The Masterpiece

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

November 1974

Virginia woke up the next day with one purpose in mind: Get her family life in order.

Over breakfast, she apologized to Finn for not telling him about the cancer and promised to keep him in the loop going forward. He’d choked up and told her that he’d always be there for her.

“I love you, Vee.”

They’d never, ever exchanged those words before. The O’Connor family was one of “Sleep wells” and “Very good, thens.” She silently thanked Xavier for having made her brother feel safe and brave enough to say it first.

“I love you, too.”

When Ruby arrived back from her dad’s, Virginia suggested a walk in the park. Warily, her daughter agreed.

They circled around the pond where, in the warmer months, model sailboats zigzagged across the shallow waters. The morning was brisk; frost grayed the tips of the grass.

“I hear you’ve got yourself a job already.”

Ruby dug her hands into her pockets. “Yup.”

Virginia had a hard time imagining her shy daughter working in a bustling bar. She hoped it would be a good fit. The very fact that Ruby had accepted Ryan’s offer was a good sign, though. “That’s great.”

“Once I start getting paychecks, I’m going to take a class at the New York Institute of Photography.”

“You seem determined.”

Ruby nodded, staring out across the water. “I want to prove to you and Dad that this is the right path for me.”

“Did you mention it to your dad last night?”

Ruby made a noise like fireworks, her hands splayed out.

“I take it the idea went over well.”

A reluctant grin spread over Ruby’s face; then she laughed. “He lost it. I almost came back home to you.”

Virginia spoke quickly, grateful for the opening. “You can always come home to me. I won’t lose it. I have to admit I’m impressed. It’s not even been twenty-four hours and you have a plan.” She paused. “Can I ask what happened at Sarah Lawrence? I know you were upset about academics, but was it something else?”

For a moment, it looked like Ruby was about to turn sullen, close back down. Virginia waited, hoping the storm would pass quickly. Eventually, her daughter let out a quiet, resigned sigh, one that made her seem more like an ancient woman than a coltish girl. “I felt like I was falling behind from the very first day of classes. That I’d never catch up. Late one night, I was sitting out in the hall outside my dorm room, trying to study, and I heard my suite mates talking about me inside. I thought we were all friends, but they were saying that they couldn’t wait until next year so they could replace me with someone else. That I was a drag, a dimwit.”

“I’m so sorry.” Virginia put an arm around her. “They obviously didn’t get to know you.”

“I only got accepted there because Grandma pulled strings. I don’t belong. It’s like Finn at Juilliard—he knew it wouldn’t be a good fit.”

“I understand.”

“Do you, really?” Her chin jutted out, a challenge.

“You felt like you were in over your head. I was the same after the divorce.”

“You were? How?”

“I bought an apartment that was over my budget, as a way of trying to prove that I was something that I’m not. To prove to you that our lifestyle wouldn’t change. Well, it has. And no matter how much I pretended otherwise, I’m the daughter of an Irish bar owner, not some fancy East Side lady who lunches.”

“Don’t be embarrassed by that. I’m proud of you.”

Her words brought tears to Virginia’s eyes. She hugged her. “I’m proud of you, too. So much so, I want to offer you your first professional photography job. Although I can’t pay you much.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to go to Grand Central together one weekend and have you take some photos of the place before it loses its landmark status and gets destroyed. Will you do that for me?”

The idea had come to Virginia last night, in a furious flash. Even if the building came down, she’d have a visual testament to its beauty. It was a way to preserve the memory of the terminal as well as show Ruby that she supported her photography with more than hollow words.

“You really have a thing for that building, don’t you?”

Virginia smiled. “I do.”

“Well, then, I’m in.”

An hour later, Virginia waited in line at the Lost and Found in Grand Central, clutching the art portfolio with the watercolor inside, unsure. When the man behind the counter offered to be of service, she stammered out an apology and turned away.

The decision not to answer the letter writer’s threat, and instead keep her appointment with the Lorettes, wasn’t an easy one, but Virginia didn’t feel unsafe. The fire, in a strange way, was a blessing, because whoever was threatening her didn’t know that she’d relocated to the Carlyle, which meant they didn’t know how to find her outside of work.

Her curiosity kept her moving forward. She wanted to learn more about Clara Darden and Levon Zakarian and how the artwork came to be. If the Lorettes dismissed it as unimportant, then she’d turn it in and be done with it, just to get the ghost of Grand Central off her tail. If they didn’t, she’d have another risky decision to make.

For now, it was time to hightail it downtown.

A cold rain began to fall as Virginia made her way to the East Village address Mrs. Lorette had given her, the very same neighborhood that Virginia had warned Ruby about. She tucked the portfolio under one arm while struggling to open her umbrella.

“Give me that.”

She looked up, surprised to see a gaunt man standing in front of her. Did he want the umbrella? She was about to ask when she caught sight of the knife in his hand. Her first thought was exasperation, not fear. Really? She was getting mugged twice in two weeks?

“Hand it over!”

Right. She needed to think clearly, not do anything stupid. The street was empty of other pedestrians. The knife shook in the man’s hand, his nails dirty, his clothes ragged. She avoided his eyes, trying to convey that she was not a threat. “Okay, okay. You can have it. Take it, I won’t bother you.”

She lifted the strap from her purse off her shoulder.

“No. The other thing.”

She let it drop back down to her shoulder. “You want my umbrella?”

“Fuck, lady, no. The other thing.”

“The portfolio?”

He nodded.

“But I have money.” She unzipped her purse, reached inside.

“I don’t want money. Give me that other thing.”

The watercolor. He wanted the watercolor.

“Did you send me that letter?”

He blinked several times, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch. Just hand it over.”

He reached for the portfolio at the same time she yanked the can of mace out of her purse and squeezed the trigger, hoping she had it pointed the right way.

She did. Her assailant screamed and covered his eyes, falling to his knees. Virginia ran as fast as she could. The steps up to the front door of the Lorettes’ brownstone were cracked and chipped at the edges. She took them two at a time and hit the buzzer hard.

An older man with a mahogany cane answered the door.

“You must be Virginia Clay,” he said.

“Someone just tried to mug me; let me inside, please.” She looked to her left. Her assailant was staggering in the opposite direction, his hands clutching his face.

Mr. Lorette peered out, resting a protective hand on Virginia’s arm. “My God, please, come in.”

He led her into a parlor. “Shall we call the police? Are you hurt?”

Virginia shook her head. “I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

The mugger had wanted the painting. Not her purse. She took a seat near the fireplace, hugging the portfolio to her, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. Had the letter writer sent someone after her when she didn’t return it to the Lost and Found by the deadline? Was she being followed?

She shivered and studied the room while Mr. Lorette called for his wife. The simplicity of the furnishings stood in contrast to the remarkable paintings, drawings, and sketches that covered the walls. Some seemed familiar, but she didn’t dare ask in case she made a silly error and came off like a dolt. Most of the titles and painters she’d crammed into her head as an art major had dribbled away over the past twenty years. Funny how art acted as a separation between those who deemed themselves cultured and those who did not. Virginia at the very least knew to keep her mouth shut and not give away her ignorance.

Her thoughts were racing from shock. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

An elegant older woman, her thick hair piled on top of her head like an Edwardian maiden, entered carrying a tea tray. Mr. Lorette introduced her as his wife, and she offered Virginia a plate of jam cookies. “I’m sorry to hear you were accosted outside. The neighborhood has changed over the years—I don’t think I can remember when it’s been so dangerous. You are sure you’re all right?”

Virginia nodded. “I’m fine.” She thanked them again for seeing her.

“Our pleasure,” said Mr. Lorette. “You mentioned on the telephone that you’re interested in learning more about the Grand Central School of Art. We love talking about the subject, don’t we, darling? The school was our child, in many ways.”

“That it was,” agreed Mrs. Lorette. “Irving took over the school soon after it opened and brought in teachers who were remarkable, forward thinking. The faculty, in turn, drew in some remarkable students.”

Mr. Lorette beamed. “We have several well-known artists who found their footing while studying with us.”

“I’ve read a little about the history of the school.” Virginia placed her tea on a coaster on the coffee table and scooted forward on her chair. Her heartbeat had returned to its normal cadence, and the warm tea settled her down. “I understand one of the painting teachers was Levon Zakarian.”

“Levon.” Mr. Lorette sighed. “Mercurial, difficult, brilliant. What a sad tale. From beginning to end, I don’t think he had very many moments of happiness.”

“Yet he created great art,” interjected Mrs. Lorette. “One hopes he found satisfaction in that. Even if he died young.”

Her husband chuckled. “Whenever I did something that annoyed Levon, which was quite often, it seemed, he’d tell me that I had goats on my roof.”

“What did that mean?” asked Virginia.

“I didn’t find out until a year or so after he’d died, from one of his students, who used the same expression. Levon told him that the Armenian villages where he grew up had flat roofs, where the women set fruit out to dry. A perimeter of prickly branches kept the goats off. If you had goats on your roof, you hadn’t bothered to fortify your fencing. The expression meant you were oblivious, foolish.”

“He sounds like a very colorful man.”

Mr. Lorette began to laugh. “I had goats on my roof then, and probably still do today!”

“Now, now, Irving.” Mrs. Lorette turned to Virginia and whispered, “Maybe a little.”

The Lorettes were sweet together and knew all the players. Janice at the Art Students League had steered Virginia in the right direction. “I was also wondering what you knew about Clara Darden, the illustration teacher at the school.”

“She taught there early on,” said Mr. Lorette. “Around the same time as Levon. Before the Depression. Clara Darden was not very ladylike. She could be shrewish at times. Unyielding. Something was always wrong, and I was often at the receiving end of her wrath.”

Mrs. Lorette shook her finger at her husband. “You see what you’re doing; you’re making her out to be a harridan while Levon Zakarian gets away with the same behavior and is considered brilliant. Not acceptable.”

She was right. The descriptions of both artists were two sides of the same coin. Levon was mercurial and difficult. While Clara was shrewish and unyielding.

“Please forgive me, darling. I live in the past.”

Virginia addressed them both. “Do you know what happened to Clara Darden?”

“There were rumors she left town,” answered Mr. Lorette. “Rumors that she was on the train with Levon, but her body was never recovered. In any event, she simply vanished.”

“Isn’t it strange no one knows what happened to her?”

“By that point, we’d had to close the school. Everyone was struggling, and I guess we lost touch.”

Mrs. Lorette cut in. “When we shut the doors temporarily, to ride out the worst of the Depression, we struggled as well.”

“But that’s all over now.” Mr. Lorette reached over and took her hand. “We’re still in our home, still going strong.”

“How did you manage, during the years it was closed?”

“We rented out our place in New York City, moved to Maine until it got too cold. Then wintered in Europe, staying with friends, hopping from city to city.” Mrs. Lorette’s eyes lit up. “We were well-dressed vagabonds, depending on the kindness of strangers.”

The image brought Finn and Xavier to Virginia’s mind.

“Even after the school reopened, it wasn’t the same,” said Mr. Lorette. “We lost our lease in 1944, right before the war ended. They told us to get out, gave us very little notice.”

“Have you been back since?”

He shook his head. “We only go to Grand Central if we’re taking a train somewhere. It’s a dreadful place now.”

“But you should have seen it back in the day.” Mrs. Lorette clapped her hands together. “Students running about, so much energy and laughter coming from the hallways. Up to the school, down to the gallery. They held balls once a year, and they were grand affairs. There was nothing like seeing pairs of students dashing across the concourse, dressed in black tie and silk dresses.”

How sad to think that chapter of the terminal was lost to history.

“It’s a dinosaur, like us.” Mr. Lorette rubbed his cane with his thumb.

“Would you say that Clara Darden and Levon Zakarian knew each other well?”

Mr. Lorette considered the question. “They were teaching around the same time. Yes, I remember quite clearly Levon advocating for Clara at some point. I was about to let her go, and he insisted she stay on. Glad I listened to him, in the end. It was right before she took off with all the fashion magazine covers. Before that, students were dropping out of her class right and left.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They didn’t like being taught by a woman, probably. But once she made a name for herself, everything settled down.”

He regarded Virginia. “Why is it you’re here, Mrs. Clay? Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

She placed a hand on the portfolio but didn’t open it. “I’m really interested in finding out more about Levon Zakarian and Clara Darden. In particular, I’m curious about their techniques. They were quite different, right, since they used different mediums?”

“Completely different,” affirmed Mr. Lorette. “He was masculine, always chipping away at his paintings, scraping and then repainting, big, thick strokes. While she did watercolor, which requires great patience, forethought. You can’t go back and fix a watercolor, you see. If you’ve made something too dark, there’s no way to lighten it. You’re stuck; you have to start over.”

The watercolor by Clyde had strong, dark strokes. A combination of Zakarian’s methods and Darden’s medium. “Would they have shared supplies?”

“Now, that’s an odd question.” Mr. Lorette exchanged a glance with Mrs. Lorette. “What are you getting at?”

She couldn’t hold back any longer. The Lorettes were probably the only people left from those days who might be able to help. She unzipped the portfolio and pulled out the watercolor, placing it on the coffee table. “I discovered this recently. I’d love to get your thoughts.”

Even in the shadowy autumn light, the Clyde painting seemed to leap off the page.

Mr. Lorette leaned forward, his brows knitted together. “This looks like a Zakarian Clyde work. It’s very similar to the one that’s going to auction.”

“But it’s watercolor.” Mrs. Lorette gently touched one corner, as if it were still wet with paint.

Virginia nodded. “I brought it to the curator at the Art Students League, and she recommended I show it to you.” She turned it over. “Here’s why. On the back, there’s a sketch that’s signed and dated by—”

Mr. Lorette cut in. “Clara Darden.”

“Right. That’s why I’m here. Why I asked about them sharing supplies. I’m curious if Levon Zakarian might have done this on the back of her work.”

“Maybe. I really don’t know.”

“There’s something else. A detail that the curator, Janice, and I found intriguing.” Virginia was enjoying herself, building up the drama. She pulled out the auction catalog and opened it to the earmarked page. “Look at the letter C on this signature and on the signature of the drawing.”

The Lorettes did so. Mr. Lorette’s eyebrows raised. “They’re exactly the same.”

“Right. They also match the way Clara Darden signed her Vogue covers.” Virginia surveyed their reactions. “The drawing is dated two years before Clyde’s New York exhibition in 1931. Maybe Clara Darden drew that first, then expanded on it for the watercolor. Maybe Clara Darden, not Levon Zakarian, is Clyde.”

“Quite interesting,” murmured Mr. Lorette. “We’d have to enlist an expert to compare it with the one that’s at auction. Where again did you find this?”

They’d been so helpful and encouraging, she couldn’t lie. “The truth is, I work at Grand Central, in the information booth. I was exploring the terminal and came upon the School of Art. This was behind one of the storage cabinets, in one of the studios.”

“The school is still intact? No one’s rented out the space in all this time?” Mr. Lorette’s mouth dropped open.

She nodded. “Penn Central’s planning on building a skyscraper on top of Grand Central, so there’s probably no point in renting it out. The whole place is a disaster.”

“How utterly sad.” Mr. Lorette’s eyes watered.

His wife patted his knee. “There, there. It was a place and time that’s over and done with. We have our memories.”

“My wife, always the pragmatist.” He beamed at Virginia. “I’m thrilled that you discovered this watercolor. If it is a Zakarian, there’s no family left to claim it.”

“What about if it’s by Clara Darden?”

“No idea about her. But lawyers can always take care of that kind of thing.”

Expensive lawyers, most likely.

“Now, who do we know who might be able to help us?” Mr. Lorette said.

His wife answered without missing a beat. “Sammy!”

“Sammy, yes.”

“Who’s Sammy?” asked Virginia.

“An expert at the Museum of Modern Art. He’ll know how to go about this. But I must call right now, this very minute, as he’s off to Europe soon.” Mr. Lorette disappeared into the adjoining room. Virginia tried to listen in, but his conversation was muffled.

Things were moving too fast. She turned to Mrs. Lorette. “What if I take it to Sotheby Parke Bernet and show them what I’ve found?”

Mrs. Lorette poured herself more tea. “They have a lot at stake, with the auction coming up. I’m not saying they’d do anything unethical, but it wouldn’t be in their best interests to have the provenance of the Clyde painting questioned so soon before the sale.”

“What if Penn Central decides it’s theirs? After all, they own the space where it was found.”

“Art belongs to the public, not a corporation. And certainly not a mercenary one like Penn Central. No need to involve them.”

Virginia sighed. “I almost hate to let it go. My first thought was to hang it in my apartment; I figured it’d make me smile every time I passed by.”

Mrs. Lorette picked up her teacup and saucer and wandered over to a painting above the fireplace, an oil of a woman in a fancy dress standing next to a greyhound. “I know what you mean. You become attached. Every time I look at this painting, I see something different, like a subtle aura around her head that I’d never noticed before, or the way the greyhound’s eyes are flecked with yellow.” She turned around. “But yours needs to be cared for. Poor thing’s been sitting in a dusty room for ages. Sammy will know what to do, how to preserve it, restore it, if need be.”

Mr. Lorette returned, looking triumphant. “Sammy’s quite interested. We have an appointment on Monday at ten o’clock.”

Virginia held up one hand. “I can’t, I have to work then. Can we make it during my lunch hour?”

“He’s off to Europe then, some kind of partnership with the Louvre in Paris.”

“Maybe when he gets back?”

“He’ll be back in the New Year.”

More than a month away. “Do you think he’ll be able to help?” She knew the answer but wanted reassurance.

“Of course. He knows that era well. Best man in town. Heck, in the world.”

Virginia looked from one to the other. According to her temp contract, she wasn’t allowed to take off work until she’d been there a month. A little less than two weeks had passed since she started, and she couldn’t risk losing her job. She’d never find another. She supposed she could leave the watercolor with the Lorettes.

And after that mugging, it would be a relief to have it taken off her hands. But she should warn them. “Just so you know, I got a threatening letter, telling me to put the watercolor back. I think that mugger was after it as well. Someone wants it badly.” She paused. “I worry that giving it to you may put you in harm’s way.”

Mr. Lorette didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. “The ghost of Levon Zakarian, trying to fight for his legacy, perhaps?”

“Or Clara Darden’s.”

His smile faded. “Just goes to show that your instincts are on track. You’ve discovered what might be an important piece of art. We’ll guard it closely and make sure it gets safely uptown to Sammy. Don’t you worry about us. We’ve lasted longer in this city than almost anyone we know.”

They had a point. The Depression, the war years. The Lorettes had seen it all.

Virginia placed it back in the portfolio. “All right. Take it to Sammy, and then let me know what he says.”

“Are you sure you can’t come?” asked Mrs. Lorette. “It could be a fun meeting; we’d learn a lot.”

“Let’s not get our hopes up too high, now,” added Mr. Lorette. “Who knows? We might learn that it’s all a hoax, that a student was copying one of his teacher’s works in progress. Although I certainly hope not. It might be an important piece of the Grand Central School of Art’s history.”

Virginia agreed. “I’ll call you on my lunch hour to find out what you learn.”

“Very good. We shall speak to you Monday.” Mr. Lorette held out his hand, and Virginia shook it. “Let’s pray for good news.”