“Let’s hope that does the trick.”
“We prove economic hardship, the judge will understand what a millstone this place is around Penn Central’s neck. Trust me, by adding in those expenses, Grand Central looks like a sinking ship.” He put one hand up to shield his mouth from any observers, which only served to increase the clarity. “Creative accounting at its best. By my revised calculations, Penn Central lost two million just this year.”
Dennis tucked the yellow folder into his briefcase. “Good work. Landmark, my ass.”
They disappeared up the ramp, clapping each other on the back. Virginia waited a few minutes before following.
In the middle of the concourse, her information booth shone like an opal in a coal mine. Imagine if they fixed up the entire place, rubbed clean every marble surface like she had done? It would be magnificent. Like when it was first built, before hordes of people had spat on the stairways and scratched up the waiting room benches. Back when it was still a gleaming work of art.
She imagined a giant wrecking ball flying through the half-moon windows on the south facade. The shattered glass falling to the ground. The next blow would take out the thick stone slabs that had been painstakingly stacked on top of one another just after the turn of the century. The clock at the very top, where a statue of Mercury presided over Park Avenue South—would that be saved? Probably not. Nor the melon-shaped chandeliers. All smashed to pieces. The next building would stand upon the powdered remnants, as Dennis had cavalierly declared, the way the ancients built a new city on the landfill of the old. In a few hundred years, archeologists might come upon the golden acorn on the top of the information booth. They’d place it in a museum and mourn the past.
She’d lost the opportunity to give Clara Darden the recognition she deserved. But the terminal was still standing.
And maybe, unlike with the Clyde painting, Virginia could do something to save it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
October 1930
Take a load off; with this rain, no one’s coming in anytime soon.”
Clara nodded to her boss—a former anarchist with the heart of a dove named Romany Marie—untied her apron, and settled into a booth at the back of the empty restaurant. A week after she’d moved into the fleabag hotel, Romany Marie had seen the desperation in Clara’s eyes as she sat at a table and offered her a waitress position.
The restaurant had once been the artistic heart of the Village, but these days few folks came by. Those who did knew that Romany Marie would let them gorge themselves on free rolls and all the coffee they could drink. She clanked around the small restaurant with her jangly necklaces and full skirts and confided to Clara that she came from Red Hook, not Romania. But she lent the place an air of mystique that other diners lacked.
After an unseasonably warm couple of days that made winter seem far away, the temperature was supposed to plummet that evening. These days, cold weather was a threat, not a nuisance. The radiator in Clara’s hotel room clanged constantly but emitted no heat, and a cold spell meant it would be impossible to paint, even if she wore fingerless gloves. Her waitressing shifts left her too exhausted to paint, anyway. Really, there was no point.
Closed galleries, slashed museum budgets. No one in their right mind would waste money buying a painting these days. Artists were at the bottom of the food chain. They had nothing of value to offer; they didn’t bake bread or knit scarves. They put liquid on paper and watched it dry. That was it.
But guardian angels were out there, if you looked hard enough. Like Romany Marie, who frequently ushered pale, trembling artists into her back office—men who had been heralded twelve months earlier—and bought a work or two off them.
The reverberations from her father’s fall from grace had stayed with Clara throughout the heady days of success, prompting her to sock away everything she could, but nothing could have prepared her for the futility of the times. The highest-paid woman artist in America. What a joke.
She looked up to see a blurry figure at the door. A man swept in as if on a tidal wave.
Levon.
She ran to the kitchen, told Romany Marie she wasn’t feeling well, and hid behind a column where Levon couldn’t see her, peeking out to watch their exchange.
He wore the finely cut jacket that had replaced his ratty wool one soon after he began to sell, and raindrops tipped off a sleek black fedora. In his stylish ensemble, she could have sketched him into one of her editorial illustrations back in the day, accompanied by a woman holding the leash of a slick greyhound.
She didn’t want him to see her like this. Sallow. Skinnier than ever.
Miserable.
Romany Marie breezed by and shot her a quizzical look. “You go take care of him now. He asked for you.”
Clara inched over like a child about to be punished. He looked up and bellowed, “Clara,” before wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her feet.
“Nothing’s changed, I see.” She pulled away and wiped the rain off her sleeves. “You’re a beast still.”
“I am a beast. But a hungry one.”
Up close, she could see his cheeks were gaunt, his old ruddiness now a pallor. No doubt a stick figure lurked beneath his beautifully cut suit. His fine clothes had distracted her from the truth.
And here she was hiding from him. “What can I get you? Did you give your order already?”
“Just some hot water is fine.”
She knew what he meant. The other artists did the same: Order hot water, then add to it whatever was on the table—ketchup, salt, pepper—to make a thin soup.
“No. You need something more substantial.”
“Really, hot water will do. I don’t have anything.” The last sentence came out in a whisper.
She retreated into the kitchen and pulled a big chunk of cheddar out of the icebox and a roll from the basket. “For a dear friend,” she said to Romany Marie. “You can take it out of my pay.”
Romany Marie shrugged her off.
Clara sat down with two cups of coffee and pushed one over to him. “It’ll warm you up.” He took a few sips before picking up the cheese. The whole time, his left hand stayed in his lap.
“What’s wrong?” She indicated his arm.
“Lead poisoning. Damn pencils.”
A memory of Levon gripping a thick chunk of pencil lead in his fist popped into her head, the pad of his hand as gray as an angry ocean. He’d light a cigarette and take a smoke break without washing it off, practically ingesting the poison. For a fastidious man, such carelessness.
“I’m sorry. How are you doing? What do you do now?”
“No shows, of course. I teach some private lessons, mainly society ladies who feel sorry for me. I can’t paint again until the numbness goes away.”
“When does your doctor think that’ll happen?”
“Soon, I hope.” He lowered his voice. “I am sorry about what I did. In Maine. That Oliver left you because of my silliness.”
His silliness, and her own stupidity. She’d been greedy, wanting both Levon and Oliver to herself. Her arrogance had rivaled Levon’s, and in the end he’d found her disappointing. Which served her right. Even in the darkness, she’d caught the look of distaste on his face after they’d pulled away from each other.
How long ago it seemed. “Don’t be sorry. Oliver didn’t even give me a chance to explain. I hear he’s out in California, now, with that actress girl.”
“I ruined it for you, and you miss him, I can tell.” Levon wiped his mustache.
“Not that, exactly. But it’s hard.” Hard to be alone. Hard without anyone else to share the burden of not knowing what was to come.