CHAPTER TWO

 

 

I found Ida sagged over the sink in the restroom, dabbing at her puffy kelly-green eyes with a lace handkerchief, cleaning up the lines of mascara. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, letting the counter support her weight. She rummaged through her purse, digging out a tube of lipstick.

“Well.” She studied the mirror, turning her face from side to side, and tried refreshing the magenta color with shaky hands. She ran her fingers through her freshly dyed red hair. “That didn’t go as planned, but I don’t know why I’m so torn up over it.” She sighed. “I thought Grace and I were on the same page. But I couldn’t have been more mistaken. After all this time, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

When she took a breath, I said. “It’s for a good cause.”

“Of course, you’re right—the children,” she said, bringing her full four-foot-eleven-inch frame upright and forcing a grin.

We turned when the door creaked. The rhythmic tap of a cane followed by measured steps preceded Miss Grace. Ida’s features fell.

“What was that all about?” asked Miss Grace. “Are we throwing a tantrum?”

Ida shook her head. Her nostrils flared. “Why did you buy my piece?

“Your piece? If you wanted it, you should have bid higher.”

“I told you my plan and what I was willing to bid,” Ida said through clenched teeth. “You know how much it meant to me.”

“Scrooge.”

“Battle-axe.”

“Skinflint.”

“Thief.”

“You have more than enough money.”

“That’s not the point.”

No one spoke. What was the point?

“Phillip was a student of mine as well. Your reminder merely gave me added incentive. Do you think you should always be able to get everything you want, Ida Clemashevski?” Miss Grace straightened her back. “Remember the car?”

Ida’s eyes clouded.

“You bought it out from under my nose,” Miss Grace said, waving her right hand. “And you still drive it, even offering me a ride.”

“My Plymouth? You don’t drive and you never said anything. I never knew,” Ida stammered.

The door opened a crack and a face peered in, read the tension in the room, and retreated.

“My piano students were every bit as good as yours.”

“That contest was a long time ago, Grace.”

“They were disqualified on a technicality.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Although, without a doubt, I am the better performer.”

“As you are fond of telling me, repeatedly. You beat me every time, Grace. You have every trophy.”

“Except one.”

Ida’s eyes narrowed and she took a step back. The air grew thick. I didn’t see it coming.

Miss Grace raised her chin. “You know, Casimer only asked you to marry him after I told him no.” With that pronouncement she pivoted and departed.

Ida staggered as if she’d been punched.

I managed to get her out of the claustrophobic restroom with soothing words and settled her into an overstuffed upholstered chair in the hall. Her usually gigantic personality had withered. I left her gazing at the wall.

“She didn’t mean it,” I said when I returned and handed her a glass of red wine.

Ida nodded and inhaled deeply. “I know.” She took a big swig. “There has to be something else going on.”

We turned to the sound of snuffles coming from around the corner. Ida scooted to the front of her chair.

“You wait here. I’ll go.” My hand grazed her shoulder.

Grace Loehr leaned over her cane. She jerked when I touched her back. She sniffed and squared her shoulders, but when she looked at me, her face crumpled, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

“I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been practicing my vitriol for forty years and it came back full tilt. Tell Ida—”

A throat cleared and we turned. Ida stood at the end of the hallway.

“Oh, Ida. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …”

Ida walked forward and Miss Grace stepped into her arms.

“Phillip asked me to make sure I won the bid.”

Ida held Miss Grace at arm’s length and furrowed her brow. “You?”

“Please believe me. I didn’t realize you weren’t in on it.”

“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said.

Both women glared at me, and I put up my hands in surrender.

I had a thought, maybe a good one. “What if you accept the original and commission Mr. McCall to create a complementary piece on that blank canvas for another donation of five thousand dollars?”

Ida shook her head. “We can’t expect Phillip to make another piece for free.”

“I’ll pay him five hundred dollars, the stipulated value of the original piece,” offered Miss Grace. “Word has it I’m loaded.” A small smile worked its way into her rheumy blue eyes. “Unveiling the two pieces together would certainly boost his exposure.”

“That way everyone wins,” I said, forcing a smile.

Ida grabbed Miss Grace’s hand.

“Let’s do it,” said Ida. They shook.

Miss Grace entered the dining room through the cut glass doors at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, befitting a first-class passenger. Ida and I crept into the dining saloon from what might have been a door to the ship’s deck.

As I approached our table, the gavel struck again, and I jumped.

“Sold to the handsome mature gentleman at table fifteen for three hundred fifty-five dollars.”

Dad stood and bowed, but his smile drooped and his eyebrows climbed when he saw me. He skirted the perimeter of the room and headed toward the checkout at the exit to remit his generous donation and make his escape.

“What are you doing, Dad?” I said when I caught up to him.

“Well, darlin’, I had a little cash stashed away and I thought Elizabeth might like a new bauble.” He pocketed his wallet.

He carefully set the smooth long box in my hand. I opened the lid and looked into his twinkling eyes.

“It’s stunning, Dad.” The glint of a diamond perched on the inside edge of a gold oval pendant, hanging from a serpentine chain. “She’ll love it.” And if she doesn’t, she’d better not say anything. Dad’s emotions lingered just below the surface, ready to ambush him at the slightest provocation. Dad, Charles, and I had been out on the bike trail in my hometown, riding in celebration after a particularly splendid cooperative effort when my dad had been downed by a bullet. The effects haunted him yet. The second shot killed Charles, my husband of seventeen days. And we still didn’t know who’d pulled the trigger.

I blinked backed the painful memories and glanced up as Miss Grace approached the auctioneer and whispered in her ear. The crowd quieted.

“We have a unique and unprecedented proposition from the Grande Dame of Columbia, and I hope we,” her arm encompassed the room, “can persuade Mr. McCall to go along.” She pointed the gavel at McCall’s table and flicked the end twice. Mr. McCall hauled his solid frame out of the chair again. “For five hundred dollars and another five-thousand-dollar donation …” She paused. “Would you accept a commission to create a complementary Titanic encaustic?”

The spotlight found Mr. McCall. He sputtered, and for a moment I thought I saw a bit of anxiety. His eyebrows met in the middle. A hand patted his sleeve. Words were exchanged. Then his thin lips formed a crooked smile. His head bobbed up and down and he raised his hand to speak.

“I’d be honored to create coordinating pieces.”

The attendees murmured.

“However, if I truly am to create a harmonizing pair, I’d need to take the original back to my studio to match colors and textures more closely. If you can meet me tomorrow, I’ll be prepared to begin the new image.”

From her queen’s perch, Miss Grace nodded once.

Phillip McCall took his seat as an ear-piercing scream reverberated around the hall.

The second-story door opened with a crash and all eyes lasered in on Mr. McCall’s black-headed tablemate, pale and gripping the rail. Then she crumpled onto the makeshift deck.

Pete’s long legs propelled him to the top of the stairs before anyone else moved. He helped her stand upright, and supported her elbows, talking to her. Phillip McCall scrunched up his napkin and tossed it onto the table. His chair screeched when he rose, and he plowed up the steps to join them. She quivered and vehemently shook her head, but after a few more words, they disappeared through the door.

The volume in the room swelled and speculation ran amok—a mouse, a ghost, an attack. Nothing prepared us for the reality.