by Fiona Davis
In fact, after studying the photo, she’d picked up some brass cleaner during her break and spent the afternoon wiping down the exterior detailing until it reflected her face back to her. Totto and Doris, the most caustic of the booth’s employees, had snickered at her while she worked, but she didn’t care. Terrence had given her a thumbs-up from behind the window.
She shrugged. “Anyway, it’s a job. I’m not sure I’m much help.”
They both ordered the shepherd’s pie, then clinked glasses.
“How do you like working for Penn Central?” she asked.
“It’s interesting enough. My grandfather was a conductor, so we have a family legacy in the railroad, you could say. But that was back when train travel was something special. Did you know that they used to roll out a red carpet for passengers on the Twentieth Century Limited, which ran between Chicago and New York? That’s where the phrase ‘roll out the red carpet’ comes from.”
Virginia smiled at his boyish excitement. “You’re a real train buff, then?”
“Even had an electric train set as a kid. I loved that thing.” He took another swig of beer. “Ironic that I’m the one ripping the place apart.”
She thought of her ladies’ committee, how the historian had spoken with such reverence about the architecture. “Do you have to rip it apart?”
“Time marches on. There’s no money to fix it up, so the alternative is to let it collapse in a heap.”
“I guess we don’t want that. How soon do you think they’ll start building the skyscraper?”
“Whenever the court case wraps up. Hopefully, next year.”
“Terrific. I’ll make sure my steno is up to snuff by then.”
A cloud of confusion crossed his face.
“For my new job, remember?”
He laughed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course. We can’t have you stuck in that information booth forever. You can count on me to get this building up and running. It’s in the bag.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m working with the numbers guy, and it’s all about the numbers.” He leaned in, as if the waiter was in danger of eavesdropping. “We’ve put together the financials to show the terminal’s upkeep is a huge burden on Penn Central, one that’s draining all our resources. These liberals say it should be a landmark, but it’s not like we get any economic benefits from the landmark designation. It’s killing us. Once we win, we’ll use the building as a base for something better. Just like the Romans used to layer villages one right on top of another.”
The reference to ancient Rome made her less worried about the idea of the terminal being totally subsumed. “Progress, then?”
“Progress. Just goes to show that you can be a corporate stiff and be creative at the same time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say we’ve had to massage the numbers some, to increase the likelihood the court decides in our favor.”
“Is that legal?”
He laughed. “We’re lawyers; of course it’s legal.”
She poured a good helping of ketchup on the edge of her shepherd’s pie as Dennis changed the subject to his favorite television shows. They both liked M*A*S*H, and she made him laugh with her impression of the uptight nurse Margaret Houlihan. She told him he reminded her of Trapper John.
“You’re easy to talk to.” He took the bill from the waiter and reached for his wallet. “Even if you can’t surprise me with anything when it comes to Grand Central. You’re talking to the expert, here.”
She racked her brain for something he might not know. “Did you know about the ghost?”
“What ghost?”
“There’s a ghost that haunts the old art school, up in the east wing of the seventh floor.”
“What art school? That’s all storage space.”
She’d got him. “The map of the terminal calls it a storage space, but in fact, it’s a school of art, frozen in time. I was in there yesterday—I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom—and it’s amazing inside. Later, the guys in the info booth told me that it’s haunted.”
“Is that so?”
She couldn’t hide her delight at his surprise. “So there. I’ve topped you. I know something you don’t.”
“You could be fooling me.” He reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing his thumb so lightly over her skin she shivered. “Prove it.”
“You want me to show it to you? It means returning to the scene of the crime.”
“You up for that? I’ll take care of you. I promise.” Was that a double meaning behind his words? “Come on. Now you’ve got me intrigued. Let’s go explore.”
* * *
Virginia had second thoughts as Dennis led her across the concourse. He squeezed her hand and pulled her slightly closer to him, as if he sensed her reluctance. Anyone in their right mind would be reluctant, entering Grand Central after hours like this, when the mob of commuters had thinned out. The waiting room, never safe on a good day, was filled with homeless people lying on benches, some even stretched out on the sticky floors. A fight broke out between two of them, something about stolen shoes, and she was glad when they made it safely into the alcove of elevator banks. Dennis pressed the button to the seventh floor before pulling her close and landing a soft kiss on her lips.
She’d been unprepared and couldn’t relax enough to enjoy it. When the elevator doors opened, she pulled back with a giggle of relief.
They walked down the hallway, made a right, and she counted to the fourth door before fishing in her pocketbook for the bathroom key, which she’d never returned.
Inside, she clicked on the hallway light switch and watched him explore. In the darkened studios, the light from the skyscrapers surrounding the terminal poured in through a line of skylights, giving off an eerie glow.
“Did you see a ghost when you were here?” Dennis asked.
“No. But it’s easy to imagine a ghost of an artist wandering through, right?”
“Wearing a beret and a smock, no doubt.”
“I think it’s wonderful, that it’s unchanged.” There was something romantic about this place, forgotten yet preserved, that pleased her. She touched a set of brushes on a workbench. “It seems so odd that people would come up here, in a train station, to paint.”
“You know anything about art?”
“I was an art history major in college. But my focus was on art from the Middle Ages. Frescoes and mosaics and that sort of thing.”
“I knew you were a smart one.” Dennis had shifted so he was standing behind her, his hands on her waist. She leaned back slightly and pressed her back into him, and he responded by wrapping his arms about her stomach. She hadn’t experienced a man’s touch for so long, and she’d missed it. They stood together for a while, his chin resting on her head, and as long as she could cover his arms with her own, keep them from sliding up, she was fine. But the thought of him trying to touch her chest made her want to run screaming out of the room.
She couldn’t reveal the scar to him. It was too long a story to tell. The concerned way her doctor looked at her as he prodded her breast. The visit to the oncologist, to the surgeon. Trying to remember what they were saying and then putting a positive spin on it over dinner with Chester and Ruby. The lovely sensation of going under on the operating table, like she’d just drunk seven martinis, followed by the pain and confusion of waking up.
The recovery, putting on a brave face with Ruby when she came home from school that first week at home, pretending that she wasn’t in terrible pain, and refusing to take the pills the doctor had prescribed because she didn’t want to lose control.
For once, here in this strange room with practically a stranger, she wanted to lose control. Everyone else did these days. Why couldn’t she indulge like most of America was doing, from the suburban k
ey parties to the sex clubs downtown?
Because she was deformed. No one would want to touch her.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he slid his hands upward.
If she had to distract him with another body part, so be it. Virginia leaned down and pulled up her skirt, turning her head to look at him with what she hoped was an enticing smile.
Dennis stepped back, caught off guard. Her actions made her look like a brazen hussy, as her mother would’ve said, but at least they kept his hands off her chest. A hunger in his eyes soon replaced his surprise, and he ran his hands along her bare thighs, slowly.
Now, this wasn’t so bad, after all. She’d forgotten the kind of electricity that passed between two people when they were on the precipice of something new.
Just to her right stood a large storage cabinet. She slid sideways and hinged slightly at the waist, placing her hands on the shelf in front of her. While Dennis fumbled behind her, she caught sight of a tattered copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse on the shelf at eye level. Virginia had read it in college, and for the first time all semester raised her hand during class. She couldn’t remember what she’d said, but low snickers had traveled around the room when she mispronounced the ch in nonchalance as a hard k sound. She’d never heard the word spoken out loud, only read it in books. The embarrassment had derailed her confidence the rest of the year, until she’d met Chester.
From the sounds Dennis made, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, and that made her happy, even if she didn’t feel the same heat. Not yet, anyway. Maybe next time she’d be less nervous and lose herself the way he was now.
Good thing they were isolated back here, as his groans were of a decibel level and pitch that rivaled the folk singers Ruby liked to listen to in her room, her record player’s volume turned all the way up. When he finished, he turned her around and held her close. “Amazing.”
She pulled down her skirt. “It was.”
He cocked his head toward a lumpy-looking chaise lounge pushed against one wall. “Come lie down with me for a moment; I want to cuddle.”
A man who liked to cuddle. How could she say no? They settled in, both lying on their sides. Virginia perched on the very edge, trying not to sneeze. Dennis wrapped his hand around her and fell promptly asleep.
Not what she’d expected when she’d gotten ready that evening. She’d imagined them at a candlelit dinner, him giving her a chaste but yearning kiss and putting her in a cab afterward. The hint of something more on both their lips. Yet there she was, huddled on an old couch in a forgotten, ghostly art school.
What the hell; she was proud of herself. This is what life was like as a divorcée in the seventies. It’s what all the books and movies talked about. Quickie sex with someone you just met. Already, she was rewriting the scene in her head for the next time she saw Betsy. A gal-on-the-town having a passionate tryst with a stunner of a guy.
A shock of color sticking out from the side of the storage cabinet caught her eye. Cobalt blue, on what looked like a corner of drawing paper that was wedged between the back of the cabinet and the wall, at knee level. Quietly, carefully, she disentangled herself from Dennis’s arms and extricated the paper from behind the cabinet. On one side was a pencil drawing of a glamorous woman that looked like it was from the 1920s or thirties. The woman lay on the same chaise lounge Dennis was currently stretched out on, her limbs long and languorous.
At the very bottom was a signature. Clara Darden. The artist who’d sketched the secretary advertisement from the other room.
The paper was stiffer than the others, and when Virginia turned it over, she saw the reason. The other side was covered in paint, the blue that she’d spied from the sofa. Watercolors, she guessed. The figure vaguely resembled the well-dressed woman on the other side, but with more movement and color; it both horrified her and drew her in. Something terrible, violent was going on, but the shapes weren’t clear.
She tiptoed into the storage room and found the drawing of the secretaries that had caught her eye the day before. Both shared the same signature. Clara Darden. But something was off. It took her a minute to realize that the wall of art had changed. A few of the paintings she’d seen yesterday were missing, replaced by others. Including the Renoir reproduction with the soda bottle. She looked around for it. Nothing was on the floor; it hadn’t fallen off. Someone had rearranged things.
The ghost?
She told herself not to be silly. Probably the cleaning crew messing around.
No. The place was covered in dust. No cleaning crew had been inside the school in decades.
She studied the painting in her hand. She’d seen it before, but where? The audaciousness, and the blue colors, pleased her. The woman figure was bold, just as Virginia had been lately. Taking risks, a shape-shifter. If she took it, would anyone care or notice? Probably not. The painting had been stuck behind a cabinet for this long and would have eventually disintegrated if she hadn’t spotted it. Instead, she could save it, preserve it.
Framed, the painting would fill a blank space in her living room, one that had bothered Virginia ever since she’d moved in. It would serve as a reminder to stay strong and welcome change into her life. Virginia rolled it up and carefully tucked it inside her sisal handbag before waking her sleeping giant with a kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
May 1928
Clara had seen Levon only twice since he’d taken her class five days earlier: once in a crowded hallway, where he’d given her a salute as he brushed by, and another time on the concourse of the terminal, where she was certain he’d spotted her but pretended not to.
His puerile behavior annoyed her. She had no way of knowing if he’d upheld his end of the bet and insisted that Mr. Lorette keep her on.
But the signs were promising. Mr. Lorette had pulled her aside as she was leaving yesterday and told her that he’d arranged a live model for her illustration class the next day. She jumped at the opportunity and altered her lesson plans accordingly.
As she entered the school the next morning, Oliver was sitting in one of the chairs outside Mr. Lorette’s office. She’d secretly hoped he would be her model, while also fearing it. She’d intended to start with the model in the nude, but there was no possible way Gertrude and the others would be able to focus if this man disrobed.
She wouldn’t be able to, either. It was one thing to be a student, tucked behind an easel, but another entirely to be the instructor, out in front discussing grids and proportions. And what proportions. Absolutely not.
“Oliver. Lovely to see you.” She swallowed. “Again.”
“Miss Darden. I hope you weren’t too put off by my modeling here. Nadine had suggested it; she said it would be a good way to meet artists, break into the bohemian crowd, if you will.”
“No doubt she did.”
“Anyway. Would you like me to change into a robe?”
He wore a polished wool flannel suit in dark brown, his slim figure perfect for the fashionably wide Oxford trousers. “No. We’ll draw what you have on. See you inside.”
She spent the first fifteen minutes pointing out the details she expected the class to capture in their drawings, tugging on the jacket’s lapel as she explained the best approach. “You’ll want to do the suit in an opaque wash and the hat and face with a transparent one.”
She adjusted his tie and stepped back. “Would you mind putting one hand in a pocket?”
He did so, his eyes shining as if posing were a delight, not a physical ordeal. Standing still wasn’t easy, and she appreciated his enthusiasm.
“Whatever you need, Miss Darden.” He winked at her, and the class giggled.
She would not be made fun of. Why should she get flustered and feel strange when the male teachers never did? If a female model flirted with Levon, he probably flirted right back.
She reached up and touched his
face, adjusted his hat. This was power. To be the one in control. She liked it and didn’t care if her students noticed. Let them talk.
“I suggest you use a Gillott 170 pen point for the figure and add the black with a No. 8 brush.” She scanned his body one last time and then began making the rounds.
The rest of the class went smoothly, and the students turned in some of their best work yet. Finally, their drawings showed more than two dimensions. After dismissal, she stopped by Mr. Lorette’s office, but before she could express her gratitude, he asked her to step inside and close the door.
She spoke first. “I’d like to thank you for allowing a live model in our class. The work was terrific. I hope you’ll stop by and see.”
“Right. Good to hear. I want to let you know that we’d like you to carry on in the fall with the illustration class. There will be two sessions, one on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and another in the afternoons. You can have both.”
He threw out the words as if they were part of a script. Not heartfelt. But Levon had made good on his bet. Even if Mr. Lorette was keeping her on against his better judgment, it was no matter. She’d have money to buy more time in New York City.
As long as she made it through the summer.
“Thank you, that’s wonderful news. Are there any summer classes available?” She knew she was pushing it, but better to ask than not.
“We bring a small number of students and teachers to Maine in the summer. So, no.”
Fine. She’d manage.
“Also, you’ll be giving out the illustration award tomorrow night at the May Ball, correct?” The ball, held in the art galleries, was an annual event for students and faculty. Student work was displayed, and awards were announced. Clara had been dreading going, but now, with the news she’d be staying on at the school, she didn’t mind.
“Yes. Looking forward to it.”
A student barged in, complaining to Mr. Lorette about a missing artwork. “I spent five weeks on it and it was finally finished, drying overnight, and now it’s gone.”