A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Norman Grant, sixtyish, silver-haired, red-faced, and portly in his dark blue suit, rose from behind his huge modern desk as she entered.

  He nodded to her as she was ushered in, and indicated the chair facing his desk. “Good morning, Miss Valiant. Please sit down.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Grant, and thank you,” she replied politely, then lowered herself into the chair.

  “I don’t know why I’ve agreed to see you a second time, since I’ve said everything I have to say about Tahitian Dreams,” he announced, getting straight to the point at once, without preamble.

  “I think I can answer that for you, Mr. Grant. You agreed to meet with me today because you want to avoid a lawsuit at all cost.”

  Norman Grant glared at her. “I bought the Gauguin in the most legitimate way. There won’t be a lawsuit,” he said, and laughed.

  “Oh, but there will be, Mr. Grant. Sir Maximilian West plans to file suit at, the end of this week. His lawyers are poised to do so, and they have been for months.”

  “The case will be thrown out of court because it’s not a legitimate case,” Norman Grant shot back.

  “Yes, it is. Similar situations regarding Nazi-looted art are coming to light, and a number of cases have already been filed. Not only in Europe but in the United States. Also, an American museum that is in possession of a painting, a Matisse, looted by the Nazis from a Jewish family in France, is prepared to give it back to the family it was stolen from. If the family’s ownership of it can be proven. As I told you when I came to see you a few weeks ago, Sir Maximilian West can prove that the Westheim family owned the Gauguin. He can prove provenance because he has the catalogue raisonné, which you have been shown.”

  “I’m not a museum. Furthermore, I’m not going to give him the painting. I bought and paid for it. It belongs to me, Miss Valiant. Any reasonable person would agree with that.”

  “Would you really want to embark on a long and tedious litigation? You’re a businessman, Mr. Grant, these things can become very costly. And time-consuming.”

  “I know. But as I just said, the case will be thrown out of court. Because it’s not a legitimate case.”

  “I think it is, and so do Sir Maxim’s lawyers, not to mention a number of museum curators and art experts.” Laura leaned back in the chair and crossed her long legs, outstaring Norman Grant.

  He blinked finally, and wondered how to get rid of this unusually beautiful woman in her severe black suit who made him uncomfortable. He felt uneasy in her presence, and, yes, he had to admit it, inferior. “We’re just wasting each other’s time,” he snapped. “I made a mistake agreeing to see you again. I’ve nothing further to say. I won’t change my mind. So don’t threaten me.”

  “Sir Maximilian and I have discussed this matter at great length, and he’s given me the authority to deal on his behalf. I’m prepared to make you an offer. And I’m not threatening you, by the way. I was merely pointing out that he will start litigation if we, that is, you and I, do not resolve the problem today.”

  “What’s the offer?”

  “We will pay you what you paid when you bought the painting from Anthea Margolis five years ago. We’ll pay you the 6.4 million dollars.”

  “I paid more than that!”

  “Not according to Mrs. Margolis. I went to see her in Boston, and she showed me all the relevant documentation.”

  Caught out in a foolish lie, Norman Grant flushed. “I won’t take 6.4,” he said, and leaned back in his swivel chair, his face set.

  “I know you want to triple what you paid, that you want to get nineteen or twenty million dollars. Mark Tabbart told me. But we’re not going to pay that.” Laura gave him a long, hard stare and finished. “And you won’t get it anywhere else. I don’t think there’s a market for this painting anymore. It’s tainted.”

  Ignoring her last point, he said confidently, “Sure there’s a market.”

  “If there is, which I doubt, it will rapidly diminish. The painting will lose its value after my press conference next week.”

  “Press conference? What press conference?”

  “I am going to hold one next week on behalf of Sir Maximilian West,” Laura explained softly. “As his art adviser, I am going to tell the world about the Westheim Collection, how it was started, how it was illegally confiscated, stolen by the Nazis in 1939. I’m going to tell them all about Tahitian Dreams, show them the sequence of ownership, take the press on the journey of the Gauguin, from Friedrich Westheim’s purchase of it in 1897, to its looting and illegal sale by General Josef Schiller of the SS, to the Herman Seltzer Gallery in Vienna.” She smiled, nodded. “It will make fascinating reading. I am also going to show them the catalogue raisonné, tell them the story of how Princess Irina Troubetzkoy found it only very recently in a bookshop in Paris. It’s all wonderful stuff. The press will love it.”

  “For what reason would you have a press conference? It sounds ridiculous to me,” Norman Grant muttered, giving her a baleful look.

  “I don’t agree. The story will get the public interested, and certainly there’s going to be a lot of sympathy for Sir Maxim, not to mention all kinds of opinions. The Gauguin will become famous. But nobody will buy it.”

  “Who cares about the Gauguin except us and other collectors?” He laughed at her. “The general public doesn’t care about art.”

  “Oh, really? Is that why museums are filled? Lack of interest on the public’s part?” Laura moved slightly, leaned forward, and continued. “From a moral point of view, the painting does not belong to you, Mr. Grant. And so this must be a moral decision on your part, not a legal or financial one. I did point out to Sir Maxim that you too are a victim in a way, and that is why he is willing to pay for the painting. But you cannot in good conscience make a profit on this art stolen from his parents. Both of them were Holocaust victims who perished because they were Jews. His mother was tortured and beaten to death in Ravensbruck, and his father was shot in cold blood in Auschwitz.” Laura paused. “No, no, no, you’re not going to make a profit on the dead, Mr. Grant.”

  “No deal,” he said coldly.

  “You’re being very unwise. The press will have a field day, especially when they know you’re Jewish.”

  Grant turned bright red. “What are you saying?” he spluttered.

  “That you’re Jewish, Mr. Grant. You may go to the Unitarian Church on Lexington Avenue and you may have changed your name … and why not? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t do either. But you were born Norman Gratowski and you grew up on the Lower East Side, a nice Jewish boy, of Jewish parents who luckily escaped the Warsaw Ghetto before it was too late.”

  Laura gave him a long, pointed look and sat back.

  Grant was silent. He appeared to be floored.

  “How will it look to the world if you, a Jew, try to make a profit on art stolen by the Nazis from a couple who lost their lives in the death camps of the Holocaust? I don’t know if it would affect your business, probably not.” She shrugged lightly. “But you never know.”

  Norman Grant said nothing. He sat there in his black leather swivel chair, looking sick.

  Laura stood up. “You bought a stolen painting. The rightful owner wants it back. He’s prepared to pay you what you paid … isn’t that eminently fair?”

  “No deal,” Norman Grant said again.

  The moment Alison heard the front door slam, she shot out of her office and flew into the reception area.

  “What happened? Did it work?” she cried, her eyes pinned on Laura.

  Laura shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Damn,” Alison said, and motioned for Laura to follow her into her office. Once they were both seated, Alison continued. “I thought your strategy was brilliant, I was positive it would do the trick. So was Sir Maxim. All that hard work you did investigating Norman Grant’s background … down the drain.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Laura murmured, shifting in the chair. “I think we’re going to win th
is. Let’s give it time to sink in. Norman Grant’s going to wrestle with it for a while, but I have a feeling he’s going to come around in the end.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. He’s a tough guy, and he’s not about to budge, in my opinion. He wants a lot of money for the Gauguin. He’s going to sit,” Alison muttered, her expression suddenly dour.

  “No, he won’t,” Laura answered swiftly. “Trust me on this, Alison. First of all, he knows the painting’s tainted already. If he didn’t before, he does now, because I made that clear. Mark Tabbart turned it down because he didn’t want problems, and Grant understands that. Nobody’s going to buy Tahitian Dreams for twenty million dollars, or indeed for 6.4 million, not after my press conference next week. It’s a painting that’s about to be jeopardized. Then again, Norman Grant doesn’t want to be embarrassed, he doesn’t want the world to think he’s a Jew who’s insensitive … to the Holocaust victims whose art was stolen by the Nazis.”

  Alison shook her head. “I don’t agree with you, Laura. He’s one tough son of a gun, and I don’t believe he gives a hoot in hell what people think of him.”

  “Let’s see what happens, Alison, let’s stay cool and wait.”

  “Aren’t you going to call Sir Maxim?”

  “Yes, I will. In a minute. From my own office.”

  22

  It was Megan who opened the front door of her apartment to admit Laura, who stared at her in surprise and asked, “Where’s Lily?” as she walked into the foyer and hugged her grandmother.

  “It’s her day off,” Megan replied, and then with a sweet smile she added, “That’s why I’m going to take you out to dinner.”

  “Oh,” Laura said, sounding surprised, eyeing her grandmother curiously. “But you told me Lily was making my favorite dinner.”

  “That’s true, I did, but no fish cakes and parsley sauce tonight for you, darling girl.” Giving Laura the benefit of another sweet smile, Megan walked slowly into the sitting room, remarking, “Now, let’s have a sherry before we go. It’s a bit early to leave.”

  “All right,” Laura answered, and followed her through the sitting room and into the adjoining library, asking herself why she was feeling suddenly suspicious of Megan. Her grandmother was quite dressed up tonight, wearing a black silk shantung dress and jacket, a three-strand pearl necklace, and pearl earrings. But in actuality this did not really signify anything special; Megan Morgan Valiant was always beautifully turned out whenever she sallied forth to fulfill her social obligations. Like that other nonagenarian Brooke Astor, she was well known in New York for her style and chic.

  After filling two glasses with dry sherry, Laura carried them over to her grandmother, handed her one, and sat down on the sofa next to her. “Cheers, Gran,” Laura murmured, touching her crystal glass to Megan’s.

  “Cheers, darling girl.” Megan glanced at Laura as she spoke, and then followed her granddaughter’s gaze, which was resting on a painting, “Ah, yes, the Childe Hassam. I gave it to you for your birthday, but you never took it. Do you want it?”

  “Oh, yes, I do, Gran, and thank you again, it was so generous of you to give it to me. It’s a lovely gift, but I can’t take it down until I find something for you to hang in its place. You can’t have a blank spot on the wall over the other sofa.”

  “Oh, don’t worry your head about it, anything will do, a print of some kind.”

  “I’ll find a beautiful lithograph for you, Gran. I know the kind of thing you like. By the way, I should have the appraisal for you next week. Jason’s put a specific figure on each individual painting, so you can sell one, or all of them, whichever you prefer. Or you don’t have to sell any at all. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it, and thank you for getting him to come over. Such a nice young man.” She peered at Laura. “Is he married?”

  “No, he’s not, Grandma Megan, and don’t try to be a matchmaker, I’m not interested in him.”

  “More’s the pity,” Megan said, and went on. “By the by, what’s happened to your mother? You haven’t mentioned her in ages.”

  “Oh, she’s still in the islands. Painting away.”

  “Murals, I’ve no doubt. Maggie’s such a fine artist, she should be painting pictures, not walls.”

  “She needs the money, Grandma.”

  “I know. Your father didn’t leave her a great deal. Talking of leaving things … do you want that portrait of me over the mantelpiece? I have left it to you in my will, you know.”

  “I’d love it, Grandma, thank you. But for the time being I’d like to hang on to the living thing, the flesh-and-blood you.”

  “Oh, I’m not planning to go yet, child. But later, when I’m dead, if you don’t want the painting, you can always give it to the thrift shop.”

  “Megan Valiant, I’d never do anything so awful!”

  Megan smiled and muttered, “I don’t know anybody else who’d want it but you.” Then she asked, “How’s Doug? What’s happening with the divorce? You haven’t said anything about him or it lately.”

  “Doug’s fine, I spoke to him yesterday. The divorce will be through anytime. And as far as his work’s concerned, he’s doing well at the law firm in L.A. He’s found an apartment he likes in Century City and he’s thinking of buying it. I guess he’s enjoying his new life.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so, considering that he divorced you to get it!”

  “It wasn’t quite like that, Gran.”

  Ignoring Laura’s comment, Megan announced, “I think we’d better be going to dinner. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Shall I phone for a radio cab?”

  “No, I ordered a car for the evening. From the limousine service.”

  “Oh.” Laura frowned. “Where is it that we’re going, Gran? What restaurant?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Putting the empty sherry glass down on the antique side table, Megan stood up. “I’ll just get my handbag, and then we can leave.”

  Laura nodded, watched her grandmother walk out of the library, so erect, so elegant, a miracle of a woman, really. And she couldn’t help wondering what she had up her sleeve. Something was afoot, Laura was quite certain of that.

  Rising herself, she walked over to the bay window and stood looking out at the view of the East River. It was a beautiful evening in the middle of June; there were several boats on the river, sailing down toward the end of Manhattan Island. What a pretty sight they were, a hint of the summer months ahead.

  “I’m ready, Laura,” Megan called from the foyer, and Laura swung around and hurried through the sitting room.

  As they went down in the elevator, Laura looked at Megan and said, “Come on, Gran, out with it. Where are we going?”

  “I told you before, it’s a surprise.”

  Laura sighed. “All right, it’s a surprise, but I’m not sure I trust you. There’s a certain look about you tonight, one I can’t quite fathom. It’s a look that tells me you know something I don’t,”

  “Good Lord, my girl, I certainly hope I do know more than you. I’m three times your age, and I’ve been around the block a few times more than you have.”

  Laura laughed, and held her elbow as they went through the lobby to the car waiting outside. Laura had never seen the driver before, but her grandmother seemed to know him.

  “Good evening, Peter,” Megan said, adding, “This is my granddaughter, Miss Laura Valiant.”

  “Evening, ma’am,” the driver said, inclining his head politely; he helped her grandmother into the town car solicitously.

  Laura decided not to ask any more questions; she sat back against the seat, glancing out of the window, only half listening to her grandmother, who was talking to Peter about his family, asking how they were. But she did notice they were heading uptown on First Avenue, and was somewhat surprised when the driver turned on East Fifty-seventh Street and then continued up York Avenue. She couldn’t imagine where they were heading. As they drove on toward the east eighties and Eas
t End Avenue, Laura began to suspect they were going to someone’s apartment.

  Laura’s heart sank as a sudden thought struck her. She hoped her grandmother wasn’t trying to fix her up, to be a matchmaker again, as she had several weeks ago. God forbid, Laura thought.

  The town car finally came to a standstill in front of one of the grand old prewar buildings on East End Avenue near East Eighty-sixth Street. Peter, the driver, parked, helped Megan out of the car, and then Laura took hold of her arm and escorted her into the building.

  As they entered the lobby, Laura asked curiously, “So, whom are we going to have dinner with, Grandma?”

  “Rosa Lavillard.”

  For a moment Laura was speechless, then she exclaimed, “Why have you done this, Gran? I can’t have dinner with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Claire wouldn’t like it, and you know I can’t upset her right now, she’s fighting for her life.”

  Megan nodded, her face grave. “I realize that, and she’s very courageous. But how is she going to know you’ve had dinner here unless you tell her?”

  “I’ll know, and it’ll make me feel I’m being disloyal.”

  “I know all about your integrity, Laura dear, but this is just a dinner, you know. Now, don’t let us stand here in the lobby, making a spectacle of ourselves.”

  “Gran, I really don’t—”

  “Laura,” Megan interrupted in a stern voice, “please be sensible and just listen to me for a moment. You may well be bringing up Natasha, and very soon. Actually, I’d say it’s more likely, and you’re going to need help, whatever you might think. Rosa’s help, and, yes, perhaps even Philippe’s. After all, I won’t be much use to you even if I’m still around. You’re a divorced woman on your own, and you’re going to need a support system.”

  “But Rosa Lavillard … oh, Gran, I don’t know….”

  “I do. She’s a very decent woman, kind, warmhearted, and her great wish is to get to know her granddaughter. You adore Claire, and so do I, but I’m afraid Claire has given you the wrong impression of Rosa. She’s not the enemy, you know. Come along, we’re late.” So saying, Megan walked on toward the elevator, her head held high, her step firm.