by Ella Carey
Carmel-by-the-Sea, 1987
Tess gazed out of the taxi window at the couples who wandered through the seaside town’s pretty streets in the midafternoon sun, window-shopping, relaxing, enjoying life. But as the taxi moved deeper into the town, Tess felt a sense of unease. How many art galleries were there in these streets? Over one hundred, apparently. She had two days to find Rumer Banks. And Rebecca Swift had made an art form of running away.
The taxi stopped on the corner of Dolores and Fourth. Once Tess paid the driver, she stood in the shade of a large tree, its leaves vivid green in the California sun. Tess carried her suitcase through the inn’s courtyard, with its bright bougainvillea cascading over the boundary fence, and settled on the best of three hundred plans that she’d brainstormed on the flight over.
First, she checked in. In her room, she vaguely took in the promised glimpse of the mid-blue ocean from the window. Tess glanced quickly over the double brass bed with its white comforter and the elegant bathroom with French bath products, but she wasted no time in going back downstairs to reception.
Tess listened while the receptionist told her that drinks were served in the library. She turned, taking in the grand piano in front of picture windows overlooking another courtyard with an explosion of blooms, as if she were interested in such things. Politely, she made appreciative noises about the cozy fireplace, the bookshelves replete with classic novels that lined the warm room.
“It all looks gorgeous,” Tess said. “Complete heaven.” She took in a breath. “Can I ask you a question? You see, the thing is, I’m a real admirer of . . . Rumer Banks.”
The girl nodded as if this were no surprise.
“I was wondering if any galleries sold her work around here?”
The receptionist’s smile did not falter for a second. She turned to the row of neat pamphlets that were displayed behind her desk, pulled out one, clicked her red pen, and showed Tess a map.
“Modern Beauty deals with Rumer Banks’s work.” The girl drew a line straight down Dolores Street and then traced her pen along Sixth Avenue, drawing a large star halfway up the street. “You won’t miss it. It’s a green wooden building with a big picture window and red geraniums in the window boxes.”
It was more than tempting to ask a tiny probing question about Rumer, but the last thing Tess needed was to put anyone off.
Yet.
This was a small town. Some of the residents must know who Rumer was, if she did indeed live hereabouts. Tess took the map with her on the short walk under the canopy of trees, passing immaculate houses and chocolate shops, then turned onto Sixth Avenue. The sun still beat down in the gaps between the shade, throwing speckled patterns onto Tess’s dress.
The gallery was exactly as the girl described. Its picture windows and flowers fit like a silk glove with this town, as did most of the boutique shops and galleries. Tess pushed the door open. The airy room was empty apart from the woman who sat behind the desk. Tess glanced at her, sizing her up.
So, was this Rumer’s agent? The woman who had exclusive knowledge of who she really was? The woman wore heavy-framed glasses, her hair was cut razor short, and she sipped from a large mug of coffee with a slogan: “Speaking one’s mind is a pleasure.”
Tess felt a flutter of nerves. She turned away from the formidable-looking owner, if that was who she was, and gathered herself for a moment. Then stopped. Because on the wall in front of her hung two paintings by Rumer Banks.
The first one was of a girl, braids flying behind her head. She was running beside an older woman who wore a pinafore. They were on a deserted street. Neither of them looked toward the foreground of the painting. Tess took a step closer. Eucalyptus lined the bare, dust-ridden road along which they went. It could be California, but to Tess, the setting screamed Australian outback as brazenly as if Rebecca had shouted the words out herself. Tess was reminded of Sidney Nolan’s work. In the distance, a derelict old cottage sat, its tin roof sparkling in the sun.
Tearing her gaze away, Tess moved to the next painting, her shirt prickling against her skin even though the space was cooled with air conditioning. And found herself staring at a painting of an old woman sitting on a bench. Rumer had rendered the back of the woman’s head—again, the woman’s face was hidden away—in exquisite detail: the hasty nature of her bun, the way her shoes were worn, dusty, red slip-ons, and again, a red dirt street.
“Rumer painted these a while ago. She has only just decided to release them. They are unique in that sense.”
Tess faced the woman who sat at the desk.
“Are you familiar with her work?” the woman asked.
“A little,” Tess said. “I’m intrigued by the mystique that surrounds her.”
The woman seemed to contemplate Tess. “The fact that Rumer Banks hides her identity seems anathema to us in this day and age. She prefers to share herself in perhaps the most intimate way, through her art. But she doesn’t have any interest in publicity.”
Tess turned back to the painting of the woman and child. She couldn’t stop the feeling that this was a rendering of Rebecca and her mother, alone in a cruel landscape. And yet, there was something of a conundrum here.
Edward had picked up that Rebecca only presented a cheerful version of herself to the world after their first conversation; he’d seen how she carefully hid her real self from most people, except Edward and Sunday, it seemed. And yet now she was doing the opposite, showing her deepest self through her art, while Rebecca, if Rumer was Rebecca, was hidden away from view.
Tess was going to have to start asking questions before someone else walked into the gallery. The woman flipped through a brochure and reached for her phone.
Tess straightened herself and took her chance.
“I was wondering,” she said quickly, “does anyone know who Rumer Banks really is? I mean, someone must?” You, if you have rights to sell her work.
The woman was firm. “Rumer’s desire for privacy is something that is well established. Everyone respects it, to the extent that I think if anyone revealed who she was, they’d be tainted by reputation. It’s as if Rumer is protected by her admirers. At some level, people would worry that she’d stop painting altogether. No one’s going to find out who Rumer is any time soon.” The woman looked at Tess, her eyebrow slightly raised as if challenging her to ask another question.
Tess knew she was at a crossroads—she could give up and walk away, ask more probing, useless questions, or share something with the woman herself. Option three seemed the only solution. She sat down in the chair opposite the woman’s desk and reached inside her handbag, her fingers alighting on the photos of Edward’s sketches.
She raised her head and held the woman’s gaze. “I have something that will interest you.”
The older woman folded her arms.
“The thing is,” Tess said, “a . . . friend of mine owns some of Rumer’s early work.”
Her hands shook as she handed over the photographs of the sketches Edward had showed her in Rome.
The woman was silent, but she took the photographs, turning them over to examine their backs first. Then, frowning, she studied the sketch of Joy for what seemed like an age. She did exactly the same thing with the drawings of Edward and Max Harris. Then laid them down on the table in front of her. But she didn’t offer them back to Tess. The expression on her face was impossible to decipher.
“Can you tell me where you got these?”
Tess kept her voice quiet and firm. “The sketches were done in the 1940s. They belong to . . . someone I know.” She watched the woman’s eyebrows knit together. “They were done in Australia.”
The woman looked up sharply. “What makes you think that?”
Tess watched the woman. “The person who owns them brought them from there. I have reason to believe that . . . Rumer . . . gave them to him as a gift.”
The woman picked up the sketch of Max Harris again, holding his cigar at that distant party in Pink Alley. She held i
t at arm’s length, then pulled it back closer to her face.
“My friend is Australian,” Tess said.
“What is the person’s name?”
“I’m sorry. The owner is my client. We haven’t yet introduced ourselves. I’m Tess Miller.”
“Janet,” the woman said, speaking slowly now. “Janet Burke. So, are they wanting to sell them?”
“No. They aren’t for sale.”
“It’s just a matter of authenticating them, then.” Janet placed the pictures on her desk.
“Yes,” Tess said. “Do you . . . would you say that they are likely to have been done by Rumer?”
“I can’t confirm anything until I have seen the originals.”
Tess waited a beat. “I understand. Tell me, do you have exclusive rights to sell Rumer’s work or do other galleries in Carmel-by-the-Sea also sell her work?”
The woman sat back in her seat. She looked as if she were thinking about whether to answer the question. “I have exclusive rights. As I said, unless I see the originals, I can’t comment. If your contact thinks he or she has some original sketches of Rumer’s, then you should bring them here to me. I couldn’t attest to their authenticity without a proper examination. And I would have to do that according to all the protocols. Obviously I can’t decide on the spot.”
And who could, Tess wondered?
Rumer Banks, of course . . .
“Would you consider showing the sketches to Rumer?” she asked.
“They are photographs, Miss Miller. If you want them authenticated, we must sight the originals.”
Tess decided to try one last tactic: standing up, as if she were about to leave.
“Look,” Janet said.
Tess stood still. It was clear that Rumer lived in Carmel-by-the-Sea. No one here had questioned that supposition. Tess just had to find her.
“I can’t tell you whether or not Rumer was in Australia at some point,” Janet said. “Surely you understand that I would never reveal any information that might compromise my client’s well-respected privacy to anyone who walks in here off the street.”
Tess waited. Yes, she understood, just as she felt the same way about her author, Edward, no matter how frustrating he was at times. The fact was she found him endearing. And if Janet were working with Rebecca, if there was an inkling of that old Rebecca left, then Tess was more than understanding as to why Janet, in turn, would feel a deep sense of loyalty too.
So, a deadlock then, each of them entranced by Edward and Rebecca, if she were right.
Janet pulled her glasses off, not losing eye contact with Tess for a second. “If you want to do so, bring me the originals. I can’t offer you anything more.”
“I understand. Thank you,” Tess said. But the idea of even asking Edward to show his original sketches to a gallery owner who specialized in Rumer Banks? She may as well shoot that proposition down.
Tess said goodbye and made her way out into the street. Late-afternoon shadows cast long shapes onto the sidewalk, and she felt as if the trees were closing in on her. She stopped a little farther down the street, tiredness kicking in. She was starting to run out of plans. It seemed a hopeless business. If she had come straight to the point of contact for Rumer and hit a dead end, then what hope did she have of finding Rebecca now?
The pristine street with its well-to-do, gleaming cars parked along the curb seemed cold and distant now, as if it were a place where Tess didn’t belong. The old Rebecca would hardly fit in here, either.
A café beckoned, its windows framed with cheery checked curtains. Coffee seemed like an excellent idea. People sat at wooden tables near the window, and tubs of roses decorated the front entrance. Tess stepped inside and ordered an espresso. She needed to kick-start her mind.
Not far from the counter, a brochure stand was propped up, populated by glossy advertisements for local galleries. Tess wandered over to have a look. In center position, a yellow piece of paper was printed with black ink. The beelike colors drew Tess; she picked up the brochure and studied it. A lecture, tonight, on local artists from Carmel-by-the-Sea, in a gallery.
At 7:30 p.m.
Tess looked at her watch. It started in three hours.
Plan B.
Three hours later, Tess took in the panel on the stage. They looked formidable enough—an art critic from San Francisco, the owner of the large gallery where the talk was being held tonight, and two local artists, both looking to be well into their fifties. They all wore half-moon glasses that were balanced on their noses, and when anyone put up a hand to ask a question, all the panelists frowned. Tess hardly knew how she was going to approach them with her far-fetched questions.
It became clear after she had sat in the audience for ten minutes that the community here was tight-knit. The conversations that buzzed around her were testament to the fact that everyone knew everyone else. Breaking into their circle and getting them to reveal a treasured secret was going to be like cutting hard rock open with a penknife.
The longer the evening wore on, the more Tess became convinced that getting any information was going to be impossible. Nevertheless, once the panel opened officially for questions, Tess raised her hand. Holding the roving microphone in hands that were slick with sweat, she spoke in a voice that sounded as high-pitched as a small bird’s.
“I wanted to ask about one of the local artists. Rumer Banks.”
There was a general turning of heads. The people in the row in front of Tess looked about as friendly as hunters about to shoot their prey. Janet was right. People were protective of Rumer. Tess probably couldn’t have chosen a worse place to start than among a group of art aficionados. But she stood a little taller. And reminded herself that she was as protective of Rebecca Swift as they were of Rumer Banks.
“What makes you think Rumer Banks is a local artist?” the gallery owner snapped.
“Name?” the art critic shot out at the same time.
Tess paced her words. “Tess Miller,” she said. “I . . . have a special interest in Rumer’s work.”
The gallery owner lowered his glasses farther down his nose.
Tess kept eye contact with him, in spite of the fact she felt a deep pit forming inside her stomach. “I am here because I have seen, lately, some sketches that I think might be hers. I would like to verify them, and I was wondering if someone here might be able to help.”
“Who owns them?” The art critic leaned forward in his seat, tapping his fingers on the table as if he were preparing for a fight.
“A private . . . collector. The sketches are strikingly similar to Rumer’s early work. I want to know whether they might be hers.”
The audience began to murmur. Suddenly, the room felt hot.
“When were they done?”
Tess took a breath. “1946.”
The art critic leaned forward, speaking as if he were making a general announcement to the whole room. “Rumer Banks did not start working until the 1950s. There is no evidence of anything in the entire country that was painted by her before 1950. It’s highly unlikely that this person has a Banks in their collection. However, should you wish to follow up, the best thing to do is to go talk to Janet Burke at Modern Beauty. She will point you in the right direction. Now. Do we have any further questions?”
Several hands went up. Tess hovered a moment, gripping the mic. But the person who was running around with it was at the end of her row. The man next to her held up his hand to take it, looking at her as if willing her to just sit down already. Tess sat down in her seat and stared straight ahead, hearing nothing more that the panel said as the microphone went to someone else.
“We’ll have a short break,” the gallery owner announced several minutes later. “Tea and coffee in the gallery. And afterward we’ll discuss a major exhibition that we are planning to host here in the fall.”
One person moved in Tess’s row, then another, until everyone followed each other, sheep-like, out of the room. People shuffled past Tess out in t
he main gallery, making a beeline for their friends and acquaintances. Tess scanned the crowd. Trying to talk to people here was a complete waste of time—the collective view was clearly that Rumer’s privacy was sacrosanct. She went toward the exit, stepping out into the warm evening. Lamps lit up the sidewalks on George Street. The street was deserted.
Tess stood in the pool of light cast by the gallery windows, gazing back at the people milling inside. The front door of the gallery slammed shut just as Tess started to make her way along the street. Footsteps clattered behind her on the pavement. Tess stepped out of the way to avoid being bowled over.
“Who are you and what do you want?” A woman’s voice jolted into the darkness.
Tess turned, fast, to find herself face-to-face with a young woman. Tess took in the thin red dress that the woman, who looked about Tess’s age, wore. One spaghetti strap had fallen from her shoulder. Her dark hair was tousled, and her eyes burned into Tess’s own.
The stranger crossed her arms around her slim frame. “What is it that you want? What sketches do you have?”
A couple came out of the gallery. Tess’s companion looked toward them; the expression on her face, if Tess was right, was one of fear. The young woman stared at them until the distant sound of their shoes tapping against the pavement was the only thing left.
Tess took the opportunity to have a good look at her companion. She kept her voice low and quiet so as not to upset the woman further. “The sketches belong to someone I know. Someone . . . someone who used to know . . . Rumer,” she said.
The young woman squared her shoulders.
“I think the sketches were done when she was in Australia. In the 1940s. When Rumer was young.” Tess almost whispered the words.
