The Magnolia Palace(36)
* * *
Two tired-looking sandwiches sat on a plastic tray in the basement kitchen; everything else had been piled up in the trash can. Joshua went to a cabinet and took down two plates, setting a sandwich on each one. “This looks like roast beef, and this one, ham. Do you have a preference?”
She pointed to the ham. “That one, I guess.”
“Would you like some water to go with it?”
“God, what I wouldn’t do for a cup of tea.”
He looked about, hands on his hips. “They have a catering kitchen down here, let me see what I can find. Stay here.”
He was gone before she could say anything further. A few minutes later, after she’d devoured half her sandwich, unable to wait any longer, he walked into the room with two steaming cups of tea on a tray.
“The catering kitchen is full of the basics, so we won’t starve.”
“That’s good to know, thank you.” The tea was warm and comforting, and made her forget for a quick moment what a mess she’d gotten herself into. On the table was an oversized book, and she pulled it toward her. The cover showed the same garden off the side of the house where she and the other models had squirmed in the snow, but in the spring. The snowdrifts were replaced by a wide expanse of green lawn, and the trio of French doors that led into the living hall were bracketed by two enormous magnolia trees in full bloom.
“It’s a history of the Frick Collection,” said Joshua. “I left one on each table for the photo shoot, in case anyone was interested.”
Veronica felt bad that she hadn’t even glanced at it during her lunch with Tangerine, nor had any of the others, she was sure. “Those trees are splendid.”
“They’re some of the largest magnolia trees in the New York area. Planted in 1939 by the board, and chosen because they represent transience, as the blossoms emerge and then drop away every spring.” This bloke was a walking advert for the place.
“Like the way this was a house and then a museum. The way the family was here and now they’re not.”
“Exactly.”
Same with the diamond: a family heirloom and then an unsolved mystery. But she didn’t say that out loud. Instead, they ate their sandwiches in an awkward silence.
Once Joshua was finished, he sat back and placed his hands on his thighs. “While we may not be able to get out, one thing I know we can do, because they did it during a holiday party in December, is light the fireplace in the living hall. I don’t know how much wood there is, but at least that way we won’t freeze to death before dawn.”
Up in the living hall, Joshua arranged some kindling and logs from the rack beside the fireplace while Veronica stood watching.
He placed a log on the fire and turned halfway around to look at her. “Do you want to take a seat or something?”
“I wasn’t sure if I should. If it was allowed.”
“As long as you don’t break it, I think we’ll be okay. Your girlfriends didn’t seem to have any awareness of how to sit in a chair this morning.”
He was thinking of Gigi, with her leg slung over the arm. “They’re not my friends.” She carefully settled on the sofa, the cushions overly soft from years of use. “To think this was all the rage, once. Green velvet with a fringe.”
“Not your style?”
“Not really.” The fire soon sprang to life, warming her toes. She settled back and studied the three portraits on the wall in front of them. “Not that I have a style. I mean, I still live at home. But I don’t think I’d want those three old men hanging in my living room, if I had a living room.”
Joshua pointed out each one, from left to right. “Sir Thomas More, St. Jerome, and Thomas Cromwell.”
“Funny how they’re positioned so it appears as if More and Cromwell are giving each other the evil eye. Makes sense, considering they were enemies in real life. Your Mr. Frick must have had a wicked sense of humor.”
“I like to think he did. I particularly love the one of More, with those rich velvet sleeves and the five-o’clock shadow on his face.”
Veronica had to admit that it grew on her, especially once he’d pointed out the technical artistry. “How did you end up working here?”
“My mother’s an artist, and we used to visit the Frick regularly when I was a kid. She was the one who suggested I apply for an internship, insisting it would be a good use of my art history major, not to mention a stepping-stone to a career in the arts.”
“Where do you go to university?”
“I’m a senior at Brooklyn College, where my father is a history professor. My mom and dad like to joke that this internship is the perfect mix of their two professions.”
“Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“That would make me a taxicab driver who takes steno.”
“I’d hate to be a passenger in your cab, then.”
“True. Might make for a bumpy ride.”
* * *
When Veronica next opened her eyes, she was stretched out on the couch, covered by a thick quilt that she recognized from the bedroom upstairs. Between the jet lag and the long day, she’d completely zonked out in the living hall of the Frick.
She sat up and looked about. It was no longer night, but instead of a bright sun streaming through the windows, a wretched wind shook the panes while sleet battered the glass like hundreds of fingernails tapping away. The storm was worse than when it had started. Her watch read nine o’clock in the morning.