Oliver whispered into Clara’s ear. “Let’s go back to the cottage now, shall we?”
They slipped out and wandered down the moonlit road, Oliver listing more European cities he’d like to visit on their trip, which had already lengthened from three weeks to four. He held open the screen door for Clara. “Come on, let’s hit the sheets before the choir returns.”
She whacked him on the arm and ran up the stairs, grateful they finally had the whole house to themselves. Later, they lay in her bed, the only sound the crickets chirping outside. Her eyes began to droop.
“Marry me, Clara.”
She stayed still for a moment, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. He was looking up at the ceiling, his profile barely visible in the dark room. She touched his nose.
“What was that?”
He turned his head, his eyes gleaming. “Let’s get married.”
“We practically already are.”
“I want it to be official. We can make the trip to Europe our honeymoon. I don’t want to lose you.”
She propped herself up on one elbow and studied him. “You’re not going to. Unless your success as a poet goes to your head and you run off with a silly girl like Violet.”
He didn’t laugh. “I have something to confess.”
She braced herself. A confession on the heels of a proposal. Who knew what was coming?
“I paid to have my poem published. Well, to be more specific, I offered to invest in the journal, and they understood what that meant.”
Dear Oliver. He had tried so hard, and Clara’s successes had most likely made him feel like a failure, simply by comparison. He’d done so much for her; he’d made her life as seamless as possible so she could churn out illustration after illustration, design after design. She was always the focus. Whenever they had a lull in conversation he’d ask her about whatever detail she was struggling with, whether the coy expression of a cover girl or the line of a car door handle.
And for that, his own career had suffered. She owed it to him to support him in a way that was less selfish. He had dreams of his own. There was no shame in that, or in the way he went about getting his work out in the world.
She told him so. “Look at the reception you’ve gotten. It was the right thing to do. I’m proud of you.”
“Then you’ll marry me?”
Their life together, so far, had been an easy ride, one of shared interests and many joys. Once Oliver reached his full potential as an artist, the small irritations would smooth over naturally. He was good for her, no question, and she would try harder to be a good partner to him.
She took his face in her hands and smiled. “Yes, Oliver, I will marry you.”
On the last weekend before the end of the summer term, the mood among the students took on an almost feral urgency. Like children in a summer camp, knowing that restrictions would soon be imposed, they became boisterous and edgy. Levon, of course, encouraged the wildness, insisting that the class play leapfrog in the field when they should have been painting, or teaching the students a bawdy song that became the school’s anthem, much to Mr. Lorette’s chagrin.
Clara and Oliver hadn’t made any kind of announcement about their engagement. Oliver insisted they wait until he tell his parents and buy her a ring before sharing the news. He’d asked if he should send a letter to Clara’s father, formally requesting her hand, and she’d dismissed it as a bad idea. When he’d pushed back, she’d stood her ground.
Saturday morning, Clara woke early to finish her painting. Other than the milkman’s truck, not a soul passed through. Clara stepped back, surveying her work, and couldn’t have been more pleased. At first glance, the painting seemed like a jumble of shapes and colors, but eventually a woman emerged on the page. The figure wasn’t much different from her first attempt, but the oils made the colors and texture even richer.
After dabbing her sable brush in black paint, she considered where to place her signature. She had painted the first letter of her name when the door to the cottage slammed, making her jump.
Oliver shambled over, two cups of coffee in his hand. He offered her one, but she motioned for him to set it on the tree stump, as both hands were occupied.
“Interesting.”
“I’m just about to sign it. You’ve come at the final moment.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t do that. If this gets out, your career will be ruined.”
She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “That’s unnecessarily cruel. Why would you say such a thing?”
He smiled and kissed her, but his voice remained serious. “I’m sorry. But we have to be honest with each other. You’ll tell me when a poem is a horror, right? Promise me that.”
He had a point. This was her first foray into expressionism, quite possibly her last. She was too close to it to be able to judge its worth. “Fine. But I’ve already written the first initial.”
The yellow Lab from next door ambled over, a stick in his mouth. Oliver gently extricated the stick from his jaws before giving it a good throw down the driveway. The dog trotted off into the backyard instead. “You can name it after our contradictory friend here. Clyde.”
“You want me to sign it ‘Clyde’?”
The sunlight caught the canvas at an angle, turning the surface into a series of peaks and valleys. Maybe Oliver was right. The painting was ghastly, an attempt to be artistic and modern. She should stick with what she was good at. She finished up the signature, and Oliver offered to carry her easel and supplies back up to her room.
That evening, they all gathered around a bonfire on the beach. Levon and Violet wandered out of the darkness and sat on a log across the campfire from Oliver and Clara. A frisson of jealously slid up Clara’s spine at the way Levon touched Violet’s hand, leaning into her and whispering some private joke. Violet threw back her pretty head and laughed as Levon studied her throat like a vampire.
“I’ll be right back.” Clara stood and brushed the sand off her dress, hoping that Oliver wouldn’t follow. He was deep in conversation with one of the other teachers and hardly noticed her leave.
She wandered along the shore, avoiding driftwood and seaweed, the cold sand on her bare feet a paltry salve to the irritation burning inside her. But no, she told herself, it wasn’t Levon and Violet. Her frustrations were to be expected. She was sad to be leaving this magical place, to be going back to the grind of the city and the machinations of planning a wedding. But perhaps it was time to stop fussing about and focus on what was right with the world. She was to be married, and Clara would be lucky to have Oliver as a husband, someone who tempered her rough edges and told her the truth.
“Wait.”
Levon.
She turned and waited for him to catch up to her. “Where’s your actress?”
“Where’s your poet?”
She didn’t reply. Together, they walked in silence for a while. She would miss teaching class with him once they got back to New York. His energy inspired her.
“You finish The Siren yet?”
“Today.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“I don’t know, it’s not very good.” She took a breath. “But I have news: Oliver and I are engaged.”
“Congratulations.” He looked out into the dark sea.
“You don’t sound like you mean it.”
“Of course I mean it.” Levon picked up a rock and threw it out into the water, the sound swallowed up by the breaking waves. “No, I don’t mean it at all. Why bother with marriage? You don’t need a husband.”