Another breath. Then Violet lowered her chin, gritted her teeth, and glared up at him. He glared back, and everyone laughed.
After dinner, they walked back to the cottage in pairs—Levon and Violet, Clara and Oliver—and said their good-nights. Oliver tried to persuade Clara to let him into her bed, but she lightheartedly pushed him off, embarrassed by the thin walls and close proximity to the other bedrooms.
The next morning, a bright sun woke Clara, and she lay in bed for a while, listening to the morning chorus of birdsong. There was no sign of Oliver with the promised coffee, so she dressed and headed downstairs, making her own before stepping out into the front garden. A dirt road cut between the gentle slope to the sea and the cottage, but the house was far enough out on a short peninsula that traffic stayed at a minimum. The sea glistened in the morning sun, and Clara quietly retrieved her easel and paints from the house, curious to see if she could pull off a sunrise in oils.
The water sparkled, dotted with whitecaps. Clara remained transfixed, unable to blend anything or put brush to canvas. The blues reminded her of the watercolor she’d done during class the month before, the day she’d been angry at Levon. She wanted to try that again.
“To draw, you must close your eyes and sing.”
Levon stepped out of the house, wearing a large straw hat and carrying a rustic walking stick.
“What did you say?”
“Not me. Picasso. I’m off for a walk around the spit. Send out the troops if I’m not back in an hour and tell them I’ve been eaten by a bear.”
“I will. Enjoy your walk.”
She worked for a half hour, the only sound the maple tree rustling overhead. The milkman drove down the street, waving, then back up ten minutes later. Inspired by the water, she intensified the blue of the girl’s dress and didn’t bother trying to delineate the form from the background.
Oliver, bleary-eyed, staggered down the front steps and stood behind her. “All this fresh air is like hooch. I haven’t slept that well in ages.” He put his arms around her waist. “What’s that you’re working on?”
“I’m not going to tell you. You have to guess.”
He glanced at the painting, pointed out into the distance. “Stormy seas?”
“No. Try again.”
The next-door neighbor’s dog, a pudgy yellow Lab, waddled over to check on them, panting heavily. Oliver picked up a stick and tossed it. The dog stared at him for a moment—Clara could have sworn she saw a flash of disdain—before lumbering off in the opposite direction.
She turned back to the painting. “Here’s a clue: It’s not a landscape. You have one more guess.”
“Some abstract version of a bluebird.”
“Wrong again. It’s a reclining woman.”
He sighed. “What’s the point of painting something if no one can recognize it?”
“I’m experimenting. Isn’t that why we came up here?”
“Of course. In that case, I’ll write an abstract poem and you can guess what it’s all about.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Hello, young lovers!” Levon careened up the driveway, hat in hand, his face sweaty from exertion.
“Good morning,” said Oliver.
Levon shook his hand before surveying Clara’s work. Her cheeks flushed as she waited for his verdict.
He pointed to the right quadrant. “She’s a siren. You must believe that with every brushstroke. Don’t be afraid.”
“You can tell that’s a woman?” asked Oliver, his mouth agape.
“Of course.”
Levon whirled about and walked away, taking the front steps three at a time, the screen door closing with a bang.
Oliver plunked down on a tree stump beside her and finished off the rest of her coffee. “Be careful not to let Levon influence you too much.”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“He’s stuck in the past, doing that painting with his mother over and over.”
She regretted telling him about it; his flippant tone annoyed her. “You haven’t even seen the painting. It’s a masterpiece. Even Felix thought so.”
Oliver lowered his voice, only slightly. “Levon’s a superstitious peasant who wants to move on from the old world but can’t. You oughtn’t waste your energy taking care of him.”
His sudden change in attitude didn’t bode well for the rest of the month, all three of them holed up in the same cottage. “Levon seems to be doing fine without me. All I did was do for him what you did for me. You set up the appointment with the Vogue editor, and I did the same using my connections for Levon.”
“Using your connections?” Oliver’s blue eyes blazed. “You said you dropped my mother’s name when you met Felix.”
She had. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. What’s going on? Why all this resentment?”
Oliver stared down at his feet. “I’m finally going to be a published poet, and instead of supporting me and fanning the flame of my career, you’re taking care of Levon.” He paused. “I sound like a whiny child, don’t I?”
His honesty moved her, and she knelt down in front of him. “No. I’ve taken you for granted, everything you’ve done for me.” She touched her hand to his cheek. “I’m sorry for that, Ollie.”
Inside the house, Levon’s rumble of a laugh intermingled with Violet’s high-pitched giggle.
“I promise I’ll do more for you, for us, all right? Once the summer session is over, let’s plan a trip to Europe. Just the two of us, no work, all play.”
“What about Mr. Bianchi and your art classes?”
“They’ll manage without me.”
He kissed her. “I’ll start planning our tour. Paris, London, possibly Madrid?”
She kept her grin plastered on her face, calculating how long she’d be away. “All three, my love. Whatever you desire.”
The days in Maine fell into a steady rhythm. Oliver had become the school’s pet, encouraging the students and getting chummy with the other teachers. His social skills, cultivated at the best schools, offered him a seamless entry into practically any situation, whether by charming the cleaning lady when she delivered fresh towels and a mason jar of wildflowers, or taking Mrs. Lorette and Violet out for ice cream while classes were in session. Clara spent the early mornings in front of the cottage working on The Siren, teaching classes during the day, followed by dinners alfresco and bonfires that lasted well into the night.
She’d been partnered with Levon to teach a painting class held in an old schoolhouse, but every afternoon they’d escape the stifling classroom and take over a beach or a field, to allow the students to apply what they’d learned en plein air. Levon pranced about, making aphorisms that most often made no sense, throwing back his head and arms and shouting at the sky, while she quietly assisted with questions regarding technique. When not advising, she sat on a boulder behind everyone and stared out across the fields, basking in the natural light and brilliant colors, the elderberry and lavender, breathing in the scent of the sea.
She and Levon made a good team, and as the term came to an end, Mr. Lorette often remarked favorably on the quality of their students’ work. Out in the wilds of Maine, the director had lost some of his officious airs. It helped that Oliver had gone out of his way to chat up the Lorettes, overriding Clara’s naturally abrasive manner.
Life with Oliver had settled into an easy calm after their discussion about Levon. His recently published poem had been praised by a distinguished critic, and the boost couldn’t have come at a better time. Clara had made sure to read the review out loud at the bonfire that evening, and since then, Oliver had noticeably relaxed, retreated from offering career advice, and enjoyed his own acclaim. She was truly happy for him.
A few weeks into the term, Levon wrangled several students and teachers into attending Violet’s play. Clara hadn’t seen much of her, as Violet tended to come in very late and sleep in most mornings, but she’d heard Levon and Violet whispering as they climbed the creaky stairs together in the middle of the night. The play, a zany musical, wasn’t Clara’s cup of tea, but Violet’s singing voice was melodic and carried well. After, they feasted on crabmeat and corn, as Levon literally sang the praises of Violet, having caught the musical theater bug himself, apparently.