The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

February 1975

Got a big date?”

Doris swiveled around in her chair in the information booth and eyed Virginia up and down. Virginia tugged on her skirt, which was short and tight and had been riding up all day, and slid her clerk’s blazer back on.

“I must’ve gained some weight,” Virginia said with a laugh. She’d last worn this outfit to an anniversary dinner with Chester, hoping to light his fire, leaning over to apply makeup in the mirror by their front door so he could get a glimpse of the stockings she’d worn underneath. Real stockings, with a garter belt and all. It’d worked that night, at least temporarily, and she hoped it would do the same later today.

But the booth had gotten intolerably warm, stuffy with the heat in the tight space, and she’d draped her blazer over the back of the chair where she sat sorting timetables. Of course, Doris couldn’t let it pass.

If they only knew she’d dressed this way in a valiant attempt to save their jobs, they might show a little more respect. She remembered Jackie, impeccably dressed, moving with such grace through the throng of admirers. This wasn’t quite that—Virginia looked positively trashy—but she was performing her civic duty.

Virginia checked her watch. Time to go.

“I’m out of here. See you all tomorrow.”

She hung her blazer on the back of her chair, grabbed her coat and handbag, and trotted across the concourse, taking care that her high heels didn’t slip out from under her on the slick marble. A homeless man sitting on the floor beside the entrance to track 23 called out to her, holding up his palm, and she gave him a couple of quarters. She’d started carrying spare change to hand out to the men and women who made the building their home. It seemed the least she could do. Ever since her apartment fire, Virginia had seen the homeless in a new light, as folks like her who unexpectedly got tossed out on the streets. Thank goodness for Finn and Xavier’s kindness.

The elevator opened on the seventh floor, and she headed straight for the law offices of Penn Central. The receptionist was on her way out, but she called Dennis’s extension and gave him Virginia’s name. After a few minutes, Virginia heard his heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Deep breath.

“Virginia?”

He peered at her over a pair of reading glasses. The fragility of the metal frames and glass were all wrong for his large features but gave him an air of vulnerability. That and the fact that he looked like he was about to be attacked. She could almost see his mind whirling, wondering if this was a trap, if that was indeed Virginia who’d called on Thanksgiving and spoken to his wife, and if so, why was she here?

The receptionist left, shutting the door behind her.

“Hi, Dennis. You look well.”

He swallowed. “You, too, Virginia.”

“I figured it’d been way too long and I should stop by and say hello.” She shifted her weight onto one hip in what she hoped looked like an invitation.

“Is that right?”

“I missed you.”

His shoulders dropped an inch or two. “Right. I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped with the court case.”

“I heard the city’s fighting back and figured you might need a little distraction.” She walked closer and offered up a winsome smile. “What do you think?”

“You want to go to the art school? Now?”

She pretended to think it over. “No, it’s too dusty there. But it’s been a long day and I really need to relax. Let’s go to your office and maybe we can figure something out.”

“My office?”

“Sure. Why not? You have a door, right?” She lowered her voice. “I’ll be very quiet.”

And that was that. He took her gently by the arm, and they walked back down to his office. She wandered over to the desk while he shut and locked the door. Placing both hands on the desktop, she leaned over and scanned the files and papers on top while giving him a nice view of her backside.

“Wow. You look amazing. I wasn’t sure . . .” He trailed off, distracted.

“Do you have something to drink here?”

He walked over and opened a drawer in his desk, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and poured a couple of fingers. She took hers and sashayed over to the couch, where a stack of redweld folders were piled up. Dennis stumbled over and began to set them on the floor.

She helped, flashing an inch of skin above her stocking, while eyeing the folders inside the redwelds. PENN CENTRAL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY V. CITY OF NEW YORK: APPEALS, LANDMARK STATUS, MEMORANDA, CORRESPONDENCE. All manila files, not the yellow one he’d patted that day in the Whispering Gallery, which showed the terminal’s actual expenses. Not what she was looking for.

She kissed him, drawing him in, leaning back and letting his weight settle on her. He tried to touch her breasts, but she pushed his hand away, told him to unbuckle his pants, ordering him about until they were going at it. Virginia had rarely been the initiator when it came to sex. It just wasn’t what girls of her era were supposed to do. But being the one in power exhilarated her. The arm of the sofa crimped her neck, but she didn’t care; the pain and the pleasure were all wrapped up together.

When they finished, she shifted closer to the edge of the couch so he could lie down next to her.

They both were panting, and he laughed. “This was amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Shh. That’s enough talking. Close your eyes and relax.” She ran a finger up and down his forearm until he had drifted off and the snores were regular and loud.

She slid off the couch to the floor, in a way that brought to mind the Salvador Dalí painting of the clock. Once there, she scanned the folders, one after another, keeping her back to Dennis in case he woke up. She probably had ten minutes, if his past slumber was any indication.

No yellow folder. She tried his briefcase, but it wasn’t in the outside pocket or any of the interior ones.

She crawled over to the desk, staying low. The drawer where he’d stored the liquor held more files, including a lone yellow one marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL: ORIGINAL TERMINAL BALANCE SHEET.

Bingo. Mata Hari had nothing on her.

“What are you doing?” Dennis sat up on the couch, rubbing his face.

Virginia dropped the file to the floor and lifted out the whiskey bottle. “Looking to see if you had any other booze. Whiskey isn’t really my drink.”

As he got to his feet, she did the same, sliding the file out of his field of vision with her foot.

“What would you like instead?” he asked.

“How about some water? You really wore me out there.”

It worked. Dennis strutted out of his office like a rooster, off to the water cooler, and while he was gone, she tucked the file into her purse.

A few days later, Virginia found herself seated across from Adelaide in the sunny Midtown offices of the Municipal Art Society.

“We’re thrilled to have more volunteers.” Adelaide picked up a pen. “What kind of work would you like to do for us? We have several options, including helping stuff envelopes for our mailings, inputting data, or assisting with outreach.”

“Whatever I can do to help save Grand Central. All three, if necessary.”

“You’re enthusiastic. I’m not surprised, after seeing your daughter’s remarkable photos.”

“She really captured it. Since I work there, I see firsthand the beauty of the place.”

“I wish there were more people like you in this city, ready to step up.”

“I was at the press conference. It sure feels like there’s a groundswell of support.”

“We can only hope the appellate judge in the case takes that into account.” Adelaide checked her calendar. “Can you start on Saturday? We’re planning to hold a couple of demonstrations outside the terminal over the new few months, and it’ll be a brainstorming meeting.”

“You bet.”

Out in the reception area, they shook hands. “Oh no, I forgot my umbrella.” Virginia held up one hand. “I’ll grab it and be right back.”

She popped back into Adelaide’s office, pulled out a large, unmarked envelope from her purse, and laid it on Adelaide’s chair, where she couldn’t miss it. Sealed inside was the yellow manila folder, proof of Penn Central’s creative accounting. She could only hope that Adelaide understood the significance of the figures.

Virginia plucked her umbrella from the floor and left, closing the door softly behind her.

The first of March came in like a lamb, the sky a bright winter blue. Slightly buzzed after sharing a farewell mimosa with Xavier and Finn at Bemelmans, Virginia considered what to do next, the whole Saturday wide open in front of her. Ruby had served them, proud of her skill behind the bar, and they’d all hugged and kissed good-bye. Xavier and Finn were off to Europe and their next adventure, and Virginia was sorry to see them go. Even though Finn was due back in the summer for another long gig at the Carlyle, she’d miss her daily dose of her brother’s silly wit and quiet strength.

After that dismal meeting in the Oyster Bar, Chester had surprised Virginia by writing to her upstairs neighbors on his firm letterhead requesting any and all receipts relating to the fire damage. In response, they’d dropped their demands considerably, and Virginia and Ruby had moved back into their apartment a couple of weeks ago. Virginia relished every nook and cranny, happy to have a home again, except the blank space on the living room wall, where she’d hoped to hang the watercolor.

“Hey, Virginia.”

Virginia turned to see Ryan standing beside her on the sidewalk. He squinted in the bright morning light. “That scarf looks grand on you.”

She pulled it closer around her neck, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

“What way are you going?”

She pointed south. “I thought I’d stop by the Museum of Modern Art.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you for a bit.”

They fell into step through the early-morning crowds, mainly older folks wandering down Madison. A bike zinged past her on the sidewalk, and Ryan took her by the elbow and pulled her a little closer to him. “Careful, there.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m glad we have some time like this. I’d been hoping to talk with you.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

She frowned, thinking of Ruby, who was relying on the bar income to pay for her photography classes. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all.”

But something was off. She couldn’t tell what. Ryan buzzed with a nervous energy and had a spring to his step that she hadn’t seen before.

“How’s Ruby doing?” she asked.

“Great. Really good.”

“I wish her father would give her a break. Chester seems to think that she’s slumming it by working in a bar.” She turned to Ryan. “I don’t think that, of course. I’m thrilled she’s working and happy.”

“I understand his concern. I come from a proud line of publicans, so to me it’s about carrying on a tradition. America needs more gathering places, like pubs. It offers a sense of community that otherwise we don’t have, wandering about in our own little worlds, disappearing into our flats at night.”

“I like that. A very refreshing take. My father would’ve certainly agreed.”

“Of course, there’s always a group of drunks getting plastered in one corner.”

“As long as they pay.”

Ryan laughed. “That’s right. As long as they pay.”

They wandered along, chatting about the neighborhood and what the city had been like when Virginia was young.

She pointed up at the skyscrapers of Rockefeller Center as they turned west. Her volunteer work at the Municipal Art Society had given her a new appreciation of the city’s skyline. “Those were built during the worst years of the Depression and put forty thousand people to work. They hired out-of-work artists to decorate the lobbies. Imagine all those families who had enough to eat because of this?”

“A first-class piece of architecture,” agreed Ryan.

“What do you think about this fight for Grand Central?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it, to be honest.”

Time for the soapbox. “Grand Central has to be saved. It’s an important part of old New York. I’m involved with the Municipal Art Society to do whatever I can to help.”

“What are you doing for them?”

Probably best not to mention that she’d slept with the enemy in order to steal financial documents. Adelaide had never asked about the envelope Virginia left behind after her interview. Maybe she knew it was smart to be circumspect, or perhaps Virginia had overestimated the documents’ importance. In any event, the subject had never come up. “I’m handing out flyers, mailing out press releases. Jackie O’s involved as well, you know.”

“Jackie, right. You two good friends?”

She batted at his arm. “You’re teasing me.”

“I like the way you light up when you talk about this. It’s good to have a passion.”

“True.”

When they reached the Museum of Modern Art, Virginia stopped. “Here’s my destination. Where did you say you were going?”

“I didn’t, exactly.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you seeing?”

“The Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit.” She paused. He seemed a little lost, like he needed company. “Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all.”

Ryan followed after her, insisting on paying for her ticket. The woman behind the counter flirted with him, but he didn’t flirt back. He was a very good-looking man, Virginia noticed. His hair was white but thick and wavy, and his face was still unlined.

Inside the exhibit hall, Ryan stood frozen in front of one of the paintings, an enormous jack-in-the-pulpit flower. “Oh my.” He swallowed. “It’s very . . .”

“No. It’s not.” Virginia tried not to blush, and laughed when she couldn’t stop.

“How can you say it’s not?”

She parroted the review she’d read in the newspaper earlier that week. “O’Keeffe dismissed the sexual interpretations of her paintings. She saw all these enormous buildings going up in New York and decided to paint her flowers as big as well. It got people’s attention, startled them.”

“So you’re saying that Rockefeller Center inspired this?”

“I bet it did.”

Virginia continued her lecture, unable to stop herself even though she sounded like one of the speakers from her preservation committee days. “O’Keeffe rejected the notion that she was a ‘woman’ artist. After all, no one calls Rembrandt a ‘man’ artist.”

“That is a very good point.”

They made their way through the exhibit chronologically, pointing out the works they loved. Virginia adored a set of mannequins wearing clothes that O’Keeffe had sewn herself: loosely draped wrap dresses, paper-thin white linen shirts, and austere wool suits. Comfortable and elegant.

They reached the end of the exhibit, where a few old books were splayed open in a glass case.

“Virginia, I did want to ask you something today.”

Was he going to ask her on a date? Was that what this was? She still hadn’t been able to determine how old he was. The white hair made it difficult to ascertain. But did it matter, in the end? He seemed like a nice enough boy.

Ugh. Boy. No doubt about it, Ryan had a boyish air to him that made her want to reach over and fix his collar, which was sticking up on one side, rather than toss him over a couch like she had with Dennis.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, defensive. “What’s that?”

“I’d like to date Ruby.”

Not what she was expecting. She rested one hand on the display case to steady herself. “What?”

“I know this is strange and possibly uncomfortable for you, with my being older than she is.”

If he knew the least of it. She’d been worried that he was going to ask her on a date, acting like a schoolgirl, when in fact he wanted to date her daughter. Humiliation was a possible reaction. She tried it on, breathed it in, but for some reason it didn’t stick.

Ruby and Ryan. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-six. I know this hair makes me look like I’m about to retire, but I’m not. It’s a family trait. Happened to my dad as well.”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

He pulled it out of his wallet and held it up for her to inspect. Indeed. Born in ’49.

She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her vain mistake, relieved by the fact that it really didn’t bother her. Ryan was a good man. Her daughter was smart. They’d figure it out.

She stared down at one of the books in the display case. “Huh.”

“Are you all right?” Ryan moved closer. “I’m sorry for the way I’m handling this. But I wanted to be forthright, not hide about.”

She waved a hand in his direction but didn’t look up. “No, no. I appreciate it.”

The label in the display case said it was an old yearbook from Georgia O’Keeffe’s high school. She read the caption out loud. “‘A girl who would be different in habit, style, and dress.’”

“A modern lass, that Georgia,” Ryan said.

Virginia barely heard him. She stared at the name under the photo, leaning in close to make sure she was seeing it correctly.

Georgia Totto O’Keeffe.

How odd. She’d assumed Totto was a nickname but had never questioned what for. What if the connection to an artist wasn’t a coincidence? She thought back. Totto had been the one who’d mentioned the art school was haunted. What if Totto was the one going through crates? But why would he do that?

Then she remembered the black-and-white photo of Clara Darden she’d seen in Janice Russo’s office. The long neck and translucent eyes. The two could be brother and sister, easily, and Totto was the right age to have been Clara’s sibling or some kind of relation.

Confusion and elation ran up Virginia’s spine.

What if Totto was the ghost of the Grand Central School of Art?