Felix set down his glass. “Do you have any idea how much money it takes to put on a show? You artists, you all think it’s a matter of hanging paintings on a wall and waiting for the crowds to come.” He counted off on his fingers. “I must find a suitable space, arrange to have all the paintings framed, solicit potential buyers in a discreet yet unyielding manner. There’s a kind of magic required. An expensive magic. I can’t take that chance if I can’t guarantee sales.”
She stood her ground. “We know you can do it. You’re the best, Felix, and you love the work. Shouldn’t it come down to that? The work will sell. You’ll be hailed as the man of the hour.”
“Stop flattering me.”
“If it’s about the economics, I can help.” Levon stepped closer. Together, the two of them were circling in on Felix. “I’ll pay for the framing.”
“How? How will you do that?” Clara asked, dreading the answer.
“I’ll take up more private lessons.”
“No. You don’t have to do that.”
Felix took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of a napkin. “If you can pay for the framing, we might be able to pull it off.”
“We’ll do it, don’t worry,” Levon insisted.
“I’m not promising anything.” Felix stood and pulled his coat off the coatrack by the door. “And I’m drunk. So don’t count on it, either of you. Stop ganging up on me.”
Clara gave him a kiss before he headed out into the early morning.
“Thank you, Felix.”
“Clyde? Insane. Both of you. All three of you.”
And he was gone.
“Where are you going now? And what’s in the satchel?”
Clara didn’t mean to sound like a harpy, but she’d been painting for two months straight, ever since they’d hatched the Clyde show idea, and had serious cabin fever. Felix had arranged for an exhibit to take place next month, early April, when he hoped the change of weather from winter to spring would encourage art lovers to open their wallets.
She’d let Levon and Felix handle all the details. Clara didn’t care where, or when, the show would happen, because the pressure to create enough paintings to fill the room was enough to deal with. Some days she didn’t venture outside at all.
Levon gave her a quick kiss. “I’m heading uptown. Do you need anything? More supplies?” The man was adept at changing the subject when it came to his mysterious errands.
But she knew what he was up to. Raising money from his Park Avenue ladies to help get the exhibit mounted, to get enough cash to pay for frames. Earlier that morning, she’d spied a note on the dresser signed Nadine, which had turned her stomach. Sharing him with anonymous old biddies was one thing, but a mutual acquaintance, especially that wretched girl, was quite another. Not that Clara had said anything, knowing she should shut up and be grateful for his efforts on her behalf. He’d even begun filching from his own bookcase when he thought Clara wasn’t looking. The strap of the satchel strained against his shoulder.
“Please stop selling your art books,” she implored, not for the first time. The books were like his children, each one precious. “You don’t have to do that. We’ll find another way.”
He patted the side of the bag. “Never you mind. Besides, once the show’s a great success, I’ll buy them all back, first thing.”
Any talk of the show made her squirm with irritation. “When you return, I want you to paint as well,” she said.
Levon’s doctor had declared his symptoms much improved on his last visit. Yet he’d resisted Clara’s entreaties to pick up a brush. The more he resisted, the more she pushed him. Partly to offset her own nerves, and also because she feared the longer he put it off, the harder it would be to find his footing.
“Stop with that, woman.” Levon waved her away. “Concentrate on your own work.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then paint with me.”
He let the satchel fall hard to the floor. “You want to see me paint?” He was beside her in a flash and snatched the brush from her hand with his left hand. “I tried it the other morning, when you were still asleep.”
He held the brush clumsily in his dominant hand. It fell to the floor after only a few seconds.
Such histrionics. “You didn’t even try. You have two hands. Paint with your other one.”
They’d been going at each other for the past couple of weeks, as the pressure ratcheted up. She shouldn’t pick fights, should let him go about his business, but she was desperate for something else to focus on. Something that would take her out of the terrible images she was painting day in and day out. Of the world turned upside down, where no one cared about the child crying alone on the street or the man with one leg shivering in the cold. The works were expressionistic, imprecise, as far away from her earlier work as an illustrator as possible. She imagined the art crowd stunned into repulsion by the sight of them, ridiculing one after another.
“I will not paint with my left hand unless you paint with your toes. Leave me alone.” Levon stormed off.
She let him go. Levon would paint again. Once the show was over, she’d have time to cajole instead of shame him into trying once more. Right now, her work crowded out everything else. It was loud and forceful and took up all the air in the room.
The day of the show, Levon and Felix spent the afternoon at the gallery, putting on the finishing touches, making sure everything was set. Clara had done a quick walk-through the day before, but Felix asked that she stay as far from the place as possible, to avoid giving anything away. He’d insisted they not hang the painting of Levon she’d done, to avoid adding fuel to the speculative fire. Which was fine with her. During her short visit, Felix pulled Levon and Clara into a back room to reveal good news: A third of the paintings had already sold.
The pride on Felix’s face, and the joy on Levon’s, made the past several months of agony well worth it.
Felix’s approach had worked beautifully. He’d shown the paintings to a select group of still-wealthy collectors and the city’s art critics that morning, and the mystery around the identity of “Clyde” had upped the ante.
The evening of the opening, Clara put on her peacock dress, her one fine frock, and headed uptown. A crowd surrounded the entrance to the gallery, and she slipped in unnoticed. She thought back to her first show, at the Grand Central Art Galleries, where her illustrations had been relegated to a back office. Not this time. She’d clawed her way to the top back then. Against all odds, she would be famous once more by the end of tonight.
She relished the idea as she wandered through the rooms, unremarked upon, invisible.
A young, new illustrator was now the hotsy-totsy Vogue cover artist. A man had supplanted her at Studebaker. Everyone could be replaced, but Clara refused to be forced down and out. Not by her father, by Mr. Lorette, nor by Oliver.
Oliver. If he hadn’t destroyed The Siren, it would have been the highlight of the show. She’d tried to replicate it but couldn’t and finally had given up. That painting had sprung from a particular place and time, of cool Maine sunrises and her rising awareness of her love for Levon.
Levon stood in the middle of the main room, surrounded as usual by admirers, men and women. A man nudged her on the elbow, and she turned to see Mr. Bianchi.
“Miss Darden, are you here to find out who this mystery artist is, like the rest of us?” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his shiny forehead. “They better do it soon or the place will explode from anticipation.”
“I’m sure it’ll be soon.” She spied Felix in one corner, adjusting his tie and murmuring to the critic from Art in America magazine. “What do you think of the paintings?”