The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Ronald had cautioned me that judges almost always deny a request to dismiss, that he considered it a long shot at best, but his arguments were so persuasive I found it impossible to believe the judge wouldn’t agree.

  But he didn’t, and despite Ronald’s warning, I was crushed.

  Edwin, there is no doubt that the result of this trial is guaranteed by Thomas Quinton’s money and arm-twisting, his quest to move the collection out of Merion, which he knows I won’t allow and Ada will. This has all the markings of shady deal making: Quinton gets me out of the way for Ada, and Ada turns her collection over to him and his buddy Ralph Knight at the PMA. Not to mention that Ada, the love of his life, will be so filled with gratitude for sending her nemesis to the electric chair that she will surely agree to marry him.

  I fear that whether I’m innocent or guilty isn’t going to matter, that the evidence isn’t going to matter, that logic isn’t going to matter. That I’m a dead woman.

  34

  Vivienne, 1927

  After the trust termination papers are signed, Edwin begins to lose weight and his skin takes on an unhealthy sheen. He’s listless, coughing and wheezing, getting next to no work done. He stops going into the factory, sleeps late in the morning, and often naps in the afternoon. Vivienne watches his decline with horror and self-loathing and, yes, grief. She can’t believe she finds herself in a position where she’s anxiously anticipating the death of a man who, for the most part, she respects and cares about.

  Nor is it just the cancer that’s eating at Edwin. Although he managed to best Quinton, avoid state takeover, and is now in full possession of the collection, he construes the termination as a failure. Vivienne tries to convince him this isn’t the case, but he refuses to accept her arguments, and she worries that at any moment he’ll renege on the decision he believes he was coerced into making.

  George may have underestimated Edwin’s stubbornness, but he was right about everything else. She is now the rightful heir; soon the Bradley building and every piece of art in it will be hers, to do with as she pleases. Loath as she is to admit it, this good fortune is, in large part, due to George.

  He’s a complicated man, and her feelings for him are just as complicated. If she were a better painter she could bring her conflicted emotions to life in a portrait of him: cool blue for friendship, dark crimson for revenge, vivid green for respect, high red for passion, black for hatred. Plus a slash of orange for frustration: now that she’s finally free to call the police, George has disappeared. But he’ll be back to collect his spoils.

  Months pass and George doesn’t return, while Edwin’s moods grow even darker. One morning, Vivienne is staring out the window instead of working on the curricula on her desk when Edwin stomps into her office. “I can’t believe that now that you’ve got exactly what you want, you’re moping around like a sick puppy,” he gripes. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Vivienne picks up her pen. “Just under the weather, I guess.”

  “Then take some aspirin,” he says, unimpressed. “You’re the one who got us into this predicament—and you’re the one who has to figure a way out.”

  Edwin still hasn’t told her about his diagnosis—nor does she believe he’s confided in anyone else, including Ada—but it’s clear he’s taking some kind of new medicine, and it seems to be working. Over the past few weeks, he’s pulled out of his lethargy, gained a few pounds, returned to the factory, and the naps have ceased. Unfortunately, whatever is in the drug is also making him extremely irritable. For a man who’s already perpetually bad tempered, this is a disaster for everyone around him.

  While she’s growing accustomed to his venom, it worms its way into her. He’s now completely soured on the termination, and she’s to blame for everything that’s followed: the absurdly high tax bill, the absurdly high estimate for the conservation work on the collection, the absurdly high interest rate the bank is proposing on his loan. It’s all her fault because she was the one who pushed him into signing the papers—not his fault because he signed them.

  Her aggrieved musings are interrupted by a knock on her door. It’s Sally McDonald, Edwin’s secretary, a plump, clever woman about ten years older than Vivienne, who started working at the Bradley about a year ago. “Stop daydreaming,” she orders cheerfully. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  Vivienne makes a face. “No,” she says. “Nothing to do at all.”

  Sally laughs. “Don’t let the grump hear you say that.”

  They’ve become friends of a sort. When Vivienne found Sally crying at her desk after a vicious and unwarranted attack by Edwin, Vivienne comforted her, sharing Edwin stories of her own. Now they surreptitiously roll their eyes at each other when he’s being an ass, giggle and console one another when he’s at the factory. Sometimes they have lunch together, but Sally usually eats at her desk so she can go home earlier to her husband and three children.

  Sally surveys Vivienne’s face. “He up to his usual?”

  Vivienne rolls her eyes.

  Sally holds a stack of mail. “This should perk you up,” she says. “A letter from your favorite artist.” She hands Vivienne an envelope with a French stamp and Henri’s unmistakable handwriting.

  “Thanks.” Although Vivienne has never spoken with Sally about her relationship with Henri, the older woman often teases her about him.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it,” Sally says, closing the door behind her.

  Vivienne rips the envelope open. “The end is near,” the first line reads, “win or lose.” Henri goes on to explain that he’s finished cutting out the pink, blue, black, and gray paper shapes—as well as trimming them and pinning them to the canvas. After more than a little rearranging and reshaping, he released his assistants and booked passage to the States. He expects to arrive in Merion, along with the crated canvases, by the first of the year.

  It does perk her up.

  The day Henri arrives is bright and clear, although cold. She and Edwin rush to the front door when Sally tells them a car and a large truck are entering the drive. Vivienne reminds herself to remain attentive to Edwin. To avoid looking directly into Henri’s eyes. To keep as much physical distance between herself and Henri as possible. To be friendly yet businesslike—until they can be alone.

  For the first few days of his visit, she manages to do just that. She’s a paragon of virtue: helpful and solicitous to Henri, as any hostess would be to an important guest; responsive to Edwin’s needs, as any good assistant would be to her boss. But this grows more difficult. It’s as if every nerve in her body is buzzing, inflamed. Seeing Henri, being with him, laughing with him, fuels her longing, and she worries that her craving is for more than just sexual release.

  Classes have been canceled from Monday through Wednesday, and Dance II is being installed in the four days between the end of the last class on Saturday and the beginning of the first class on Thursday. This would be more than enough time if it weren’t for the glue. Outside temperatures don’t usually affect the inside of the building because of its thick plaster walls. But because of a weeklong cold snap, the glue is taking an overly long time to dry. This is frustrating for everyone, but Henri suffers the most.

  Vivienne finds it remarkable that a man of Henri Matisse’s stature and talent can be so unsure of the merit of his work. He watches uneasily while a small army of laborers climbs ladders, spreads the glue, places the first canvas, and begins to smooth it down with long, oversize brooms. Then he paces, muttering to himself as he walks the first floor’s thirteen galleries, climbs the stairs, and walks the second floor’s ten, stands mute behind the railing facing the mural. He then returns to the main gallery and does it again.

  Midafternoon on Tuesday, Vivienne sends Edwin to get Henri some whiskey to still his nerves. This gives them a few minutes alone. They step into an alcove near the stairs and press together until there’s no space between them. “When can you get away?” she asks, trying to keep her voice soft, but the deep throa
tiness of the words sends them bouncing against the walls.

  “Tomorrow night,” he whispers. “I have to go to a party with Edwin tonight. But tomorrow after you finish work, I will come to you. There is something important we must discuss.”

  “Yes,” she breathes, feeling his heat and his hardness. “So many things to talk about.”

  There are footfalls on the floor above, and they spring apart. Henri resumes his pacing, and Vivienne stands against the wall, staring at the incomplete mural, trying to still her breathing before Edwin comes down the stairs.

  A few hours later, when the last of the laborers climb from their ladders, Henri stares up at the first third of his mural, fixed in its place. A radiant smile spreads over his face. He turns to Vivienne. “It is good, no?”

  “Far more than good,” she assures him. “Stupendous.”

  Edwin is equally pleased. “I can’t imagine how magnificent it’s going to be when all three canvases are together.”

  She takes this opportunity to give Henri another hug and then steps quickly away.

  35

  George/István, 1927

  It’s an opal, round and full but not ostentatiously so, fiery with pink and turquoise, surrounded by a circle of tiny diamonds set in platinum filigree. Thirteen diamonds, a quarter carat apiece. The ring is tasteful and timeless, and he has no doubt Ada will adore it. He’s been trying to develop more of an appreciation for her, to focus on her intelligence and quiet passion, her faded beauty, instead of her age and neediness. It’s best when he warms to his marks, as it enhances his apparent sincerity. But she doesn’t make this easy.

  He’s at Ker-Feal for the weekend, and as is always the case, Bradley has remained in Merion. In the course of his mock courting of Ada, he’s surprised himself by developing an interest in botany and horticulture. Remarkably, he enjoys getting his hands in the soil.

  He’s particularly fond of Ker-Feal, especially the botanical gardens Ada created at the edge of an abandoned quarry on the property, where he sits. In the fall, he planted bushels of daffodil, tulip, and hyacinth bulbs, but now he’s bundled in a heavy coat and there are few signs of life. After the bulbs winter over and the spring sunshine warms them, there will be a riot of color where the edge of the quarry climbs to the trees. This juxtaposition of flowers and water and rock will be soothing, and he wishes it were like that now.

  Although he’s pleased with his steady progress on the Bradley scam, there are a few areas of concern. He’s frustrated that after more than a year of plying Paulien with his most reliably seductive moves, she’s still holding herself back, unable or unwilling to let go of her grudge. Every once in a while she forgets their history and allows her true feelings to ignite, but then she remembers and snuffs them out.

  The long-distance affair she’s having with Henri Matisse might be a factor. But Matisse is a notorious playboy and has had many dalliances in the past, of which she must be aware. Paulien has learned a lot in the past five years and won’t be the easy prey she once was. It’s the glow on her face when she speaks of Matisse, who is currently in Merion installing a mural at the Bradley, that concerns him.

  Plus, with the termination of the Bradley trust a fait accompli, she no longer needs anything from him, and she will surely try to have him arrested. Which is why he’s disappeared from her sight. Although the American police would have difficulty developing a charge that would stick, any contact with criminal authorities is to be avoided. She also plans to renege on her promise to give him the remainder of Bradley’s collection—she would have to be dim witted to do anything else—but he’s taken precautions to ensure this won’t occur.

  There’s also the small problem of Edwin Bradley, who, regrettably, must die. And soon. According to Ada, who knows nothing of the real cause of Edwin’s maladies, he’s been feeling better of late. But all scams call for strategic adjustments along the way, and fortunately he’s an expert at this, agile and quick thinking, open to alternatives. He’s overcome a myriad of problems in each of his previous undertakings and had wild success with each at the end. The end is all that matters.

  His toes are numb and despite his thick gloves, his fingers are, too. He stands and begins the hike back to the house. He calculates that Bradley’s collection is worth somewhere between $20 million and $30 million. A hefty take indeed. Made even greater because of the low cost involved in the initial preparations. He didn’t even need to bribe Thomas Quinton.

  It’s always easier when you find a tool who wants exactly what you want. Quinton’s eyes lit up when Cooper Robinson suggested that the disrepair of the Bradley building and collection could be used to show the need for a state takeover. And if Quinton wished, Cooper, Quinton’s young, brash, and blond poker buddy, would be happy to provide any specific details that might be useful in verifying the claim. Quinton wished.

  As he walks over the rocky expanse, he calculates a number of scenarios that will put Bradley—and, if necessary, Matisse—out of the picture. Some are more promising than others; some are more depraved than others. Being squeamish is no way to win. Especially in a game this big.

  After dinner is over and the maid clears the plates, he and Ada stay at the table, sipping a vintage port and discussing an expansion of the beds to the west of the house.

  “I’m in correspondence with a horticulturist in England,” Ada is saying. “He’s a master at designing these types of—”

  He presses his finger lightly to her lips and smiles so that his dimples flex and his eyes shine.

  “What?” she asks flirtatiously.

  “You are so lovely.”

  She blushes. “You make me feel like a young girl again.”

  “Would you like to feel that way all the time?”

  “Wouldn’t everyone?”

  He drops to one knee and takes the ring box from his pocket, flips it open. “Marry me.”

  Ada gasps. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” He takes her left hand in his, removes her wedding band, and slips the opal on her finger. It fits perfectly, as he knew it would; he sized it from one of her other rings.

  “Oh,” is all she says, staring at the stone and moving her hand back and forth to catch the light. “Oh, István, you didn’t.”

  “I want to spend the rest of my life making you feel young,” he declares, forcing his eyes to moisten. “I love you.”

  “It’s . . . it’s astounding,” she stammers. “It’s perfect, and I adore it. But you know I’m married. A Catholic. I don’t understand.”

  He sits back in his chair and takes both her hands in his. “Do you love me?”

  “I do. Yes. You know that. And I want to marry you, but I can’t just . . . I can’t walk away from my vows—”

  “You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.”

  “It’s not that simple . . .”

  “If you love me, then that’s all there is. We must be together.”

  Ada dissolves into tears, and he moves to the chair next to hers and holds her while she cries. “It’s all right, my darling,” he murmurs into her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”

  She lifts her tearstained face to him, and there’s no loveliness there; she’s sad and anxious and reminds him of his aunt Selma, his mother’s older sister, which isn’t a compliment. “As much as I long to, want to, I can’t do it.” She takes the opal ring off her finger and tucks it into his palm, closing his hand around it. Then she returns her wedding band to its place. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you—and me—but it goes against everything I believe in. And without that, who am I?”

  He opens his hand and looks sadly at the ring, blinks as if holding back tears. “I had so hoped . . .” He allows his voice to trail off. There’s nothing else to say.

  His contingency plan is in place.

  36

  Vivienne, 1928

  A warm front comes through overnight and the temperature jumps from twenty degrees to over sixty. Because of this, the remain
ing two panels go up more easily and faster than the first. Dance II is better than anyone, including Henri, expected. It frolics and leaps, sings and gambols, leads the eye across the great expanse and loops it back around again. This mural is simpler than his earlier flawed attempt, lighter and more carefree, the colors perfect. It’s hard to imagine anything else in that space.

  “Oh, Henri,” Vivienne breathes, incapable of expressing the impact his mural is having on her. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s just, well, it just is.”

  Edwin is far more articulate. “The way the radiant light streams through the gallery,” he says in a hushed voice, “like a rose window in a cathedral.”

  They stand in reverential silence until Sally hurries in and approaches Edwin. “It’s Mr. Hermans,” she tells him. “From the Bank of Philadelphia.” Sally looks from Vivienne to Henri and then back to Edwin. She lowers her voice. “He sounds upset.”

  Edwin pulls himself from Dance II and follows Sally to his office. Vivienne knows his casualness is a sham and that he isn’t happy Sally mentioned trouble in front of Henri. Despite Gertrude’s allegations that he’s always waving his checkbook around, Edwin is very private about the state of his financial affairs.

  But the Bradley’s money problems aren’t Vivienne’s priority at the moment. “After such a long day inside,” she says to Henri with great propriety, “I’m sure you’d like to stretch your legs, Monsieur Matisse. How about a walk, now that it’s turned balmy outside?”

  “What an excellent suggestion, Miss Gregsby,” he answers with equal decorum. “Shall we?”

  As they follow the paths winding through the grounds closest to the house, they keep a proper distance between them and talk in platitudes in case they’re overheard by one of the gardeners, who even in winter are always roaming the premises.