Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
It takes only a matter of days after Oprah’s interview and the article in the New York Times for the media and art world to rally around Grand. There are headlines and TV stories. We trend on social media.
Invitations to appear on talk shows both local and national continue to flood in. Jay Leno makes Grand the subject of man-on-the-street interviews, and a surprising number of “people on the street” recognize Grand’s name. Saturday Night Live invites her to be a guest host.
Museums, large and small, all over the country and in parts of Europe, want to organize exhibits around The Madonna . The Dalí is interested in including it in a special exhibit featuring female artists whose work was initially ascribed to, or claimed by, male artists.
I get a lot of attention, too, and for the first time since Cassie Everheart was sent to rehab and booted off Murder 101 , the attention is positive. At least for the moment, Grand and I are media darlings. The press is outside again in full force, but at least this time they’re polite and respectful.
It takes almost ten days for things to completely die down. But finally, the phone stops ringing. No one’s camped outside. It’s safe to go to Pass-a-Grille. The grocery store. Out for a walk.
· · ·
At Casas de Flores’ next Friday night mixer, it’s Grand’s autograph people are seeking. I’m still in bed the next morning when my mother calls, which is why I’m yawning when I answer.
“I’m sorry, darling. Did I wake you?”
I glance down at my phone and attempt to hold back another yawn. “No, I’m just kind of lying here.” I yawn, struggling to sit up. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. But I’ve been trying to reach your grandmother. Is she there?”
“Hold on. Let me go check.” I yawn again as silently as I can. Then I follow the smell of coffee downstairs, where I find Grand in the kitchen.
Mercifully Grand pours me a cup and places it on the counter in front of me.
“I’ve got Grand right here. Shall I hand her my phone? Or do you want to call back?”
I take a long, lovely sip, careful not to slurp.
“Why don’t you put me on speaker? There’s something I need to run by her. And I’m hoping you’ll help make sure she listens.”
My grandmother rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest when I set my phone on the kitchen counter and put it on speaker. “We’re both here, Mom.”
“Great. Good morning, Mother.”
“Good morning, Natalie,” Grand replies. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. We’ve had an incredibly nice patch of weather, today included.”
“That’s nice.” Grand raises an eyebrow in my direction, and I shrug.
“So,” Mom says. “I’m calling because a Realtor I know has clients who seem to have fallen in love with your home, at least from the outside. She’s asked for permission to show your house to them and wanted to know if you’d consider selling if the price is right.”
“Interesting.” Grand’s tone is droll. “The last time the subject of selling my house came up, you insisted that I hold on to it in case I wanted to move back.”
There’s a brief silence. “Yes, I know,” my mother finally concedes. “But you’ve made it clear that you have no intention of ever doing that.” There’s another brief pause. “And the way you’ve handled everything that’s happened down there has, well, I guess it’s helped me see just how capable you still are.”
“Imagine that.” Grand’s reply is more than a little sarcastic, but she’s clearly pleased by the admission.
“Yes, well. In the meantime, the post office has delivered the last of your mail that was on hold. I’ve packaged it up and am overnighting it down to you.”
“Thank you, Natalie. I appreciate it.”
“But there’s no pressure, you know, about your house, I mean. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
Grand and I exchange shocked glances. My mother’s tune has certainly changed.
My grandmother’s expression turns mischievous. “Thanks so much for letting me know, darling. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”
· · ·
The package of forwarded mail arrives the next day as promised, but it sits on the kitchen counter for a few days while Grand debates the pros and cons of selling her home in Atlanta, which I think is more about torturing my mother than an unwillingness to sell.
When Grand makes no move to open the large, padded envelope, I do it for her and casually leaf through it. There are long expired invitations, ancient copies of AARP The Magazine , cruise brochures, and all kinds of flyers and junk mail.
I’m about to ask Grand to double-check that I’m not throwing out anything that might matter when I notice a small envelope with Grand’s name and address written in what looks like a shaky hand. The return address is New York.
“Grand. Come look at this.” I remove the envelope from the pile and hand it to my grandmother.
“I’m sure it’s just a…” Her voice trails off as she glances down at the envelope then back up at me. “Oh my God.”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s…it’s from Phillip. The return address is his studio.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Even with the smears and shakiness, I’d know his handwriting anywhere.”
She stares at the envelope. Then she looks up at me. The hand holding the envelope trembles.
“Are you okay?”
Grand doesn’t respond.
“Do you want to open it or should I?”
She rips the envelope open without answering and unfolds the stationery. Her eyes skim the handwritten note. A tear slides down her cheek.
“What is it, Grand? What does it say?”
She swallows. And even though her hand is shaking, she begins to read.
Dear Lillian, this comes far too late but apparently it becomes easier to tell the truth and finally attempt to correct your mistakes when you know you are dying.
I cannot explain why I hurt you so badly and then claimed your work as my own. There’s no accounting for it except that even though I loved you dearly and have never for a moment forgotten you, my jealousy of your talent proved stronger.
The time has come to do what I should have done all those years ago. And while I know you’ll never forgive me, I am determined that you be recognized for the talented artist that you are.
Therefore, I hereby freely admit and confess that The Madonna was never stolen nor was it painted by me. It is the work of Lillian Wilde, and should be recognized as such. My family and I have no claim on it, nor did we ever.
Tears stream down Grand’s face. “Look.” She places the open note on the counter, where I can see it. “It’s witnessed and notarized.”
She wipes away her tears, and for the briefest moment, I see her not as my grandmother but as the young budding artist and woman she once was.
“Phillip always had a spotty moral compass,” Grand says with a wobbly smile. “But in the end, he finally did the right thing.”