Two of a Kind (13 page)

“Five,” she said in a small voice.

“Five. Right. And here comes a guy who is ringing all your chimes—”

“I never said that,” she interrupted.

“You didn't have to. I could see it written all over you. Now, forget about who's right for you and who's not and just let your fairy godmother Stephen dress you for the ball.”

A
week later, Christina and Stephen were walking up Third Avenue, intent on making the rounds at the cluster of high-end thrift stores—CancerCare, Sloan-Kettering, Arthritis Foundation, Spence-Chapin—that lined the street. Here was where New York's richest women—and men—donated last year's Chanels, Célines, and Chloés. Christina had been shopping these stores for decades, but never with such a sense of well-honed purpose. Yet when they walked into the Arthritis Foundation's store on the corner of Eighty-first Street, everything looked awful to her, a veritable sea of polyester, elastic-waisted pants, freakish power suits robbed of their power, stretched-out T-shirts, and pilled sweaters.

“Let's go,” she said. “There's nothing here.”

“Are you nuts?” he said. “You haven't even looked.”

“I can just tell,” she said.

“Christina, what is with you?”

“I don't have the touch today,” she said.

“Come on,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her to the back of the store, where the gowns and long dresses were hanging. “Uncle Stephen will lead the way.” But when they examined the offerings—a taxicab yellow number with rickrack along the triple-flounced skirt, a floor-length hooded dress made of what could have been a horse blanket, and several droopy, jersey things—Stephen had to admit that she was right.

“Now can we go?” she said.

“Not so fast. I've still got work to do.” In much the same way Christina bought things to stock her showroom, Stephen was always on the lookout to augment his stylist's closet; today he found several silk scarves, a few pieces of costume jewelry, and an honest-to-God tiara, albeit made of rhinestones, not diamonds.

“Now, who is going to wear
that
?” Christina asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “Maybe you?”

“In your dreams!” she said. But she was smiling. And although they had not found The Dress yet, she felt the familiar thrill of the hunt kicking in. Of course Stephen was right: they would find a dress. Would it take Andy's breath away? Did she even want it to?

But Christina did want to be well attired when she appeared by his side at the gala, so she plunged into the task at hand. After hitting all the stores on the strip, they finally narrowed it down to two choices: one black lace and the other blue and covered in sequins. Christina was more partial to the black dress, though Stephen preferred the blue. “Black is a bit predictable, don't you think? Whereas the other . . .”

They decided to mull it over while searching for accessories. A pair of strappy, black suede sandals from Yves Saint Laurent was only forty-five dollars, and as Stephen pointed out, they would work with any of the dresses. “The heels are kind of high,” said Christina.

“The better to go teetering into Prince Charming's arms,” said Stephen.

“He's not exactly charming,” Christina said. Still, she bought the sandals. By this time it was after three, and Christina was ready to make a decision. But when she found out the two dresses had been radically marked down, Christina bought them both. Stephen would take the one Christina did not end up wearing for his own inventory. Back at home, Christina hung the two gowns side by side in her closet. The black lace was bold and dramatic, while the shimmery blue was dreamy and ethereal. Each represented a choice, a persona she could assume; which of these two women would she decide to be when she joined Andy at the gala?

W
h
en Christina arrived at the Haversticks', the construction crew was deep in the plastering of the downstairs rooms; the sanding and painting would begin when they had completed the job. The wall colors had been selected and the paint order placed, so they were in good shape. The grand old house buzzed with new life: the workers talking in Spanish, the lilting rhythm of the music coming from their portable radio, the excited voices of Phoebe's girls and two of their friends as they tore through the mess.

“I've got to get them out of here,” Phoebe said. She wore black athletic shorts and a white spandex top under which the protrusion of her pregnancy was now quite visible. “Ian will be home early and is taking everyone to a movie; you and I will have some peace!”

Christina was relieved. The husband would be coming home but then immediately leaving. Perfect. Ian had been the only sour note in this whole production; he seemed to view Christina's job either with lofty disdain or faint alarm whenever he thought they were spending too much.

“Can I go upstairs until you're free? I've got a couple of things I need to measure.”

“Sure; I'll meet you when the coast is clear.” Across the room, she spied one of the girls attempting to dip a spoon into an open bucket of plaster. “Torry! Out of there!” Christina took the opportunity to head upstairs. The work here was not as far along, but that was all right; Phoebe wanted easily washable wallpaper, and not paint, for these rooms. Christina was envisioning a series of conjoined spaces—bedroom for an au pair or a nanny, playroom, and nursery. She was also thinking of installing a small, second laundry room up here, with a stackable washer and dryer, and there was a closet where she thought they would fit quite nicely. Pulling out the Moleskine notebook and the tape measure she never went anywhere without, she opened the closet door.

It looked small, but actually there was a deep space to the left of the opening, not readily visible unless she poked her head in and looked around the corner created by the doorframe. She spied a sheet-swathed object way at the back. Now, what was this doing in here? Phoebe said all the rooms were empty. Christina dragged it out and pulled the sheet aside. It was an oil painting, and from the looks of it, it was both quite old and quite good. She felt the familiar thrumming that she always got when she stumbled on a significant find. The painting showed a young girl, perhaps eight or nine, seated on a patterned sofa. She wore a white dress bisected by a dark sash; beside her slept a silky-eared spaniel whose coppery fur was virtually the same color as her magnificent auburn hair. The brushwork was open and even spontaneous; still, she could see the underlying formal rigor that held it all together. The handling of the paint and the assurance of the palette pointed to a very skilled artist. And the child's expression was the best thing of all; she was alive, almost breathing.

Kneeling, Christina looked for a signature. There might be something there on the bottom left corner, but despite the sheet, the painting was dusty. Taking the linen handkerchief out of her bag, she gently applied it to the canvas. Pressing more than rubbing, she tapped the spot with a light, delicate motion. After a moment, she lifted the handkerchief away. It was gray with dirt, but she didn't even notice. Instead, she was staring at the letters she had exposed:
John S. Sargent 1918
. Sargent!

She knew a bit about him from a course she'd taken in college: born in 1856, a descendant of one of the oldest colonial families; his parents became expats after the death of their firstborn. He'd received little formal schooling, but his mother, an amateur artist herself, encouraged him to draw. He studied art in both Florence and Paris and made several trips to America; he became successful on both sides of the Atlantic. Rich patrons commissioned his portraits and he became known for his indelible images of a moneyed, leisured class in the gardens and parlors, the drawing rooms and orchards, where they conducted their lives. Even though he was often associated with the Impressionists, Christina had always thought there was something stubbornly American about his vision, more solid and corporeal than the evanescent images created by the French.

Was it authentic, though? There were legions of forgers out there, both past and present, who'd learned to simulate every nuance, every last stroke of the brush. Only a professional could decide whether it was real. But first she'd have to tell the Haversticks. Propping the painting carefully against the wall, she hurried downstairs; Phoebe was on the way up and they met midway.

“I want to show you something,” Christina said. Phoebe followed her to the little room on the top floor and pointed to the painting. “Have you ever seen this before?”

“Oh my God!” Phoebe dropped down and put her hands on the corners of the canvas. “Where did you find it? She used to have it hanging in her bedroom. It was the only thing that didn't fit in with her crazy color scheme. But I had no idea it was still here. I thought it was sold a long time ago.”

“Evidently not,” said Christina, gazing at the image. “Do you have any idea about who the sitter might have been?”

“It's a portrait of her,” Phoebe said. “She had beautiful red hair as a child and as a young woman; she always talked about it. When it turned gray, she had it dyed, but she said she could never find anyone to duplicate the color.”

Ian poked his head into the room. “Where'd you go?” he asked his wife. It sounded like an accusation. “You just disappeared. The girls don't want to see a movie, so I'm letting them play on the computer.”

“Ian, look at what Christina just found.” Ignoring his tone, she led him over to the painting. “It's a portrait of Aunt Victoria.” She peered at the signature and added, “By John S. Sargent.”

“Singer,” said Ian with a hint of contempt.

“Excuse me?” said Phoebe.

“John Singer Sargent. He's a very well-known painter.” He turned to Christina. “What's it worth?”

Christina had been so taken with the painting—the plump cushions lining the sofa, the patterned shawl artlessly draped over its side, the steady gaze of the little girl at its center—that she was jarred by the blunt way he phrased the question. Of course the painting, once authenticated, would be worth a great deal of money. But it also had an artistic worth that seemed lost on Ian Haverstick.

“I don't know,” she answered. “You'll need to have it appraised.”

“And to think it was just sitting up here, covered by a sheet,” said Ian. He turned to Phoebe. “Do you remember seeing it ever?”

“Yes, ages ago,” Phoebe said.

“She never talked to you about it, though? Or mentioned it in the will?”

“Not specifically, no. But
the house and all its contents
—that's what the will said—went to me. To us.” She patted her belly fondly.

“If it
is
real, it will pay for the work we're doing, college for all the kids, and the hell knows what else,” said Ian.

“I would never sell this painting,” said Phoebe. “It's been in my family for almost a hundred years.”

“Only an idiot would forgo all that money just for some useless heirloom.”

Christina hoped her disgust was not apparent. Imagine talking to your wife that way in front of someone else. No—imagine talking to your wife that way at all. “Whatever you decide, it would be a good idea to get it authenticated first,” she said.

“I know it's real,” said Phoebe. “She said it was valuable.”

“Can you trust her, though?” Ian said. “Christina's right—we have to find out for sure.”

Christina was silent; she did not want to get in the middle of their argument.

“Well, that wouldn't be a bad idea,” Phoebe said. “How do we go about doing that?”

“I'd start with Christie's or Sotheby's,” said Christina.

“I've heard a lot of bad things about those places,” Ian said. “Wasn't there some big scandal—the head of one of those auction houses was convicted of some kind of fraud and placed under house arrest?”

“I've got a friend who's an independent appraiser; he's considered one of the best in his field. I could give you his name. He's scrupulously honest. If he's handling it, you won't have to worry.”

“Would you?” Phoebe said. “That would be wonderful.”

“Of course. It's Derrick Blascoe. His loft is on Union Street, down by the Gowanus Canal. He'll come and pick the painting up. In the meantime, you'll want to store it somewhere else, away from all the plaster dust and mess. And you should insure it too. Right away.”

Ian was nodding vigorously as Phoebe turned to Christina. “We still have some other things to discuss, right?”

“Right,” Christina said. “I've had some new ideas about the space up here. And I wanted to show you some samples of the finishes the furniture restorer gave me.”

“Furniture restorer?” said Ian. “I didn't know we were hiring a furniture restorer.”

“I wanted to keep a couple of the pieces Aunt Victoria left,” said Phoebe. “Christina says we can have them stripped and refinished.”

“Are you crazy?” he said to her. “It's a total waste of money to invest in any of that crap.”

“I don't know about that,” Christina said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “Some of those pieces are very solid and well made; once they're stripped, you won't recognize them.”

“Are you getting a kickback or something? Is that why you're pushing this?”

Christina could not reply; if she did, she might have spit. What an awful man.

“Ian.” Phoebe's tone was conciliatory and gentle. “I'm the one who told Christina I wanted to keep some of those pieces.”

Ian shook his head. “Still seems like a waste,” he said, but more to himself than to Phoebe or Christina. “Anyway, I'm going down to check on the girls.”

“I'll be right there,” Phoebe said. They waited for him to leave before Christina reached into her bag for the samples. She could not even look at Phoebe; she wanted to spare her client the embarrassment of having to acknowledge her husband's boorishness. “For the sideboard, I'd go with something on the light side,” she said. “It's a big piece and if you go too dark, it's going to overpower the room—you don't want it to hulk.”

Phoebe considered the options while Christina measured the closet. The painted image of Victoria, still propped against the wall, seemed to be giving them her silent approval. Phoebe chose a honey-colored stain for the sideboard and a slightly darker stain for the dining table and the chairs, which she had also decided to keep.

“I'll get the restorer to come pick everything up,” said Christina as she tucked the samples and the tape measure away. “How is Tuesday?”

“Tuesday's fine.” Phoebe seemed distracted; she was looking at the portrait again. “Don't mind Ian,” she said abruptly. “He's not always such a grouch. He's just going through a terrible time at the office.”

“I'm sure that's stressful,” Christina said. Though how it explained his constantly aggrieved and belittling tone remained a mystery to her.

“So that's it, then? You'll let me know what time on Tuesday?”

Christina nodded and the two women went downstairs. Ian was nowhere to be seen, and after another of Phoebe's bone-crushing handshakes, she was out the door and down the steps.

•   •   •

Christina
was not surprised when Derrick phoned the following day. They had always liked each other and had even had coffee a couple of times over the years. “Thanks for sending me the Haversticks,” he said. “The painting is an astonishing find.”

“I know,” she said. “I just about squealed when I saw it.”

“I haven't had anything this good for ages,” Derrick said.

“So you think it's authentic?” Christina asked.

“My hunch is yes. But I don't want you to say anything to them until I'm one hundred and ten percent sure.”

“Of course not,” she agreed. “You should be the one to tell them anyway.”

“I would like to take you to dinner, though. That's the least I can do.”

“Dinner would be great,” Christina said. “How's next week?”

“I was hoping you'd say tomorrow,” Derrick said. “Why wait?”

Christina laughed. “I'll have to check my book.” And when she saw she was in fact free, she said, “All right, then—tomorrow.”

The next night, she met Derrick at the Smith Street restaurant he'd chosen. Smith Street and the surrounding area had, in her youth, been even more derelict than Park Slope. She recalled a cheerless thoroughfare lined with liquor stores, check-cashing establishments, and a place that advertised bail bonds; there had been a large correctional facility nearby. But now the street was filled with hip boutiques and destination restaurants; she and Derrick dined on leg of lamb, sweet potato soufflé, and haricots verts. He ordered an expensive bottle of red, and when they had polished it off—he had considerably more than she did—he ordered a second.

“No more for me,” she protested.

“Come on, it's a celebration,” he urged. “How often does a rogue Sargent turn up in a closet?”

Reluctantly, Christina accepted another glass though she barely touched it. The candles in their votive glasses were beginning to blur before her eyes. Dessert was a complicated, multilayered cake with mocha frosting
and
crème fraîche that he insisted she try even though she was quite full from both the lamb and the wine. When it came time to leave, Derrick offered her a lift home. “Where are you parked?” she asked, weaving a little unsteadily alongside him.

“Right here.” He pointed to a lipstick red Miata. “If you like, I can put the top down.”