She knew exactly what he was talking about. To her, Ruby was frozen in time, the happy girl with grand plans and knobby knees, even when she knew Ruby was a grown woman. “I get what you mean.”
“I still see this place as it was in the forties.” Terrence looked about, and she did as well, trying to picture what he described. “Gleaming and beautiful. A masterpiece. The red carpet rolled out for the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago right there on track 34.”
She smiled as if she hadn’t heard the same thing a week earlier from Dennis. Boys and their trains.
“You see up there?” He pointed to the blackened ceiling. “That used to be a vivid turquoise color.”
Virginia laughed. He was teasing her. “No way. I don’t believe that one bit.” But he didn’t crack a smile. “In any event, it’s like a cave now, dark and scary. I don’t think many other people see it the way you do.”
“I suppose so.” His face took on a sad cast.
An irate man in a black top hat banged on the window. Terrence sighed, removed the WINDOW CLOSED placard, and patiently explained that the man’s mastiff would not be allowed on the train to Greenwich, under any circumstances.
After work, as Virginia waited for the elevator to the Penn Central offices, the metal grillwork above the doors caught her eyes. Like the filigree, the design was complicated and showy. A slew of wrought iron vines twisted around the floor indicator, and recessed in the marble trim immediately above was a leaf-and-acorn wreath in bronze. The terminal was like a giant gallery of hidden art; you just had to know where to look. What was that expression from her art major days? Memento mori, where an object in the artwork served as a warning of death. Usually, it was a skull or an hourglass, a bowl of rotting fruit. Grand Central, in its decaying splendor, was the embodiment of a memento mori work of art. If it came down, Terrence’s heart would be broken.
Virginia put on fresh lipstick as the car rose. She asked the receptionist to announce her to Dennis and planted herself in the same chair she’d waited in a week ago.
Dennis shambled out, looking tired, but when he saw her, he put his hands on his hips and laughed. “Look at that haircut. I love it. Very French.”
“Thanks.”
“Come right this way. I don’t have much time, but I think you’ll be impressed.” He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her, leaving it there a little longer than necessary, and she felt a zing of desire.
On a table inside his office, a large white model rose up three feet. Dennis’s description of the proposed skyscraper was apt. The building literally sat on top of the front half of the station, with long supports like spider legs jutting out onto the transverse. It was rectangular, windowed, and boring.
“What do you think?” Dennis asked.
She thought for a moment. “It’s very modern.”
“You bet. Think of all the rent money that will pour in, as well as the taxes for the city. It’s good for everyone.”
“Where will your office be?” she teased.
“Right there.” Dennis pointed to the top floor.
He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss before his phone rang. “Give me a sec.”
While he spoke, she studied the model further. Grand Central would become even darker, with the new building blocking most of the windows. Terrence and Winston and the others would be stuck belowground, like mole people.
Dennis hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, I have a meeting I have to get to.”
“Of course.”
She wanted to ask more questions about the new building, find out how exactly it would affect the railroad terminal, but before she could speak, Dennis kissed her, long and slow. When they drew apart, she was glad for his arms around her, or she might have wobbled to the floor.
She really shouldn’t have waited as long as she did to get out in the world after her divorce. With men like Dennis around, smart and just the right amount of burly, a woman could get everything that she didn’t get in a marriage: compliments, sex, and downtime when she could just be herself. Of course, he still didn’t know her secret. But for the first time, she could imagine telling him about the cancer. About her missing piece. As she walked down the hall, knowing he was watching her, she added a little kick to her step, a sway to her hips. It was nice being wanted.
Instead of going back down by elevator, Virginia headed to the art school, clutching the can of mace Dennis had given her last week, just in case any hoodlums might be lurking about. She tucked it back inside her purse as she wandered through the rooms, keeping an eye out for anything that might help identify the artist behind the watercolor. The lockers contained ancient paints, brushes with hardened bristles, and other detritus of no value. The narrow wooden slots for storing large canvases were mostly empty, and the few artworks that remained had faded, paint chips forming a mosaic beneath them. How sad for this place to be lost to time, with no one left to mourn it. The same could be said for the entire terminal, if Dennis got his way.
She combed through the desks in the small offices but discovered nothing other than a fountain pen, a jar of dried black ink, and a couple of pencils. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but in any case, nothing jumped out as important.
At the entrance to the storage room, though, she froze. Two new crates had been opened and pulled into the center of the room. The wall of artwork had changed again. Two bright monochromes in orange, which definitely hadn’t been there before, were tacked up in the very center. Someone had been in here, digging through the crates, putting paintings up and taking them down. Looking for something.
This was no ghost.
A muffled moan sounded from another room. She froze, hoping to hear Dennis’s baritone calling out her name. Had she locked the door behind her? She couldn’t remember.
Those thugs, the ones she’d encountered last week, might be back. If she screamed, who would hear her? No one.
She was trapped. She unzipped her purse to retrieve the can of mace, the sound louder than expected, and heard footsteps in response. A shuffling, followed by a loud bang.
Now there was no doubt in her mind.
Someone else was inside the school.
Virginia ran through her options. Whoever else was inside was somewhere between her and the front door. She looked about for a place to hide, a closet or under a desk. But the thought of staying put terrified her.
Running as if she was on fire, Virginia made it to the exit without looking right or left, staring straight ahead at her goal, sure that at any moment an arm would reach out and grab her hair, her clothes, and yank her backward.
She fumbled with the doorknob, breathing heavily, her hands shaking, and finally turned it. Bursting into the hallway, she headed right, to safety.
A man in a suit stood in front of the elevator. Thank God. Not Dennis, but not a thug. She looked behind her for the first time since her sprint. No one was there; no one was coming.
“Are you all right?” The man’s eyes showed a wary concern. She could only imagine what she looked like, rumpled, her face red, eyes wide.
“I’m fine, thank you.” The elevator opened.
“After you.”
She rushed inside, breathing hard, relief setting in only after the doors had closed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
May 1929
They’ll be here any moment, Clara. Do hurry.”
Clara nodded at Oliver through the reflection of her vanity mirror. He looked as handsome as ever in a natty yellow bow tie and two-toned oxfords, his face flushed with excitement at the arrival of their dinner party guests and from the martini he’d drunk while dressing.
He drew close and kissed her on the top of her head. “Sorry. I know you must be tired. You’ve been working all day, and now I’m forcing you to hobnob with strangers. You aren’t mad, are you?”