The Masterpiece

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

July 1929

And here are the bedrooms. You can fight among yourselves for whoever gets stuck in the one with the slanted ceiling.” Mrs. Lorette stood in the center of the small second-floor hallway of the Maine cottage while Clara, Levon, and Oliver stared uncomfortably about.

The trio had left the city yesterday, headed for the Grand Central School of Art’s summer program. The best students had been invited to take courses with the top instructors, all eager to replace the fiery oven of New York City in July with cool northern breezes.

A few days before she was supposed to leave, Clara and Oliver had attended a cocktail party at the Lorettes’ town house, where Oliver had shared the news that one of his poems was to be published in a reputable literary magazine. Clara was thrilled—finally he was getting the attention he deserved. She was even happier when Mr. Lorette extended an invitation on the spot for Oliver to join them in Maine. “Our first ‘poet in residence,’” he’d proclaimed.

Mr. Bianchi had loaned Clara a Studebaker for the month away, and after checking with Oliver, Clara suggested that Levon join them for the drive. She’d seen little of Levon since their brief interaction in the train station with Oliver a month earlier and was looking forward to catching up.

The ride had begun on a light note, Levon and Oliver teasing Clara for her massive leather suitcase, Levon holding forth in the back seat with stories and jokes, leaning forward every so often to clap Oliver on the shoulder and praise his driving abilities.

“This car is grand, isn’t it?” Levon ran his finger along the brown velvet nap of the front seat.

Clara twisted around and playfully smacked at his hand.

“Stop it, woman,” Levon said. “You should be thanking me for the chance to get out of the city like this.”

“How’s that?”

“If I hadn’t saved your job for you, you’d be home drawing stockings right now.”

Oliver laughed, and Clara sat back and watched as the landscape outside the car flew by, relieved the two men could finally enjoy each other’s company, even if it was at her expense.

The tiny town of Eastport sat upon an island thick with pine forests and blueberry bushes, ringed by rocky coves, and linked to the mainland by a causeway. Clara had imagined a large boardinghouse where the faculty gathered for communal breakfasts, and she was surprised to learn that instead, they’d be scattered about in tiny cottages, some miles away from the town center. And that Levon, Clara, and Oliver were assigned to the same one.

Mrs. Lorette gestured again into the rooms, beaming as if she’d shown them around a palace. A few tendrils of hair had escaped her updo and curled around her neck. Clara peered into the gabled room, which was simply furnished with a bed on one wall and a small desk on another. About halfway across the room, the ceiling plummeted to the floor at a steep pitch. “I say we put Levon here, just to hear him smack his head every morning when he gets up.”

“Very funny.” Levon rubbed his head as if he’d already done so.

“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Lorette,” Clara said. “Please don’t worry about us. I’m sure you must have to go wrangle the students.”

“The students.” Mrs. Lorette tossed up her hands. “I put them in one room and they always end up in another, if you know what I mean. But it’s only five weeks, and I don’t want to be a prison warden. It’s an art school, after all.” She started. “Oh, and I almost forgot, Mr. Lorette’s goddaughter is going to take the fourth bedroom. Lovely girl, Violet. Working in summer stock for the local theater company.”

“We look forward to meeting her,” Clara said. “I’ll take the gabled room. I’ll just have to remember to get out on the left side of the bed each morning.”

“I’ll bring you coffee in bed so you can clear the cobwebs before you rise,” offered Oliver.

Mrs. Lorette led them back down the stairs, where an enormous stone fireplace bisected the living and kitchen areas. Half a dozen drawings of the cottage from various angles decorated one wall of the parlor.

Clara studied them. “Were these done by the artists who stayed here?”

“Yes, my dear. Aren’t they lovely? You’re free to hang one of your own.”

“We will certainly add to your fine collection,” said Levon.

At a welcome dinner that evening at a rustic restaurant by the sea, Clara, Levon, and Oliver joined a few students at a picnic table. They feasted on barbecue as bald eagles nested in the neighboring trees and fishing boats rocked gently in their moorings. Mr. Lorette appeared, his arm around a striking young woman with blue eyes and black hair.

“I have the pleasure of introducing my goddaughter,” Mr. Lorette announced. “Miss Violet Foster, a budding actress all the way from Los Angeles. I do hope you don’t mind if she joins you, as the other tables are all full.”

“Of course not.” Clara waved her in. “We’re sharing the same cottage, from what Mrs. Lorette mentioned.”

Violet gave her godfather a quick peck on the cheek before sitting down. “We are. I just dropped off my things a moment ago. It’s divine, isn’t it?”

After introductions were made, one of the students asked what parts she’d played.

“Well, last year I had a teensy part in a movie called Street Angel.” Miss Foster, who insisted they all call her Violet, held up her index finger and thumb to show just how small the part was.

Both students gasped. “We loved Street Angel!” They peppered her with questions about the movie, about working with stars like Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell.

Clara glanced over at Levon, who stared at the woman as if she were a living doll. The setting sun had turned her pale skin a warm rose, and several strands of her hair picked up the same hue. No doubt he was analyzing the light, trying to figure out how he might capture it. Or he was smitten by her glamorous beauty. Violet might as well have jumped right off one of Clara’s magazine covers, with her tiny nose and ears, her big seal’s eyes. Clara shifted closer to Oliver on the bench.

“How long are you acting up here in Maine, Violet?” asked Levon.

“It’s a crazy schedule; we only have two weeks to rehearse, then three weeks of performances. But I love it; it’s much better than doing a movie where you show up, do a scene, and then move on to the next one. Here I get to hone my acting skills.”

“Not to mention your speaking skills.” Levon pulled out his flask and offered it to her. “Silent movies must be quite frustrating for someone with your melodic voice.”

She took a quick sip and handed it over to Oliver. “You’re sweet. But it’s a different set of skills, in a way. I have to be much more expressive with my face in film, to get the idea across.”

“Let’s see that,” said Levon. “Quick, before the light’s completely gone. Show me an expression that says you’re deeply in love.”

Clara cringed at his audacity, but Violet laughed. She took a breath and then looked at Levon while fluttering her eyelashes.

Truly awful. Clara burst out laughing. Oliver nudged her in the ribs, and she attempted to cover her rudeness by clapping her hands. “Brilliant.”

Violet smiled at the praise.

“And now, show me anger.” Clara couldn’t tell if Levon was goading Violet or if he was taken in by her dainty charm. “Come on, the angriest you can do.”

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.

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.”

“I love him.”

“He’ll drag you down.”

“I disagree. If anything, he’s made me the success I am today.”

“You’ve made yourself a success. If he hadn’t come along, you would have found another way. Who knows what will come along in a year, in five years?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Stop playing it safe. You’re coddled, tied down by convention, when you should be leaping into the abyss with me.”

He stopped in his tracks and grabbed her. His grip was strong, certain. When he leaned down and kissed her, it wasn’t like Oliver’s kisses. This was a claim. She grabbed his head with her hands, threading her fingers through his unruly hair, and pulled him close. He tasted like moonshine and the salty sea.

They finally parted, panting with ragged breath, as if they’d completed several rounds of boxing.

“I’m sorry.” Levon leaned over and put his hands on his knees, looking down at the sand.

Not the reaction she’d expected. She’d disappointed him. Just as she’d disappointed Oliver with the painting. Clara backtracked, trying to save face. “It’s fine. We had to do that sometime. Now it’s done. We know we’re not a good fit.”

“I suppose so.” He rubbed his chin with his hand, staring at her strangely.

As she headed back to the campfire, her heart began to calm. She wanted to have some kind of hold on him, that’s all. Who wouldn’t? Such a charismatic, talented man. But complex, unyielding. Uncompromising. She and Oliver had a bond that was calm and civilized. That should be enough.

She looked up. Oliver stood thirty feet away, up on the seawall. He must have come looking for her.

Clouds that had been covering the moon parted, revealing his shocked face. He’d seen everything.

He took off running, back to the campfire. Clara called out and ran after him, but he was fast. By the time she got back to the rest of the group, Oliver was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was Violet.