The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  “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 you
r 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  May 1928

  Clara had planned on wearing her nicest frock to the May Ball, a sensible two-piece crepe de Chine, the same one she’d worn to the exhibit a little over a week ago. But that morning, Oliver rang her apartment and offered to buy her something special. “My first role as muse,” he’d said with a laugh. She considered his offer. The tepid reception at the Campbell Apartment still rankled Clara, and tonight she wanted to shine, to show Mr. Lorette and Levon and the rest of them that she was someone to be taken seriously.

  A new dress would help.

  She’d expected a trip to Wanamaker or Lord & Taylor, but Oliver brought her to a small shop on Fifth Avenue with the name PEGGY HOYT on the window.

  Clara steeled herself before entering. Peggy Hoyt was a marvel at gown design, far beyond the reach of any starving artist. Peggy Hoyt gowns got mentioned in the social columns of the newspapers with regularity. The women who wore them were all dolled up in diamonds and smug smiles, knowing they counted in the world.

  To her surprise, there were no dresses in sight. It was as if they’d stepped inside someone’s dark, quiet living room, with thick silk curtains and a rose-covered chaise angled toward a marble fireplace.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a simple black suit appeared from a back room. She greeted Oliver warmly and offered a kind smile to Clara. “Miss Hoyt sent her apologies, but she’s in Paris this week. I told her I’d take good care of you, though.”

  “You’re too kind, Mrs. Fletcher, and Clara and I appreciate your accommodating us on such short notice.” Oliver was quite the man-about-town, comfortable in his own skin and as elegant as Mr. Campbell. No wonder he’d been rejected by the hard-nosed poets of Greenwich Village as a dandy. A dire mismatch of personality and profession.

  Mrs. Fletcher guided Clara to the back of the shop.

  “You have the perfect figure for a Peggy Hoyt dress, I have to say.” She began pulling gowns from a rack. “Long and lean.”

  Clara shook her head. “I’m far too tall. I doubt any of them will fit me.” When she was sixteen and still squeezing into too-small clothes, as there was no money to replace them, she’d stolen a pair of stable hand’s overalls to work in the vegetable garden. The freedom of movement exhilarated her, as did the fact that she could finally take a deep breath without feeling pinched in the waist. Until her mother had caught sight of her and howled like a coyote and Clara retreated inside to change.

  Mrs. Fletcher responded with a reassuring smile. “We’ll find the right thing, don’t you worry. In fact, there’s one gown in particular that I think will look smashing on you. Here it is.”

  She held up an aquamarine silk with a chiffon overlay embroidered with copper-colored thread. The threading extended in a peacock feather design from just below the waist to the hem of the dress, where gold and silver beading formed the eyes of each feather. A similar beading adorned the neckline, rendering a necklace superfluous.

  Clara prayed for it to fit. It did, the inner lining slipping over her hips with ease, the hem brushing just below her knees.

  “It’s perfect.” She’d been holding her breath since spying it in Mrs. Fletcher’s arms, and her voice came out in an unladylike exhale.

  Mrs. Fletcher laughed. “Most women would be overpowered by the peacock design, but you have the height and authority to carry it off.”

  She walked into the other room, where Oliver sat reading the newspaper as if they were an old married couple who did this kind of thing every other week.

  He jumped out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box, the paper fluttering to the floor. “You look astonishing.”

  “Doesn’t she?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “We have shoes and an evening bag as well.”

  “We’ll take it all. Put it on my family’s account, please.”

  After slipping out of the dress and handing it
over to Mrs. Fletcher to wrap, Clara re-joined Oliver. For all she knew, Clara was one of a line of creative women whom Oliver took under his wing, bought trinkets and gowns for, and then dropped when his artistic ambitions didn’t come to fruition.

  Clara’s mother would be horrified at the thought of her daughter being dressed and kissed by a man, even a wealthy man, when any intentions were strictly nonmarital. But the world had changed. Free love wasn’t necessarily as outrageous, at least among the bohemians, as it might have been ten years ago. Just as waistlines had disappeared from fashion, the restrictions of courting had loosened considerably.

  At least in New York.

  And among the more scandalous set.

  Oliver broke into her thoughts. “I know this seems crazy, but I’d like you to meet my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes. I’m expected for tea at my parents’ in a half hour. I know you’ll hit it off, and it would help. You’re a real working artist, and it would give her a lift that she sorely needs.”

  “That seems rather fast.” All thoughts of having Oliver take her to his apartment and make love to her dissipated. With disappointment, she had to admit. In the end, she relented, after he described the fresh scones to be served. Her diet the past many months had been one of baked beans and cold meats. High tea at Oliver’s parents’, no matter how it went or why he was so insistent she go, would be an extra meal she didn’t have to pay for.

  His motives for the visit worried her, though, as he ushered her inside the elevator of a handsome limestone apartment building. What if he was doing this to shock his parents—show them what a bad boy he was, hobnobbing with the arty set? Better to be aware of his immaturity sooner rather than later, she supposed. If so, she’d at least gotten a swanky dress out of the deal.

  The operator pulled the lever to bring them up to the tenth floor and shared an easy repartee with Oliver, ribbing him about his muddy shoes and how much dirt he was tracking inside. Oliver didn’t take offense, joking back that he’d return with a broom and clean it right up, like he used to do as a little boy.

  “I wanted to work as a doorman since I was about three, I’d say,” he told Clara, turning to the operator for confirmation. “I’d dress in my fanciest suit and join them in the lobby, holding the door open and greeting the residents.”