From the sounds Dennis made, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, and that made her happy, even if she didn’t feel the same heat. Not yet, anyway. Maybe next time she’d be less nervous and lose herself the way he was now.
Good thing they were isolated back here, as his groans were of a decibel level and pitch that rivaled the folk singers Ruby liked to listen to in her room, her record player’s volume turned all the way up. When he finished, he turned her around and held her close. “Amazing.”
She pulled down her skirt. “It was.”
He cocked his head toward a lumpy-looking chaise lounge pushed against one wall. “Come lie down with me for a moment; I want to cuddle.”
A man who liked to cuddle. How could she say no? They settled in, both lying on their sides. Virginia perched on the very edge, trying not to sneeze. Dennis wrapped his hand around her and fell promptly asleep.
Not what she’d expected when she’d gotten ready that evening. She’d imagined them at a candlelit dinner, him giving her a chaste but yearning kiss and putting her in a cab afterward. The hint of something more on both their lips. Yet there she was, huddled on an old couch in a forgotten, ghostly art school.
What the hell; she was proud of herself. This is what life was like as a divorcée in the seventies. It’s what all the books and movies talked about. Quickie sex with someone you just met. Already, she was rewriting the scene in her head for the next time she saw Betsy. A gal-on-the-town having a passionate tryst with a stunner of a guy.
A shock of color sticking out from the side of the storage cabinet caught her eye. Cobalt blue, on what looked like a corner of drawing paper that was wedged between the back of the cabinet and the wall, at knee level. Quietly, carefully, she disentangled herself from Dennis’s arms and extricated the paper from behind the cabinet. On one side was a pencil drawing of a glamorous woman that looked like it was from the 1920s or thirties. The woman lay on the same chaise lounge Dennis was currently stretched out on, her limbs long and languorous.
At the very bottom was a signature. Clara Darden. The artist who’d sketched the secretary advertisement from the other room.
The paper was stiffer than the others, and when Virginia turned it over, she saw the reason. The other side was covered in paint, the blue that she’d spied from the sofa. Watercolors, she guessed. The figure vaguely resembled the well-dressed woman on the other side, but with more movement and color; it both horrified her and drew her in. Something terrible, violent was going on, but the shapes weren’t clear.
She tiptoed into the storage room and found the drawing of the secretaries that had caught her eye the day before. Both shared the same signature. Clara Darden. But something was off. It took her a minute to realize that the wall of art had changed. A few of the paintings she’d seen yesterday were missing, replaced by others. Including the Renoir reproduction with the soda bottle. She looked around for it. Nothing was on the floor; it hadn’t fallen off. Someone had rearranged things.
The ghost?
She told herself not to be silly. Probably the cleaning crew messing around.
No. The place was covered in dust. No cleaning crew had been inside the school in decades.
She studied the painting in her hand. She’d seen it before, but where? The audaciousness, and the blue colors, pleased her. The woman figure was bold, just as Virginia had been lately. Taking risks, a shape-shifter. If she took it, would anyone care or notice? Probably not. The painting had been stuck behind a cabinet for this long and would have eventually disintegrated if she hadn’t spotted it. Instead, she could save it, preserve it.
Framed, the painting would fill a blank space in her living room, one that had bothered Virginia ever since she’d moved in. It would serve as a reminder to stay strong and welcome change into her life. Virginia rolled it up and carefully tucked it inside her sisal handbag before waking her sleeping giant with a kiss.
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.