Chapter 7 #2
“Not at all. They were considered worthless at the time that Theo died, and even though she changed that when she gave them to my grandmother, they weren’t worth the fortunes they are today.
She told my grandmother to keep them as long as she could and sell them if she ever found herself in dire straits again.
They were her insurance policy, or so I was told.
And that’s how this was passed to me. The last of them. There are letters proving all of this.”
My brain is spinning and I don’t know what to ask first.
“Letters? Here?”
“No,” she says, her voice trembling.
“Where are they?”
“I’ll get to that, I promise.”
“How many paintings did Jo give your grandmother?”
“Three. My grandmother sold two and she gave the final one to me, as my own insurance policy.”
We’re interrupted by the buzzer. Arthur is carrying two plates of steaks smothered in a creamy peppercorn sauce, one in each hand. A paper bag hangs from his wrist.
“I added frites and dessert, Madam,” he says. I grab everything from him and thank him profusely. He merely nods.
Stella balances the plate on her lap and takes hearty bites of the steak.
Once she’s properly fortified, she begins her story again.
“I was born in America, raised by my grandmother after my mother passed in childbirth. They were both born in France but lived a bit in Amsterdam. My grandmother was very focused on my schooling. She wanted me to attend college, but I had big dreams of becoming a model and a Broadway actress, much to her chagrin. I applied to Barnard and got in. In between classes I met with agents and casting directors, hoping to get a big break. My grandmother passed away the summer after my first year. She had created a stable life for us as a dealer of tulips in America, but very little wealth. I inherited nothing but the painting.”
I yawn then, not because I’m not captivated; I am. But because it’s now past midnight and my stomach is full. I try to hide it by turning away, but Stella sees.
“We can continue tomorrow, dear.”
“No. Go on, please. You said Maxwell wanted the painting. How did that happen?”
“He tracked me down. He was on a tear to own every single Van Gogh. Some kind of competition between him and the collector Albert Barnes. Maxwell was more than an art dealer and a shrewd businessman. He was a scholar of the modernists and postmodernists. He knew my grandmother or her family members might have one more painting and he tracked down the address for the apartment I rented in New York when I dropped out of school to try my hand at acting full-time. When I met him, I had no idea who he was. How would I? My entire world was devoted to fashion and musicals. I had already landed a few magazine shoots and a spot in the chorus of Red, Hot and Blue on Broadway. One afternoon Maxwell and I bumped into one another at the café across the street from my place. I only found out later that he had planned it. He took one look at me up close and changed his entire strategy. He bumbled his way over to my table and knocked into it, spilling my coffee all over the dress I was meant to wear to an audition. He promised to buy me a new one. I refused but said he could take me out for drinks later that night. I was always up for a good time, and he looked fun. We stayed out all night long, danced until dawn. He never once mentioned the painting. In those days men around Maxwell’s age were asking me out once a week.
I assumed he was one of those. But everything about him was different and it was electric between us. ”
I’m lying down on the floor now, propped up by the plush pillows that are usually on the sofa.
I close my eyes to try to picture it. New York City, 1936.
A young, gorgeous Stella swept off her feet by the distinguished wealthy gentleman.
It’s a nice fantasy to live in for a little while as she describes spending their first week together in a penthouse hotel room at the Waldorf.
“It wasn’t until the end of the week that he brought up the painting.
I lost my mind when he explained how he knew about it, how it was the reason he came to find me in the first place.
It shattered everything I thought I knew about the serendipity of our meeting.
The chance encounter in that café wasn’t by chance at all.
To prove that he had real feelings for me, he told me he wanted nothing to do with the painting anymore.
I told him damn right he didn’t. I told him never to contact me again and stormed out.
“He tried to get in touch, but I refused him. I had some luck with a few plays, some other very wealthy boyfriends, not all of them truly available, but very accommodating when it came to elevating my lifestyle. It was a glorious couple of years, though I never forgot about that week with Max. When the war broke out everything changed. Broadway carried on, but it was diminished. I worked the Stage Door Canteen to raise money for the war cause then went on a USO tour where entertainers would go to Europe and raise the morale of the troops. It was dangerous but alluring, and I was completely out of money by that point. I traveled to London for the first time in my life. It was a terrible and also undeniably energizing time to be in the city. Everyone lived as though each day were their last, because maybe it was. I got to go to events with diplomats and heads of state, and that’s where I saw Maxwell for the first time in six years.
We were never apart again. My one condition was that the painting remained mine.
I knew how rich he was by then. But I also knew enough to protect my insurance policy.
I told him, ‘You can have me, but you’ll never have my Sunflowers.
’ He didn’t blink. We kept it a secret between us for the rest of our marriage. ”
Stella stands. She’s wobbly on her feet and I push myself up to help her, but she bats me away.
“I knew I could always sell it if I needed to, but I didn’t think it would come to that.
It wasn’t easy for me with the Swansons.
I told you his father despised me. Max’s ex-wife was constantly trying to undermine me and she managed to turn her only son viciously against me.
But despite it all, I still believed I would be taken care of when my husband passed.
I gave so much to that business that it should have rightfully passed to me.
I know that’s what Max wanted, but his will left everything to his terrible son, Louis. ”
I think about what Matthew revealed to me about their company, how his father wants Stella to end up with nothing.
“Did you fight them?”
“I’ve done nothing but fight for the last two years. Every bit of money I had in my name has gone to lawyers. But theirs have been better.”
“So you’ll sell it now? The painting?”
“It’s complicated. Very complicated. There are many hurdles, but the biggest is proving that it didn’t always belong to the family collection.”
I want to refute her, tell her that the truth could win out, but that’s not true. I know how common it is for the world to not believe women.
Stella takes a deliberate sip of her drink. Her eyes are bright and alert, also shiny with tears.
“I think we can help one another, Emma. In fact, I know we can. It won’t be easy. It might even be dangerous, but I have a plan that could change both of our lives.”
I’m taken aback by the boldness of the statement. “Why me?” The question feels pathetically small in Stella’s cavernous penthouse.
“Why not you?”
“Seriously, Stella.” I lean forward, my voice sharper than I intended. “Why me?”
Something is crystallizing in my mind, a suspicion that’s been forming for weeks, a whisper I’d ignored until I found that piece of paper on the floor of Stella’s dressing room, the one burning a hole in my back pocket.
“What do you know about me, Stella?” I manage, my voice catching. “What do you really know?”
She doesn’t even feign surprise at my question.
With trembling fingers, I pull out the crumpled letter and slowly unfold it. It’s a confirmation of the full payment for three scholarships to the école des Beaux-Arts. My name is clear as day, as are Colette’s and Lucie’s.
“This was on the floor of your dressing room. You chose me, didn’t you? Two whole years ago you chose me to come here and study.”
“I chose all of you,” she says. “Colette and Lucie too.”
“You’re the silent benefactor who created the scholarship.” It’s not a question anymore.
“Yes,” she says simply, shoulders relaxing as if relieved to finally shed this secret. “It was me.”
“But you ended it,” I counter with a slight edge to my voice. I know I should be grateful for all we were given, but we’ve also struggled so much. “You stopped financing it.”
Now she shakes her head vigorously. “I would never. That wasn’t me.” Her manicured fingers close into fists. “My stepson cut off all my discretionary funds. I had no control over that, and it was one of my greatest heartbreaks.”
She moves to the window, her silhouette framed against the city.
“When Maxwell got very sick about five years ago, I knew things could get bad. He assured me repeatedly that the majority of the company would fall to me, that I could finally run it for real, out in the open, instead of being the woman helping him behind the scenes. But his mind failed him more and more each day and his son of a bitch of a son made sure that didn’t happen.
I knew I would need a plan B. I figured I would need allies to help me.
And I created the scholarship to bring them to me.
I didn’t think my stepson could cut me off so quickly.
I thought my lawyers had a chance against him.
” She turns, and I’m startled to see tears welling in her eyes.
“I never thought you wouldn’t be able to finish school. ”
She looks truly crushed. “But I promise it won’t matter. You’ll finish. I am going to make sure of that.”