The Long Road Home (33 page)

“THERE IS NOTHING MORE I can do.”

It was the first day of her auction. Nora stood at the door, dressed in funereal black, with Oma’s pearls at her neck and ears.

“I see,” replied Walton. His gaze swept the sparse crowd milling about the room seeking out seats. “Pretty straight group,” he summed up. “A few artsy types, a few private shoppers.” He shrugged. “A lot of top dealers.”

Nora glanced at the dealers. Some of them shot speculative glances across the room, a few pairs huddled together furiously scribbling notes in their catalogs. Still others, the well prepared, sat with impassive faces waiting for the auction to begin. Clearly, this was an “inside” crowd. Most of the seats were unoccupied.

“It’s my worst nightmare.” Her hand briefly touched her forehead before she collected herself and stood straight once again. “I went to every bank involved,” she stated, a flush creeping along her neck. “They wouldn’t see me.”

Walton frowned, guessing at the truth behind the gross understatement.

Nora read the understanding in his eyes and her color deepened. Would her shame never end? Bank presidents, men she had entertained in her home, had turned her away without so much as an interview.

The two that did see her spent the time in a tirade against Mike and his schemes until she managed to excuse herself and leave with her tail between her legs. At least as the grieving widow she had been inviolate. Now, however, they’d felt justified in venting their anger against Mike, demanding their pound of flesh. What they didn’t realize was that her heart had already been torn out.

The image of C.W. standing behind his powerful desk flashed through her mind with a blinding pain. Closing her eyes tight, she felt physically ill at the memory.

“Are you all right?” asked Walton.

“Yes, quite. I’m just tired. It’s been a long couple of days.”

Walton reached out and touched her elbow.

She smiled gratefully. “Shall we start?”

Mustering her courage, she put on her mask and paraded past the hushed whispers to her seat. Once there, she pretended to study her program, ignoring the naked stares, praying for the auction to be over with.

It began late. At 10:05, Walton stepped forward before the beige-curtained stage where some of Nora’s antiques of as sorted pedigree had already been set up. He silently acknowledged her presence. His thick shock of white hair fell over his equally white collar as he perused the crowd above his bifocals. After a final glance at his watch, he cast a frustrated look at Nora and raised his thin shoulders. Despite the house’s care
ful marketing and publicity, the audience remained far below expectations.

Walton stepped to the auctioneer’s post to the far right. He bandied with his assistants, cajoled the bidders, and drew attention to whimsical details on vases and furniture, hoping to lighten the mood. The crowd twittered and bidding commenced.

The jewelry went first. Mike’s gold cufflinks, tie clasps, watches, cigarette cases. Nora remembered how he’d looked in each of them. Her collection of Victorian jewelry followed, then her Russian vermeil eggs. The bidding was slow but steady. When her personal jewelry was presented, she began to harbor hope. Her spectacular pearl and diamond necklace neared its estimated value; she felt her first rush of relief.

Suddenly, a broad-faced woman with a short blunt haircut stomped into the room with a bold bid. All heads turned toward the woman as she marched to the table, nose up, glasses down, and made a show of studying the pearls. Then, with a dramatic shake of her head, the woman found a seat and refused another bid.

Immediately the bidding slowed. Nora was furious. That dealer had deliberately cast doubt on the pearls’ quality. Again and again as the bidding rose, so rose the henchwoman to the table. And as before, as she declined, so did the bidding. It was as though the strange woman was reminding them of a previously arranged deal.

Nora’s furs and lesser furniture were all sold for a song. Her china was stolen, and by the time her oriental porcelains were presented, Nora knew she had lost.

“God,” whispered a young man behind her. “I can’t believe we got it.”

“A real find!” squealed a woman to her right.

“A real steal,” was her friend’s rejoinder.

One by one whispers of disbelief and triumph reached her ears. By the end of the morning, the auctioneer’s calls garbled with the buzz of the crowd, becoming a white noise in her own head.

For the afternoon’s set, rows of chairs remained empty and those that weren’t again held dealers. Nora acknowledged with polite nods a few discreet greetings, but was not taken in. Her hands were tied; the lady would burn.

As if on cue, Walton stepped forward, graciously nodded her way, then let his gaze sweep the crowd. She saw in his eyes the same sense of futility that she herself felt. He raised his palms up and shrugged as though to say, “Is there no champion?”

Nora’s carpets started the afternoon’s auction. She examined them in a detached manner, allowing her critical eye to catch their merits or flaws. The bids, she ignored. They were too ridiculous to contemplate.

With her silver, she recalled the many dinner parties she had presided over. Her better porcelains, china, and curios came and went. Her furniture was spectacular, and well received. How many letters did she write on that tiger maple desk? How many dinners served on that Sheraton table? Remember the hours spent reading in that Chippendale wing chair?

A chill ran down her back when her elaborately carved four-poster was carried on stage. The bed didn’t do well, nor, she decided, did it deserve to. The gavel sounded. Sold.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Watching her merchandise pass by was endurable, but reviewing the memories that they provoked was an ordeal.

Walton finally rose to the podium to call an end to the fiasco. Only a few dealers were left in the cavernous room. “Thank you for the competition,” he said, giving the sparse crowd a cold stare.

Nora rose and ducked out of the room, not caring who saw
her retreat or what they said. Yes, she had expected a bad show, but not this preordained disaster. Out of all her things, only one piece did well: Oma’s mine-cut diamond ring. It had been Oma’s engagement ring, the one she never took off. Nora’s only smile of the day came when the auctioneer called, “Sold!” after an astonishingly high bid. Yet her revenge was not sweet. Oma’s ring, like so many other of her personal things, were gone. Nora stopped short and rubbed her temples.

“I’m sorry, Oma,” she whispered as she strode out over the blood-red rug.

The following morning was rainy, and the cold wind whipped the wet into her face. Nora walked the distance to the auction house nonetheless, feeling the need for fresh air to bolster her courage. At the entry, however, she stopped and wondered if she’d approached the wrong building. Inside, the auction room was packed. Not only dealers volleyed for seats but society’s elite elbowed their way through the crowd. They smiled and waved to her like old friends at a party. Walking to her reserved seat, Nora felt the fine hairs rise along her neck.

Walton stepped forward and clasped his hands before him, like a man about to sit down to a feast. He welcomed the crowd and gave a brief yet elaborate presentation of Nora’s art collection. He deftly reminded the audience of the art’s importance and drew attention to specific pieces in the vast collection.

After a gracious acknowledgement to Nora, the auction commenced with her Haitian collection. She was delighted when the bidding was as brisk and bright as the colors on the canvas. The same held for her early American works. Her biggest thrill, however, was the enthusiasm engendered over her collection of relatively unknown artists. These were the pieces that she was especially proud of. She thought of Esther
and knew that if her work had been in this collection, it would have stolen the show.

Her collection was vast and the auction was long; still, the crowd remained strong. As the auction drew to a close, however, the festive mood of the room altered. Excitement grew as the crowd thickened to standing room only. The heat rose, the amalgamation of perfumes choked, and still the tension mounted. Quickly pulling out her pad and pen, Nora calculated the day’s intake. She sucked in her breath. Her art collection had come through for her. The collection was her work, her ability, and no one else’s. After a lifetime of dependency, she had succeeded on her own merit in the end. Nora held herself proudly in the pressing crowd. She realized that though she was far from out of debt, at the very least she could pay back a goodly portion of it with honor.

By God, she would restore honor to her life.

The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the crowd. Only one painting remained, and it was Nora’s last hope.

With ceremony and care, two uniformed men carried her van Gogh out to the blue velvet-draped stand. The brilliance of the master’s colors and the power of his brushwork jumped out under the expertly staged lights. The crowd let out a sigh and Nora smiled.

Walton stepped forward and delivered a dramatic introduction. Then, without a trace of emotion, he called for the first bid. Nora held her breath.

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

The crowd grumbled their disapproval and Nora’s mouth fell open.

Walton looked as if he sucked a sour lemon. “We have a conservative bid of five hundred thousand dollars on the floor. Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that this painting is
without question. It is a verified van Gogh. Let’s hear a bottom bid of one million.”

“I have a million,” called out the woman at a special booth for telephone bidders.

“I have one million. Two? I have two, two million five. I have a new bidder. Three million.”

The bidding picked up. Hands raised, the phones lit up, and discreet signs to the auctioneer kept his head bobbing from left to right. Nora couldn’t see who bid what, but she perched on the edge of her seat as the bidding crossed into its fifth million.

In this new arena, old bidders dropped out and new ones stepped in. The phone bids increased and the bidding passed mark after mark. The excitement hushed the crowd as they inched to the edge of their seats. Up went a card. Up went another. The bidding maintained a heady pace. Nora’s fingers flew across her paper as she did her calculations. Hope bubbled in her veins. Higher and higher soared the bidding, beyond most of the crowd’s limits. A few runners fled the hall to reach a phone.

Eventually, Walton’s head swung between only two bidders. The phones sat silent and the crowd’s attention focused on the remaining pair. Dealers both. The whispers started as to who they represented. The Getty Museum was hungry for a van Gogh. A Japanese businessman had a penchant for the artist. Who?

After a particularly high bid, one of the pair of dealers swung his head around and searched the crowd. He had obviously reached his limit. Nora followed the dealer’s gaze to the rear of the room. There was a long pause. Walton raised his brows. Up came a hand. The crowd buzzed the name: Sidney Teller.

Nora chewed her lip. She knew the name. He worked
for the Blair Bank. He was married to a Blair. Of course, Charles Walker Blair’s brother-in-law! She gripped her pencil tightly.

The dealer and Sidney Teller parried higher. Heads volleyed back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. Nora’s eyes remained on Teller.

After a satisfactorily high bid, the match seemed to end. The bid was out of the dealer’s bounds. He paused. Sidney Teller smiled.

Now the second dealer craned his neck to the far side of the room. Once again, like a wave, all the heads followed his line of vision. Nora inched herself up for a better view.

From the side rose a cane.

A wave of shock swept the room. Agatha Blair bidding against her own son-in-law! What a story. The crescendo of wagging tongues rose to such a point that Walton had to strain to follow the bids. Nora sat stunned as the bidding shot back and forth, with fury. Neither Teller nor Blair cast a glance away from the auctioneer, but sparks of hostility and competition filled the room.

As the bidding surpassed the estimated value, Teller’s face grew ashen and sweat formed on his brow. Nora’s mouth went dry. She glanced at Agatha Blair and saw on her face the cruel grin of a victor without mercy. Her heart fell as she made the connection with the journal. The Agatha of Mike’s journal was Agatha Blair. Further proof of C.W.’s duplicity. And now he would have her painting. How she loved the van Gogh, and how she despised Charles Walker Blair.

The whispers ceased into silence as it grew clear that Teller could not meet the new bid. Heads turned from the side of the room to the rear, searching for a signal, any small movement that would indicate another bid from Teller. None came and Walton met Agatha Blair’s gaze.

“I have my high bid,” Walton said. “Do I hear another?”

A new bid sang out, piercing the silence in its clear-toned soprano.

As one, all the heads in the crowd swung toward the voice in the rear of the room. One woman stood at the door. She was young, blond, tall, and attractive, and on her face she wore a look of fierce determination. The room was in an uproar. Nora strained to hear the comments, trying to ascertain from the crowd who the mysterious woman was. She looked vaguely familiar, but Nora couldn’t place her.

“I thought that marriage was on the rocks,” she heard a man mutter behind her.

The crowd’s buzz echoed one name: Blair. It must be Cornelia, she thought. Teller’s wife. Another Blair had entered the bidding! Like the rest of the crowd, Nora sat flabbergasted at the unusual turn of events. This was turning into more than an auction. A family’s saga was unfolding before the crowd’s eyes.

Walton put his derailed auction back on track. In a monotone that belied the flush on his cheeks, he reopened the bidding. Immediately the crowd hushed. Cornelia took a step forward and searched the crowd. Her gaze rested on Sidney Teller, and Nora read on the woman’s face an expression of love and loyalty that she envied. Then Cornelia turned to Agatha Blair and stopped, hard, with a cold stare. A cough sounded in the silent crowd.