Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
Grand, The Madonna , and I arrive at the Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota at 10:00 a.m. I can feel my grandmother trembling in the chair beside me as we wait to be shown to the conservator’s office.
“This is a good thing, Grand.”
“I know.” She swallows. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if they can’t find my signature under Phillip’s?”
“Let’s not worry ahead, Grand. Today could end up being the validation you’ve been hoping for all these years.”
“Right.” Grand swallows again. “You’re totally right.”
“Hello.” A young man wearing white gloves comes to retrieve us. “I’m Barbara’s assistant, Clay. May I?” he asks as he reaches out toward The Madonna .
“Oh yes. Of course.” Grand gives her permission.
“She certainly is beautiful in person.”
“Thank you,” Grand replies.
“If you’ll follow me, we’re going to meet Barbara in an examination room.”
I know just how worried Grand is when she takes my hand and doesn’t even look at the incredible art on the walls as we pass. But I’m worried, too. Because if even the slightest doubt remains after The Madonna is examined, the Drakes can just keep hiring bad guys to steal it. Or continue pressuring Grand into giving it up.
I squeeze her hand and feel how clammy it is.
She squeezes mine back as Clay knocks on a closed door. It’s opened by a middle-aged woman with close-cropped red hair, bright blue eyes, and a welcoming smile.
“Hello. I’m Barbara. Please come in. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lillian. And you must be Sydney. Thank you for bringing this lovely lady.” She nods toward The Madonna . “I’m thrilled that the Dalí referred you to me. I can’t wait to examine her.”
The room is windowless, and utilitarian. Tools line the walls. A variety of handheld lights sit on a long shelf.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,” Grand says to Barbara. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with technology as it applies to the art world. Can you really see through the surface layers of a painting to what’s underneath?”
“Yes.” The conservator smiles. “There are a number of ways to use light from the ultraviolet and infrared portions of the spectrum to expose areas in a painting that have been added to or painted over, which I understand is what we’re looking for in this case.”
I nod. “My grandmother painted and signed The Madonna over sixty years ago when she was studying art in New York. Phillip Drake, whose signature is on the painting, was one of her instructors.”
Barbara cocks her head in Grand’s direction. “Clearly there’s a story here.”
“Yes,” Grand agrees. “I was young and silly and fancied myself in love with Phillip. The Madonna was a self-portrait that I’d hoped he’d see merit in. He kept it to study for several days, but when I went back for his feedback, he belittled it and told me that I didn’t have the talent to make it as an artist. I went back to my dorm in tears. A few days later when I’d calmed down and went to Phillip’s studio to retrieve it, I discovered he’d painted his signature over mine and I realized that he intended to claim it as his own work.”
“Goodness.” Barbara shakes her head. “How awful.”
“I was crushed,” Grand continues. “But I was also angry. So when I left New York and fled home to Atlanta, I managed to take my painting with me. Of course, after he reported it stolen and started referring to it as The Missing Madonna , he and my painting became even more famous.”
Grand’s smile slips. “I’ve kept it hidden all these years out of fear that his signature would support his claim that he’d painted it.”
Barbara’s eyes reflect her sympathy. “I always wondered why The Madonna felt so different from his other work, yet no one, including me, ever thought to question it.” She smiles again at Grand. “Shall we go ahead and see what we can uncover?”
“Absolutely,” Grand replies.
The curator hands out safety goggles, waits while we all put them on, then turns off the lights. When the room is dark, she lifts a handheld ultraviolet lamp and shines it over The Madonna , ultimately focusing on the lower-right edge of the painting. “There,” she says. “Do you see that dark blotch that’s showing up? And the paint glowing underneath it?”
We press closer. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one holding my breath.
“Oh my gosh. Look.” I grab Grand’s hand and squeeze it. “There it is! There’s your signature!”
Grand sniffs and I realize she’s crying. Then I realize my own eyes are also wet with tears.
“Indeed it is,” Barbara says. “And I think it’s time to let the world know that your claim has been validated. That The Madonna is your work and not Phillip Drake’s.”
· · ·
On Tuesday morning we’re back in the headlines. Our faces stare out at us from the TV screen.
An internet search of The Madonna pulls up pictures of Phillip Drake and Grand from her time studying art in New York while pictures of me highlight my career as Cassie Everheart, the demise of that career, and the shot of Luke and me helping Grand to the car after I, and I quote, “rescued her grandmother from kidnappers and totally kicked the bad guys’ butts just like Cassie Everheart would have.”
Marc Drake calls me a thief and denies any responsibility for what happened to Grand.
Marc’s mother stays out of the fray, but she hires an attorney to defend him then lets his fancy lawyer do all the talking.
When I walk into the living room, Grand is staring down at the newspaper, crying.
“What’s wrong?” I rush to her side, but when I get there, I notice that, despite the tears, she’s smiling.
Grand brushes the tears away. “I…after all these years…I can’t quite believe the art world finally knows my name and recognizes that I have talent. They’re totally on my side.”
Her phone rings. Tentatively she answers it. Her eyes get big. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. But, um, thanks for asking.”
“Who was it?” I ask, but her phone is already ringing again.
She holds up one finger for me to hold on, then answers. She smiles even as she shakes her head then says, “No. Thank you for asking but…absolutely, um, no.”
My phone rings before Grand has hung hers up. When I answer, a woman speaks hurriedly. “Please. Don’t hang up.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Lara. I’m a booker for 60 Minutes and…”
I put a hand over my phone. “It’s 60 Minutes . Don’t you want to at least hear what they have to say?”
Once again, Grand shakes her head.
There’s another call. Grand mouths the word “no” before I can pick up.
It rings again and I’m about to drop the call without answering when the name of the caller shows up. “Oh my God, Grand. It’s from Harpo Productions!” I hiss before I pick up.
“Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Hello, is this Sydney?” The voice is unmistakable, but she introduces herself anyway. “This is Oprah.”
“Yes, this is me. I mean yes, I’m Sydney.”
“I was blown away by the revelation that your grandmother painted The Madonna and how you managed to save her after she’d been abducted. I’d love to interview both of you and share her story with the world.”
Grand is shaking her head. I cover the mouthpiece. “It’s Oprah! She wants to do a special interview of us together and broadcast it on her network.”
Grand stops shaking her head. “Oprah?” she asks in the same way one might question a phone call from the tooth fairy. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s her all right. And she’s the perfect person to help you share the truth,” I whisper. “Millions of people will watch the interview live and millions more will hear about it and stream it later.”
“Oh, I don’t—” Grand begins.
“Grand, it’s Oprah. You can always say no to the interview, but I think you should at least speak to her.”
· · ·
Two days later, Luke and Rod escort Oprah’s crew through the press and paparazzi outside.
A young woman steps forward and shakes our hands. “Hi. I’m Melissa. Thanks so much for agreeing to the interview on such short notice,” she says, as if anyone has ever turned down an interview with Oprah on the grounds that it happened too quickly. “I’m one of Oprah’s producers. It will be my job to make sure you’re comfortable and understand what’s going on at all times.
“This is Todd. He’s our camera operator.” She points to a tall, lanky guy somewhere in his twenties.
“Jay’s here to handle lighting. Gina’s our sound person. She’ll get you miked up and ride audio. Chris and Sandy are going to pull the sofa forward, so we get some separation from the wall and room for backlighting.”
Once the sofa is pulled forward, Chris makes sure we’re reseated directly across from the video camera.
“You’ll be able to hear Oprah and each other through your earbud,” Gina says as she hands us tiny flesh-colored earbuds and shows us how best to tuck them into position. “Hal is setting up the boom microphone.” She motions to a large hot-dog-shaped padded microphone being mounted on a stand just high enough to be out of the shot. “Anything you say will be picked up,” Gina continues. “And while we’ll be able to edit out mistakes later if we need to, you want to be careful not to say anything you don’t want going out live once we get started.”
I look around at the crew and the equipment, the cables snaking along the floor, and for a couple of seconds I feel like I’m back on the set of Murder 101.
“Okay,” Melissa adds as lighting is set up all around us. “We’ve got less than ten minutes until air. You want to look directly into the monitor in front of you as much as possible so that you appear to be engaged in a conversation with Oprah. This second camera”—she points to another being set up at an angle—“will allow us to do individual cutaways as well as a two-shot.”
I squeeze Grand’s hand. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “All we have to do is pretend that Oprah’s sitting across from us.”
Grand nods her understanding but she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“We’re going to keep recording until Oprah signals us to stop for her wrap-up,” the producer continues. “She’ll keep things on track.”
We both nod. But Grand’s grip on my hand tightens.
I want to ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this, but Oprah is now visible on the monitor. Oprah waves. I hear her hello through my earbud. Grand startles beside me, and I know she can hear her, too. It’s my turn to gently squeeze Grand’s hand.
“You okay?” I mouth and am relieved when Grand nods and looks as if she means it.
Oprah thanks us for agreeing to be interviewed then explains, “We’ll be doing this live, so we won’t be stopping and starting. The interview will be recorded and will air again this evening.” Oprah gives us a reassuring smile. “Remember, I’m just the conduit. My job is to help you tell the real story behind The Missing Madonna and make sure it reaches as many people as possible. Melissa will count us down and I’ll start things out by sharing The Madonna ’s history and introducing you.”
Melissa holds one fist up so that we can all see it. Silently she unfolds one finger at a time, and when all five are open, she points her hand at the camera to let us know we’re live.
With skill and grace, Oprah sets up the situation and gently pulls the whole story out of Grand. Then video of The Madonna with Drake’s signature is shown first in close-up. As Oprah explains ultraviolet luminescence in layman’s terms, the audience sees Phillip Drake’s signature disappearing from the top layer of paint to reveal Grand’s signature beneath it.
Grand’s eyes water. She draws a sharp breath. “I always dreamed that the truth would come out one day, but so many years went by that I finally gave up.” She turns to me, and her forehead briefly touches mine before she turns her attention back to Oprah. “If it weren’t for my granddaughter,” she says directly into the camera, “everyone would still believe Phillip Drake painted The Madonna . I’m only sorry my husband isn’t here to see the truth finally coming out.”
Tears stream down both of our cheeks. I’m pretty sure they’re tears of joy.
When we finally look up and at the monitor, Oprah’s smiling. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears.
“Thank you so much,” I say to Oprah. “For finally righting this wrong.”
Grand brushes a tear off her cheek. “I wish I had the words to let you know how very grateful I am.”
“It is truly my pleasure,” Oprah replies. “I’m just glad to be able to help set the record straight and see you finally get the recognition of your talent that you deserve.
“How about you, Sydney? Which do you prefer—pretending to kick butt and solve crimes or actually doing it?”
“Hmmm.” I blink in surprise. “Great question.”
Oprah laughs. “Thanks for the validation.”
“My pleasure.” I grin back. “I guess I’ll have to give that some thought.”
Oprah falls silent for a beat. Then a smile stretches across her face, and she shoots us, and the audience, a wink. “Hmmm,” she muses. “What do you think? Should I invite the Drakes to come on the show so that they can explain their actions?”