus far at 6.2 million dollars.

  With everything purchased except the lavish country estate, a quiet hush fell over the room.

  The auctioneer began, “I know many of you are here to bid on the mansion, but before we get to the Winthrop home, we had a last-minute piece of artwork come into our possession.”

  Many in the crowd were there only to buy the house, and they fidgeted impatiently in their seats, not happy they’d have to wait one second longer to bid on it.

  With that the woman in the black gown reemerged from an unseen room with a small item covered in a beige cloth. People’s necks were jutting left and right to get a better view. Another Monet? they silently hoped and wondered.

  She pulled the covering back and placed the small ordinary frame on an easel, as the auctioneer said, “As you’ve seen today, Mr. Winthrop had a very impressive collection of art, which is going home with some of you, in fact. Congratulations.”

  The auctioneer could see the crowd staring with confusion at the ten-by-twelve frame that was now facing them, and the charcoal sketch it housed. It was a portrait of an older woman sketched on cheap construction paper of the kind one could find at any art supply store for five dollars. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the sketch; it looked like the kind tourists bought from artists in Times Square a hundred times a day. No one in the room had a clue who the woman in the sketch was. Well, no one but Chase. She recognized the face immediately and smiled.

  The auctioneer then pulled a small index card from the breast pocket of his suit and held it up high so all could see what he was holding, saying, “These are his words—of the late Mr. Winthrop—that I read to you now.”

  The auctioneer cleared his throat and said, “This drawing may look like nothing to you, but it meant the world to me. It was sketched 25 years ago in Central Park. The artist’s name is unknown because he worked under the shade of a chestnut tree a short distance from The Bow bridge. He was, what you might call, a street artist. My loving wife, Vida, had a bit of a health scare that year, and we’d just gotten word from the doctor that she’d be fine, so I took her to the park for an ice cream cone to celebrate. The street artist, who sketched portraits, was lacking any customers, so Vida sat for him and he did this lovely sketch in just seven minutes. The man asked ten dollars for the sketch, but I was so taken by its beauty, I gave him twenty. Isn’t it lovely?”

  The auctioneer looked up for a reaction but was greeted by rows of confused and uninterested faces glaring back.

  He continued read
ing Mr. Winthrop’s words, “Because it was special to me, I wanted to make it part of the auction, after I was gone. I hope you bid high. I promise you won’t regret it. Sincerely, Sebastian Winthrop.”

  The auctioneer put the card back in his pocket and said, “Before we get to the country estate, do we have any bids on this simple yet beautiful sketch?”

  His eyes scanned the crowd and there was an unmistakable chill in the air. The looks on the faces of the bidders were icy, their eyes cold and dismissive as if they were shouting, BE DONE WITH THIS NONSENSE, SELL US THE MANSION ALREADY.

  “It really did mean the world to him,” the auctioneer encouraged again. “Do we have any bids? Anything at all?”

  Chase’s stomach tumbled, watching the room at this moment. There was audible giggling from the crowd, as if they couldn’t be bothered with the sentimental wishes of some dead old man.

  Gavin looked at her, knowing she was upset, and asked, “Are you okay?”

  Chase didn’t reply. She just stared at the room full of strangers with their condescending snickering. She couldn’t stand it. She hated it when people thought they were better than others because of some perceived station in life. It reminded her of how she had felt as a little girl when she couldn’t afford the right clothes or a designer bag the other girls had, and someone made fun of her.

  She suddenly started fumbling with the change purse in her hands, the one she had bought at the Coach outlet in Lee, Massachusetts, years prior. Chase unzipped the small bag and began rummaging through to see if she had any cash. There was a lipstick in the way, a small packet of tissues and a plastic container with breath mints. Chase shook the bag trying to move things around, saying, “Come on, would ya,” loud enough for others nearby to hear.

  Her movements became so animated, heads in the room began to turn and focus on this beautiful young woman in the red dress standing in the back, now making a scene. Chase pulled out all the green bills she could find and handed Gavin the purse and other items to hold while she sorted this out.

  She couldn’t count without moving her lips. “Five, seven, twelve …,” she said to herself.

  Off to her right a woman who obviously had her plastic surgeon on speed dial, said to her husband, “Is she looking for bus fare?”

  The snarky comment brought laughter from those around them, but then everyone’s attention shifted back to the front of the room as the auctioneer, unaware of what Chase was doing, said even more loudly, “ANY bids at all? I really must insist we give this item the attention it deserves.”

  “HOLD UP,” a female voice yelled from the back. It was Chase, still counting out the dirty, wrinkled bills.

  People weren’t hiding the fact that this was getting ridiculous. Who is this woman? they thought. Get to the house, just sell us the house!

  The auctioneer then, “Sadly, it appears we have no interest in the …”

  “I HAVE TWENTY-SEVEN DOLLARS!” It was Chase shouting from the back of the room, holding her clenched fist in the air with money sticking out, every which way, from between her knuckles.

  While the crowd was laughing now, some covering their mouths to mask it, the auctioneer ignored them, his focus staying instead on the young woman in the back. He then stepped forward on the stage to better engage Chase’s eyes, smiled, and said calmly into the microphone, “Is that a bid, young lady?”

  She stood there, frozen, with her arm still in the air, looking like the Statue of Liberty, feeling every eye on her, absorbing their judgment and ridicule.

  As the whole room went dead quiet, everyone watching and waiting, Gavin under his breath said, “Answer the man, sweetie.”

  But she didn’t hear him. Chase, in that moment, was not in the room; she was back in the park talking to Samuel on the bridge, hearing about this wonderful love story and how in the end it was never about the money. She remembered how Sebastian asked Vida to marry him on that bridge and how important the park was to them. She was thinking that sketch must have meant the world to Sebastian, and here these strangers were mocking it. How dare they!

  How. Dare. They.

  The auctioneer a second time, “Miss, is that a bid on this priceless work of art?”

  Chase looked at the crowd with fire in her eyes and shouted, “You’re darn right it is. Twenty-seven dollars!”

  The auctioneer surveyed the room briefly, but he knew this crowd all too well and was certain there would be no takers beyond this exquisite woman in the red dress.

  With that he said, “No other offers? Once, twice, thrice, sold to the beauty in the back.”

  Chase gave Gavin a hug out of pure adrenaline and laughed so hard she started to cry. What is wrong with me? she thought in that instant. Why so emotional? It’s just a sketch.

  As she wiped the tears from her eyes and felt pride that she had honored Sebastian’s memory by purchasing the portrait, a stern-looking woman with gray streaks in her hair appeared from the side of the stage and caught the auctioneer off guard. He clearly recognized the older woman, then covered his microphone with his hand as she whispered something into his ear. Whatever she said, he literally jumped back as if she hit him with a cattle prod.

  “NO,” he said out loud to her, raising his hand to his mouth and then starting to laugh. What could be so shocking and funny at the same time?

  After composing himself, he leaned in closer to the woman and said out loud, “You are absolutely certain?”

  The woman looked at the crowd, with disdain in her eyes, as if they were vultures picking over the bones of a good man who was gone.

  Then back at the auctioneer, she said, “Yes. These are his wishes. Now, do it.”

  If a pin had dropped at Sotheby’s in that moment, everyone would have heard it.

  The auctioneer turned his attention back toward the packed auction house and said, “Of every possession put up for auction today, Mr. Winthrop placed the greatest value on the sketch that was just sold to the woman in the back. To him it was priceless. He felt the person who thought enough of his legacy to purchase that sketch of his wife, should also be the person who lives in their home at Briarcliff Manor in Westchester County.”

  The room went from silent to an eruption. “Wait, wait,” a man in the third row yelled. “You’re not selling the estate? You have to.”

  Others joined in the chorus of dissent, “The mansion, what about the mansion?” they were calling out in unison. This was not the type of crowd to storm a stage, but their anger was palpable, and it was clear the well-mannered auctioneer couldn’t control them.

  Just then, the stern woman with the gray hair ripped the microphone right off the head of the overwhelmed auctioneer.

  “QUIET,” she shouted into the mic. “QUIET RIGHT NOW.”

  The room fell silent again, as she lowered her voice, “My name is Charlotte Jackson, the executor who handled all of Mr. Winthrop’s affairs. It was his last wish that the person who purchased the sketch gets the house. Those are his wishes, end of story.”

  The man in the third row again piped up, “But you didn’t sell it! The house. You didn’t sell it.”

  The woman smiled now, looking directly over the man’s head to the back of the room and at a stunned Chase and Gavin, saying, “Sure we did.”

  She pointed at Chase now, adding, “We just sold it to her. For twenty-seven dollars.”

  As the entire room looked back at Chase and then at each other in astonishment, Ms. Jackson added one last thought, “I guess you shouldn’t have laughed at her.”

  With that, the woman they called Stonewall Jackson, the very lady who had hung up on Chase only three weeks earlier, gave Chase a wink, and the auction was closed.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Letter

  In the late 1800s an Irishman named John David Ogilby purchased a piece of land about 30 miles north of Manhattan. It was so beautiful, he named it after his family estate back in Ireland, a place called Brier Cliff. The large plot of land outside New York City changed
hands many times over the years, but the name, with a slightly different spelling, stuck, and today a dashing young writer was about to call it home.

  Charlotte “Stonewall” Jackson proved true to her name, when word of the wild auction leaked out. So, when reporters from the New York tabloids contacted old Stonewall to know who this mystery woman in the red dress was, the one who stole a mansion for twenty-seven bucks, she told them, “None of your business.” The auction was private, and Charlotte kept it that way.

  The drive from Chase’s apartment in Manhattan to Briarcliff Manor took a little less than an hour. Gavin drove his truck as Chase sat motionless in the seat next to him, both hands clutching a brass key that looked more suited to an ancient castle than a modern home. The key was chunky but smooth, measured five inches long, and had just started to tarnish. It had several large teeth that fed into a one-of-a-kind lock, on a one-of-a-kind door, created specifically for this house.

  When Ms. Jackson handed it to Chase and she and Gavin stared at it with wonder, Stonewall said, “He treated that home like it was Vida’s castle, so he had the special door lock made that was straight out of the Middle Ages. Regular keys don’t work in it; that one does.”

  The drive was quiet until Gavin spoke. “I still can’t believe you bought this house for so little money, babe. This is insane,” Gavin said, looking over with a smile.

  “Eyes on the road, cowboy,” Chase shot back, adding, “I can’t believe it either. I just couldn’t let them laugh at that sketch of his wife. I had to …” Her voice drifted off.

  Briarcliff is one of the wealthiest villages in the entire country, based on income, and as they drove the well-manicured streets their eyes were drinking in mansion after mansion on both sides of the road. Some homes had large shiny black gates with long driveways that led to houses you could not see, while others had huge front yards the size of a football field, making you wonder just how much they paid someone to cut all the grass.

  Gavin’s GPS, sitting on the dashboard, then spoke: “In one quarter mile, destination on the right.”