“What do you mean they won’t return it?”
“Just that. They won’t give it back. Even worse, the expert they said they sent it to doesn’t exist. They’ve been lying the whole time.”
“Do you have some kind of bill of sale for your sketch or whatever it is?”
“No. I found it, you see. Up in the old art school on the top floor of Grand Central.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and motioned to the waitress for the check. “If you don’t have proof that it’s yours, I don’t see what you can do.”
“I was hoping you could help me somehow.” She didn’t have much time. Chester’s mind was elsewhere, mulling over his next appointment, figuring out how long it would take to get there, probably relieved to have lunch over with. “I read in the paper a few months ago about the lawyer in your firm who recovered art taken in World War II by the Nazis. Maybe he could help prove that Clara Darden was the artist.”
“It’s much more complicated than that, Virginia. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“At least you could send a mean letter; you know how good you are at those, and then they’d realize I was serious and return it.”
He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.
She continued. “It could be worth a lot of money. One curator told me that it might be worth over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
He looked up at that. “Huh.”
“Ruby and I have been working together on this, and we both thought maybe a mean letter from you would help.” Her last chance, bringing up their daughter.
“First of all, stop calling it a ‘mean letter.’” In the past, he’d laughed whenever she mangled legal language on purpose. Not anymore, apparently. “And it doesn’t change my answer because you brought up Ruby.”
“The painting means something to me. It’s important.”
“Lesson number one in negotiating: Don’t get emotional.”
“How can I not get emotional? I’m going to be in serious legal trouble with these neighbors.”
Chester rubbed his eye with the meat of his palm, his habit whenever he grew annoyed. “You should’ve read the fine print in your insurance policy; then none of this would be such a surprise.” He spoke to her as if she were a recalcitrant client, not the mother of his child.
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked, trying to stop them. “I agree, it’s been a sharp learning curve for me, after the divorce. I didn’t handle the finances when we were married, and so I made some mistakes early on.”
“We’re no longer together, Virginia. You have to accept that and move on. I can’t take care of you anymore.”
He was right, of course. For the first time all lunch, Chester looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes moved down her neck. Normally she’d cover herself, but this time she didn’t.
He nodded to her chest, his face unreadable. “You’ve got a problem there.”
She glanced down. Her mastectomy bra had ridden up, making her look lopsided, disfigured.
She jumped up, grabbed her purse, and headed to the women’s bathroom. Once there, she locked herself in a stall and let the tears come, bawling without making a sound.
When she could cry no more, she unbuttoned her shirt and adjusted the bra, cursing her bad luck, her ex-husband, and the world.
When Virginia finally emerged from the bathroom, the energy in the restaurant had shifted, the same way the air thickens imperceptibly before a thunderstorm. Gone were the last of the commuters and tourists; all the tables sat empty, yet fifty or so men in suits and a few women milled about in groups, murmuring in low voices.
At least Chester was gone. Her humiliation complete, she wound her way through the crowd, keeping her arm pressed tightly against her chest, like a coat of armor.
An excited buzz went through the crowd. Curious, Virginia lingered behind them, wondering what was going to happen next. Five or six tables had been pushed close together in a long row. On the middle table, a bouquet of microphones had been set up, the wires dangling down and along the floor like steel serpents.
Virginia was in no hurry to return to the information booth. What did it matter if she did a good job or not, when it was all going to be over soon anyway? And the longer she took, the more time her red, swollen eyes would have to return to normal.
“Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!”
The crowd called out as a group of seven walked through the front entrance and took up seats behind the long table. She recognized Mayor Beame right away, his thick dark eyebrows a sharp contrast to his snow-white hair. The reporters waited as the rest of the mayor’s entourage settled in their seats.
She couldn’t get a good view, but his words cut clearly through the crowd as he introduced the Committee to Save Grand Centraclass="underline" architect Philip Johnson, author Louis Auchincloss, and other names she didn’t recognize. Until he got to the last one. “Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.”
Virginia pushed her way forward, taking advantage of her small size to work her way up to the front row. The mayor introduced the group and praised the Municipal Art Society, which he said had spearheaded the effort to save Grand Central. Virginia spotted Adelaide, the woman from Ruby’s exhibit, standing off to one side. The mayor continued. “We’re fighting to save not only the terminal but the very existence of our landmark law. If we don’t stand up now, nothing can be saved.”
The reporters scribbled down his words.
They reshuffled places so that Jackie sat in front of the microphone. She wore a tan, fitted dress that draped her lithe body beautifully. A long gold chain hung from her neck, and matching earrings glittered against the black sheen of her hair.
The crowd leaned in as she began to speak, her voice breathy. “We’ve all heard that it’s too late, that it has to happen, that it’s inevitable. But I don’t think that’s true. Because I think if there is great effort, even if it’s at the eleventh hour, you can succeed, and I know that’s what we’ll do.”
Virginia couldn’t wait to tell Ruby. She had no doubt her daughter’s photographs had played a part in convincing the Municipal Art Society to put up a fight.
“Isn’t it inevitable for the terminal to come down if it can’t support itself economically?” shouted a reporter.
Congressman Koch, a tall, balding man with a sardonic smile, cut in. “Central Park doesn’t support itself. God forbid we should ever think of it in that way.”
“Europe has its cathedrals, and we have Grand Central Station,” added Philip Johnson.
Terminal, Virginia corrected him in her head. Terrence would be very upset. Still, the sentiment was lovely.
Just outside the doorway, she spotted Dennis standing close to another man. They both wore dark suits and carried briefcases—a fellow lawyer, probably—out spying on the opposition.
As the press conference wrapped up, the mayor hightailed it out and the reporters surged after him, sweeping Virginia along. She found an eddy of calm in the passageway just outside the Oyster Bar and waited there, fishing in her pocketbook for a tissue, biding time until the crowds thinned.
“Ignore it, Jack, they’re posturing. The story will die down in a week.”
Dennis was right behind her. She twirled around, a fake smile plastered on her face, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Through the crush of the press corps, she spied Dennis and his buddy huddled forty feet away in the opposite corner, speaking quietly.
Of course. They were in the Whispering Gallery, where sound was telegraphed up and over the surface of the vault.
She turned her head to locate the sweet spot, where she could hear the voices clearly while still keeping an eye on the two men.
“We sure don’t need this aggravation, though,” continued Dennis. “You sure we’re all set?”
“The judge will listen to numbers, not rabble rousers. The numbers are in our favor.” The man took a yellow file from the side pocket of his briefcase. “Here’s the original balance sheet for Penn Central. The revised one, which will include the railway operating costs, should be ready in a few days.”