She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to six. “Only for a moment.”
He guided her to the side of the doorway, out of the way of the foot traffic. “I knew the artist was you when I saw the paintings were by Clyde. The stubborn dog, up in Maine, right?” He scuffed one heel on the marble floor. “There I was telling you to quit, when it’s what’s made you famous.”
“I’m not famous, not yet. How’s your lovely bride?”
“Violet’s still in Los Angeles. It didn’t work out.” His mouth started to twitch. “I miss you.”
A memory of their last car ride together swept over her: the two of them skidding along a Maine dirt road, carefree on a windy summer day, Clara whooping for him to go faster. They’d shared an easy way of traversing through the world back then that had since been decimated.
Clara laughed harshly. “Really? Now, all of a sudden, you miss me?”
“I became too protective, like you were my creation, not a person in your own right. I shouldn’t have done that. But I did help you, right? Early on?”
“You were very helpful, Oliver.” He had been. As his ambitions had faltered, he’d tried to pull her closer to him, to tie her down. In return, she’d cut him open with that kiss on the beach. “I’m sorry for what happened in Maine.”
“I acted like a fool.”
“As did I. You were right to be jealous. I didn’t understand myself what was going on between me and Levon. I was confused.”
“I heard you’re with Levon now.”
“True.” She didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hurt him further.
He frowned. “You’re too much alike. Do you think he’s going to be able to take your fame? We both know he’s full of himself. Always has been. Maybe for now it’s working, but there’s no way it’ll continue without resentment.”
She recoiled. “We’re fine. You don’t know the half of it. Don’t forget that you’re the one who destroyed my painting. Levon would never have done that. Ever.”
“I walked down the beach to find you, to tell you I wanted to announce to everyone around the fire that we were engaged. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Only to come upon you kissing him.”
“It wasn’t like that. Not then.” There was no point in explaining.
She began to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. “No, wait. I lied about the painting. The one you were working on in Maine. I never destroyed it.”
The painting she’d mourned for the past year, watching it swirl by in her dreams, night after night. She shot him a hard look. “Where is it?”
“I hid it in the attic. I’ll get it back; I want to make this up to you.”
She had no idea if he was lying or telling the truth. Her watch read six minutes to the hour.
A strange look glinted in Oliver’s eyes, one she’d never seen before. If she walked away, would he deliberately destroy it just to spite her?
Clara desperately wanted to have The Siren back. The artwork was the touchstone to everything she’d done since. She had two options: She could catch the train and never see her painting again. Or stay in New York, find out if Oliver was telling the truth, and possibly recover The Siren. If she took option number two, she could send a telegram to the Chicago train station, to be delivered to Levon and Felix upon their arrival, explaining everything and saying that she’d be arriving a day later. Of course, Levon would be fuming by then. Or crazy with worry.
She thought of Levon’s lost painting, buried somewhere in Bianchi’s carriage house. Levon had given that up, voluntarily, so she could have her chance.
And now she had to do the same. She’d give up The Siren.
“You can keep it. Do whatever you want with it. I don’t care.”
His face fell. “We were good together. I helped you; I helped you get to where you are now.”
“Where I am now is late.” She checked her watch. Five minutes. A man yelled out in the middle of the concourse, and Clara looked over in time to see a woman run into his arms in front of the information booth. As they kissed, her eyes traveled up to the large clock on top.
No. It couldn’t be.
The clock read six o’clock on the nose. Which was when the 20th Century Limited to Chicago was due to depart.
Her watch read 5:55. Five minutes slow.
She took off, as fast as her Mary Janes allowed, sprinting across the marble floor and through the entryway to track 34. The train was still there; it hadn’t left yet. But she tripped on the edge of the crimson carpet that lined the platform and lost time recovering her balance.
Imperceptibly at first, so that she wasn’t sure if she could trust her eyes, the train began to move. She screamed for it to wait, but the roar of the engine muffled her cries.
She stared after it, tears in her eyes, watching as everything she loved disappeared into the black tunnel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
February 1975
Got a big date?”
Doris swiveled around in her chair in the information booth and eyed Virginia up and down. Virginia tugged on her skirt, which was short and tight and had been riding up all day, and slid her clerk’s blazer back on.
“I must’ve gained some weight,” Virginia said with a laugh. She’d last worn this outfit to an anniversary dinner with Chester, hoping to light his fire, leaning over to apply makeup in the mirror by their front door so he could get a glimpse of the stockings she’d worn underneath. Real stockings, with a garter belt and all. It’d worked that night, at least temporarily, and she hoped it would do the same later today.
But the booth had gotten intolerably warm, stuffy with the heat in the tight space, and she’d draped her blazer over the back of the chair where she sat sorting timetables. Of course, Doris couldn’t let it pass.
If they only knew she’d dressed this way in a valiant attempt to save their jobs, they might show a little more respect. She remembered Jackie, impeccably dressed, moving with such grace through the throng of admirers. This wasn’t quite that—Virginia looked positively trashy—but she was performing her civic duty.
Virginia checked her watch. Time to go.
“I’m out of here. See you all tomorrow.”
She hung her blazer on the back of her chair, grabbed her coat and handbag, and trotted across the concourse, taking care that her high heels didn’t slip out from under her on the slick marble. A homeless man sitting on the floor beside the entrance to track 23 called out to her, holding up his palm, and she gave him a couple of quarters. She’d started carrying spare change to hand out to the men and women who made the building their home. It seemed the least she could do. Ever since her apartment fire, Virginia had seen the homeless in a new light, as folks like her who unexpectedly got tossed out on the streets. Thank goodness for Finn and Xavier’s kindness.
The elevator opened on the seventh floor, and she headed straight for the law offices of Penn Central. The receptionist was on her way out, but she called Dennis’s extension and gave him Virginia’s name. After a few minutes, Virginia heard his heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Deep breath.
“Virginia?”
He peered at her over a pair of reading glasses. The fragility of the metal frames and glass were all wrong for his large features but gave him an air of vulnerability. That and the fact that he looked like he was about to be attacked. She could almost see his mind whirling, wondering if this was a trap, if that was indeed Virginia who’d called on Thanksgiving and spoken to his wife, and if so, why was she here?
The receptionist left, shutting the door behind her.
“Hi, Dennis. You look well.”
He swallowed. “You, too, Virginia.”
“I figured it’d been way too long and I should stop by and say hello.” She shifted her weight onto one hip in what she hoped looked like an invitation.