The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lillian and Archer ventured into New York City to visit the Frick Collection at Helen’s behest—or, more aptly, at her command—just as spring was beginning to unfold. The setting sun lent a vibrant pink blush to the limestone mansion, one that almost rivaled that of the expansive magnolia trees that flanked the steps to the living hall.

Around the corner, at the front entrance, Lillian stopped and looked up, just as she had years ago at the dawn of the Jazz Age, and studied the reclining figure above the doorway.

“You look quite languid up there, my girl,” remarked Archer. “But why is the fat baby on the right holding a Ping-Pong paddle?”

“It’s a cherub holding a mirror, you dolt.”

“Could’ve sworn it was a Ping-Pong paddle.”

She was about to give him a good swat with her purse when Helen appeared at the entrance. “There you are. Come on then, you’re late.”

They followed her through the new reception hall and back out into a garden, where a rectangular lily pond reflected the color of the sky. In the middle of the small lawn stood Veronica and Joshua, holding hands. Lillian smiled at the match. That snowy winter’s day up in Pine Knolls, she’d sensed an electric connection between them, something deeper than an alliance forged to manage Helen’s moods and machinations. She and Archer approached, and all shook hands.

“Congratulations on the new job, Veronica,” said Lillian.

“Thank you, yes, Miss Helen got me a position as an assistant archivist. I’m currently helping out with a new exhibit highlighting the role of the household staff, back when it was a residence.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Lillian.

“In fact, I was hoping I could interview you sometime,” Veronica added.

“Of course. I promise to tell all.”

Helen harrumphed but kept a smile on her face.

“And what about your sister?” asked Lillian. “Helen mentioned that she’s here in New York with you. How is she doing?”

Veronica’s face lit up into a bright smile. “Polly’s great, she has a caretaker she adores while my mum and I are at work. My mum works as a secretary at the library, in fact. All thanks to Miss Helen, of course. And Joshua here will be attending Columbia in the fall, on the very first Frick Scholarship.”

“What wonderful news.” Lillian looked about, unsure of why they were all standing around in the garden. “Shall we head to dinner now? Helen, you said something about all of us going to an Italian place nearby. I’m afraid Archer here is starving.”

“We have something to show you first,” said Helen.

Joshua stepped aside, revealing a figure covered with a white sheet just behind him.

As Veronica slowly slid off the sheet, Lillian found herself face-to-face with Angelica. She remembered posing for the statue—it was one of her first jobs—and the memories flooded back in a curious wave: her mother nestled in an armchair in a West Side studio, the artist working away, silent and methodical, and Lillian staring up into the distance, her arms slightly lifted, one foot stepping forward as if she were about to levitate into the mist. She’d been at her prime, her body smooth and strong, her neckline long and sharp. The statue was in remarkably good shape after so many decades, the marble an alabaster white.

“That’s me,” was all she was able to say; her throat had suddenly constricted. It was Lillian when she’d been heralded and acclaimed as a young beauty, when she’d had a mother to take care of her. Before she’d realized that the world was not as welcoming as she’d been led to believe, and that floundering through confusion and misfortune was the only way to figure out who she was and what she wanted out of life.

Archer spoke up, sensing that she was speechless. “Where did you find this?”

“At my direction, Veronica has been on a hunt for any of Angelica’s statuary that came up for auction, and this appeared a few weeks ago,” said Helen. “The minute I saw it, I knew we had to add it to the Collection. The board of directors agreed, and snapped it right up.”

Lillian shook her head in amazement and held on to Archer for support.

“This will be included in the Frick tours going forward,” added Helen. “Docents will be instructed to mention not only the artist, but also the model who inspired him. Angelica, otherwise known as Lillian Carter Graham.”

After years of having her anonymous image scattered about Manhattan and the world at large, Lillian would finally be named. Be recognized. And not in a salacious way, associated with a scandal or as a pretty puppet for some Hollywood producer, but for her serious contributions to the art world. With respect. It was everything she had been quietly hoping for all of these years.

She stepped forward and embraced Helen, holding her close. Since the encounter upstate, they’d continued to meet regularly, going for long walks on Helen’s farm or chatting over coffee in her office at the library. Lillian’s presence helped to soften Helen’s mercurial tendencies, while Helen brought a joyful love of art and history back into Lillian’s life. Once they got started, they could talk for hours.

The two women had survived decades of heady changes when the world had tilted on its edge. Wars punctured by an uneasy peace, horse-drawn carts replaced by finned automobiles, hemlines that brushed the ankles and then rose to unimaginable heights. The Frick mansion, which had once housed a living, breathing family and their staff, was now a relic from another era, a place of ancient aspirations. Yet day after day, modern visitors eagerly ventured inside and filled each room with wonder.

Lillian and Helen stood there, holding each other quietly and firmly, as the statue regarded them with a serene, all-knowing grace.