The Masterpiece

CHAPTER SEVEN

May 1928

Clara had seen Levon only twice since he’d taken her class five days earlier: once in a crowded hallway, where he’d given her a salute as he brushed by, and another time on the concourse of the terminal, where she was certain he’d spotted her but pretended not to.

His puerile behavior annoyed her. She had no way of knowing if he’d upheld his end of the bet and insisted that Mr. Lorette keep her on.

But the signs were promising. Mr. Lorette had pulled her aside as she was leaving yesterday and told her that he’d arranged a live model for her illustration class the next day. She jumped at the opportunity and altered her lesson plans accordingly.

As she entered the school the next morning, Oliver was sitting in one of the chairs outside Mr. Lorette’s office. She’d secretly hoped he would be her model, while also fearing it. She’d intended to start with the model in the nude, but there was no possible way Gertrude and the others would be able to focus if this man disrobed.

She wouldn’t be able to, either. It was one thing to be a student, tucked behind an easel, but another entirely to be the instructor, out in front discussing grids and proportions. And what proportions. Absolutely not.

“Oliver. Lovely to see you.” She swallowed. “Again.”

“Miss Darden. I hope you weren’t too put off by my modeling here. Nadine had suggested it; she said it would be a good way to meet artists, break into the bohemian crowd, if you will.”

“No doubt she did.”

“Anyway. Would you like me to change into a robe?”

He wore a polished wool flannel suit in dark brown, his slim figure perfect for the fashionably wide Oxford trousers. “No. We’ll draw what you have on. See you inside.”

She spent the first fifteen minutes pointing out the details she expected the class to capture in their drawings, tugging on the jacket’s lapel as she explained the best approach. “You’ll want to do the suit in an opaque wash and the hat and face with a transparent one.”

She adjusted his tie and stepped back. “Would you mind putting one hand in a pocket?”

He did so, his eyes shining as if posing were a delight, not a physical ordeal. Standing still wasn’t easy, and she appreciated his enthusiasm.

“Whatever you need, Miss Darden.” He winked at her, and the class giggled.

She would not be made fun of. Why should she get flustered and feel strange when the male teachers never did? If a female model flirted with Levon, he probably flirted right back.

She reached up and touched his face, adjusted his hat. This was power. To be the one in control. She liked it and didn’t care if her students noticed. Let them talk.

“I suggest you use a Gillott 170 pen point for the figure and add the black with a No. 8 brush.” She scanned his body one last time and then began making the rounds.

The rest of the class went smoothly, and the students turned in some of their best work yet. Finally, their drawings showed more than two dimensions. After dismissal, she stopped by Mr. Lorette’s office, but before she could express her gratitude, he asked her to step inside and close the door.

She spoke first. “I’d like to thank you for allowing a live model in our class. The work was terrific. I hope you’ll stop by and see.”

“Right. Good to hear. I want to let you know that we’d like you to carry on in the fall with the illustration class. There will be two sessions, one on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and another in the afternoons. You can have both.”

He threw out the words as if they were part of a script. Not heartfelt. But Levon had made good on his bet. Even if Mr. Lorette was keeping her on against his better judgment, it was no matter. She’d have money to buy more time in New York City.

As long as she made it through the summer.

“Thank you, that’s wonderful news. Are there any summer classes available?” She knew she was pushing it, but better to ask than not.

“We bring a small number of students and teachers to Maine in the summer. So, no.”

Fine. She’d manage.

“Also, you’ll be giving out the illustration award tomorrow night at the May Ball, correct?” The ball, held in the art galleries, was an annual event for students and faculty. Student work was displayed, and awards were announced. Clara had been dreading going, but now, with the news she’d be staying on at the school, she didn’t mind.

“Yes. Looking forward to it.”

A student barged in, complaining to Mr. Lorette about a missing artwork. “I spent five weeks on it and it was finally finished, drying overnight, and now it’s gone.”

“Now then, Cyril, I’m sure we’ll track it down.”

“Same thing happened to Graham Hanover earlier in the term, Mr. Lorette. It’s an epidemic.”

“Let’s not be too dramatic, now. Come inside, tell me what’s going on.” Mr. Lorette waved Clara off. She thanked him once more before heading out.

Outside the office, Oliver stood speaking with three of her students, all of whom looked as if they wanted to devour him whole.

She heard Oliver laugh and say good-bye to his fan club. He caught up with her in front of the elevator. “Where are you off to?”

The arrow above the elevator door hit 5. She was heading home. Of course. As she always did, day after day. “Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to take you somewhere surprising.”

“I’m sure Gertrude or one of the others would be pleased to accompany you.”

He laughed. “Not them. You.”

She wanted to get back to her studio and work. But his excitement intrigued her, and she was flattered by his interest.

“You don’t have to leave Grand Central, Miss Darden. Even better, the crowd is an illustrator’s dream. Will you come?”

An illustrator’s dream.

She nodded and let him take her elbow as the elevator doors opened.

They crossed the concourse and went up the stairs of the West Balcony. “I thought you said we didn’t have to leave Grand Central,” said Clara as he ushered her out the doors that led to Vanderbilt Avenue.

“Not exactly.” He made a sharp left up a narrow staircase to a set of wrought iron doors.

“What is this place?”

“You’ll see.”

Inside the doorway stood a man holding a tray of glasses filled with bubbles.

It couldn’t be. “Champagne?”

Oliver put a finger to his lips. “Not at all. Prohibition, remember?”

“Right.”

She took the glass he offered her and let him lead her through a small anteroom, where she stopped cold.

She was no longer in the heart of New York City but in a thirteenth-century Florentine palazzo, the floor covered by a massive Persian rug. The painted wood ceiling soared a good twenty feet above her head, and everywhere were strange treasures: six-foot-tall vases, bronze sculptures, petrified tree trunks, and, up in a balcony, what appeared to be a pipe organ.

“What on earth is this?”

“It’s called the Campbell Apartment, but it’s an office.”

“For someone who works for the railroad?” She imagined a Vanderbilt installed here, running the trains from this magnificent headquarters.

“Not really. A financier who’s on the board of New York Central. He likes to throw parties every so often. I thought you’d get a kick out it.”

“More than a kick. This place is breathtaking.” She took a sip from the glass. The real thing. “How did you get in here?”

“I know someone who knows someone.”

A woman in a peach-colored chiffon gown spotted Oliver, and Clara watched as she drank him in, her fat-cat husband oblivious to his wife’s greedy leering.

New York City was full of people like Oliver: beautiful men and women used to being stared at, who politely looked away so you could drink in your fill of exquisite cheekbones or blue eyes. In Oliver’s case, both features.

When the woman’s eyes shifted to Clara, they registered something else entirely. Disdain. As someone who was used to being gawked at, for her height and her awkwardness, Clara knew the other side of the coin. Her defense was to stare back, widen her eyes, run her hands through her hair so it stuck up more than usual.

She did so, hard, until the woman turned away. When Clara turned back to Oliver, she caught her reflection in a smoky mirror on the wall. No wonder she drew stares. Her serviceable broadcloth frock had a rip in the elbow and the hem was coming loose. She’d meant to fix it but had never gotten around to it. She looked like a waif from the streets.

Before they’d moved to Tucson, when times were flush, Clara had watched her mother dress for balls and dinner parties. Truth be told, it would have been easier if she didn’t know how badly she stood out, if she were naive when it came to fashion and class. She’d enjoy herself, ignorant and blissful, pleased to have gained entry to high society instead of wishing she could crawl underneath the massive antique desk and hide.

She turned back to Oliver, wanting to focus on anything else but herself. “Tell me about your family. They don’t appreciate having a poet for a son?”

“I’m afraid not. I could tell, when we first met, that you understood what that feels like. Trying to please for so many years and then, ultimately, disappointing.”

She certainly did. “But your mother, she must be happy at your chosen path.”

“Quietly, she might be. But she married into wealth and subverted all her creativity. She’d adore you, though. You’re her dream. A woman artist out in the world. Not easy, I presume.”

“You presume correctly.” If he only knew. The champagne was making her tipsy, as though she could float away. Another woman looked her up and down, dismissively. Boy, was Oliver lucky. Money and looks, quite a combo. Even if he didn’t appreciate it now. “Could you give me an example of your work?”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

He paused, then spoke in a clear, soft voice.

Thin fingered twigs clutch darkly at nothing.

Crackling skeletons shine.

Along the smutted horizon of Fifth Avenue

The hooded houses watch heavily

With oily gold eyes.

There was more to this sweet pea than she expected. She swallowed, trying to hide her shock. “What’s a smutted horizon?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not sure. I have to confess, those aren’t my words. It’s a poem called ‘Autumn Dusk in Central Park’ by Evelyn Scott.”

She tried to take this turn in stride. “It’s remarkable.”

“I don’t have any of mine memorized. They’re more of a work in progress. You put me on the spot and I was desperate to show off.”

“Why would you be wanting to impress me?” What a coy thing to say. Tingled by champagne, she was coming off as silly as Gertrude or Nadine. She continued before he replied. “You’ve been blessed with wealth and education, so I’m not sure what the problem is. Write your poems and get on with it already.”

He grinned. “You’ve summed it up perfectly. Yet I’m dismissed by the artistic set for my wealth and by the wealthy set for my artistic aspirations.” The words came out as a statement, not a complaint. But underneath lay a whiff of misery. The same she would have felt if she’d remained in Arizona, her creativity squelched.

The droning of the organ stopped, and a man with a tall forehead and hooded eyes leaned one hand against the imposing stone fireplace and asked for everyone’s attention. Apparently, this was the famous Mr. Campbell, who had an office that he called an apartment in the middle of Grand Central. He thanked everyone for stopping by, and when he finished, the crowd clapped with gusto—the alcohol certainly helped in this regard.

Clara looked to the exit, hoping they could sidle their way out.

“My dear Oliver!”

A skinny older woman snapped her head in between them, blinking hard at Oliver. Her dusky fur, which hung loosely over her shoulders, was the same color as her hair, and the overall effect was that of a posh ferret.

Oliver opened his mouth to reply, but the woman spoke first. “Mr. Campbell and I were wondering if you were going to appear. Where have you been gadding about these days, and with whom?” She peered at Clara. “I get my answer right off. You are an artist, I’m guessing.”

“How did you know?” asked Clara.

“The smudge of something on your cheek and on your hands. We’ve been worried about our Oliver, slumming in the Village.” She chuckled. “Oh, ignore me, I’m being a silly goose.”

Clara swiped at her cheek and glared at Oliver.

“Now, Oliver, my dear nephew, we must see you more often up in Rye.” She droned on about an upcoming race at the yacht club while Clara fumed. Finally, the woman sauntered off.

“Why didn’t you tell me I had paint on my face?” Clara growled. “Bad enough I’m not dressed correctly.”

She turned to go, but he took her hand and pulled her up a small staircase to where the organ sat. The organist was packing up his music and barely regarded them before slipping away.

She stomped away from Oliver, staring down over the balcony.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for making you feel awkward. That wasn’t my intention at all. I just wanted you to see this place. To share it with you. I wanted to impress you with the room. Not the people.”

“Oh, please. You’re one of them. Why bother pretending to be a poor poet?”

“I’m not pretending anything. I don’t want to be known for this.” He gestured out over the crowd. “I want my work to stand on its own.”

“Why poetry?”

“Why art?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Because I have a passion for it and I can make money doing it. Or so I thought.”

“What’s got you stuck?”

“I don’t have connections. I can’t seem to break in.”

“And I can’t break out.” He looked dejected, beat. “I’d rather be like Walt Whitman, a workingman, than an overeducated twit who loves verse.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Your idea of being a workingman is taking off your clothes in front of a bunch of artists.”

“If that means I can meet people like Levon Zakarian and Sebastian Standish, then yes. Unfortunately, that crowd doesn’t let in outsiders easily. Especially not guys like me.”

He had a point. They were a caustic, judgmental bunch. Herself included.

Oliver touched her hand. “I loved watching you teach. I never know what you’ll say or do next. You’re brimming with confidence, and that’s not something you see every day in a gal. Do you happen to be in the market for a muse?”

She tried not to smile. “They tend not to come to very good ends, you know. Artists are a fickle lot.”

“I can hold my own.”

“Can you?”

He leaned in and kissed her. Having never been kissed before, she was eager to see what the fuss was all about.

They were about the same height, and at first it felt strange, like kissing a mirror image, but he pulled her to him and explored her mouth with his tongue. It was glorious, the sensations and the wetness of their mouths, the quiet moans. The warmth of his touch was all too accessible through the thin fabric of her dress.

But her mother’s admonition to be careful, spoken in a hushed voice up in Clara’s bedroom the evening before her trip east, stuck in her head. She pulled away, laughing.

He looked hurt.

“I’m not laughing at you; that was marvelous,” she said.

“Then why laugh?”

“Because I’ve never met anyone like you before. You are so beautiful.”

His mouth turned down. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s the truth. You belong with some pretty little child, one of my witless students, perhaps. Not with me.”

“Why don’t you see us together? I can help you.”

She regarded him. “What do you want from me in return?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He kissed her again, pulling away just as the heat began to build. “Say, there is one thing.”

“I knew it.”

“Will you go to the May Ball with me tomorrow night?”

Clara imagined showing up on Oliver’s arm, returning to the scene of last week’s humiliation with her head held high.

And said yes.