The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Two

New York City, 1966

Veronica rose out of a foggy sleep in an unfamiliar room, awakened by a scream. She bolted upright, only to realize that wasn’t a scream but a siren, just not the sort she was used to. In London, the police cars made a sound that reminded her of an off-key donkey, one that was slightly apologetic for disturbing the peace. In New York, the wails cut through the air like a mourner’s keening.

She squinted at the clock on the hotel nightstand through sleepy eyes.

Nine o’clock.

Not good. That only gave her a half hour to get ready for what was possibly the most important photo shoot of her modeling career. To have come all this way and muck it up from the start—that simply couldn’t happen. She scrambled out of her nightgown and pulled on black cigarette pants with a white tee shirt. In the bathroom, she washed off the mascara and eyeliner that she hadn’t bothered about last night. Her skin was mottled, and a pimple threatened on her right cheek.

She was a mess, and it was all her own fault for not leaving the party sooner. When she’d heard that the photographer of this week’s shoot had invited everyone involved to his penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side for a “get-to-know-you get-together,” she’d been thrilled. Veronica was the least-experienced model in the group, and she might have downed a few too many glasses of wine to make up for it. Each one made her feel a little bolder, a little funnier, although for the most part she was happy to retreat to the terrace, where she stared out at the city, amazed that she was here. Inside, the party raged on, the photographer and his friends fawning over the other models in the carpeted sunken living room. A few of the men got up to dance to the Monkees’ latest hit, their movements jerky and mechanical, as if powered by a circuit board that was not up to code.

It was only the first evening, she told herself. By the end of the week, she’d be part of the gang, and then she’d head back to London with a terrific job under her belt and the promise of a few smashing photos that she’d put at the very front of her portfolio. When a potential client turned to that page, she’d give an indifferent shrug and say, “Oh, right, that was shot by Barnaby Stone last winter in New York. For Vogue.”

At forty American dollars an hour for two shoots, she’d also have almost four hundred pounds to deposit in her bank account. With everything she’d saved over the past several months from her modeling work, that would be enough to free her sister, Polly, from that dodgy Kent House and bring her home.

With dread, she took out the rollers that she’d haphazardly placed around her head before going to bed. It would have been better if she hadn’t bothered, as only the right half of her head had set correctly. She stuck her head under the bathtub faucet to rewet it, then combed it straight. It was the best she could do, under the circumstances.

Her hair had certainly drawn attention at the party last night, as it couldn’t have differed more from the long, straight tresses of the other girls. Veronica’s thick bangs, cut in a straight line almost to her ears, were her “defining” feature, according to her agent back in London. The back was almost an afterthought, hitting midway on her neck.

It hadn’t been the look that Veronica had been going for when she cut a photo out of Rave magazine and showed it to her mother. “What, you’re going to pay someone two quid to do that?” her mother, Trish, had said. “Let me.”

Veronica had felt guilty at the thought of spending that much money on herself, so she’d sat in the kitchen chair, let Trish put a tea towel around her neck to catch the bits, and closed her eyes, hoping for the best.

The model in the photo had thick bangs along her forehead with the rest long. But Trish cut the bangs too deeply at the sides, and then flubbed the trim at the back, so that by the time she was finished, Veronica looked like she had a mop on her head, the same cut she’d had back when she and Polly were five and their mother used an upside-down cereal bowl as a guide.

For all of her ranting and raving at Trish for destroying her hair, in the end, the cut had attracted a modeling agent in London, and later landed Veronica the Vogue job. While she looked quite mod in photos, the hairstyle tended to overwhelm her other features in person.

“She looks like she’s a mushroom,” one of the girls had said last night at the party.

Veronica had been around the corner, examining the contents of the bookshelves that lined a hallway. Heller, Capote, Pynchon. All men. Not even a little Flannery O’Connor, to break things up. She’d overheard the comment and known that it was meant for her.

“I like it.” The voice was high and squeaky, and Veronica recognized it as belonging to the girl called Tangerine, who she’d briefly befriended on a shoot in London last year. Tangerine was shorter than the typical model, around five feet six, and skinny with huge eyes. “I wish I had the courage to chop all this off. Would be much easier to manage.”

The other girl gasped. “Don’t you dare touch it. Promise me!”

After a couple of giggly promises, they’d moved on, and Veronica had emerged, collected her coat, and left. Outside, snow flurries danced in the lamplight, like slivers of confetti.

If she was the first to leave, then hopefully she wouldn’t be the last to arrive at the photo shoot location this morning. The others had more reason to be late, considering the amount of alcohol consumed.

She grabbed her two large suitcases—one filled with her modeling gear and the other with her street clothes—and checked out of the hotel. A porter helped her into a taxi, and she gave the driver the address that she’d scribbled down in her daily planner. The shoot encompassed two locations, shot over three days. They were to begin in New York at somewhere called the Frick Collection, a fancy museum that used to be a Gilded Age house, followed by a shoot at a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, with a train ride connecting the two. Veronica wished she’d had more time in New York, or at least spent last night at a Broadway show or walking the streets instead of trapped inside Barnaby’s smoke-filled flat. She’d thought it was important to get to know the crew, do a little bonding, but next time she’d skip it. If there was a next time.

Her agent, Sabrina, had told her that the New York City location was grand, but the one that the cab pulled up to wasn’t particularly fancy, at least not by English standards. The building was low and white, protected by a wrought iron fence, and if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought it was a bank, not a house. The snow had picked up overnight, leaving the sidewalks a slushy mess and collecting in small drifts in the corners of the six steps that led to double doors with the initials HCF etched in the archway. Above that, in the pediment, a naked woman carved in stone gazed down dreamily on all who entered.

She tried the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. Was she supposed to enter through some other way?

After a moment, though, a young man in jeans and a yellow tee shirt opened the door. “Sorry, the Frick Collection is closed on Mondays,” he said.

“I’m Veronica Weber, here for the photo shoot.”

“Oh.” He gave her a look, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. That she didn’t belong. That she didn’t resemble a model. Especially sans makeup and with her hair a floppy mess. “Huh. Okay then. I’m Steve, one of the PAs. We’re just getting set up. The other girls are all upstairs, I can show you where you can get ready.”

The reception area was dominated by a massive floral arrangement on a table in the very center of the hall, where delicate magnolia blossoms erupted from thick, dark stems. They walked on, past an organ tucked inside an arched setback at the base of a grand stairway. She wondered out loud if the instrument still worked and got a shrug in response.

On the second floor, Steve made a sharp right and a sharp left to a smaller set of stairs, which was probably only used by the servants back in the day. On the third floor, the chatter of the other models floated down a long hallway. He stopped and pointed to the women’s bathroom, situated about midway. “In there.”

She lugged her suitcases up a small set of stairs that led to the bathroom door and pushed it open. Inside, the tile floor was almost completely covered with all the accoutrements of the modern model, from shoes to rollers to makeup. The girls leaned over the porcelain sinks, staring into the mirrors, barely glancing in her direction.

“Hullo there,” she said. “Room for one more?”

“Hi, Veronica,” squealed Tangerine. “We missed you last night. Where did you go?”

“Tried to get some shut-eye. Jet lag, you know.”

“I don’t think we can squeeze you in,” said the tallest one, a girl named Gigi who Veronica recognized from a recent cover of Mademoiselle. “It’s tight already.”

Veronica apologized—such an English habit, one that Americans mistook to mean that one was actually sorry—and kept walking down the hall.

She took the stairs down one floor and tried to locate another bathroom. Several of the rooms were locked, and the open ones led to administrative offices. The last door on the right was ajar, and Veronica stepped inside and let out a soft gasp. She was standing in an old-fashioned, perfectly preserved bedroom, featuring an upholstered bed with a fanciful silk bed crown that rivaled that of a theater proscenium. Above a drop-front secretary desk hung a portrait of a little girl with a strangely guarded expression, as if she didn’t trust whoever was in the room with her. Veronica drew close and studied it. Neither the lacy pinafore nor the sweet curls could make up for the fact that this child came across as old beyond her years, as if the soul of a bedridden old woman lingered behind those eyes. Veronica shivered and tore herself away from it, looking about. Near the window sat a striped chaise longue almost the same size as the bed, the perfect spot for lying about and reading all day. The connecting bathroom had everything she desired, including a large mirror and decent lighting. This was much better than fighting for elbow room with the other models, and she’d be careful to leave it exactly as she found it. It was a museum, after all.

She opened up the suitcase with all her gear and began the lengthy process of unpacking. Models, even for the fanciest magazine shoots like this one, were required to bring along anything that might be called for during a session, including six or seven pairs of shoes, a bra that enhanced one’s natural assets as well as one that compressed them, waist cinches, slips, stockings in both black and nude, scarves, gloves, and jewelry. The girls were in charge of doing their own hair and makeup, which entailed a heavy makeup case as well as rollers, brushes, combs, and bobby pins. The suitcase weighed a ton, and Veronica often had to remind herself to walk straight and not list to one side after carrying it around the streets of London for hours.

She dug out her makeup kit and got to work, layering on the foundation, drawing on liner so that it swooped out from the corner of her eye, applying a bright lip to contrast with her dark hair. This was New York, the most sophisticated city in the world apart from Paris, so she dusted her lids with an electric blue eye shadow as well. After running a brush through her hair, she put on a robe and, with one last look in the mirror, headed down to the main floor.

Because most of the house was quite dark and gloomy, she knew where to go by the light spilling out of one room near the front entrance hall. Inside, she stopped and stared, marveling at the enormous painted panels that covered the walls, depicting lushly romantic scenes of lovers. The Frick Collection was certainly full of surprises. To think a family had once gathered here daily, had lived their everyday lives surrounded by such beauty. Once again, the center of the room contained a vase crowded with magnolia branches, each blossom tapering from deep pink at its base to snow white at the tip.

Steve was now setting up tripods and lights with two other PAs, and she spotted Barnaby in the far corner whispering with the creative director from the magazine. The other girls had surrounded a clothes rack and were being handed outfits for the shoot by the stylist.

One by one, the occupants of the room turned and stared at her.

She waved a friendly hello and then caught sight of herself in a mirror hanging on the far wall.

The other models had gone for a natural approach, a soft lip, thin eyeliner with no shadow, and hair that hung flat and smooth. She, on the other hand, looked like a clown, with a garish smear of lipstick that competed unsuccessfully with her blue eyeshadow in the bright light. If she’d wrestled her way into the bathroom with them in the first place, she might have been able to correct her mistake before she got started.

So far Barnaby hadn’t noticed her, and was still talking with the creative director. Veronica backed up, hoping to have time to escape and redo her face, when he turned and clapped for everyone’s attention.

“Let’s begin, ladies. Do we have everyone assembled?”

He looked at the gaggle of girls in the corner, and then his gaze fell on Veronica.

She braced herself for whatever he’d say next.

“Dear God.” He grimaced, then laughed. “I love the hair.”

She reflexively put a hand up to touch it. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“But what on earth happened to your face?”

Veronica had been restocking the shelves of her uncle Donny’s pawnshop when she was “discovered.” It was a couple of days after her terrible haircut, and she’d been thankful that Uncle Donny had let her get out from behind the till for a couple of hours, away from the customers’ stares. He’d offered her the job of salesclerk a year earlier, soon after her father’s sudden death, and on slow days she’d lose herself in the random objects in the display cases and shelves, wondering whose fingers had touched the dusty Imperial typewriter, or what kind of woman had worn the dangly Art Deco earrings. How had they ended up here, and what had it meant to have to give them up?

The clientele of Chelsea Pawnbrokers were a mixed bunch. Most were more likely to hock their grandmothers’ smelly old furs than a Cartier watch, but every so often a toff with a posh accent came in and nervously thrust a gem-encrusted necklace across the counter. Veronica would sit back and watch as Uncle Donny examined it, sighed, then examined it some more, until the customer was just glad to have the sordid transaction done with and departed with less than half the item’s value in wrinkled pound notes.

The day Veronica met Sabrina, she’d looked up to see a pleasant-faced, forty-something woman inquiring whether the ukulele in the shop window worked. Uncle Donny was over by the register, having a hushed conversation with a scrawny young man over a gold coin, so Veronica had answered honestly.

“It doesn’t. I wouldn’t bother.”

“I appreciate that,” the woman responded. “It’s a birthday gift for my nephew, probably best to go to a proper music shop.” She paused. “My goodness.”

Veronica touched her hair automatically, waiting for a snide comment or, even worse, one of concern.

But the woman smiled even wider. “That is one smashing haircut. Who did it? Vidal?”

“Um, no. My mum.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Have you ever modeled before?”

Veronica laughed, but then, realizing the woman was serious, took her card and promised to show up at her modeling agency on her next day off. There, she was inspected by the cadre of agents and sent out for photos to fill her “book.” They insisted she quit her job at Uncle Donny’s in order to be free for go-sees, which Sabrina explained were like auditions for models. Her mother was suspicious at first, but after she leafed through the portfolio, with shots of Veronica sporting long fake eyelashes and bright miniskirts, she squealed with delight.

“You’re going to be on all the covers, I’m sure of it! That’s my girl.”

Veronica had dutifully shown up early to every go-see that she was given, and booked several jobs. They were mainly on the lower rung of modeling work, like catalogue shoots and print ads, and while she was making more than she had at the pawnshop, the cost of all of the paraphernalia she was required to buy ate into each paycheck, making Veronica wonder if it was worth it. Then, last week, Sabrina had called and told her that Veronica had a go-see for a big shoot, over in the States, where Vogue was looking for a British model to feature on the editorial pages. Veronica had shown up early, hoping to get in quickly so she’d have enough time afterward to visit Polly, but was told they were running behind. The other girls were gloriously, effortlessly beautiful, and all she could think of as she sat on the hard metal bench in the hallway was Polly waiting patiently for her in the shabby foyer of Kent House, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor, before being told to go back to her room.

By the second hour, Veronica was fuming at the fashion industry’s notorious lack of consideration of models’ time. When her name was finally called, she stomped into the room, tossed her portfolio on the table, then stepped back, arms crossed, scowling.

“So who do we have here?” asked one of the men seated behind the table.

“Veronica Weber.”

“Great, great.” He handed her book to the two others beside him. “Can we see you walk?”

She’d been told by Sabrina to imagine floating whenever she had to show off her walk: Imagine a book on your head, keep it steady.

Instead, Veronica imagined the disappointment in Polly’s eyes. Her feet landed hard on the wood floor, and she kept her arms crossed.

“Wow.” The man sat back in his chair. “That was something. I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m Barnaby, Barnaby Stone.” He introduced the two others at the table, but Veronica didn’t catch their names. She was stunned they hadn’t tossed her out yet.

“Hey,” was all she said in return.

The three looked at each other without speaking, as if checking in on some psychic level to see if they all agreed that she was a joke, an absolute disaster. Veronica walked up to the table and grabbed her portfolio, then picked up her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor.

“Wait.”

Barnaby tapped his finger on the table. “Are you free next week?”

After all that scowling and stomping, they were interested in her?

“I dunno.” She didn’t smile, didn’t register anything other than disdain. “You’ll have to check with my people.”

Later that day, Sabrina called with the news. Veronica’s flight to the States left that Sunday. She’d spend Monday in New York, Tuesday and Wednesday in Newport, and then head home Thursday. There was a chance, Sabrina said, that the New York arm of the agency might bring her back to the city after the Newport shoot and send her around to see more photographers and editors, so she should pack accordingly.

And just like that, she was on her way to a Vogue photo shoot with the hottest photographer of the decade.

And just like that, she’d blown it by lacquering on too much makeup. They’d hired her to project a cool aloofness, but she was jet-lagged and overwhelmed and simply couldn’t think straight.

As she stood there, mortified, in the doorway of this beautiful room, she sensed someone behind her.

“Excuse me, you can’t sit in those chairs.”

A young man in jeans and a white button-down shirt made his way around her and pointed at a chair against the far wall that was currently occupied by Gigi, who sported a plucked magnolia blossom above one ear. She sat with a leg slung over the arm of the chair, and slid it off with a thump before rising to her feet, rolling her eyes as she did so.

“That chair’s from the eighteenth century,” said the man. He wore a pair of square-framed glasses that rested above sharp cheekbones. He waited, as if there was supposed to be a reaction to his statement. “Please, don’t lean against the walls, either.”

The girls lounging on the floor exchanged smirks as they shifted slightly forward.

“Right, thanks, man.” Barnaby pointed to a white plastic bag filled with tape and film packaging. “Can you take out that trash for us, while you’re here?”

“I’m sorry?” The man tilted his head slightly.

“You’re the janitor, right?”

He didn’t move from the doorway, only crossed his arms. With his height and those chiseled features, he could have been a model himself, although his frame was too skinny and the glasses he wore gave off a nerdy air. But Veronica was certain that Barnaby had only seen the color of his skin, which was black. When the man finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if he’d practiced these lines before, with every other Barnaby who’d walked through the Frick doors. “I’m an archivist for the Frick Collection. They asked me to keep an eye out today, since the museum is closed. You can put your trash in the basement.” He looked at Barnaby disapprovingly, as if he were a child and not one of the most successful fashion photographers in the world.

Veronica cringed at the mistake, but Barnaby offered no hint of compunction. He strode forward and shook the man’s hand, all smiles and warmth. “Thanks for letting us shoot here,” he said. “Really love it. Fab location.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I promise we’ll behave, Sonny Jim.”

“The name’s Joshua. Joshua Lawrence.”

“Right.” Barnaby snapped his fingers in the general direction of the nearest PA. “You. Get rid of that trash, now.”

Veronica stepped out of the way as the PA shot by, plastic bag in hand.

Barnaby put his arm around Joshua. “Since you’re the main man here, why don’t you tell the girls a little about where we are right now?”

Joshua looked over at the clutch of models, who stared blankly back, not in the least bit interested in a history lesson. He cleared his throat. “The house was the residence of the Frick family starting in 1914. Henry Clay Frick was a steel magnate who loved art, and built the home with the express purpose of one day leaving the house and his extensive art collection to the city as a museum.” Joshua twisted his hands in front of him, losing steam at the lack of response. Having just been the recipient of a roomful of derision herself, Veronica offered an encouraging nod when he glanced her way. He swallowed once and carried on, speaking slightly louder. “After Mr. Frick died, his wife and daughter Helen lived on here until Mrs. Frick passed away in 1931, at which point it underwent some renovations and became the Frick Collection, opening in 1935.”

“I have a question,” said Tangerine. “What’s with all the magnolia flowers?”

“Magnolias have long been associated with the mansion. For a time, Mr. Frick was the owner of the famous Magnolia diamond, a flawless twelve-carat pink diamond. Today, the Frick Collection is well-known for the large magnolia trees on the main lawn.”

“What happened to the diamond?” Veronica didn’t want to draw more attention to herself, but her curiosity got the best of her.

“It disappeared in 1919. Rumor has it that the family thought it was stolen, but oddly enough, a police report was never filed. No one has seen it since.”

“Too bad, that,” said Barnaby, leading Joshua to the door, smacking him on the back a couple of times. “We could have used it in the shoot.”

“There’s more I can tell you about the family, if you like.”

“That’s all right, we’ll take it from here.”

After Joshua had gone—giving one last worried look over his shoulder—Barnaby pointed to Veronica. “Someone, give the girl a hand and clean up her face. Do I have to manage every little thing, or can you girls show some initiative?”

Embarrassed, Veronica turned and fled.