The Art of Confidence

by Wendy Lee

  You sure have, Caroline thought. She was beginning to feel more positive again. If Harold Yu had never gotten in touch with her, it was likely he hadn’t read Sandro’s e-mail. A busy man like that must get hundreds of e-mails a day; it could have even gone into his spam folder. Or maybe he had read it and thought it was a prank. “The desire to believe is a powerful thing,” she remembered Peter saying.

  “Let’s call it even,” Caroline told Sandro. “You have your check, I have your painting. And that other thing . . . we don’t have to speak of it ever again. Or the fact that you broke into my apartment.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Sandro said lazily.

  After he left, Caroline looked at the painting of his that she’d purchased. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to have it in plain sight, as it would forever remind her of the useless crime she’d committed. But she would put it in storage, just in case it became valuable someday.

  * * *

  At first, Caroline didn’t mention to anyone that the gallery would be closing—not Peter, and not even Molly, even though she supposed she should, given that the girl would be out of a job soon. Then Rose Schaeffer, Molly’s mother, called her one evening.

  “Has Molly told you her news yet?” Rose asked.

  “That she’s been offered a place in a group show?”

  “I didn’t hear about that. She’s going back to school in the fall. I’m so relieved.”

  As was Caroline, since now it would be easier to tell her assistant that she no longer had a place to work. “That’s great news.”

  “I told Caleb that if we didn’t interfere, she’d eventually come around and do the right thing. Whereas if we did what he wanted, which was to completely cut her off, she’d probably never speak to us again.”

  “I don’t think that would happen. From what I’ve heard her say about you and her father, you have a pretty good relationship.”

  “I’m glad you think that.” Rose paused. “I just wanted to thank you, Caro, for taking her in at such a confusing time in her life. I know you didn’t want to, but having this job has given her such stability. She’s lucky to have you, and I am, too.”

  If only her friend knew what had really been going on at the gallery that summer. Caroline tried to divert attention from herself. “Molly seems like a levelheaded girl, and a talented artist. You should be proud of her.”

  “You know, I’ve never seen her work. Maybe I’ll ask her to show it to me before she leaves to go back to school.”

  Before they said good-bye, Caroline added, “Oh, what did you think of the squirrel vase?”

  “What squirrel vase? Oh . . . yes.”

  “Molly and I thought you would really like it,” Caroline couldn’t resist saying.

  “It’s certainly unusual, isn’t it?”

  Caroline let several seconds pass before she said, “Who are we kidding? It’s ridiculous!” and both of them laughed.

  The next morning, when Molly came into work, Caroline said, “Your mother called to say you’re going back to school.”

  “I meant to tell you—”

  “That’s fine. I should have told you earlier that the Lowry Gallery is closing down next month. The landlord is planning to sell the building to a real estate developer.”

  An odd look crossed Molly’s face, so quickly that Caroline wondered if she had registered it properly. “I’m sorry to hear that. What are you going to do?”

  Caroline threw her hands up in the air. “What is there to do? I knew this was going to happen at some point, that the market value of the space would be more than I could pay. I was just postponing the inevitable.”

  “You could start the gallery somewhere else.”

  “Like Williamsburg?”

  “Or Ridgewood, in Queens. I met a friend there recently, and it looked like several galleries were opening.”

  Caroline shook her head. “I appreciate your suggestions, Molly, but I think it’s time for me to get out of the game. At least here in the city. Speaking of Williamsburg, though, did you decide whether you were going to participate in that group show?”

  “I turned the offer down.”

  “Because you’re going back to school.”

  Molly looked down. “Because I realized I wasn’t ready. You helped me make that that decision, actually.”

  Caroline couldn’t remember what she had said to Molly, and hoped she hadn’t steered her on the wrong path. But if the girl felt she wasn’t ready to show her work, she wasn’t ready.

  Next, she called Peter and told him the gallery was closing.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “But don’t blame yourself. You did everything you could—and more—to save it.”

  “I feel like I’ve failed Hazel.”

  “You kept the Lowry Gallery running for thirty years, against all odds. That’s more than anyone expected you to do. Do you think that if Hazel were still alive, she’d still have her gallery? Too much has changed in the art world since then.”

  Caroline considered Peter’s scenario. If Hazel had lived, she’d be around seventy-five, way past retirement, although Caroline could imagine her still living in her walk-up apartment like the Greeleys. As for where Caroline would be, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d have gone back to San Francisco, tried to rekindle things with Bob. She did know she would not have gotten involved in the art business.

  Caroline knew Peter would spread the word and soon condolences started to trickle in, from artists and art dealers, framers and gallery owners she hadn’t heard from in years. Those who were old enough to remember Hazel mentioned her, while others lamented the rising property costs and confided to her their own real estate woes. Not many people asked her what she planned to do next, and she realized they already considered her out of the picture.

  Then one afternoon, Caroline picked up the phone to hear an elderly woman’s quavering voice. “Is this Caroline Lowry?”

  “Yes,” Caroline replied. “How may I help you?”

  “This is Naomi Cantrell.” The woman paused to let the words sink in. Caroline recalled the elegantly dressed woman who showed up at Hazel’s memorial at the Lowry Gallery. Naomi Cantrell had been a few years older than her husband, so she must be in her mideighties by now.

  “What can I do for you, Naomi?” Caroline asked politely.

  “I heard you were closing your gallery and wanted to have you over for tea. I know you must be quite busy,” Naomi continued in her measured, gravelly voice, prompting Caroline to get over her momentary surprise.

  “Of course I’d be happy to have tea with you.”

  After they settled on a date, Naomi gave Caroline directions to her apartment on Park Avenue, and they hung up. Afterward, Caroline wondered if the old woman just wanted to reminisce about the past, or did she have another motivation? So many years had gone by, so many people gone. Naomi couldn’t possibly harbor any bitterness toward Hazel anymore, or Caroline as her aunt’s proxy.

  Feeling that she still represented her aunt and the gallery, Caroline dressed carefully for her lunch date with Naomi. When she arrived at the building off of Park Avenue, she was ushered by the doorman into the elevator, which opened directly into a foyer. There a maid led her through several expansive rooms furnished with what appeared to be eighteenth-century French furniture, shrouded in near darkness from the drawn curtains, and into a sitting room that had the aura of a mausoleum.

  The figure on the sofa was half-hidden in shadows, but when the maid announced Caroline’s presence, she leaned forward and Caroline saw that it was indeed Naomi Cantrell, whom she hadn’t seen since Hazel’s funeral. The years had diminished her height, turned her hair pure white, her skin as fine and translucent as paper, but jewels still winked at her earlobes and flashed on her hand as she gestured for Caroline to sit diagonally from her. The same maid brought in a tray of tea for the table in between them, served it, and then receded into the background.

  “How did you hear the gallery was closing?�
� Caroline asked.

  “It might surprise you, but I’ve been following your gallery for years. Since you took over for Hazel, actually. You’ve had some impressive shows.”

  “And some not-so-impressive shows, especially lately,” Caroline interjected.

  “I won’t pretend I know anything about the art business,” Naomi continued. “I simply know what I like.” With a nod of her head she indicated the paintings on the walls around them.

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the semidarkness, Caroline was able to see some of the paintings, which seemed to be mostly from the 1960s, Andrew Cantrell’s contemporaries, at distinct odds with the furniture. One of them appeared somewhat familiar, a white canvas with a red circle migrating to the top right-hand corner like a wayward sun. Then she recognized it as the Mark Finnegan painting she’d discovered in the basement of Hazel’s building not long after Hazel had died, which at Peter’s suggestion she’d put up for auction. It had unexpectedly fetched 1.2 million dollars from an anonymous buyer, and had allowed Caroline to keep the gallery open.

  Caroline set down her teacup so as not to spill anything. “It was you. You were the one who bought the Mark Finnegan painting at the auction.”

  Naomi inclined her head in acknowledgment. “A very good investment that was, too. It’s now worth at least twice that. But it happens to be a painting that I like, so I’ll never sell it.”

  She would never need to sell it, Caroline thought. But that couldn’t be the whole story, that Naomi had bought the painting simply because she’d liked it. “Did you know I needed the money to fund the gallery?” she asked.

  “You’re asking if I had another motivation aside from my own whims?”

  “There must be.”

  “In order to explain,” Naomi said, “you must understand what Andrew’s and my marriage was like. From the moment we met, people accused him of going after my fortune. Members of my own family said that. But we lived quite frugally, first in the city in a modest apartment in the East Village, then later in my family’s farmhouse in East Hampton.”

  “Hazel mentioned the place, that it wasn’t your typical summer home.”

  “No, it wasn’t. My mother would take me there during the summers when I was young, and I played with local children who lived year-round in similar houses—only theirs belonged to working farms. It was a lovely, quaint place, and that’s why I wanted Andrew and I to move out there—not because, as the tabloids suggested, I wanted more distance between him and his mistress. I knew I couldn’t keep him from going to the city, and I couldn’t keep him from seeing or communicating with Hazel. And then the fire occurred.”

  “Hazel said you were away at a charity function that night?”

  “For the New York Public Library, I think. Or the City Opera. In any case, I was in the city when all that happened. Later, from the police, I learned that Hazel had been with him that night, although according to her testimony she left hours before the blaze started. She swore she had nothing to do with it.”

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened that night. I prefer to think that she wasn’t involved, although after it happened, I was looking for someone to blame. You have to remember, I went out to the farmhouse early the next morning, as soon as I’d heard. I saw the ruins of the studio, the bits of charred canvas. Andrew’s body was burned beyond recognition. He had to be identified by his medical records. Imagine, I wasn’t even able to identify my own husband. I swore I would never forgive Hazel for that.”

  “But you did forgive her.”

  “Many years later, after she died. I realized at her death, aside from her gallery, she was completely alone.” Naomi corrected herself. “She had you, of course. But I mean that with Andrew’s death, someone was taken away from her, too. Growing up as an only child, with the kind of family I was born into, I was never expected to share. And I couldn’t share Andrew with anyone while he was alive, not with another woman. I didn’t want to acknowledge that he and Hazel had a relationship just as real as ours, if not more so.” Naomi gave a short laugh. “You know, Andrew never dedicated any of his paintings to me. But he dedicated one to her. Wrote it on the back of the painting, plain as day.”

  Caroline’s hands grew cold. “Which painting?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  “Elegy. Hazel inspired that painting in many different ways. I thought I could never forgive her for that. But after many years, in death, I could finally do it.”

  “So, is that why you came to Hazel’s memorial? Why you bought the Mark Finnegan painting?”

  “Yes. By that time I’d regretted the way I’d treated Hazel and wanted to make amends. I saw that the Lowry Gallery was putting a Mark Finnegan painting up for auction—an artist whom Andrew knew and was friends with, by the way—and it just made sense to buy it. From an investment, aesthetic, and cathartic standpoint.”

  Caroline could see that. “Well,” she said, “I want to thank you for doing that. Without those initial funds, the Lowry Gallery would have had to close after Hazel passed.”

  “And you’ve kept it going since then. She would be proud of you.”

  They finished their tea, and Caroline said good-bye to Naomi. She waited until she was outside of Naomi’s building before she allowed herself to think about what she’d just learned about Elegy and its very visible mark of authenticity. Who other than Naomi knew about the dedication? She had to lean against the side of the building, breathing deeply to keep her mind from racing away from her.

  She’d already dodged a bullet in that Harold Yu had never responded to Sandro’s e-mail. But she’d thought that even if Mr. Yu decided to question the authenticity of the painting, the painting’s materials, Peter’s analysis, and the provenance she had provided would stand the test. If Mr. Yu found out the original painting had a dedication on the back, there was nothing she could to do explain its absence on the painting she had sold him.

  Caroline would never know what Mr. Yu thought about the painting. But one thing was certain: She would never feel safe again for the rest of her life.

  * * *

  With the Lowry Gallery officially closed, Caroline started to look for a new apartment. It was, she thought ironically, what she had been intending to do more than thirty years ago when she’d moved to New York after her divorce, before she found out Hazel was sick and moved in with her.

  She ended up in an apartment in Long Island City, on the second floor of a yellow vinyl-sided house. The rest of the street contained warehouses and buildings advertising artists’ lofts. While she didn’t think she was going to get involved in the art business again, she liked the thought of being close to people who were creating art. In the evenings she’d walk down to Gantry Park, amid the young couples and families who lived in the luxury waterfront buildings nearby, and gaze at the midtown Manhattan skyline across the East River. On one of those walks she thought about Mr. Liu and how she’d paid him a pittance compared to what his painting of Elegy had sold for. Maybe it was too late to give him what he had earned, but she had some money left over. She could try to make up for her various deceits.

  Now more familiar with this borough’s subway lines, she wasn’t as confused as she’d been before in taking the train to Elmhurst. She rang the bell for his first-floor apartment. No one answered. After spending a few minutes ringing the bell and knocking, she walked around to the back, where she saw that the gate to the fence around the small backyard and garage was open. She remembered he used the garage as a studio, so she slipped in. The windows were still partially covered with black trash bags, but she was able to glimpse inside. The space was empty, cleared of any paintings or artist paraphernalia.

  “Hey!” someone called from the back door.

  Caroline whirled around, feeling like a thief. A man stood on the cracked concrete step, possibly the same one she’d disturbed the first time she’d come to Mr. Liu’s studio.

 
“You want something, lady?” he asked.

  Caroline gathered herself. “I’m looking for Mr. Liu.”

  “Don’t know where he is. He moved out without paying rent. Landlord’s looking for him.”

  “How long ago?

  The man scratched his head. “Two weeks?”

  “I don’t suppose he left a forwarding address?”

  “A what address?”

  “Never mind. Do you have any idea where he went?”

  The man shrugged. “Maybe he went back to his own country.”

  If Caroline remembered correctly, Liu had told her he had been in America for thirty years, so she didn’t think he’d pack up and go back to China now. But if he was in need of money and couldn’t pay his rent, maybe he had left the city. She thought of the check in her purse, written out to him for thirty thousand dollars. It was too little, too late.

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

  The man swept his arm toward the gate with exaggerated politeness for her to leave, and Caroline quickly did so. She didn’t suppose Liu was about to come back, or there was any way to locate him. But at least she had tried.

  At the end of the block, she went down into the subway station, heading back to her new home. Maybe now she’d find out who she could be, as she’d intended to do thirty years ago when she’d arrived in New York City, standing in front of her aunt Hazel’s building.

  Chapter 12

  After the painting was taken away from me, I tried to immerse myself in my work—my classes, my sidewalk sales—all of which were growing more hollow by the day. I hadn’t realized how much I’d depended on working on the painting to distract myself from Jin’s absence. Without that, I had to focus all my attention on finding out where she’d gone. I had been operating too long on the principle that if she wanted to come back, she knew where I was—a solid enough reasoning if you’ve lost your dog, but not your wife. With your wife, I knew now, you needed to go after her.

  Jin’s sister, Hong, was the most likely person to know where she was. I had never met her in person before, but I knew she had come to America more than ten years before Jin had. I believe they were actually half sisters, sharing the same father, who had married Jin’s mother after his first wife had died. Their family lived in Guangzhou in the south of China, and in the intervening years between the sisters’ births, you could tell the direction of the country. Hong’s name meant “red,” the color of communism; Jin’s name meant “gold,” the commodity that supplanted patriotism.