Part I, Berkeley 1980
Chapter 1
Carolyn Stuart lay wide awake, intoxicated and restless. She imagined the handshake from Marc Silver later that morning, when he accepts her into the program at the UC Berkeley Art Institute. Her thoughts were interrupted by the heat that radiated from Damian next to her on the bed as he breathed in and out.
She pulled the covers back and moved her legs over the side of the bed. The floor cooled her feet. She yawned and stretched high, smiled to herself, and then tiptoed to the window. Between the blinds she saw down the street to the lights of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco across the water. Had her mother Elizabeth awakened? She wished one of the pinpoints of light beyond downtown to be her mother’s upstairs windows in Sea Cliff.
Her stomach hurt, but excitement kept her from going to the kitchen. Once more she observed Damian shift in the bed and wondered whether this self-taught abstract artist would be proud of her. She shook her head, sad to think she didn’t really know the answer to the question, and walked over to the bathroom.
A photo of her mother and herself stared at her on the wall, from last spring when she graduated from Mills College. Then she thought of the argument they had later at dinner, over her decision to get an MFA at Berkeley, instead of an MBA at Stanford, copying her mother’s career path.
Warm water cascaded over her head and down her body as Carolyn imagined the opening of her show at the Whitman Gallery on Hayes Street. She walks around, her pastels on one wall, gouache drawings opposite, and large oil paintings brightly lit on easels in the center. Her mother leads wealthy friends around the gallery, wine in hand, and when she spies Carolyn, smiles warmly. “I’m so happy for you, Darling. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you before, but I certainly do now. I want to fund a new show for you.” Carolyn sees warmth and happiness her mother’s eyes she has never seen before.
She turned the water off, dried herself. She tiptoed around the bed to the chair and took the clothes she had laid out last night back to the bathroom. The steam kept the room warm and damp, so she opened the window and felt the cool early morning air pouring past her body. It made her feel fresh and ready to take on the day. The coldness of the air was the clear sign of great things to happen.
She had studied Marc Silver, the director of the institute, and knew he liked his men and women as he liked his art, beautiful and well-dressed.
Carolyn has prepared a wide-ranging sample of her work to show him. In her portfolio she placed an impressionistic watercolor landscape of the Berkeley pier, an abstract oil with predominant browns, a tempura in beige and blues of expressionist sympathies, and finally, a tropical gouache. Marc’s office displayed his eclectic tastes, so she believed he would appreciate her eclectic projects.
Carolyn slipped on her Chanel panties and bra and studied herself in the mirror to make sure her nipples weren’t showing. She brushed her blonde hair carelessly. Then she put on a black sweater and new Jordache designer jeans. Neat, clean, studious, but contemporary and expensive. She finished her makeup, also neat and clean, but with expressive highlights and shadows. Her large hazel and green eyes dominated her face.
Her portfolio leaned against the door waiting for her, a concession to her nervousness. She put it on the coffee table and went through each work, then decided to not bring the watercolor. That medium worked for hobbyists and afternoon painters, not for serious artists. The three, the oil, tempura and gouache, would show him her talent well enough.
For a moment she wondered if that sufficed. Maybe she needed another oil, something more representational. She pulled canvases back from the wall, studied each one, and recognized one of her favorite works, a portrait of her mother Elizabeth. Her mother refused to sit for it, but Carolyn modeled the painting on her favorite picture from a few years ago at Christmas. Elizabeth Stuart looked radiant in a dark red dress and pearl earrings. She thought, I should have seen that earlier. That will be the perfect complement, to make a great range of talent. She picked it up, careful not to scrape it, and brought it over to her portfolio with a satisfied sigh.
She put on her coat and lifted the portfolio, but then put it down again and went back in to Damian. He slept on his back, oblivious. She kissed him on the forehead and touched his shoulder. He mumbled and turned, and then opened his eyes, then saw her and smiled.
“Hm. Why don’t you come back to bed and let’s get it on, baby.”
Carolyn pulled back a step. She would love to jump back in bed with him, but not now. “Damian, you know I can’t, I have to go for my interview.”
He lifted himself up on his elbows and looked around.
“It’s barely light out there. You’ve got time. Come on.” He moved over in the bed and pulled the sheet off his chest and the warmth from his body filled the air.
“No, Damian, I can’t.”
He tried to pull her down on to him, but she pushed away and stood up straight. “I’ve got to go. After the interview, I’m having lunch with Andrea. I’ll come back after that. You obviously need your sleep.” She leaned back down and put her hand on his shoulder. He tried to pull the sheet down to expose himself, but she stopped him, even as she smiled. “We’ll have champagne and celebrate. The whole afternoon in bed. Just you and me.” She resisted the urge to touch him.
Damian fell back on his pillow, and turned and pulled the covers up. Carolyn pulled them over his shoulders, gave him a little pat, let out a sigh, and left the room.
She took her portfolio, opened it up and checked the items one more time, nodding with satisfaction, and then closed it. She looked around as if she were missing something, checked her watch, and opened the front door. She heard the phone ringing in the bedroom, but she shook her head and shut the door behind her.
She went out the short dark hallway to Rose Street, but stopped, stiff in the cold air, as a young kid with wild hair flew past her on a skateboard. Then she put the portfolio in the back seat of her red Jaguar convertible, and got in the front. She sat for a moment and breathed, then took off for San Francisco.
Carolyn drove downhill on the empty street in the dark to Interstate 80 and headed south to the bridge. The mist rose up from the Bay, and the City sparkled in the distance until she took the Van Ness exit and drove up to Bush Street. Even then, just the normal early-morning delivery vehicles blocked lanes on the street as the first long shadows settled over the city. She turned right and went downhill until she parked across the street from Notre Dame des Victoires. She waited for a truck to pass, and then hurried up the steps to the church entrance and pulled the door open with both hands, careful to not make any noise.
An older woman in a faded brown coat who smelled of mothballs sat motionless in the last pew, as if she hoped to be a statue herself. Carolyn passed the woman and walked to the alcove with the statue of Our Lady. Blue votive candles put flickering highlights and shadows on the statue from below. She took a long taper, lit it on one of the burning candles and held it in her hand for a moment. She didn’t pray, she just held the taper for a few moments, then lit a new candle and blew the taper out. In the still air the small flame flickered for about half a minute, then glowed steady along with the others. She stepped back, stood silent, and then put a dollar into the small rectangle on the top of a wooden box. She left the church.
Carolyn crossed Bush Street as the dark gray light of morning began to turn yellow as the sky brightened over the East Bay. She got in her car and made her way back to the bridge, merged on to the growing traffic on Interstate 80 and turned right on University and followed it on up to campus.
Julia Page 1
