“I understand his concern. I come from a proud line of publicans, so to me it’s about carrying on a tradition. America needs more gathering places, like pubs. It offers a sense of community that otherwise we don’t have, wandering about in our own little worlds, disappearing into our flats at night.”
“I like that. A very refreshing take. My father would’ve certainly agreed.”
“Of course, there’s always a group of drunks getting plastered in one corner.”
“As long as they pay.”
Ryan laughed. “That’s right. As long as they pay.”
They wandered along, chatting about the neighborhood and what the city had been like when Virginia was young.
She pointed up at the skyscrapers of Rockefeller Center as they turned west. Her volunteer work at the Municipal Art Society had given her a new appreciation of the city’s skyline. “Those were built during the worst years of the Depression and put forty thousand people to work. They hired out-of-work artists to decorate the lobbies. Imagine all those families who had enough to eat because of this?”
“A first-class piece of architecture,” agreed Ryan.
“What do you think about this fight for Grand Central?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it, to be honest.”
Time for the soapbox. “Grand Central has to be saved. It’s an important part of old New York. I’m involved with the Municipal Art Society to do whatever I can to help.”
“What are you doing for them?”
Probably best not to mention that she’d slept with the enemy in order to steal financial documents. Adelaide had never asked about the envelope Virginia left behind after her interview. Maybe she knew it was smart to be circumspect, or perhaps Virginia had overestimated the documents’ importance. In any event, the subject had never come up. “I’m handing out flyers, mailing out press releases. Jackie O’s involved as well, you know.”
“Jackie, right. You two good friends?”
She batted at his arm. “You’re teasing me.”
“I like the way you light up when you talk about this. It’s good to have a passion.”
“True.”
When they reached the Museum of Modern Art, Virginia stopped. “Here’s my destination. Where did you say you were going?”
“I didn’t, exactly.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you seeing?”
“The Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit.” She paused. He seemed a little lost, like he needed company. “Do you want to come in?”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all.”
Ryan followed after her, insisting on paying for her ticket. The woman behind the counter flirted with him, but he didn’t flirt back. He was a very good-looking man, Virginia noticed. His hair was white but thick and wavy, and his face was still unlined.
Inside the exhibit hall, Ryan stood frozen in front of one of the paintings, an enormous jack-in-the-pulpit flower. “Oh my.” He swallowed. “It’s very . . .”
“No. It’s not.” Virginia tried not to blush, and laughed when she couldn’t stop.
“How can you say it’s not?”
She parroted the review she’d read in the newspaper earlier that week. “O’Keeffe dismissed the sexual interpretations of her paintings. She saw all these enormous buildings going up in New York and decided to paint her flowers as big as well. It got people’s attention, startled them.”
“So you’re saying that Rockefeller Center inspired this?”
“I bet it did.”
Virginia continued her lecture, unable to stop herself even though she sounded like one of the speakers from her preservation committee days. “O’Keeffe rejected the notion that she was a ‘woman’ artist. After all, no one calls Rembrandt a ‘man’ artist.”
“That is a very good point.”
They made their way through the exhibit chronologically, pointing out the works they loved. Virginia adored a set of mannequins wearing clothes that O’Keeffe had sewn herself: loosely draped wrap dresses, paper-thin white linen shirts, and austere wool suits. Comfortable and elegant.
They reached the end of the exhibit, where a few old books were splayed open in a glass case.
“Virginia, I did want to ask you something today.”
Was he going to ask her on a date? Was that what this was? She still hadn’t been able to determine how old he was. The white hair made it difficult to ascertain. But did it matter, in the end? He seemed like a nice enough boy.
Ugh. Boy. No doubt about it, Ryan had a boyish air to him that made her want to reach over and fix his collar, which was sticking up on one side, rather than toss him over a couch like she had with Dennis.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, defensive. “What’s that?”
“I’d like to date Ruby.”
Not what she was expecting. She rested one hand on the display case to steady herself. “What?”
“I know this is strange and possibly uncomfortable for you, with my being older than she is.”
If he knew the least of it. She’d been worried that he was going to ask her on a date, acting like a schoolgirl, when in fact he wanted to date her daughter. Humiliation was a possible reaction. She tried it on, breathed it in, but for some reason it didn’t stick.
Ruby and Ryan. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-six. I know this hair makes me look like I’m about to retire, but I’m not. It’s a family trait. Happened to my dad as well.”
“Let me see your driver’s license.”
He pulled it out of his wallet and held it up for her to inspect. Indeed. Born in ’49.
She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her vain mistake, relieved by the fact that it really didn’t bother her. Ryan was a good man. Her daughter was smart. They’d figure it out.
She stared down at one of the books in the display case. “Huh.”
“Are you all right?” Ryan moved closer. “I’m sorry for the way I’m handling this. But I wanted to be forthright, not hide about.”
She waved a hand in his direction but didn’t look up. “No, no. I appreciate it.”
The label in the display case said it was an old yearbook from Georgia O’Keeffe’s high school. She read the caption out loud. “‘A girl who would be different in habit, style, and dress.’”
“A modern lass, that Georgia,” Ryan said.
Virginia barely heard him. She stared at the name under the photo, leaning in close to make sure she was seeing it correctly.
Georgia Totto O’Keeffe.
How odd. She’d assumed Totto was a nickname but had never questioned what for. What if the connection to an artist wasn’t a coincidence? She thought back. Totto had been the one who’d mentioned the art school was haunted. What if Totto was the one going through crates? But why would he do that?
Then she remembered the black-and-white photo of Clara Darden she’d seen in Janice Russo’s office. The long neck and translucent eyes. The two could be brother and sister, easily, and Totto was the right age to have been Clara’s sibling or some kind of relation.
Confusion and elation ran up Virginia’s spine.
What if Totto was the ghost of the Grand Central School of Art?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
March 1975
Virginia showed up early to work on Monday, greeted the evening shift, and offered to take over for the supervisor. The early-morning commuters knew where they were headed, for the most part, so she busied herself by climbing up through one of the missing glass panels in the ceiling and up onto the very top of the information booth, not caring who saw her. From there, she had easy access to the four-sided clock. Taking great care not to disturb the face of the clock, she rubbed the brass sides with cleaner until they shone, before climbing back down and stowing away her cleaning supplies.
But even this didn’t help alleviate her nervous exhaustion.