The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  Felix held up both hands. “However, I can’t tell you just yet.” He waited until the crowd’s groans and protestations died down. “We’ve been asked to do an exhibit in Chicago in two weeks. The works of Clyde are traveling across the country so that even more people will be able to see firsthand these astonishing and provocative paintings. Then, and only then, will we reveal the identity.”

  Somehow, Felix found his way to Clara through what was almost an angry mob. Levon caught up and pulled them into the back hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “What are you doing, Felix?” Levon demanded.

  Felix patted them both on the shoulder. “This will widen our reach.” He looked at Clara. “You’ll not only be a New York sensation but a national one. Trust me. Two weeks, and you’ll be at the pinnacle of success. By stretching this out, we’ll increase the value of the unsold works even more. We’ll add in that one of Levon you did, sell out completely. You’ll be rolling in it, have enough money to ride out this Depression in fine form.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Clara asked.

  “I didn’t want to raise your hopes before I knew for sure. They committed to us just now. We’ve done it, though.” He was practically levitating with excitement. “We’ve done it.”

  * * *

  In the week and a half since the exhibit, Felix’s predictions had come true. All of New York was talking about Clyde, and newspapers across the country had picked up on the story of the mystery artist, with experts weighing in on who the painter might be.

  “Did you remember to pack your good suit?” Clara yelled out from inside the taxi, as Levon and the driver jammed their suitcases into the trunk of the cab.

  Levon slid in beside her and pulled the door shut. “Of course I packed it.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Or did I leave it hanging up on the bedroom door?”

  “You left it. Since you’d already headed downstairs to catch a cab, I put it in my suitcase.”

  “You’re a doll.” He kissed her on the nose. “Grand Central, please.”

  The cab pulled out, the driver careening around the other cars as if they were in a race. She checked her watch. They had a good forty minutes before the train to Chicago—the 20th Century Limited—would pull out. Plenty of time. She couldn’t help but tease. “I was tempted to toss it out the window to you. How could you forget your one good suit?”

  “I have other things on my mind.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was kidding her or not. Levon’s name had been one of many bandied about in the press as a possibility. Better to address the situation now, rather than when they were trapped in a Pullman car with Felix. She shifted in the seat so she faced him. “A lot of people think you’re Clyde, Levon. Do you wish you were the artist? Have I put you in a strange position?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t mind one whit. All the better to surprise them with the truth when the artist is revealed. To be honest, it’s a relief not being the artist du jour for a change. I find I’m bursting with ideas these days. Once you’re established, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Once we have the money, we’re paying for you to see the best doctor in town.” She still regretted forcing him to pick up a paintbrush.

  “I have a surprise for you. Look.” He held out his left hand, palm down.

  Even with the bumps of the taxi, she could see he had control of the limb, finally.

  She yelped and hugged him to her. “No tremors! That’s wonderful.”

  “Progress, my dear. When we return, we’ll move to a bigger studio.”

  She shook her head. “You’re probably sick of me by now. We could get two studios if you like.” The city zoomed past; she looked out the window and watched it go by rather than check his reaction.

  “One. I don’t want to change anything.” He threw his arm around her, and she curled into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and spice.

  “We’ll buy all your books back, and more.” She paused. “And we’ll get your painting back from Bianchi.”

  Levon went rigid with anger. She hadn’t broached the subject yet, unwilling to break the charm of happiness between them, the glimmer of hope. “How do you know about that? Felix, running at the mouth again?”

  “No. I saw Mr. Bianchi at the opening.” She put one hand over his heart, unable to look up at him. “I know you did that to help me, and I also know how difficult it must have been. But I’ll talk to Mr. Bianchi; he’ll be happy to sell it back. We’ll pay whatever we have to.”

  She took his silence for agreement and didn’t press him further.

  The cab lurched to a stop on Forty-Second Street, where a redcap took their bags and led them down the ramp to the main concourse. “Track 34, leaves six o’clock sharp.” He pointed to the right. “Enter that way.”

  Levon gave Clara a sly smile. “Thanks, we know the station well.” He tucked a tip into the porter’s hand.

  “I’m going to buy an Evening Post before we board,” said Clara. “Do you want anything from the newsstand?”

  “Not a thing. I’ll march ahead and make sure Felix hasn’t had any trouble with the crates.”

  “See you in a few.”

  The newsstand had an unusually long line for a Saturday. She paid for the magazine and turned to go.

  “Clara.”

  Oliver hovered just outside the newsstand, his hands in his pockets. A rough stubble covered his cheeks.

  “Oliver. What are you doing here?”

  “I saw in the paper that Felix was on this train. I figured you’d be, too. Since you’re Clyde.”

  She tried not to react.

  “Clara, I’m here to apologize.” Oliver’s brightness and confidence had dropped away since they’d last seen each other, replaced with a weary heaviness that Clara knew all too well. “When I realized what you’d accomplished, how amazing this has been, I had to see you and say I was sorry. Can we talk?”

  She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to six. “Only for a moment.”

  He guided her to the side of the doorway, out of the way of the foot traffic. “I knew the artist was you when I saw the paintings were by Clyde. The stubborn dog, up in Maine, right?” He scuffed one heel on the marble floor. “There I was telling you to quit, when it’s what’s made you famous.”

  “I’m not famous, not yet. How’s your lovely bride?”

  “Violet’s still in Los Angeles. It didn’t work out.” His mouth started to twitch. “I miss you.”

  A memory of their last car ride together swept over her: the two of them skidding along a Maine dirt road, carefree on a windy summer day, Clara whooping for him to go faster. They’d shared an easy way of traversing through the world back then that had since been decimated.

  Clara laughed harshly. “Really? Now, all of a sudden, you miss me?”

  “I became too protective, like you were my creation, not a person in your own right. I shouldn’t have done that. But I did help you, right? Early on?”

  “You were very helpful, Oliver.” He had been. As his ambitions had faltered, he’d tried to pull her closer to him, to tie her down. In return, she’d cut him open with that kiss on the beach. “I’m sorry for what happened in Maine.”

  “I acted like a fool.”

  “As did I. You were right to be jealous. I didn’t understand myself what was going on between me and Levon. I was confused.”

  “I heard you’re with Levon now.”

  “True.” She didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hurt him further.

  He frowned. “You’re too much alike. Do you think he’s going to be able to take your fame? We both know he’s full of himself. Always has been. Maybe for now it’s working, but there’s no way it’ll continue without resentment.”

  She recoiled. “We’re fine. You don’t know the half of it. Don’t forget that you’re the one who d
estroyed my painting. Levon would never have done that. Ever.”

  “I walked down the beach to find you, to tell you I wanted to announce to everyone around the fire that we were engaged. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Only to come upon you kissing him.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Not then.” There was no point in explaining.

  She began to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. “No, wait. I lied about the painting. The one you were working on in Maine. I never destroyed it.”

  The painting she’d mourned for the past year, watching it swirl by in her dreams, night after night. She shot him a hard look. “Where is it?”

  “I hid it in the attic. I’ll get it back; I want to make this up to you.”

  She had no idea if he was lying or telling the truth. Her watch read six minutes to the hour.

  A strange look glinted in Oliver’s eyes, one she’d never seen before. If she walked away, would he deliberately destroy it just to spite her?

  Clara desperately wanted to have The Siren back. The artwork was the touchstone to everything she’d done since. She had two options: She could catch the train and never see her painting again. Or stay in New York, find out if Oliver was telling the truth, and possibly recover The Siren. If she took option number two, she could send a telegram to the Chicago train station, to be delivered to Levon and Felix upon their arrival, explaining everything and saying that she’d be arriving a day later. Of course, Levon would be fuming by then. Or crazy with worry.

  She thought of Levon’s lost painting, buried somewhere in Bianchi’s carriage house. Levon had given that up, voluntarily, so she could have her chance.

  And now she had to do the same. She’d give up The Siren.

  “You can keep it. Do whatever you want with it. I don’t care.”

  His face fell. “We were good together. I helped you; I helped you get to where you are now.”

  “Where I am now is late.” She checked her watch. Five minutes. A man yelled out in the middle of the concourse, and Clara looked over in time to see a woman run into his arms in front of the information booth. As they kissed, her eyes traveled up to the large clock on top.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  The clock read six o’clock on the nose. Which was when the 20th Century Limited to Chicago was due to depart.

  Her watch read 5:55. Five minutes slow.

  She took off, as fast as her Mary Janes allowed, sprinting across the marble floor and through the entryway to track 34. The train was still there; it hadn’t left yet. But she tripped on the edge of the crimson carpet that lined the platform and lost time recovering her balance.

  Imperceptibly at first, so that she wasn’t sure if she could trust her eyes, the train began to move. She screamed for it to wait, but the roar of the engine muffled her cries.

  She stared after it, tears in her eyes, watching as everything she loved disappeared into the black tunnel.

  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 h
ad 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.