The Last of the Stanfields(112)

“Did you know Hanna?”

I picked up the slightest twitch in his face at the name.

“She was a lovely woman,” he said. “Never willing to listen to those doctors. Hanna . . . was a saint, as I live and breathe.”

“Listen to them about what?”

“About pulling the plug on her son, about turning off the machines that kept him alive. To ensure that Edward received the best possible care, she sold all her paintings, one by one, with the legendary Stanfield estate following soon thereafter. She lost most of her fortune. She eventually moved into a modest little apartment, all by herself, spending her days watching over her son at the clinic and waiting for a miracle that never came. Technology grew more and more sophisticated, yet nothing could bring Edward back to life. She sacrificed everything for him, and when he finally died, it wasn’t long before poor Hanna followed suit.”

“How long did Edward last?”

“At least ten years. Maybe longer.” Mr. Clark lifted up his glasses, dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, and coughed.

“Let’s get back to what you came here for. You are aware this document proves your brother and sister are also Miss Stanfield’s rightful heirs? Or rather—your mother’s, I should say.”

“Indeed, I am.”

“The rental contract expressly stipulates that only she or one of her children be allowed access to the safety-deposit box.”

Mr. Clark took my family tree in his hands, along with the contract itself, and handed both to his secretary. She had been listening the whole time, with the door to her adjoining office cracked open. It was as though Mr. Clark wanted a witness to prove he hadn’t broken any rules, that he had remained a faithful servant of the bank over which he presided. The secretary returned a short while later, nodding to Mr. Clark to let him know everything was in order.

“Well, then. Shall we?” sighed Mr. Clark.

Reaching the safety-deposit box involved an elevator taken straight from an old film noir. As we descended lower and lower at a snail’s pace, I noticed George-Harrison admiring the elevator, studying the ornate wood marquetry, the grate, and the wooden crank, most likely imagining all the steps it would take to create an exact replica.

The safe-deposit vault was vast and impressive. Mr. Clark asked us to kindly wait outside with his secretary. The old woman gave us a warm smile, the first we had seen from her. Mr. Clark returned a short while later carrying an art portfolio with a protective cover. He laid the portfolio down on a table at the center of the space and backed away from it.

“I’ll let you open it. I’m merely the custodian.”

We cautiously approached, as though there were some sort of sacred relic hidden within. In a way, there was.

George-Harrison untied the strings sealing the portfolio, and I lifted the flap to reveal the Girl by the Window in all her timeless beauty. The light streaming onto her face was so realistic, it seemed like daylight itself had been captured upon the canvas.

The sight reminded me of another young woman looking out of a different window as her father smoked cigarettes with a young American liaison officer. All of it came back to me at once, just as though it were part of my own past: the harrowing escape through the mountains, all those who helped them along the way, the warmhearted English art dealer who took a chance on a young protégée. I could see the claustrophobic view out of the window of their tenement on Thirty-Seventh Street dissolving into the stunning view from their apartment window on the Upper East Side. The arrival of my mother, their adopted daughter, and the birth of their son . . . all the many lives whose fates were bound to the Hopper masterpiece, Sam Goldstein’s very favorite work of art.

After a moment, Mr. Clark and the secretary discreetly approached to admire the painting as well. They both seemed equally in awe as they took in the young girl captured on canvas.

“Do you plan to take it today?” whispered Mr. Clark.

“No,” I replied softly. “It’s far safer here.”

“In that case, let’s keep this simple. I’ll transfer the contract to your name and add today’s date; that way you can leave with a copy in hand. If you’d be so kind as to wait in the lobby just a few minutes, my secretary will bring it to you.”

We came back to ground level via the same elevator and said goodbye to Mr. Clark. He climbed back inside the ornate elevator, and this time took it all the way back to the top floor.

After ten minutes or so, the secretary arrived carrying a sealed envelope. As she handed it over, she urged me to never lose the document, explaining that it was the very first time Mr. Clark had taken such extraordinary measures in all his long career, and she doubted he would ever break the rules again. The kind old woman then smiled at us a second time, and took her leave to go back to work.



We chose Sailor’s Hideaway for lunch—not as some intense pilgrimage for our mothers’ sake, but more to revisit the location of our “first date.” During the meal, George-Harrison asked what I planned to do with the painting.

“I plan to give it to you. You’re the rightful owner. You’re the only one with Sam and Hanna Goldstein’s blood running through your veins. My mother was adopted, remember?”

“I almost forgot—but I couldn’t be more thrilled about it!”

“I didn’t realize you were so eager to get your hands on that painting.”