“I highly doubt the Lorettes would answer the door or talk to us on the phone, now that they know we know they lied. As for going to the police, we have no proof that we owned it in the first place.”
“I have an idea.” Ruby brightened. “Why don’t you talk to Dad? He’s a lawyer.”
“You want me to ask your dad for legal advice?”
“Why not? That painting is yours, right? The Lorettes took it from you.”
“I have no proof of that.”
“Still. Meet up with him. Ask him for help.”
Virginia studied Ruby, whose eyes were full of hope.
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry. That’s all over with.”
Confiding in Chester would only make things worse. He’d laugh at her, dismiss it as a wild-goose chase. She hoped Ruby understood the meaning behind her words, that their intact, happy family was over with as well.
“You can’t even ask him for advice?”
“No.”
Ruby slumped over. “That’s too bad.”
“I’m glad you were here to help.”
“Not that I did any good.”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You did. Thank you.”
Virginia stopped by the apartment to collect the mail before going back to the Carlyle. Another threatening note, no surprise at that. She carried her mace in the side pocket of her purse now, just in case. Also in her mailbox was an official-looking letter from some law firm.
She read it and gasped out loud, drawing a scowl from the doorman. Her upstairs neighbor had retained a lawyer who was threatening to sue Virginia for damages to their apartment. She had never met the upstairs neighbors, just heard them clomp back and forth across her ceiling every so often. But these people, the clompers, claimed that all their clothes, draperies, rugs, and furnishings had been damaged by smoke and had to be professionally cleaned. The bill was in the thousands.
She’d never be able to come up with that much money. Heck, she didn’t even have enough to hire an attorney to question their claims.
The only answer was the one that her daughter most wished for.
There was only one person left to ask for help.
“You’re tan.”
Chester took off his coat, laid it carefully on the back of his chair, and sat down opposite Virginia in the Oyster Bar. “I was in Mexico.”
How strange to be strangers. Virginia stared at him while he went through the motions of folding his napkin on the table, crooking up one finger to the waiter to ask for coffee, all the while avoiding eye contact. He’d lost weight, looked healthier than he had in ages.
Before, she’d known what he was going to say before he even said it. She often finished his sentences, eager to show how close they were. How in tune she was. On the same wavelength, they called it these days. But now he was impenetrable.
They both ordered the oyster stew. She reminded herself why she was there and spent the next ten minutes inquiring about his work, their mutual acquaintances, ever so gently softening him up. For those ten minutes, it was as if nothing had happened between them. They made fun of Betsy and her husband, worried together over a recently widowed colleague of Chester’s. When he brought up Ruby’s stint as a barmaid, she made light of it and changed the subject fast.
He never once asked Virginia about her life. Just like old times.
The oyster stews came. Nerves made her unable to eat more than a few bites, but she stirred the lumps around while chewing on the oyster crackers, which had made up most of her early pregnancy diet. Then, Chester had been a true partner. She’d wisecrack about her morning sickness, using the language of a trucker because he loved it when she played up her working-class background. In private, of course, never around his family or their friends.
Her pregnancy and his attention had made her feel important, strong. Able to bear anything.
With her operation, it’d been the opposite effect. She’d joke, hoping to get a smile out of him, and he’d cringe. A baby was one thing. A breast, quite another.
When the conversation lulled, Virginia scrambled for something else to talk about. She wasn’t ready to ask for his help, not yet.
“Did you hear about the Grand Central ruling?” The words sounded odd coming out of her mouth, like she was trying too hard to impress.
“I did.”
“The people I work with are worried that they’ll lose their jobs when they build the new skyscraper.” In fact, Doris spent the lulls in the day reading the help wanted ads out loud, until Winston told her to quit it.
“They may lose their jobs, but in the end, it’s all about progress. This city’s a pit, and we need to remake it into something better. You can’t live in the past.”
His opposition didn’t surprise her. “I read that the city will probably appeal the ruling.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
He leaned back in his chair. “It costs money to appeal, and the city is barely squeaking by as it is. If the city appeals and loses, then Penn Central could countersue for damages. Mayor Beame would be an idiot if he exposed the city to that kind of financial risk.”
She glanced around. “The judge called it a ‘long-neglected faded beauty.’”
“‘Faded beauty’ is putting it mildly. It’s a dump.”
Virginia didn’t answer. She was a faded beauty herself. The thought stung.
Back when she was sick, her doctors had told her that if they found cancer and didn’t remove her entire breast, her prognosis would be poor, her disease terminal. Just like the building above her, from the Guastavino tiles of the Oyster Bar to the triumphal arch windows of the main concourse.
She’d survived, but the terminal would not.
“What did you want to meet about?” Chester had finished his stew and was eyeing hers. She pushed the bowl over to him.
She pulled out the letter from her neighbor’s attorney and handed it over to him. “I’m being sued by my neighbor. They say they have two thousand dollars’ worth of damage from the fire.”
“If they had to get everything professionally cleaned, it adds up. Furniture, clothes, repainting the walls.”
Not the answer she was hoping for. “I can barely afford to fix my place, with the high deductible on my insurance policy. I was hoping I could get a loan from you.”
Chester shook his head. “I wish I could help. But I can’t. I’m sorry. We’re all strapped these days.”
“Not too strapped to go to Mexico.”
“It was a business trip, not a personal one. On top of that, the law firm is in financial trouble. We’re hoping we can ride out the slump.” A momentary flicker of humiliation crossed Chester’s face. He wasn’t lying.
She was embarrassed to ask him for money, and he was embarrassed to have to admit he didn’t have it. “I understand. Thank you for considering it.” There was only one other option. “There’s this painting that I found, and I think it’s worth a lot. I wanted to get your advice on that as well.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s an early version of a painting that’s up for auction in April, by this artist named Levon Zakarian, who died tragically. They don’t really know if he’s the true artist, because he signed it as ‘Clyde’ and died before revealing himself, but everyone assumes it’s his.” She explained about the Chicago show and the train crash. “This early version I found has a sketch on the back side that’s by a woman illustrator. I think Clyde is this woman, not Levon Zakarian. If that’s so, it would blow the minds of the art world people.”
Chester perked up. “Have you had it examined?”
“That’s the thing; I seem to have hit a speed bump. You see, I gave it to an older couple who ran an art school back then, and they were going to get it examined or analyzed or some such thing, but they took off with it and won’t return it.”