Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
S ean insisted on being there for Mrs. Walden’s portrait. “It’s not safe,” he said. “If she figures out who you are at some point during the portrait painting, she’ll flip out on you.”
Rose was grateful for Sean’s honesty and support. Her heart sang when he was around. At the breakfast table of their hotel restaurant, they held hands and ate bagels, gazing into one another’s eyes. They’d been a “couple” for just a few days, and Rose felt as though she floated from room to room, as though everything she said and did was extra magical, as though New York City had opened its arms to them.
Of course, everything could turn on a dime. Rose was always aware of that. It was the nature of time.
But she found herself trusting Sean more and more as time went on, rather than less. She wasn’t used to that, either.
Rose and Sean walked to Rose’s makeshift studio and arrived an hour before Mrs. Walden was set to. The fact that she’d agreed to come to Rose’s studio, rather than forcing Rose to come to her home, was proof that she really, really wanted her portrait painted. She really, really wanted to be in the MOMA. Rose chortled. Mrs. Walden’s self-obsession would never fade.
But maybe it would take a hit this week. Rose hoped so.
Rose had set up a little area for Mrs. Walden to sit in the corner of the studio, where light spilled in from the window and would illuminate her face. Rose planned to paint Mrs. Walden as beautifully as she could as a way to get on her good side. With the skills she’d gleaned during her years as a professional artist, she felt sure she could get the painting done in a matter of six or seven hours. She’d let Mrs. Walden go after four and finish up the rest after she’d left.
That was the plan, anyway. Rose hoped it would work.
Mrs. Walden arrived just on time. Sean pretended to be a studio employee and led Mrs. Walden up the elevator and into the studio, where Rose wore a pair of overalls and had her hair in a high bun. Rose braced herself. Maybe Mrs. Walden would look at her and immediately recognize her. But it had been so many years since they’d seen one another. Rose knew she didn’t look the same.
Mrs. Walden, of course, looked remarkably the same as she had thirty-one years ago. She’d thrown money into her face, and it had paid off. She glistened and glowed. She also looked slender yet powerful, a result of Pilates or yoga or some secret third thing rich people didn’t let poorer people in on yet. She raised her chin and inspected the artist before her.
“Barbara Sparrow,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you. ”
Rose smiled and shook Mrs. Walden’s hand. She hadn’t recognized her. Good.
“Thank you for coming all the way here,” Rose said. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
Mrs. Walden had opted to wear a regal-looking ocher dress. It suited her skin color divinely. It also made her look straight from the seventeenth century. She sat and adjusted her shoulders, then put her hands across her lap and raised her chin.
It had been years since Rose had painted anyone’s portrait. But this was exactly how she might have positioned Mrs. Walden’s face and body, given the chance. She dove right in.
Something was magical about painting someone’s portrait. It was a little bit like digging around in someone’s soul.
It was the closest two people could possibly be. But the person who sat for the painting was blind to that closeness. All they could do was be observed.
It was another two hours of painting before Rose got up the nerve to ask Mrs. Walden a question. “You’ve really done remarkable work for your organization. Tell me. When did you start?”
“It was 2008,” Mrs. Walden said. “All my children had left the nest, and I needed something to do with my time.”
Rose thought, It’s not like you raised them, anyway. Nannies did. Maids did.
“How many children do you have?” Rose asked.
“Four.”
Rose remembered their gorgeous faces back in 1993. She remembered how Evie had crawled into bed with her and immediately fallen asleep. Her heart ached to be needed like that. I was never allowed to have my own.
They continued making light chitchat about her children, about her grandchildren, about Mr. Walden and his numerous companies. It wasn’t till later that Rose could reroute the conversation back to the foundation.
“And how do you raise money for your foundation?” Rose asked.
Mrs. Walden puffed her cheeks. “That’s a difficult thing indeed. It’s hard to pull money out of wealthy people’s pocketbooks. But funny you should ask. We have an event this Friday. We’re auctioning off works of art to the elite members of Manhattan society. The money will, of course, go toward the foundation. And it will pay the caterers and the bartenders and the party planners and so on.” Mrs. Walden spoke quickly, whipping her hand in a circle.
Rose remembered that last night they’d spent together when Mrs. Walden had said, You’ll never belong. A shiver went down her spine.
“Would it be possible for me to see the pieces being sold in the auction?” Rose asked. “As an artist, I’m always so curious about what’s selling well and what people are making. I like to keep tabs on industry trends.”
“Darling, I can’t let you see any of them,” Mrs. Walden said. “They’re all locked away until Friday.”
Rose’s heart sank. She’d imagined being able to see her sculpture today. She’d probably been foolish to hope for that.
“Can I see my portrait yet?” Mrs. Walden said suddenly.
Rose hadn’t anticipated this, but she fixed an easy smile on her face and said, “Sure. Like I said before, I’ll need another few hours after you leave to finish. But it should be done by tomorrow.”
Mrs. Walden got up and breezed across the room, a strange expression fixed to her face. Rose wondered if she was ready to rip Rose’s painting to shreds.
But instead, Mrs. Walden stood pin-straight and looked at Rose’s painting for a full five minutes without speaking. The air in the room was taut. Rose was too frightened to look at Mrs. Walden.
“It really is something,” Mrs. Walden finally said.
Rose filled her lungs, searching for sarcasm in her voice. But Mrs. Walden’s eyes were aglow. It was clear she’d never seen herself the way Rose had painted her: glowing, youthful, queen-like.
Mrs. Walden clasped her hands together. It looked as though she wanted to jump up and down. “I absolutely must show it off at the party on Friday!”
Rose’s heart nearly burst. This was all a part of the plan. Mrs. Walden had walked right in.
“That can be arranged, I think,” Rose said, sounding tentative. “The MOMA won’t need it for another couple of weeks.”
Mrs. Walden waved her hand from side to side. “If they make a fuss, let me know. I can make some calls.”
Rose’s heart swelled. She needed to make one last request. “How can someone attend the party? Does one require an invitation?”
Mrs. Walden’s smile could have lit up a dark ocean. “Darling, I want to invite you myself. Here.” Mrs. Walden ruffled through her purse to find an invitation for the event, which she slipped into Rose’s hand. “I’ll put you in contact with my assistant so you can bring the painting the day before the event. Make sure to wear something ravishing. You must do something about those bags under your eyes. And make sure to bring a handsome date. Someone in a tuxedo. These are the elites of Manhattan, darling. You want to appear as though you fit in.”
Rose maintained a bright smile, one she hoped said this is the happiest day of my life.
Then she said, “I can’t wait.”