She took a swig of wine. “I assume you two have teamed up to figure out the best way to maneuver around me on this.”
“No, Mom.” Ruby sat straight in her chair. “I haven’t talked to Finn about this at all. I want to be a photographer. I don’t want to go to college.”
Before the fire, before the new job, Virginia might have excused Ruby’s outburst—smoothed things over and made peace—to save face in front of a stranger, to prevent her daughter from pulling away. But Ruby’s lack of direction infuriated her, even more so now that Virginia was scrambling to get by, including taking a job as a trainee, for God’s sake. “So you’ll just camp out at home until someone magically calls to offer you a job as a professional photographer? You’re a grown woman now; you can’t be wasting your time.” She paused. “Get a job or enroll in college. You have until January.”
“I swear I’ll try.” Ruby’s voice was a squeak. “But there aren’t many jobs out there.”
Everyone was staring at Virginia as if she was crazy. Maybe she was. But she didn’t care. Saying her mind, drawing a line in the sand, gave her a head rush, like when she’d acted so brazenly with Dennis. “Hey, I found a job. I show up every day and put in my hours. You’re a smart girl; you’ll figure it out.” She stood. “Ryan and Xavier, sorry you had to be part of the family drama. Happy Thanksgiving to all.”
She walked to her room and sat on the bed. Virginia often had a delayed reaction to any outburst, her own or someone else’s, similar to when you made a transatlantic call and had to wait for the other person’s voice to kick in. Like realizing she was burning with fury the day after Chester came home from a business dinner smelling of perfume.
This time, though, there was nothing but relief. Virginia had acted in the moment, an unusual occurrence. She’d said her piece and was done with it. Ruby was probably angry, her brother upset. Ryan must think she was the worst mother in Manhattan. But who cared anymore? Let the family fall apart. She’d spent too much energy pretending to hold it all together, to be civil with Chester in front of Ruby when she wanted to rip out his tongue, to be peppy and cheerful with her daughter when she wanted to cry.
Eager to do something with her hands, she began tearing through the pile of mail she’d collected from their apartment yesterday and left on her nightstand. On the very bottom was a white envelope, no return address. She opened it and unfolded a plain piece of paper. No date, no address, no signature. The words were scrawled along the diagonal.
Hand the painting over to the Lost and Found in Grand Central by noon on Friday, 11/29. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.
Virginia stood next to a phone booth on Lexington Avenue, staring at the peeling paint of a tenement building and considering her next move. A dry wind had swept the sidewalks clear of pedestrians like an unseen broom, and most everyone was inside watching football or gorging on pumpkin pie. Ruby had left to see her dad, having previously arranged to split the holiday between their two households. As Xavier and Finn cleaned up in the kitchen, Virginia had collected herself, slung on her rain jacket, and headed out into the night.
She stepped into the phone booth and slid the door shut, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light.
Someone wanted her painting. Whoever sent the note knew she’d been in the school, knew she’d taken the painting, and knew where she lived. Those weren’t rats she’d heard; another person had been in the art school with her.
Whoever it was had thought ahead, as the Lost and Found of Grand Central was the perfect place to pick up an item while remaining undetected. Located at the foot of the Vanderbilt ramp, the place was legendary for its efficiency and vast stores of umbrellas, suitcases, and various other detritus. If she turned it in, the painting would be carefully cataloged and safely stored away until whenever the letter writer chose to claim it. Just the other day, Terrence had regaled the information booth clerks with a gruesome story of a surgeon who’d accidentally left a body part on a train, in a container with dry ice, and gotten it back a few hours later.
Virginia checked the postmark on the envelope: It’d been sent earlier this week. The deadline was the same time tomorrow as her appointment with the Lorettes.
The painting had to be valuable. Somebody wanted it badly enough to send her a threatening note. She needed to talk to someone, get a second opinion.
Virginia heaved open the phone book and looked up her own name. There were three Virginia Clays, one in Manhattan and two in Staten Island. Which made it easy enough for whoever sent the letter to figure out her address.
She turned to the H’s. Dennis Huckle. Yonkers. Her need to confess to someone overrode her shyness in calling him. He was a lawyer, he worked for Penn Central, and maybe it was time for her to come clean and let someone else take over, let them figure out the provenance and worth of the watercolor. In any event, he would have some solid advice.
The phone rang twice before a woman’s voice answered, throwing Virginia at first. But he’d talked about taking care of his mother; she must be over for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Is this Mrs. Huckle?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s this?” The words didn’t crackle with age.
“I’m sorry. Is this Dennis’s mother?”
“His mother? No. This is his wife. Who is this?”
His wife. He wasn’t divorced. He’d lied.
Virginia couldn’t think of what to say next.
“Jesus Christ. Not again. Dennis!”
The phone went dead.
Stunned, Virginia hung up the phone and rubbed her hand on her jacket, as if the sordid exchange could be wiped off. She pulled the folding door open, not without a struggle, and squeezed out.
Where now? She wandered back to the hotel, unwilling to go up just yet. A stiff drink might help.
Inside Bemelmans Bar, Ryan nodded. “What can I get you?”
“How about a Jameson?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
“Sorry you had to witness the O’Connor family meltdown.”
“Seen plenty of my own.” He set a glass on the bar and reached for the bottle. “Sunday dinners back in Ireland were a full-out war.”
“Right.”
Dennis was a liar. He’d deliberately misled her, knowing full well that she was fresh from a divorce. Virginia missed the strict rules of the old days, when you got married and that was that. But even before Chester had left, their marriage had been fraying at the edges.
The confusion of the modern-day world was too much. Everyone did whatever they wanted. In spite of who got hurt.
And somehow, Virginia was always the one who got hurt.
“You okay?” Ryan placed the drink in front of her.
“Not really.” She didn’t want to go into it. He probably got a version of the same sob story every day. “Why did you come to New York?”
“Opportunity.”
She laughed in his face. Couldn’t help it. “There’s no opportunity here. We’re hitting rock-bottom.”
He seemed unfazed. “Maybe for now. But it won’t always be like this. In ten years, who knows what’ll be going on? It’s not like Dublin, which has been around since the age of the Druids.”
“At least there you have tradition.”
“A tradition that makes people want to kill each other. If that’s tradition, I want no part of it.”
“The Troubles.”
“Right.”
“Strange how unimpactful your name for the conflict is. ‘The Troubles.’ Like heartburn or something.”
“Unlike you Yanks, who prefer to scream to the mountaintop.”
“Not a lot of good either method does.”
“True.”
They fell into a comfortable silence. The sting of the whiskey soothed her.
“I’m sorry about the argument with my daughter. She used to be levelheaded, before the divorce. Sometimes now I don’t recognize her.”
“Happens to everyone at some point.”