“They’re exquisite. I’m kicking myself for having spent money on a painting just last week. If I hadn’t bought that, I would pluck one of these right off. But times are tough.”
Right. So tough he could only afford one painting, instead of two. She tamped down her anger. Not now. He’d learn the truth soon enough. “What painting did you buy?”
“A Zakarian. Felix turned me on to it. A private sale, and Felix said it’s one of his best.”
Levon hadn’t mentioned any sale.
No. He couldn’t have.
“Which Zakarian was it?” She knew the answer before Mr. Bianchi opened his mouth.
“One of a boy standing next to his mother. It’s strange and kind of eerie, but Felix assured me it would go up in value in another ten years. That I just have to hold on to it.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Levon had sold his best work so that her exhibit could go on. She looked around to find him, but he’d disappeared.
Mr. Bianchi continued. “I’ve stashed it in the carriage house on the estate for now. I don’t want it in my apartment or my weekend house; it’s not a happy painting, you know? I’ll wait until the market recovers and it rises in value, before selling it to the highest bidder.”
The thought of that painting sitting in a damp carriage house, abandoned and probably eventually forgotten, made her ill. How could Levon have done this?
She made her excuses and turned to go outside, to get some air, but it was too late. Felix was calling for everyone’s attention. Levon stood a little apart from him, off to the side.
The time had come. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick.
“I know everyone is here to learn the identity of my new discovery.” Felix’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I have quite a secret and am very eager to share it with you.”
The crowd was silent, almost worshipful. Clara hated them all. Hated them for how easily led they were, not by artistic merit but by whatever was the latest craze. Clara was the next big thing, the fur coat on the cover of Vogue, the art deco door handle on a car. They would eat her up and spit her out again.
Felix held up both hands. “However, I can’t tell you just yet.” He waited until the crowd’s groans and protestations died down. “We’ve been asked to do an exhibit in Chicago in two weeks. The works of Clyde are traveling across the country so that even more people will be able to see firsthand these astonishing and provocative paintings. Then, and only then, will we reveal the identity.”
Somehow, Felix found his way to Clara through what was almost an angry mob. Levon caught up and pulled them into the back hallway, closing the door behind him.
“What are you doing, Felix?” Levon demanded.
Felix patted them both on the shoulder. “This will widen our reach.” He looked at Clara. “You’ll not only be a New York sensation but a national one. Trust me. Two weeks, and you’ll be at the pinnacle of success. By stretching this out, we’ll increase the value of the unsold works even more. We’ll add in that one of Levon you did, sell out completely. You’ll be rolling in it, have enough money to ride out this Depression in fine form.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Clara asked.
“I didn’t want to raise your hopes before I knew for sure. They committed to us just now. We’ve done it, though.” He was practically levitating with excitement. “We’ve done it.”
In the week and a half since the exhibit, Felix’s predictions had come true. All of New York was talking about Clyde, and newspapers across the country had picked up on the story of the mystery artist, with experts weighing in on who the painter might be.
“Did you remember to pack your good suit?” Clara yelled out from inside the taxi, as Levon and the driver jammed their suitcases into the trunk of the cab.
Levon slid in beside her and pulled the door shut. “Of course I packed it.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Or did I leave it hanging up on the bedroom door?”
“You left it. Since you’d already headed downstairs to catch a cab, I put it in my suitcase.”
“You’re a doll.” He kissed her on the nose. “Grand Central, please.”
The cab pulled out, the driver careening around the other cars as if they were in a race. She checked her watch. They had a good forty minutes before the train to Chicago—the 20th Century Limited—would pull out. Plenty of time. She couldn’t help but tease. “I was tempted to toss it out the window to you. How could you forget your one good suit?”
“I have other things on my mind.”
She couldn’t tell if he was kidding her or not. Levon’s name had been one of many bandied about in the press as a possibility. Better to address the situation now, rather than when they were trapped in a Pullman car with Felix. She shifted in the seat so she faced him. “A lot of people think you’re Clyde, Levon. Do you wish you were the artist? Have I put you in a strange position?”
He chuckled. “I don’t mind one whit. All the better to surprise them with the truth when the artist is revealed. To be honest, it’s a relief not being the artist du jour for a change. I find I’m bursting with ideas these days. Once you’re established, I’ll be on my way.”
“Once we have the money, we’re paying for you to see the best doctor in town.” She still regretted forcing him to pick up a paintbrush.
“I have a surprise for you. Look.” He held out his left hand, palm down.
Even with the bumps of the taxi, she could see he had control of the limb, finally.
She yelped and hugged him to her. “No tremors! That’s wonderful.”
“Progress, my dear. When we return, we’ll move to a bigger studio.”
She shook her head. “You’re probably sick of me by now. We could get two studios if you like.” The city zoomed past; she looked out the window and watched it go by rather than check his reaction.
“One. I don’t want to change anything.” He threw his arm around her, and she curled into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and spice.
“We’ll buy all your books back, and more.” She paused. “And we’ll get your painting back from Bianchi.”
Levon went rigid with anger. She hadn’t broached the subject yet, unwilling to break the charm of happiness between them, the glimmer of hope. “How do you know about that? Felix, running at the mouth again?”
“No. I saw Mr. Bianchi at the opening.” She put one hand over his heart, unable to look up at him. “I know you did that to help me, and I also know how difficult it must have been. But I’ll talk to Mr. Bianchi; he’ll be happy to sell it back. We’ll pay whatever we have to.”
She took his silence for agreement and didn’t press him further.
The cab lurched to a stop on Forty-Second Street, where a redcap took their bags and led them down the ramp to the main concourse. “Track 34, leaves six o’clock sharp.” He pointed to the right. “Enter that way.”
Levon gave Clara a sly smile. “Thanks, we know the station well.” He tucked a tip into the porter’s hand.
“I’m going to buy an Evening Post before we board,” said Clara. “Do you want anything from the newsstand?”
“Not a thing. I’ll march ahead and make sure Felix hasn’t had any trouble with the crates.”
“See you in a few.”
The newsstand had an unusually long line for a Saturday. She paid for the magazine and turned to go.
“Clara.”
Oliver hovered just outside the newsstand, his hands in his pockets. A rough stubble covered his cheeks.
“Oliver. What are you doing here?”
“I saw in the paper that Felix was on this train. I figured you’d be, too. Since you’re Clyde.”
She tried not to react.
“Clara, I’m here to apologize.” Oliver’s brightness and confidence had dropped away since they’d last seen each other, replaced with a weary heaviness that Clara knew all too well. “When I realized what you’d accomplished, how amazing this has been, I had to see you and say I was sorry. Can we talk?”