The train ticket had been used on the day Theo died. For three years after his heart attack, he hadn’t gone into the city unless she was driving him because the trip was too stressful for him. He’d known he was sick, and he’d been very careful not to strain himself. But that day he had gone into New York to do … what? And then he’d come home and he’d gone into the cellar, knowing he’d have to climb back up the steps when he was already exhausted.
Theo had gone into the cellar from time to time, but always when she was home and could stand at the top of the stairs to be sure he was all right. He used the cellar as a storage place for the old patient files he’d kept, because every once in a while the young doctor who had taken over for him would have a question about something that wasn’t in the office records. Then Theo would make his way down to the basement—slowly and carefully—to look up the information. That was what Iris had assumed had happened on the day that he’d had his heart attack. But now it seemed that might not have been the case. Theo had gone to New York earlier in the day. And he hadn’t told her he was going. Iris stood up, walked to the cellar door, and opened it.
A waft of dank air came at her, and she recoiled instinctively. The cellar was unfinished, and while it was dry enough, it was dirty and dark and full of cobwebs. Theo hadn’t minded it, but she’d always found it creepy and had avoided it.
Someone had closed the cellar door after they took Theo away in the ambulance on that terrible day. She had always assumed it was one of her boys, but she didn’t know for sure. There was a chance that she might have looked down into the gloom of the cellar to try to see what Theo had been doing down there if the door had been open, but because it was closed it had been easy to put the mystery out of her mind. Until now. She started making her way down the staircase that led into the cellar.
The staircase had been built along one wall, and there were railings on both sides of it. There was a good-sized ledge on the wall above the railing, where the kids used to stack their ice skates in the wintertime. Above the ledge was a light switch. In the darkness Iris fumbled along the wall and found the ledge. She moved her hand up to find the light switch. There was something blocking it. It was flat and rectangular and it felt as if it had been wrapped in the kind of heavy brown paper one used for packing things. It had been placed on the ledge and it was leaning against the wall, covering the switch. Iris was sure it hadn’t been there the last time she’d turned on the light.
Taking the package off the ledge wasn’t easy. It wasn’t heavy but it was large and she was slightly off balance because she had to lean back to lift it. When she finally managed to get it down she had to hold it with one hand and try to hang on to the stair rail with the other. Thankfully, she only had a couple of steps to climb.
In the light of the living room she took a look at her treasure. It had indeed been wrapped in brown paper and there was an address label from a thrift shop in Manhattan stuck to one corner of it.
Bells went off in Iris’s head. There had been a family dinner … she had been so angry at Laura, she remembered … and Katie had been talking about a photograph … no, it was a painting … that looked exactly like Iris. The child had mentioned that she and her mother had seen it in a thrift shop, and Iris had said she must go there and see it for herself. But then Theo had had the heart attack, and she’d forgotten all about it. The thrift shop was on Madison Avenue, she remembered that. Iris looked at the address label on the package she was holding. Madison Avenue. She began tearing off the paper.
When the picture was free of the wrapping she turned it over so she could see it. And almost dropped it in astonishment. She had expected to see a vague likeness of herself—something an imaginative little girl would make into a spooky story. But this was like looking into a mirror! The woman in the picture was elegantly dressed in turn-of-the-century fashion, and her expression was haughty, but there could be no mistaking that nose and mouth, that neck—or most of all, those eyes.
It’s me. I don’t know how or why, but this is a picture of me. Or someone related to me … Mama didn’t have any relatives in this country, so could it have been someone on the Friedman side? But it must have been very expensive to have your portrait painted … none of Papa’s people could have afforded it. And none of them would have spent their money that way, even if they could.
Theo put it in the basement … he had to be the one who did it, that’s the only way it could have gotten there. He went all the way into the city to get this picture because he knew Katie was right, it did look like me. But how did he know it would? And then he tried to hide it. That’s the only explanation—he put it in the cellar to hide it. From me? He risked his life to do that … he lost his life … but why? What did my husband know?
A memory floated into Iris’s mind of one of those chance meetings she and her mother had with Paul Werner when she was a child. This time when they ran into him, his mother had been with him. The mother had been very sick and they heard that she had died soon after. Anna had been so nervous that day. But then, whenever Paul Werner showed up she was nervous … and different. Afterward, she had lied to Joseph and denied meeting Paul and his mother. Iris had hated Paul for turning her mother into a liar.
Later in her life Iris would come to know Paul as the benefactor who had rescued her family. Her proud husband had been willing to allow Paul to help them … and she had never understood why. She had never known why Theo and Paul had been fond of each other either. Before Paul died, they had been friends … The kind of friends who might tell each other things? Intimate things? Secrets that had been buried deep.
Iris was grasping the picture so tightly that the canvas was buckling. She looked again at the face that was exactly like her own and she thought she might be sick. Every instinct said to throw the damn thing in the trash and never think of it again. But it was too late for that, there was no way to stop thinking about this now. Besides, she had been trying not to think certain things, and blaming herself for certain thoughts, since she was a child. It was time to know the truth.
There was something else Katie had said about the portrait … something about the woman who had donated it to the thrift shop. She had owned a store on Madison Avenue, a high-end boutique … yes, it was where Anna used to buy her clothes. Iris had bought there too. Chez Lea, that was the name of the place. But what was the name of the woman? Iris remembered addressing her as Lea …, but what was her last name? Iris had never known it; she’d been the woman’s customer, not her friend.
But they would know a donor’s full name at the thrift shop. They’d know if she was still alive—she must be in her late seventies by now, if she was—or if the picture had been given to them by an executor of her estate. If she was still alive, they might even know where she lived. It was a place to start anyway. Iris put the picture down and went to the phone to dial Manhattan information.
Chapter Thirty-five
Leah Sherman—the manager of the thrift shop had known her last name—had sold her home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and moved to Riverdale. To a “retirement facility” called The Colony, according to the rather grand person who had answered the phone when Iris called and asked for directions to the place.
The Colony, which was perched high on a hill in the priciest section of Riverdale, resembled Versailles. There was no other way to put it. To reach it, Iris had to drive through a stone gate, which looked like something one would find at a château in the Loire Valley, and wind her way through an acre of formal gardens that were dotted with fountains and statues before she finally reached the main building.
She stopped the car and sat still, hoping that her heart would stop pounding against her rib cage—which it had been doing for the last hour. But if anything, sitting still made the pounding worse. Before she’d left her house, Iris had had a moment of craziness, and decided to take the portrait with her. But then sanity had returned, and she’d realized that Leah Sherman would not need to see it. The woman had ow
ned it once. And she knew the story behind it. She had told Iris she did when they had talked on the phone. That was why Iris was here—to hear Leah Sherman’s story.
But now Iris was thinking maybe she wouldn’t get out of the car. Maybe she would just turn on the ignition and drive back through the endless garden down to the Henry Hudson Parkway and then head back to her home, where she would be safe. Where she wouldn’t have to hear whatever it was that Leah Sherman had to tell her. Iris’s heart would probably stop pounding then. But she didn’t turn on the ignition and she didn’t drive away.
A doorman stuck his head in her window and asked her for her car keys. She heard him say something about valet parking, but she wasn’t really paying attention. In a daze, she handed over her keys and he opened her car door, and there was nothing to it, she had to go into Versailles. She entered the lobby and had a vague impression of high ceilings, and walls painted in mellow shades of gold and cream. She forced herself to look more closely and saw elaborate crown moldings, crystal wall sconces and a matching chandelier. There was a velvety carpet beneath her feet, the windows were swagged with gold silk, and scattered everywhere were comfortable-looking sofas and chairs, accompanied by end tables, coffee tables and lamps. Iris started to shiver, even though it was warm in the lobby.
Leah Sherman was waiting for her, standing next to the front desk. Iris recognized her immediately; Ms. Sherman hadn’t changed much since the days when Anna and Iris had shopped at Chez Lea.
She hasn’t seen me yet, Iris thought. There’s still time to run.
But she stayed rooted to the floor. Now she was shivering and her heart was pounding. Suddenly, Leah Sherman spotted her, and gave a little wave. It was too late to escape now. If she had really wanted to. Leah Sherman was headed her way.
The woman had never been a great beauty, Iris remembered. One of Anna’s friends had said once that the proprietress of Chez Lea, with her snub nose and dark round eyes, had a monkey face. But Leah’s figure had been superb, and she’d carried herself like a queen. She’d also known fashion and had been able to predict trends months before they came into being. And of course, she’d always been exquisitely turned out. She still was, Iris noted as the woman came toward her. Ms. Sherman had let her hair go completely white and was wearing it in a flattering bob that curved forward to brush her jawline. Her hands were beautifully manicured, and her makeup had been expertly, but discreetly, applied, as was appropriate for a woman her age. She was wearing gold jewelry—a wide bracelet and a matching chain around her neck—and a lilac-colored suit that set off her white hair and dark eyes and was cut to showcase the fact that her legs were still very good indeed.
As she approached Iris, the ebullient smile Iris remembered from the old days was missing. But that was to be expected. She knew from their phone conversation what Iris wanted to discuss.
“Mrs. Stern,” Leah Sherman said. “I’d have known you anywhere. You haven’t changed.”
“It’s Iris, please. And neither have you.”
“Thank you. And I’m Leah.” They stood facing each other, not knowing what to say next for what seemed like a very long time. Finally Leah led the way to the elevator.
“This is a beautiful place,” Iris said—to say something—as they were whisked up to the sixteenth floor.
“I think so. I moved here a couple of years ago, after my husband died. I had a large house in town and it was too much for one person. This is what they call a progressive care facility—right now I have my own apartment and total independence, but if I should start to need help as I get older, I can move to another area where there’s more assistance. The people here will decide when or if that’s necessary for me, which is why I chose this place. I want to spare my stepdaughters from having to make that choice for me. I’ve seen what that can do to families.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Talking seemed to help stop the shivering, Iris had discovered. Nothing could stop her pounding heart.
“Well, as you said, it is a lovely place and I enjoy being with other people. I was so isolated in my house, I’m finding I like apartment living.”
Leah had a penthouse suite—there were two of them. Each had two bedrooms and two baths, Leah told Iris, and a terrace that wrapped around three sides of the apartment.
“We residents furnish our apartments ourselves,” she added as she ushered Iris into a living room that somehow managed to be both grand and cozy. And very feminine. “So even though this is a much smaller space than my home, I was able to bring most of my favorite things with me.” She gestured to a painting on the wall that Iris was pretty sure was an original Matisse.
Leah didn’t offer the usual polite tour of her home and Iris didn’t ask for one. The business ahead of them was serious. They sat on the comfortable sofa in the bright living room, and Leah drew in a deep breath. “So you want to know about that portrait you found.”
I’ll always remember this moment, Iris thought. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember sitting here on this sofa with the sunshine streaming in those windows, and the tree branches framing the Hudson River in the background.
“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that the story behind the picture has something to do with Paul Werner,” Leah said.
Iris nodded. She couldn’t answer out loud because her lips were too stiff to form words.
“I knew Paul all of my life,” Leah began. “His aunt adopted me when I lost my own mother as a child, so I was almost like family. Paul was a good man, he was kind and generous—well, you know all of that. But when he was young, he was too afraid of disappointing people. It was his big failing. In his twenties he was engaged to be married to a girl he’d known all of his life. But he fell in love with someone else. She was a maid in his mother’s house. She was beautiful and smart and full of life and curiosity—as Paul was. As his fiancée was not.”
“I see,” Iris managed to say through her stiff lips.
“Paul didn’t have the courage to end his engagement and he married his fiancée. The girl he loved married someone else too. I know that Paul was never really happy in his marriage. I can’t tell you what the girl’s marriage was like. But I do know that the feelings she and Paul had for each other were the kind that last a lifetime.”
Iris nodded.
“Paul and the girl went their separate ways for a few years. But of course he never forgot her. Not ever. One day she came back into his life—she literally showed up on his doorstep. She had an appointment to see Paul’s mother, but she’d gotten the date wrong and Paul’s mother was out of town. Paul and the woman he had never forgotten were in the house alone together.” Leah paused.
The hard part is coming. She’s trying to find the best way to say it, Iris thought. “What happened?” she asked in a voice that seemed to have gotten steadier for some reason.
“Paul and … the woman … they made love that afternoon. There’s no other way to say it. It was love and it was inevitable. For those two people it had to happen. I know that may be hard to accept.” She stopped. She was looking at Iris, waiting for permission to continue.
Iris gave it. “Go on.”
“A baby was born as result of that afternoon. Paul was never acknowledged as the father and he and the mother kept their secret for the rest of their lives. For Paul it was a heartbreaking decision, but they both believed it was in the best interest of the child. Years later, when that child and her husband were in trouble, Paul told the husband who he was and offered to help them. Which he then did.”
“Paul’s child was a girl,” Iris said softly.
“Yes.”
“And her husband knew the secret.”
And protected her from it for all those years. Oh my darling.
“Paul’s wife died, and so did the husband of the woman he loved. But even though they were both free, they stayed apart.”
“Because the child … their daughter … might have figured out the truth.”
“They were af
raid it would hurt her too much if she knew.”
Of course they were. I wonder if they were right. I can’t tell right now, I’m too numb.
Leah had finished her tale. Iris stood up. But then she didn’t know what to do next. There was no etiquette, no code of manners that would cover this. She sat back down again.
“Is there anything else you want to ask me?” Leah asked gently.
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you like me to tell you the woman’s name?”
That would be an afterthought at this point. But so many sacrifices had been made to keep this story secret. A man had gone to his grave without ever revealing that he had a child and grandchildren. Another man had risked his life. And a woman … a beloved mother and wife and grandmother … had given up the man she loved.
“No. I don’t need to hear you say the name,” Iris said. She stood up again. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
Leah walked her to the door. But instead of opening it, she said, “There’s just one more thing. Paul and this woman were special. They had the kind of connection that is very rare, they truly were soul mates. I knew them both so I can say that. I’ll always wish they could have had a few years together. As far as I’m concerned, love like that shouldn’t go to waste. But they were honorable in ways that I’m not. And it was very important to them to feel that they’d done the right thing.”
“I understand,” Iris said.
She drove back home slowly. She felt as if she’d been in an accident, or was recovering from a serious illness and needed to be careful because she was still wobbly. When she was home, she made herself a cup of tea and ate a slice of toast, and noticed again that it was food for a convalescent.
She sat in her living room and waited for the emotions to come. She waited to feel the rage and the pain sweep over her and drown her. Her whole life had been a lie: she should feel crushed by that. She should be destroyed.