Below, on the elevated roadway that encircled Grand Central like a belt, stood a rabid crowd. Normally, taxis would careen by in a yellow blur, but today the street had been blocked off.
“I’d completely forgotten. It’s one of the protests to stop Penn Central.” Virginia pointed to a man with a bullhorn. “That’s the mayor. Look, right beside him is Jackie O.”
“Impressive crowd. Too bad they can’t do anything about it.”
“Do you really think so? You think that the collective voice of all these people doesn’t count?” Virginia stuck her head out farther. “There must be hundreds, thousands. If enough of us protest, then they have to do something about it. It’s our city, after all.”
“Then you ought to be out there protesting.”
Virginia withdrew her head just as the clouds cleared and sunlight hit the clock full on, beaming jewel-colored rays into the chamber, turning it into a giant kaleidoscope. Both she and Clara stood still, looking about, transfixed by the glorious show.
The words Jackie had used in the press conference came back to Virginia: Even if it seemed too late, maybe it wasn’t. That with great effort, you can succeed, even at the eleventh hour. Jackie O really believed it, and that made the rest of the city believe it, too.
But what if this wasn’t just a fight to save the terminal? Maybe everything Jackie said in the press conference applied to artists like Clara, and possibly dozens of others, who’d been lost in time. Artists whose works had been cannibalized by the greed of others.
As the light swirled around Virginia, a plan clicked into place.
The art auction was still a month away, so maybe the fight wasn’t over quite yet.
She could save Clara, save Clyde.
And she knew exactly how.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
April 1975
On Clara’s last night in New York City, Virginia insisted she join her for dinner.
The invitation had come out of the blue. In the weeks since they’d been caught in the art school, Clara had made plans to pack up and head back to Arizona. The clerks at the info booth had thrown a small going-away celebration party for her that afternoon, with Doris passing around homemade cupcakes that tasted like glue, and Clara had accepted their kind words and good wishes. Virginia showed up late. Not a surprise, as she’d pulled away recently, disappearing during lunch hours, coming in late and leaving early. No longer harassing Clara. Which at first was a relief—the woman was a nutjob, after all—but then hurt more than she would care to admit.
Clara had told Virginia she couldn’t possibly go out to dinner, that she had far too much to do before leaving, but Virginia had refused to take no for an answer. In truth, all Clara had to do was put the suits hanging in the small closet into her suitcase and pack up her art gear. She’d been painting, up in her hotel room, but hadn’t told Virginia about that.
Something about being forced to paint again opened the floodgates. Her mind whirled with thoughts of the work at hand: how to shape the shoulders, what colors would capture the intense whiteness of the scar. She’d been painting, from her memory, Virginia. Remembering the sad, faraway look in her eyes as she stared up, trying not to cry, so exposed. If anything, Virginia’s bravery in that moment had made Clara feel closer to her than ever. She’d been proud of the woman, of the shocking display of her vulnerability.
But then the men had come barging in, and after that, Virginia had completely withdrawn.
Virginia wasn’t alone at the table when Clara entered the restaurant, an Italian place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles, wax dripping down the sides like white lava.
“I’m so glad you came.” Virginia was breathless. She put her arm around the girl next to her. “This is my daughter, Ruby.”
“The one who took your boyfriend?”
Virginia turned red. Clara should have held her tongue, but she was peevish about Virginia’s cold shoulder over the past few weeks. Now she thought she could make it up to her by taking her out to dinner right before she left?
“Mom?” Ruby turned to her mother, confused.
A bit contrite, Clara shook her hand. “I’m just kidding. Your mother mentioned that you’d found a new beau. She said he was delightful.”
Ruby gave a shy smile. “He is.”
They sat and ordered wine, which helped melt some of Clara’s bitterness. That and the way Virginia looked at her daughter as Ruby spoke about her photography and the bar where she worked—like she couldn’t believe this stunning child was her offspring. Sweet, really.
The wine was making Clara loopy. They ordered pasta, and that helped steady her.
“Your daughter is lovely,” she said to Virginia.
“Isn’t she? The two of us have been through a lot these past several months.” Virginia looked over at Clara. “But then again, haven’t we all?”
Virginia carried on, telling Ruby about the going-away party. How Clara had returned from her lunch break to find her seat decorated with ribbons and balloons—a ridiculous idea in that small space, in Clara’s opinion—and how excited they’d been to surprise her. As if Virginia was there the entire time and hadn’t blown in late, gasping her apologies.
When dinner was over, Virginia insisted that Clara join them in a taxi.
“I’m not going your way. I’m downtown; you’re up.”
Ruby and Virginia exchanged a strange look. Ruby spoke up. “We insist. Come on, it’s your last cab in New York. We want to treat you.”
The girl’s sweet smile was hard to turn down.
Once in, with Clara squashed between Ruby and Virginia, the cab headed north. “Where are you taking me?”
“Just one stop and then we’ll drop you off.” Virginia stared straight ahead. In fact, all during dinner, Virginia had seemed out of sorts. Usually she reminded Clara of a sparrow, hopping aimlessly about. Tonight, her energy was more like that of a woodpecker. Noisy, yet focused.
Never mind. It wasn’t as if Clara had something important to get back to.
The cab pulled up in front of a low gray building on Madison Avenue. The home of Sotheby Parke Bernet auction house. Clara’s stomach flipped when she remembered what day it was.
April third.
The day the Clyde painting was going to auction.
“No. I’m not going in there.” She braced one hand against the front seat of the cab, as if expecting them to yank her out.
“Please,” Virginia pleaded. “We’ve come this far.” She and her daughter held both doors open.
Clara got out only because she was worried Ruby would be run down by a passing bus, standing in the middle of the street like that.
She’d catch another cab home, and silently cursed Virginia for the additional expense.
“Now that we’re all here, why don’t we pop inside?” Ruby took Clara’s arm.
Clara resisted. “Unless you have the money saved up to buy the painting, what’s the point?”
Virginia stepped close, her face serious. “I know you don’t trust me and that I’ve disappointed you at every turn. But I sat for you when you asked. You know how hard that was for me. I’m asking you to do something that’s just as hard for you.”
Clara looked over at Ruby, who was biting her lip. God only knew what was really going on. “Fine.”
Inside, they took the elevator up to a cavernous room, at the front of which stood a dais and a large easel. Smartly dressed men and women filled most of the seats, but Virginia nabbed three near the back. Clara began to leaf through the auction catalog that had been placed on her seat as a prim-looking man with a mustache spoke out from the lectern.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today for Sotheby Parke Bernet’s American Art Spring Auction. Our first artwork is Edward Hopper’s remarkable watercolor House on the Shore, signed by Hopper, dated 1924, and inscribed Gloucester. I’m going to start the bidding at sixty-five thousand dollars.”