“What exactly are you doing for them?”
“Mr. Lorette told them I’d take a look at the space, offer my thoughts on the light. That sort of thing.”
“Why didn’t he ask me?”
Good. The old, competitive Levon was seeping through. She tried not to smile. “Because you’ve been a miserable wretch the past month and he was probably afraid to approach you. Like almost everyone else at the school.”
“But not you.”
“No. Not me.”
In the gallery space, a woman in her sixties, with a frizz of caramel-colored hair poking out from under a hat, greeted Clara and Levon as they entered.
“I’m Miss Lillie Bliss; you must be Miss Darden. I do love your covers. Such an air of whimsy to them.”
“Thank you. May I introduce you to Mr. Zakarian, also of the Grand Central School of Art, and a painter.”
“Pleasure.”
Miss Bliss turned back to Clara and began rattling on about frames, shipping fees, and storage. Clara already regretted bringing Levon, who sulked quietly behind her like a fretful bear. She wished Miss Bliss had at least recognized his name.
A slight man with crooked teeth and a high forehead approached.
“Ah, Felix. You’ve arrived.” Miss Bliss greeted him warmly.
“I certainly have and am eager to offer my strong opinions and have you shoot them down.” The words came out in staccato stabs.
“Miss Darden, Mr. Zakarian. You must know Felix Hornsby.”
Of course. Oliver had pointed him out to Clara during a cocktail party as one of the city’s most distinguished, and successful, art dealers. His unremarkable presence, more like that of a plumber who’d come to fix the sink, caught her off guard at this second sighting.
Clara held out her hand. “Mr. Hornsby. We have a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Alston Smith.” Oliver’s mother had recently purchased several Steichen photographs from Mr. Hornsby for the Newport house.
As expected, the man regarded her with a great deal more interest now. Connections, always connections.
Miss Bliss waved her gloved hand. “Such a small world, we art lovers. Everyone, please follow me. I just received a special piece from France, and you’ll be the first to see it.”
In the next room, two assistants lifted a frame out of a wooden crate with care. They all leaned over to examine it.
A Van Gogh.
“This is Madame Ginoux,” said Miss Bliss. “What do you think?”
In the painting, an older woman in white, wearing a mint-green scarf and matching cuffs, rested one elbow on a table. Her craggy closed fist supported her cheek, and she seemed both amused and sad. The strong eyebrows and coal-black eyes reminded Clara of Levon’s mother’s portrait. But this woman had not been abandoned. Her face showed resilience and a fading beauty. It was not a plea for rescue.
Clara took in the clarity of the painting like a drunk to whiskey. This is the woman she wanted to be in forty years. She wasn’t a beauty, or at least hadn’t been spruced up to be prettier than she was, the way the famous portraitists of the time tended to do. She was hardy, wary, and tender.
“If you like this, you really should visit Levon’s studio.” Clara addressed Mr. Hornsby directly, avoiding Levon’s openmouthed stare. Daring him to defy her boldness. “His work is exquisite.”
Mr. Hornsby nodded. “I’ve heard many good things about you, Mr. Zakarian. I remember your work in the Grand Central Art Galleries last year.” He slapped Levon on the back.
Levon didn’t bellow or storm out as she feared he might. Instead, he remained strangely mute as they wandered through the rooms, while the rest advised Miss Bliss on lighting and paint color.
After the tour, Levon made his excuses and left without waiting for her.
Here she was, giving him the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d blown it. What bothered her most was that his work was terrific—she hadn’t embellished her admiration.
“Mr. Hornsby, I’d like to invite you to see Mr. Zakarian’s studio.”
Mr. Hornsby looked confused. “Wouldn’t he normally invite me himself?”
“He would, but he was in a rush to get back and paint. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow at one?”
She’d drag Levon with her into the blinding glare of success, in spite of his moods and lack of any social niceties. Just as Levon had unknowingly inspired her at the May Ball, she would prop up Levon for as long as she could stand him, offer him access to her contacts and her sway. His works deserved to be seen and sold, she was sure of that, and perhaps one sale, or even an encouraging word from someone like Felix Hornsby, would lift him out of the darkness that pulled him back to the pain of his past.
He’d be furious. But she didn’t care.
Clara let herself in with the key to Levon’s studio and looked about. The weather hadn’t cooperated one bit. Dark storm clouds brewed beyond the slanted windows, rendering the place more like a vault than an airy artist’s loft. But she’d have to make do. Mr. Hornsby would be there any moment, and she wanted him out by the time Levon returned from teaching his class at two.
A lightning bolt cracked like a warning as she arranged the easels in a U-shape before turning to the dozens of paintings leaning against the walls. She examined each canvas carefully before deciding either to place it on an easel or prop it on top of any empty shelf or mantel, as close to eye level as possible. Levon’s breadth of talent astounded her. So many different ideas, wrangled and rewrangled, resulted in a powerful array of images. Except his imitation Picassos, which she tucked out of view in the small bedroom.
Clara stepped back and surveyed her efforts. Not bad at all. But where was Mr. Hornsby?
She waited, hopeful at first, but after forty-five minutes, she began to panic. Her plan was to amaze him with the artwork, get him to agree to represent Levon, and then show him the door so she had time to right the room. She’d tell Levon the good news when he returned from teaching.
But time was getting tight.
A fierce bang on the studio door brought her to her feet. She sprang for the latch. Mr. Hornsby stood on the other side, rain dripping off his hat and down his shoulders.
“I couldn’t get in. I’ve been waiting downstairs for five minutes. I was about to leave when someone came down and let me in.”
“I’m sorry.” She must not have heard the buzzer over the chain saw of rain slamming on the roof. “Please, I’ll get you a towel.”
She ran to fetch one from Levon’s tiny bathroom, where a delicate child’s brush balanced on the edge of a pedestal sink, strands of black hair entwined in the bristles. The unexpected intimacy brought tears to her eyes. For all she knew, he’d brought it with him from his homeland, carried it all that way. The image of a young Levon running it through his thick mane in an effort to appear presentable, in the midst of so much turmoil, pained her. The fact that Levon, as a grown man, used it still was unbearably sad.
She pushed it from her mind and went back out, offering tea and cookies, anything to swing Mr. Hornsby’s foul mood.
“No. I don’t have much time. Where’s the artist?”
“Levon is running late. But why don’t we start here, with the still lifes?”
Mr. Hornsby surveyed them, various arrangements of pears and figs in bold, almost garish, hues. They moved on to the drawings, including one of a woman in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Then landscapes, a couple of self-portraits. He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, offered no sign of his reaction whatsoever. Finally, they reached the painting of mother and child.
“That one’s of his mother when—”
Mr. Hornsby cut her off. “Don’t tell me anything about it.”
He moved closer, then back. She stayed quiet. Mr. Hornsby was right; there was no need for words. She could tell the figures on the canvas haunted him, just as they had her.