“That’s great, Vee.”
Thankfully, Ruby stepped in, asking Finn about Europe, and he regaled her with stories about careening through Naples on a Vespa and dining on octopus in Portugal. What a shame their parents weren’t alive to see what a success he’d made of himself: a worldly, charismatic musician who made money playing the very songs they had loved.
Finn interrupted himself mid-story and pointed to Virginia. “You look way better than you did before.”
Xavier stepped back. “My work here is done.”
Virginia went over to a gilded mirror in the front hallway. He’d cut it short, in a boyish pixie. The lack of hair around her neck highlighted her chin and jawline. “I like it. Thank you.”
“Like it? You look fabulous.” Xavier gave her a hug.
Finn showed them to the guest room, where a daisy-print coverlet clashed with the foil-patterned wallpaper.
Ruby changed into a pair of pajamas and snuggled under the covers while Virginia unpacked. “You’re not mad at me, are you, for bringing you here?”
It was way better than the alternatives. “Of course not. This was a good idea. I’m glad you and your uncle are close. You did well.”
Ruby turned over and curled into a ball, whispering, “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Virginia wandered back out into the dark apartment, not ready to sleep. She quietly made some tea and sat at the lemon-yellow Formica table, reading through the insurance company binder she’d brought from the apartment, trying to make sense of the legalese.
Damn.
The deductible for the apartment policy was huge. She’d been trying to cut costs in order to afford her dream apartment. Which was now ruined. She’d be able to pay it off, but just barely. And not right away.
Her neck itched from the haircut, and the overwrought decor made her jumpy. There was no way she could sleep. She let herself out and took the elevator down to the first floor. The bar was still hopping, but she found a single seat.
A man with a thick head of white hair tended the bar. A silver fox. That’s how Betsy would describe him. One of the lucky ones who wasn’t losing more hair with every passing decade.
“What would you like?” He spoke with an Irish lilt that reminded Virginia of her grandparents.
“I’ll have a Jameson. Where are you from?”
“Dublin. Came over a few years ago.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Ryan.”
Virginia introduced herself. “My parents were Irish. Lived in Hell’s Kitchen, and my dad owned a pub there.”
“That so? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It was a dive.” Her father had owned the bar on the ground floor of their building his entire life, showing up every day in black pants, a white shirt, and a tie, as if he were an accountant. His sad, hound-dog eyes—which Finn had inherited—and quiet demeanor seemed completely wrong for the owner of a West Side Irish bar, but they worked in his favor. His regulars knew they were the focus, that they’d be listened to and sided with as they ranted about their jobs or their wives, that he’d laugh at their jokes. Seeing Finn again made Virginia ache for her father. She shook it off. “This place, though, is fabulous. The murals are the perfect touch, low-key but lovely.”
“Done by a man named Ludwig Bemelmans.”
“Hence the name of the bar.”
“Hence.” Ryan’s skin was smooth, unlined. Must be from all that Irish fog. Put him on a trawler in a fisherman’s sweater and he’d make a great ad for frozen fish sticks.
She rambled on, driven by edgy exhaustion. “I came in with my daughter earlier; we met up with my brother, who plays here. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“That’s right, I saw you before with Finn. You’re his sister?”
She nodded. “We’re going to be staying with him for a little while. Him and Xavier.”
“That’s great; maybe we’ll see more of you, then. Great haircut, by the way. Suits you.”
She touched a tendril near her ears. “Thanks.”
A new group of customers burst through the doors, tourists carrying shopping bags, cameras slung around their necks. Virginia took another few sips of her drink before waving good-bye to Ryan and retreating to her brother’s lair.
CHAPTER TEN
November 1974
Virginia filtered through the lunch-hour crowds outside Grand Central. Thanksgiving was in two days, and the pedestrians bustled about with pre-holiday zeal. Yesterday, in between stacking brochures, she’d snuck in a whispered call to the Art Students League, one of the top art schools in Manhattan, and to her surprise, she had gotten a meeting with a curator there. She figured if the watercolor was worthless, the curator would tell her without making her feel like an idiot, as opposed to presenting herself as a laughingstock to the people at Sotheby Parke Bernet. If so, that would be fine. She’d frame it and enjoy looking at it just as much as if it were worth a thousand dollars. And if it happened to be worth something, as much as she’d hate to part with it, perhaps she’d have enough to pay off the deductible on the insurance. In any case, she wanted to know more about Clara Darden and Levon Zakarian and how the canvas might have ended up stuck behind a cabinet at the Grand Central School of Art.
She’d been inside the Art Students League many years ago, during a field trip for an undergraduate seminar, but she had never really studied the grandeur of the exterior. The embellished five-story building looked like it belonged on a Paris boulevard, not on Fifty-Seventh Street, but the ornate detailing did seem fitting for an art school. Inside, she encountered a hive of activity, with students of all ages, from eighteen to eighty, passing along the hallways, calling out to one another.
Virginia waited in a second-floor gallery where students’ work was on display, as well as a small pamphlet on the history of the school. It had been founded in 1875, and artists like Pollock, O’Keeffe, and Norman Rockwell had studied there.
A young woman with long black braids approached. “Ms. Clay?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Janice Russo.”
“You’re the curator I’m supposed to meet with?” Not what she expected. The girl was young and so pretty.
Janice clearly heard her surprised tone. “That’s right. I have a PhD in art history, and I’m the curator for the school.”
“How fantastic. Good for you.”
“Thanks.”
Virginia kicked herself for assuming it would be a crusty old man, for falling into the trap of assuming such a thing. It made her feel older than ever.
“They said you had something to show me?” Janice led her into a small office off the gallery, where a desk took up most of the space. One wall was devoted to bookshelves, with oversize art books taking up the bottom row, and the thin spines of auction catalogs lined up in date order along the top. “Have a seat.”
Virginia pulled the portfolio out of her bag. “I found this artwork the other day and was curious about it. I noticed it looks a lot like a painting by Levon Zakarian that’s up for auction.” She took out the auction catalog and opened it to the earmarked page. “I was hoping you’d take a look and tell me what you think.”
The curator opened the portfolio and let out a sharp breath. She pulled the painting close and examined it carefully, not touching anything but the very edges, looking back and forth from the catalog to the paper. “What strikes me is that the brushstrokes are quite similar. Like it’s a trial run for the real thing. It’s watercolor, though, not oil. To my knowledge, Zakarian only worked in oil, using the impasto method. He was known to have detested watercolor, for some reason.”
“What’s impasto? Sounds like a noodle dish.”
Janice laughed. “No, it’s a technique where the paint is laid down very thickly, so that the work has a lot of texture. Like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Basically, it’s the opposite of watercolor.”