Virginia agreed. “I’ll call you on my lunch hour to find out what you learn.”
“Very good. We shall speak to you Monday.” Mr. Lorette held out his hand, and Virginia shook it. “Let’s pray for good news.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
July 1929
And here are the bedrooms. You can fight among yourselves for whoever gets stuck in the one with the slanted ceiling.” Mrs. Lorette stood in the center of the small second-floor hallway of the Maine cottage while Clara, Levon, and Oliver stared uncomfortably about.
The trio had left the city yesterday, headed for the Grand Central School of Art’s summer program. The best students had been invited to take courses with the top instructors, all eager to replace the fiery oven of New York City in July with cool northern breezes.
A few days before she was supposed to leave, Clara and Oliver had attended a cocktail party at the Lorettes’ town house, where Oliver had shared the news that one of his poems was to be published in a reputable literary magazine. Clara was thrilled—finally he was getting the attention he deserved. She was even happier when Mr. Lorette extended an invitation on the spot for Oliver to join them in Maine. “Our first ‘poet in residence,’” he’d proclaimed.
Mr. Bianchi had loaned Clara a Studebaker for the month away, and after checking with Oliver, Clara suggested that Levon join them for the drive. She’d seen little of Levon since their brief interaction in the train station with Oliver a month earlier and was looking forward to catching up.
The ride had begun on a light note, Levon and Oliver teasing Clara for her massive leather suitcase, Levon holding forth in the back seat with stories and jokes, leaning forward every so often to clap Oliver on the shoulder and praise his driving abilities.
“This car is grand, isn’t it?” Levon ran his finger along the brown velvet nap of the front seat.
Clara twisted around and playfully smacked at his hand.
“Stop it, woman,” Levon said. “You should be thanking me for the chance to get out of the city like this.”
“How’s that?”
“If I hadn’t saved your job for you, you’d be home drawing stockings right now.”
Oliver laughed, and Clara sat back and watched as the landscape outside the car flew by, relieved the two men could finally enjoy each other’s company, even if it was at her expense.
The tiny town of Eastport sat upon an island thick with pine forests and blueberry bushes, ringed by rocky coves, and linked to the mainland by a causeway. Clara had imagined a large boardinghouse where the faculty gathered for communal breakfasts, and she was surprised to learn that instead, they’d be scattered about in tiny cottages, some miles away from the town center. And that Levon, Clara, and Oliver were assigned to the same one.
Mrs. Lorette gestured again into the rooms, beaming as if she’d shown them around a palace. A few tendrils of hair had escaped her updo and curled around her neck. Clara peered into the gabled room, which was simply furnished with a bed on one wall and a small desk on another. About halfway across the room, the ceiling plummeted to the floor at a steep pitch. “I say we put Levon here, just to hear him smack his head every morning when he gets up.”
“Very funny.” Levon rubbed his head as if he’d already done so.
“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Lorette,” Clara said. “Please don’t worry about us. I’m sure you must have to go wrangle the students.”
“The students.” Mrs. Lorette tossed up her hands. “I put them in one room and they always end up in another, if you know what I mean. But it’s only five weeks, and I don’t want to be a prison warden. It’s an art school, after all.” She started. “Oh, and I almost forgot, Mr. Lorette’s goddaughter is going to take the fourth bedroom. Lovely girl, Violet. Working in summer stock for the local theater company.”
“We look forward to meeting her,” Clara said. “I’ll take the gabled room. I’ll just have to remember to get out on the left side of the bed each morning.”
“I’ll bring you coffee in bed so you can clear the cobwebs before you rise,” offered Oliver.
Mrs. Lorette led them back down the stairs, where an enormous stone fireplace bisected the living and kitchen areas. Half a dozen drawings of the cottage from various angles decorated one wall of the parlor.
Clara studied them. “Were these done by the artists who stayed here?”
“Yes, my dear. Aren’t they lovely? You’re free to hang one of your own.”
“We will certainly add to your fine collection,” said Levon.
At a welcome dinner that evening at a rustic restaurant by the sea, Clara, Levon, and Oliver joined a few students at a picnic table. They feasted on barbecue as bald eagles nested in the neighboring trees and fishing boats rocked gently in their moorings. Mr. Lorette appeared, his arm around a striking young woman with blue eyes and black hair.
“I have the pleasure of introducing my goddaughter,” Mr. Lorette announced. “Miss Violet Foster, a budding actress all the way from Los Angeles. I do hope you don’t mind if she joins you, as the other tables are all full.”
“Of course not.” Clara waved her in. “We’re sharing the same cottage, from what Mrs. Lorette mentioned.”
Violet gave her godfather a quick peck on the cheek before sitting down. “We are. I just dropped off my things a moment ago. It’s divine, isn’t it?”
After introductions were made, one of the students asked what parts she’d played.
“Well, last year I had a teensy part in a movie called Street Angel.” Miss Foster, who insisted they all call her Violet, held up her index finger and thumb to show just how small the part was.
Both students gasped. “We loved Street Angel!” They peppered her with questions about the movie, about working with stars like Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell.
Clara glanced over at Levon, who stared at the woman as if she were a living doll. The setting sun had turned her pale skin a warm rose, and several strands of her hair picked up the same hue. No doubt he was analyzing the light, trying to figure out how he might capture it. Or he was smitten by her glamorous beauty. Violet might as well have jumped right off one of Clara’s magazine covers, with her tiny nose and ears, her big seal’s eyes. Clara shifted closer to Oliver on the bench.
“How long are you acting up here in Maine, Violet?” asked Levon.
“It’s a crazy schedule; we only have two weeks to rehearse, then three weeks of performances. But I love it; it’s much better than doing a movie where you show up, do a scene, and then move on to the next one. Here I get to hone my acting skills.”
“Not to mention your speaking skills.” Levon pulled out his flask and offered it to her. “Silent movies must be quite frustrating for someone with your melodic voice.”
She took a quick sip and handed it over to Oliver. “You’re sweet. But it’s a different set of skills, in a way. I have to be much more expressive with my face in film, to get the idea across.”
“Let’s see that,” said Levon. “Quick, before the light’s completely gone. Show me an expression that says you’re deeply in love.”
Clara cringed at his audacity, but Violet laughed. She took a breath and then looked at Levon while fluttering her eyelashes.
Truly awful. Clara burst out laughing. Oliver nudged her in the ribs, and she attempted to cover her rudeness by clapping her hands. “Brilliant.”
Violet smiled at the praise.
“And now, show me anger.” Clara couldn’t tell if Levon was goading Violet or if he was taken in by her dainty charm. “Come on, the angriest you can do.”