Mr. Smith took her hands in both of his to say good-bye and urged her to return at any time.
In the taxi, Oliver kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You were wonderful.”
“You thought you were bringing a silly artist to tea in an attempt to shock your parents. Shame on you.” She was only half joking.
He pursed his lips. “I will admit, part of my intention was to expose them to a different side of New York. I’m trying to get them used to the idea that I won’t be a banker. But you seem to be able to switch back and forth between worlds with ease.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I didn’t mention this to your parents, but my father lost his fortune ten years ago, so I understand both sides. Great wealth—although I was just a girl at the zenith—and great poverty. If anything, though, it makes me useless in either world. I’m certainly no socialite. This is the fanciest thing I’ve worn since I was a little girl.” She plucked at the fabric of her gown. “And I’m far from being a successful artist.”
“Let’s see what we can do about that. As your muse, I’m at your service. You made my mother very happy today.”
Just outside the Grand Central Art Galleries, Gertrude stood sentry with a clipboard in hand. As they approached, her jaw dropped, and she stared, first at Oliver, who wore a handsome double-breasted wool suit, and then back at Clara.
“Welcome to the May Ball,” the girl finally said. “You can go right on in. My goodness, Miss Darden, you look ritzy. That dress is the bee’s knees.”
Inside, the faculty art had been taken down and replaced with student work, and Clara was thrilled to see some of her class’s illustrations on the far wall of the first gallery, a place of honor. Wilbur, ever her troublemaking student, sauntered over and slipped Oliver a silver flask. “Ollie, a little hooch for you?”
Oliver took a sip and handed it to Clara. She looked about. Mr. and Mrs. Lorette stood off to one side, speaking with Edmund Greacen, one of the school’s founders.
Clara took a discreet sip from the flask and tried not to cough as the liquor burned her throat.
“You look sensational,” said Wilbur. “The belle of the ball.”
Oliver pulled her close and murmured in her ear, “I’m going to have to model for you every class, just to keep these dogs in check.”
She swatted him away. Inside one of the middle galleries, iron chairs and tables were scattered about to replicate a Parisian boulevard café. A band played in the corner, and couples tripped about the room in time with the crooner singing “My Blue Heaven” in a warbled tenor.
Oliver asked her to dance, and together they trotted about the floor, which was becoming more and more crowded. A dark shadow appeared at the edge of the room. Levon.
She tried to avoid his gaze, annoyed at his churlishness the past few days. But he was staring at her, oblivious to dear Nadine, who was on her tiptoes, trying to chatter into his left ear.
He lifted his chin, and Clara offered a swift smile in return. Bad idea. He was upon them a moment later, the unsteadiness of his balance evidence that he’d had his fair share of someone’s flask.
“May I have this dance?” He did a little jig, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
“You may. Oliver, do you mind?”
If he did, Oliver gave no indication, smiling broadly and stepping to the side.
Dancing with Oliver, Clara had formed an equal part of a pair, the two of them moving in perfect synchronization, the steps even and steady. In Levon’s arms, she was swallowed up, consumed. He wore a thick black sweater that only made him feel more hulking, yet underneath it, she could feel his body twitching, twisting. He danced with the same gusto with which he painted, the thick brushstrokes replaced with stomping feet.
“Are you doing some kind of Armenian folk dance?”
He blushed. She hadn’t meant to be mean. Somehow everything came out wrong with Levon.
She continued, not letting him respond to her remark. “I hear you dance in class sometimes. I’m sorry you weren’t doing so when I attended.”
“I’m sorry I was such a bad loser. You did an excellent job. I failed miserably.”
“You spoke with Mr. Lorette, and I haven’t had a chance to thank you. He’s offered me a position for the fall, and I know you were behind that. I can’t tell you what a relief it is.”
“I have honor, if nothing else.”
“You do.”
“You should be on the cover of a magazine, in that dress.”
“Thank you. A friend bought it for me.”
“A good friend. I would have bought you one myself if I could. I would paint you in it as well.”
“In watercolor or oil?” She couldn’t help teasing.
“In verdigris, like the ancients did. Reclining on a bed, the dress pooled around you, like a tropical puddle.”
His overfamiliarity was tempered by the serious look on his face, an expression she recognized. He wasn’t studying her as a woman but as a subject for a painting. She’d done the same when Oliver posed for her class.
Oliver and Nadine sat at one of the tables, chatting and eyeing the dance floor. Clara tried to lighten the mood. “How would you paint the room, maestro?”
He scoffed. “Not possible. All these silly characters. A waste of good paint.”
She imagined trying to capture the scene swirling around her, the way Renoir had done with his boating party. The room made her head swim: the sparkling jewelry, the garish smiles, and the flash of bare arms and necks.
Levon was right. It was too much. She closed her eyes, reveling in the symphony of sensations, the sounds of music and laughter, her dress swinging with each step.
Instantly, she knew what she had to do to make her magazine covers stand out.
Up until now, she had included too much, so the viewer never knew where to look, what was important. Instead, she would focus on one figure, and with minimal detail. Pare it down. Cut out everything extraneous.
One woman in an aquamarine dress. She’d capture, on paper, not only what the dress looked like but also what it felt like on. Thighs lightly brushed by silk, beading like Braille under a fingertip.
Simple lines, a simple focus. Thanks to Oliver’s buying spree and Levon’s brilliance, she’d figured out a fresh approach.
She couldn’t wait to get started.
Clara arrived at her appointment with ten minutes to spare. She took a breath, checked her hair in the reflection of a bookseller’s shop, and spun through the revolving door of 420 Lexington Avenue.
The Graybar Building, home to Vogue magazine.
In the taxi with Oliver on the way home from the ball, Clara had explained in between luxurious kisses that she’d had a breakthrough and that if she didn’t get the image inside her head down onto paper, she was certain she’d lose it. She’d jokingly promised him more if she got an appointment at Vogue, and he’d used his contacts to get her in the door five days later. Which meant for five days straight, she’d spent every free moment at her drawing table.
She told Oliver that as a muse, he was more than remarkable. She didn’t mention that she’d had her revelation while in Levon’s arms.
She tucked her portfolio against her chest and waited to be called in to the fashion editor’s office. This time, she wasn’t just dropping off the illustrations to a secretary. She had a face-to-face appointment with a Mr. Charles Whittlesley, and Oliver had even offered to accompany her. She’d turned him down. Her work would stand on its own this time; she was sure of it.
She’d dressed for the occasion, getting her hair done, putting on some bright lipstick, and filling in her brows with the pencil that Mrs. Smith had given her. Four o’clock on the dot, Mr. Whittlesley called her into his office.
“Miss Darden.” He gestured for her to take a seat. She lay her portfolio on his desk and held her breath.