Clara didn’t reply. The chemical scent from the paint brought memories flooding back. Sure, she’d been around paints for the past many years, but not in this room, where it all began. She dipped a thick brush into the paint and drew a slash on the canvas, wanting to mark it up, to defile its brightness. “How much did all this cost?”
“No bother. Well, actually, Ruby lent me the money. Just until we get paid on Friday. She’s making lots of cash in tips, working in a hotel bar. Now she’s focused, gets to work early and stays late. Takes photography classes in her free time. She’s energized. Kind of like I was when I found the watercolor.”
Clara mixed in some white to soften the color, tried a different brush. The quality of the canvas was terrible, fighting against the oil instead of supporting it.
“Ryan, one of the other bartenders, was at the O’Keeffe exhibit with me when I figured out who you were. Funny thing was, I thought he was there with me on a date, sort of, when in fact he wanted to ask my permission to date Ruby. You can imagine my shock. I laughed at myself. I do that a lot lately.”
Clara shot her a look. “Did you tell anyone else about me? Who I am?”
“No. Of course not.”
“That’s my secret. Not yours.”
“I understand.”
“I doubt you do. You’re not the type to have secrets. You prattle away in the information booth all day, getting into everyone’s business.”
“That’s not true. I have secrets.”
“Name one.”
Virginia placed her right hand on her left shoulder, diagonally across her torso, like the sash of a beauty queen. Clara had noticed she did it whenever she was nervous, like when the stationmaster stopped into the booth or when Doris mocked her.
Virginia’s voice quivered. “You want me to name one secret?”
“Sure. You know all about me. My losses, my humiliations. What’s yours?” Clara stabbed the air with the point of the brush on the last two words.
“You’re being awfully dramatic.”
Clara turned back to the easel and sniffed.
“I had an operation, about five years ago.” Virginia’s voice dropped to a husky whisper, as if her throat was closing up to prevent the words from reaching the air. “Before I got divorced. They had to take off one breast, and I didn’t know it was going to happen, beforehand. They put me under, and when I woke up, I’d been mutilated. They carved me up.”
Clara turned and studied her. “You look fine to me.”
“I wear a special type of bra. Not very comfortable, and it rides up all the time.” She grimaced, as if remembering something painful, but continued talking. About her recovery, the fear that the cancer would come back. At some point, Clara realized that the woman was talking to her like she would to a sleepy child. Because as she droned on—and no, that wasn’t a kind thing to think now that the poor woman was pouring her sad little heart out—Clara was painting. Mainly to distract herself, and to not have to look Virginia in the eyes. But still.
She was painting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
March 1975
Friday, Clara decided to give her notice to Terrence. She waited until Virginia took her afternoon break and then turned her WINDOW CLOSED sign around.
“Terrence, I want to tell you some news.”
Terrence held up one finger. “Hold on, I just have to figure out the answer to this question on the crossword. ‘Old Russian ruler known as Moneybag.’ Do you know the answer to that?”
She shook her head.
“Anyone else in this godforsaken booth know the answer?” He repeated the question.
“What? Money what?” yelled Doris.
This would not do. “Terrence, it’s important.”
“So is this.”
“Ivan I.” Winston, of course.
“It fits!” Terrence yelped, scribbling in the answer.
Virginia emerged from the tube that hid the spiral stairway and barged over to Clara. “Come with me. Quick.”
“I already took my break.”
Virginia was panting as if she’d taken the stairs three at a time. “No. You have to come. Quick. They’re here.”
“Who?”
“The Lorettes. I spotted them heading up here from the lower concourse. Look.”
She pointed to an older couple in coats with their backs turned. Clara couldn’t be sure. She hadn’t seen them in decades.
“Let’s go.” Virginia turned to Terrence. “I need Totto’s help; we’ll be right back.”
They left Terrence beaming at his completed crossword and hightailed it across the concourse, skidding to a stop right as the couple was about to take the stairs to the West Balcony.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lorette.” Virginia’s voice boomed out, surprising even Clara. She didn’t know the girl had it in her. “Stop.”
The Lorettes turned around. Forty-five years had gone by since Clara set eyes on them. They each carried a handsome old leather suitcase and were similarly weathered, wrinkled and spotted with age, like shriveled crab apples. Not that Clara hadn’t also lost the bloom of youth years ago. The dry heat out west had that effect.
Mr. Lorette’s voice, when he spoke, had the same affected accent, a mix of Maine and continental Europe. The shakiness of age heightened the aristocratic effect.
“Who are you?”
Virginia stepped in. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lorette. We’d like to talk to you. Come this way, please.”
“Why should we? We’ve really had enough of your nonsense.” Mrs. Lorette waved them away.
Clara edged closer. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Mr. Lorette peered at her. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. Clara Darden.”
“Clara Darden?” Mrs. Lorette peered at her through smudged glasses. “But Clara Darden is a woman.”
Clara was about to answer when Virginia jumped in. “We can’t talk here. Follow me.” She led them around the corner to a small waiting area that Clara recalled was once known as the Kissing Gallery, where reunited sweethearts were allowed to kiss as long as the smooch lasted less than five seconds. Today, the ornate lamps flanking the departure board were dark, the room drafty. A couple of homeless men slept along one wall on thin strips of cardboard that offered minimal protection from the cold marble floor.
“How do we know you’re really her?” Mr. Lorette drew closer. “No one’s heard from her in years.”
“Who else would know that you banished my illustrations at the faculty exhibit?” snapped Clara. “Who else would know that the sketch was done during one of my illustration classes, based on the model we were lent by Vogue?”
Mr. Lorette’s face changed in an instant, from dark to light. “You are Clara Darden. I can see it. Your face, you’re her.” He came forward and held out his hand. “What a pleasure to know you’re still alive. There’s not many of us left. After all these years.”
Clara exchanged glances with Virginia. This man was not to be trusted.
But maybe all was not lost. After all, they’d shared a history, of a time and place that could never be repeated. A love for art. They spoke the same language. Maybe now that the Lorettes knew they were dealing directly with Clara, they’d relinquish her watercolor. Indeed, the theory that they were the sellers of The Siren could be way off base. For all she knew, Virginia had alienated them and forced them to abscond with her work. They probably thought she was as nuts as Clara did.
“Why the disguise?” asked Mr. Lorette.
“It’s an art project.”
“Like Bowie.” Virginia looked around, pleased.
The Lorettes answered in unison. “Who?”
“Never mind.” Clara had to find out more. “What happened that summer? Did Oliver take the painting? Or did you find it?”