The Long Road Home
Page 36
Her heels clicked along the bare floors as she walked down the long hall. The eyes of the secretaries discreetly followed her as she passed each desk. Their expressions were curious, and Nora knew they were evaluating the expense of her suit and the millimeter of her pearls. Undaunted, Nora continued walking until she faced the largest desk at the end of the hall. Behind it was an imposing wooden door with a discreet brass plate: President.
“May I help you?” The secretary was a big woman: eyes, bones, belly, and all. With her dark suit, her severely pulled back black hair, and her sharp expression, the woman looked like an SS guard off rations.
Nora raised her chin and spoke with authority. “I want to talk to Mr. Charles Blair. I am Mrs. Michael MacKenzie. It’s urgent.”
The woman raised her brows and clasped her hands firmly upon her desk. “I’m sorry. Mr. Blair will not see anyone without an appointment.”
Nora bristled. “Announce me, please.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Blair will not be disturbed.”
“Is he in?” she asked in her most imperious tone.
“Yes.” The word was a dismissal.
Nora studied the pinched face of the secretary and knew there would be no coaxing this gatekeeper. She had bigger battles to fight than with this battle-ax. Holding her purse and journal tightly, Nora swung on her heel and swept past the desk.
“Mrs. MacKenzie! Stop! You can’t go in there. Mrs. MacKenzie!”
The cries of alarm spurred her forward. She didn’t look back. Eyes on the door, heels clicking, she grabbed the door handle, swung wide the door, and marched into the private office.
Light poured in from the large windows. Blinking, she made out a very long, highly polished desk. Behind it was a high-backed leather chair. Nora blinked again, focusing on the man slowly rising from that chair. His long fingers rested on the desk as he stood to face her. A tall, broad silhouette; a familiar image. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like eternity, as her mind recognized, then questioned, then painfully accepted the sight.
They stood separated by the desk, neither moving, neither speaking. Only the secretary flustered about, muttering, “I tried to stop her, Mr. Blair. She stormed right past me!”
“Leave us,” he commanded, eyes still on Nora.
The secretary sucked in her breath, clasped her hands again, and scurried from the room, silently closing the door behind her.
Still no one spoke. Nora searched his face. The eyes were the same blue ones she had stared into. The nose was the same angled one she had mused about. His skin was the same tawny fabric she had kissed.
But his wild blond hair had been slicked back and trimmed. His wool suit was expensive, his white shirt was crisp, and his tie had just enough panache to be fashionable yet conservative. But it was his hands that arrested her. Those long, tapered fingers that had explored and excited every inch of her now rested confidently upon the desk of Mike’s hated rival.
“C.W. Charles Walker. You left out Blair, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded lifeless, even to herself.
“Yes. My full name is Charles Walker Blair.”
She raised her eyes to his. When they met she felt burned by the intensity he wore whenever he was reining himself in. He held out his hand to her. A sudden memory stabbed deep. She remembered for an instant how much she loved him.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
The pain and hate in her eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. His face mirrored the anguish. “Nora, you must listen.”
“Never. Never again!” She thrust her finger out, pointing to the desktop. “Trust me, you said! You deliberately used me to get your hands on those ledgers and papers. To save your own neck, and your blessed bank’s, you twisted mine.”
Her voice was low and cold. He tried to explain.
“I did need the papers,” he said evenly. “But it’s much more complicated than it appears. Sit down and—”
“How could you have?” Her chin trembled. “Couldn’t you have just stolen the evidence and left? What kind of perverse pleasure could you have gained from working your way into my life? Did you have to pretend you loved me? Did you have to make me love you?”
“Nora, I—” He swept around the desk.
“Stop! Stay away from me!” she shrieked, stepping back with an arresting hand outstretched. She felt her anger rising up and she couldn’t stop it. She hated him—she loved him; the two emotions churned in such tumult they overpowered her. She gulped huge breaths of air as she hunched over the journal and stared at him with wounded eyes.
“My God, you’re worse than Mike,” she cried. “He used and abused me, but at least he was open about it.” The tears were flowing down her cheeks. “At least he didn’t sleep with me.”
C.W. visibly cringed.
“I hate you, Charles Walker Blair. Not for what you did to Mike. But for what you did to me. Take your evidence,” she said, throwing the journal at him. As he ducked, she swept her hand across his desk, sending the papers and ledger crashing to the floor. “Keep them, I don’t care.”
She squared her shoulders and stared into his eyes. She saw his pain, she saw his desolation, and it took every ounce of strength to muster hatred instead of love.
Nora turned sharply and walked to the door, each click of her heels sounding like a death knoll in her ears. With her hand on the handle, she turned and faced him one last time. He hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Don’t worry about your reputation,” she said, her voice even. “My shame has bought my silence.”
She swung open the door and fled down the corridor, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of a long line of secretaries.
In desperate silence, C.W. watched her run down the hall. He stared without moving as she turned in the elevator and faced him, chin trembling but high. The bronze mirrored elevator doors silently closed.
He stood there for several minutes, staring ahead at the doors that had closed tight against him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Blair. Should I clean up the mess?” asked Mrs. Baldwin.
He looked at her face and saw no one. Around him C.W. saw only the rows of meaningless diplomas and awards, the shelves of unremembered books, the walls of an impersonal bank that seemed to be closing in on him. At his feet, Mike’s papers lay scattered.
33
“THERE IS NOTHING MORE I can do.”
It was the first day of her auction. Nora stood at the door, dressed in funereal black, with Oma’s pearls at her neck and ears.
“I see,” replied Walton. His gaze swept the sparse crowd milling about the room seeking out seats. “Pretty straight group,” he summed up. “A few artsy types, a few private shoppers.” He shrugged. “A lot of top dealers.”
Nora glanced at the dealers. Some of them shot speculative glances across the room, a few pairs huddled together furiously scribbling notes in their catalogs. Still others, the well prepared, sat with impassive faces waiting for the auction to begin. Clearly, this was an “inside” crowd. Most of the seats were unoccupied.
“It’s my worst nightmare.” Her hand briefly touched her forehead before she collected herself and stood straight once again. “I went to every bank involved,” she stated, a flush creeping along her neck. “They wouldn’t see me.”
Walton frowned, guessing at the truth behind the gross understatement.
Nora read the understanding in his eyes and her color deepened. Would her shame never end? Bank presidents, men she had entertained in her home, had turned her away without so much as an interview.
The two that did see her spent the time in a tirade against Mike and his schemes until she managed to excuse herself and leave with her tail between her legs. At least as the grieving widow she had been inviolate. Now, however, they’d felt justified in venting their anger against Mike, demanding their pound of flesh. What they didn’t realize was that her heart had already been torn out.
The image of C.W. standing behind his powerful desk flashed through her mind wit
h a blinding pain. Closing her eyes tight, she felt physically ill at the memory.
“Are you all right?” asked Walton.
“Yes, quite. I’m just tired. It’s been a long couple of days.”
Walton reached out and touched her elbow.
She smiled gratefully. “Shall we start?”
Mustering her courage, she put on her mask and paraded past the hushed whispers to her seat. Once there, she pretended to study her program, ignoring the naked stares, praying for the auction to be over with.
It began late. At 10:05, Walton stepped forward before the beige-curtained stage where some of Nora’s antiques of as sorted pedigree had already been set up. He silently acknowledged her presence. His thick shock of white hair fell over his equally white collar as he perused the crowd above his bifocals. After a final glance at his watch, he cast a frustrated look at Nora and raised his thin shoulders. Despite the house’s careful marketing and publicity, the audience remained far below expectations.
Walton stepped to the auctioneer’s post to the far right. He bandied with his assistants, cajoled the bidders, and drew attention to whimsical details on vases and furniture, hoping to lighten the mood. The crowd twittered and bidding commenced.
The jewelry went first. Mike’s gold cufflinks, tie clasps, watches, cigarette cases. Nora remembered how he’d looked in each of them. Her collection of Victorian jewelry followed, then her Russian vermeil eggs. The bidding was slow but steady. When her personal jewelry was presented, she began to harbor hope. Her spectacular pearl and diamond necklace neared its estimated value; she felt her first rush of relief.
Suddenly, a broad-faced woman with a short blunt haircut stomped into the room with a bold bid. All heads turned toward the woman as she marched to the table, nose up, glasses down, and made a show of studying the pearls. Then, with a dramatic shake of her head, the woman found a seat and refused another bid.
Immediately the bidding slowed. Nora was furious. That dealer had deliberately cast doubt on the pearls’ quality. Again and again as the bidding rose, so rose the henchwoman to the table. And as before, as she declined, so did the bidding. It was as though the strange woman was reminding them of a previously arranged deal.
Nora’s furs and lesser furniture were all sold for a song. Her china was stolen, and by the time her oriental porcelains were presented, Nora knew she had lost.
“God,” whispered a young man behind her. “I can’t believe we got it.”
“A real find!” squealed a woman to her right.
“A real steal,” was her friend’s rejoinder.
One by one whispers of disbelief and triumph reached her ears. By the end of the morning, the auctioneer’s calls garbled with the buzz of the crowd, becoming a white noise in her own head.
For the afternoon’s set, rows of chairs remained empty and those that weren’t again held dealers. Nora acknowledged with polite nods a few discreet greetings, but was not taken in. Her hands were tied; the lady would burn.
As if on cue, Walton stepped forward, graciously nodded her way, then let his gaze sweep the crowd. She saw in his eyes the same sense of futility that she herself felt. He raised his palms up and shrugged as though to say, “Is there no champion?”
Nora’s carpets started the afternoon’s auction. She examined them in a detached manner, allowing her critical eye to catch their merits or flaws. The bids, she ignored. They were too ridiculous to contemplate.
With her silver, she recalled the many dinner parties she had presided over. Her better porcelains, china, and curios came and went. Her furniture was spectacular, and well received. How many letters did she write on that tiger maple desk? How many dinners served on that Sheraton table? Remember the hours spent reading in that Chippendale wing chair?
A chill ran down her back when her elaborately carved four-poster was carried on stage. The bed didn’t do well, nor, she decided, did it deserve to. The gavel sounded. Sold.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Watching her merchandise pass by was endurable, but reviewing the memories that they provoked was an ordeal.
Walton finally rose to the podium to call an end to the fiasco. Only a few dealers were left in the cavernous room. “Thank you for the competition,” he said, giving the sparse crowd a cold stare.
Nora rose and ducked out of the room, not caring who saw her retreat or what they said. Yes, she had expected a bad show, but not this preordained disaster. Out of all her things, only one piece did well: Oma’s mine-cut diamond ring. It had been Oma’s engagement ring, the one she never took off. Nora’s only smile of the day came when the auctioneer called, “Sold!” after an astonishingly high bid. Yet her revenge was not sweet. Oma’s ring, like so many other of her personal things, were gone. Nora stopped short and rubbed her temples.
“I’m sorry, Oma,” she whispered as she strode out over the blood-red rug.
The following morning was rainy, and the cold wind whipped the wet into her face. Nora walked the distance to the auction house nonetheless, feeling the need for fresh air to bolster her courage. At the entry, however, she stopped and wondered if she’d approached the wrong building. Inside, the auction room was packed. Not only dealers volleyed for seats but society’s elite elbowed their way through the crowd. They smiled and waved to her like old friends at a party. Walking to her reserved seat, Nora felt the fine hairs rise along her neck.
Walton stepped forward and clasped his hands before him, like a man about to sit down to a feast. He welcomed the crowd and gave a brief yet elaborate presentation of Nora’s art collection. He deftly reminded the audience of the art’s importance and drew attention to specific pieces in the vast collection.
After a gracious acknowledgement to Nora, the auction commenced with her Haitian collection. She was delighted when the bidding was as brisk and bright as the colors on the canvas. The same held for her early American works. Her biggest thrill, however, was the enthusiasm engendered over her collection of relatively unknown artists. These were the pieces that she was especially proud of. She thought of Esther and knew that if her work had been in this collection, it would have stolen the show.
Her collection was vast and the auction was long; still, the crowd remained strong. As the auction drew to a close, however, the festive mood of the room altered. Excitement grew as the crowd thickened to standing room only. The heat rose, the amalgamation of perfumes choked, and still the tension mounted. Quickly pulling out her pad and pen, Nora calculated the day’s intake. She sucked in her breath. Her art collection had come through for her. The collection was her work, her ability, and no one else’s. After a lifetime of dependency, she had succeeded on her own merit in the end. Nora held herself proudly in the pressing crowd. She realized that though she was far from out of debt, at the very least she could pay back a goodly portion of it with honor.
By God, she would restore honor to her life.
The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the crowd. Only one painting remained, and it was Nora’s last hope.
With ceremony and care, two uniformed men carried her van Gogh out to the blue velvet-draped stand. The brilliance of the master’s colors and the power of his brushwork jumped out under the expertly staged lights. The crowd let out a sigh and Nora smiled.
Walton stepped forward and delivered a dramatic introduction. Then, without a trace of emotion, he called for the first bid. Nora held her breath.
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
The crowd grumbled their disapproval and Nora’s mouth fell open.
Walton looked as if he sucked a sour lemon. “We have a conservative bid of five hundred thousand dollars on the floor. Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that this painting is without question. It is a verified van Gogh. Let’s hear a bottom bid of one million.”
“I have a million,” called out the woman at a special booth for telephone bidders.
“I have one million. Two? I have two, two million five. I have a new bidder. Three million.”
In this new arena, old bidders dropped out and new ones stepped in. The phone bids increased and the bidding passed mark after mark. The excitement hushed the crowd as they inched to the edge of their seats. Up went a card. Up went another. The bidding maintained a heady pace. Nora’s fingers flew across her paper as she did her calculations. Hope bubbled in her veins. Higher and higher soared the bidding, beyond most of the crowd’s limits. A few runners fled the hall to reach a phone.
Eventually, Walton’s head swung between only two bidders. The phones sat silent and the crowd’s attention focused on the remaining pair. Dealers both. The whispers started as to who they represented. The Getty Museum was hungry for a van Gogh. A Japanese businessman had a penchant for the artist. Who?
After a particularly high bid, one of the pair of dealers swung his head around and searched the crowd. He had obviously reached his limit. Nora followed the dealer’s gaze to the rear of the room. There was a long pause. Walton raised his brows. Up came a hand. The crowd buzzed the name: Sidney Teller.
Nora chewed her lip. She knew the name. He worked for the Blair Bank. He was married to a Blair. Of course, Charles Walker Blair’s brother-in-law! She gripped her pencil tightly.
The dealer and Sidney Teller parried higher. Heads volleyed back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. Nora’s eyes remained on Teller.
After a satisfactorily high bid, the match seemed to end. The bid was out of the dealer’s bounds. He paused. Sidney Teller smiled.
Now the second dealer craned his neck to the far side of the room. Once again, like a wave, all the heads followed his line of vision. Nora inched herself up for a better view.
From the side rose a cane.
A wave of shock swept the room. Agatha Blair bidding against her own son-in-law! What a story. The crescendo of wagging tongues rose to such a point that Walton had to strain to follow the bids. Nora sat stunned as the bidding shot back and forth, with fury. Neither Teller nor Blair cast a glance away from the auctioneer, but sparks of hostility and competition filled the room.