Woman in Red (51 page)

Husband
. Alice and Colin exchanged a smile at the misunderstanding. Not yet, she thought, and maybe not for a long, long while. If ever. But it had a nice ring to it.

 

From the backseat of the cab, which was stalled in midtown traffic, Colin peered up at the Swarovski crystal snowflake suspended high above Fifty-Seventh Street, twinkling like the Star of Bethlehem. It filled him with holiday cheer, as did the street below, with its festive displays and fairy lights illuminating the trees and storefronts. Christmas in New York. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed the city, especially this time of year.

He turned to Alice. “You okay?” She’d been so quiet all evening, he worried that she might be finding this all too overwhelming.

She nodded and slipped a gloved hand into his. “I was just thinking that we have a lot riding on this.”

He smiled, giving her hand a little squeeze. “First-time jitters. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”

He ought to know. He’d been to enough auctions with his parents through the years. William had been generous in sending them paintings from time to time, and whatever
hadn’t been sold to dealers was auctioned off. Colin felt a pang of regret now, at how those gifts had been cashed in, seemingly without a scrap of sentiment. But he supposed that had been William’s intention, and the money had always been put to good use. It had tided them over during the period his dad had been out of work with a bad back and paid for Colin’s college education.

Colin’s own decision to auction off William’s last remaining work had nothing to do with economic need, at least not his own—though he could have used the money. It had to do with Spring Hill. The big money interests behind its development, seeing that it would likely be tied up in court for the foreseeable future, had done the sensible thing in offering to sell it to the county, for the “rock bottom” sum of fifteen million. Local conservancy groups had done their part in raising some of the money, with corporate sponsors and a few wealthy benefactors kicking in, but that still left a shortfall of several million. The money realized from the sale of Eleanor’s portrait, if it sold for anything close to the estimate, would cover a good portion of that.

That was where they were headed now, to Sotheby’s. The auction, for works of important twentieth-century artists, would draw wealthy art patrons, museum curators, and dealers from all over the world.
Woman in Red,
featured prominently in the catalogue, had already garnered a fair bit of interest, and hopes were high for a price that would break the record for previous sales of William McGinty’s works.

It seemed fitting to Colin that the money go to such a worthy cause. It was what his grandfather would’ve wanted, for it would provide in death what had eluded William in life: It would bring him closer to Eleanor in a way, in helping preserve the land she’d loved. A bittersweet resolution
that had Colin closing his eyes for a moment, reflecting upon all that had happened over the past year. When he opened them again, he found Alice looking at him in consternation.

“Country life must seem pretty quiet compared to this.” Her tone was light, but he knew she was wondering how much of this trip was, for him, tied up in memories of Nadine. “Do you miss the bright lights?”

“Not a bit. For one thing, I don’t know that I would’ve stayed sober here. Also, more importantly, I wouldn’t have met you.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, thinking she’d never looked more beautiful. Like the portrait whose image she resembled, she glowed in this setting, a rare gem in a vault of more ordinary ones.

“Good answer.” Her face relaxed in a smile. “Though I wouldn’t mind staying an extra day or two. I feel like we’ve barely made a dent.”

“We have all day tomorrow,” he reminded her. “If the weather’s nice, I’ll take you to the top of the Empire State Building. The view is pretty amazing. You can see all the way to New Jersey. Unless there’s something else you’d rather do,” he added, noting the uncertain look she wore.

She was silent for a moment before venturing, “I thought you might like to visit Ground Zero.”

Now it was his turn to fall silent, the memories crowding in on him. At last, he shook his head, saying, “This may sound strange, but for me it’s just a hole in the ground. Wherever Nadine is, it’s not there.” He was surprised by the ease with which he was able to talk about his wife. There had been a time, in the not-so-distant past, when the mere thought of her would have sent him reeling into darkness . . . typically the darkness of the nearest bar.
She would always be a part of him, he knew, but what had changed was that he’d stopped believing his own life had ended that day. Alice was living proof of that. With her, he’d rediscovered the wonder, not only of loving again, but of being alive.

Marriage was still a ways off, but he was working on that. First, he had to convince Alice to move in with him. So far she’d resisted, arguing that she needed to focus on Jeremy right now, but lately Colin had sensed he was wearing her down. They were talking about taking a trip to Italy next summer, all three of them. Jeremy was excited by the prospect. Jeremy also had his eye on the spare room Colin had subtly hinted could be his.

“Your dad ever get back to you about tonight?” she was asking him now.

Colin felt a familiar tightening inside, like he always did whenever the subject of his family arose. “Yeah, he’s not coming.” A bitter note crept into his voice. “His excuse is that Marma’s sick and he wants to stay nearby in case she needs anything.”

“What about your mom?”

Colin shook his head. “If she came without him, she’d never hear the end of it.”

“Don’t be too hard on them,” Alice said gently. “They’re not doing it to hurt you. It’s just . . . they have a vested interest in keeping things the way they are. Anyway, I’m glad I got to meet them, at least.”

Colin brightened, thinking about the afternoon they’d spent over at his parents’ house. Alice had gotten along with everyone, forever endearing herself to his mother by lending a hand with supper and the cleanup afterward, and winning points with his dad and his brother by showing interest in
their favorite subject: sports. Even Marma had been won over, though there had been a tense moment in the beginning, when he’d introduced them and his grandmother had just stood there, staring at Alice as if at a ghost. But she’d rallied, for his sake more than anything, Colin suspected, and before long the two had been chatting like old friends.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “Dad wanted me to know they all think you’re something special.” Not that Colin had needed to be told. “But I’m warning you. Now the pressure will be on. Don’t be surprised if your Christmas present from my mom is a subscription to
Bride
magazine.”

“I think I can handle it,” she said with a laugh, not committing herself one way or the other.

Colin suppressed a sigh. He’d just have to be patient. She would come around eventually. In the meantime, life was good. He was still sober: In three month’s time, he’d be getting his two-year chip. And the oyster farm was coming along nicely; already he had orders for his first harvest.

Before long the taxi was letting them off at the corner of East Seventy-second and York, where Sotheby’s was located, a modernist cube of a building with a sheer expanse of glass in front that, lit from within, lent it a theatrical glow. Chauffeured limos were double-parked along the curb, clouds of vapor rising from their tailpipes in the frosty air, with more pulling up every minute. Colin helped Alice negotiate the icy sidewalk in her high heels, which she was unaccustomed to wearing, as they made their way toward the entrance, picking their way around the clumps of dirty snow left over from the storm that had dumped six inches on the city the week before.

Inside, they found themselves caught up in the crush of people gathered near the coat check. As they waited in line,
snatches of conversation rose in the heated air, along with the mingled scents of perfume....
The Noguchi alone has to be worth . . . Not one of her better works, in my opinion . . . Did you catch the exhibit at the Whitney?
After they’d handed over their coats, they made their way into the lobby, where they were greeted by an attractive young woman in a slim-fitting skirt and cowl-necked sweater, who directed them to the gallery on the second floor.

Yesterday, one of the senior directors at Sotheby’s, an elegant bow-tied gentleman by the name of Spencer Morton, had given them a guided tour of the works that were to be auctioned off. When they had reached the portrait of Eleanor, he’d paused, commenting in a hushed voice, “The photos don’t do it justice. It’s truly magnificent. I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes to one of the museums. Several have already expressed interest.”

“I wish Denise could see this,” Alice had remarked to Colin, after Morton had been pulled away to attend to some other business. “She always said our grandmother deserved to hang in a museum, after all she’d been through. Though knowing Nana, she’d have hated that. She didn’t like drawing attention to herself. And the worst thing for her was sitting idle.”

“Your sister would know a thing or two about that.” Colin had smiled, thinking about the fact that it was partly due to Denise’s efforts that Spring Hill had been saved.

“She certainly has her hands full at the moment,” Alice had said, with a sigh. “The last time we spoke she sounded like she didn’t know if she was coming or going.”

“It takes a while to settle into a new place.” Not only that, a new job—she’d found a teaching position at the local elementary
school—and a husband who was still getting back on his feet. “I’ll bet it would cheer her up if you came for a visit. In fact, if you want, we could stop on the way back.” They could rent a car at SeaTac and drive to Spokane, he told her.

“I keep offering, and she keeps putting me off.” Alice had worn a look of sad resignation. “She’ll have me come when she’s ready, I suppose.” She missed her sister, he knew, but she also respected Denise enough to allow her the space she seemed to need.

Now, as he and Alice made their way through the gallery in search of empty seats, Colin thought that it was a miracle any of them were still standing. But here they were, and from the sizeable turnout, it looked as if their fortunes were about to improve even more. Luckily, they found two seats near the front, where they wouldn’t have to crane their necks to see over people’s heads. As Colin settled back in his chair, it hit him that this was it, no turning back now. His grandfather’s most prized possession—more than that, his paean to his lost love—would soon be in the hands of a complete stranger, someone who would know nothing of its history, of the tortuous route it had traveled to arrive at this point. Colin felt a twinge of regret, and at the same time he knew that it was for the best.

The bidding commenced with a minor work by Egon Schiele followed by an Andy Warhol sketch. Both went for prices higher than their estimates, the Warhol to an anonymous bidder over the phone. The entire transaction had been conducted without so much as a hair being turned. The stylish older woman taking bids over the phone had only subtly lifted a finger with each new bid before finally,
when the bidding reached its climax, confirming the buyer’s intentions with an expressionless nod. She hadn’t spoken a word, but every eye in the room had been fixed on her, as if on an actress doing a solo performance.

It was theatre, this business of auctioning off fine art, Colin thought. The auctioneer, a Brit from Central Casting, heralded each lot, as it was reverently placed on the spot-lit easel on the podium, in a voice like a drum roll. The hushed tension of the crowd, the hands going up holding their numbered paddles, as sums that would have dwarfed the average person’s annual salary climbed ever higher into the stratosphere. Then the final moment when the auctioneer’s gavel came down and the tension would go out of the room like an exhaled breath, replaced by a ripple of excited commentary, a smattering of applause.

Woman in Red
came up in the second hour. The auctioneer gave his spiel, informing the audience of what they could see with their own eyes: that it was William McGinty’s masterwork. The fact that it had been in private hands until now only added to its luster and to the air of mystery surrounding it. Colin, seeing it anew through their eyes, noted how it glowed in the spotlight, its colors as vibrant as when first painted, its subtle flesh tones breathing life into its long dead subject. As much a tribute to Eleanor as a work of art.

“. . . Seventy-five thousand from the gentleman in the back . . . Do we have eighty?... A hundred... ?” The ever escalating numbers rolled smoothly off the auctioneer’s tongue. He scarcely paused to take a breath as they rapidly went from high five to six, then seven figures.

Colin wasn’t aware of how tightly he’d been holding Alice’s hand until she winced at the pressure of his fingers.
She leaned in to whisper, “Who has that kind of money? Who
are
these people?”