He started walking toward her but then seemed to change his mind and stopped to speak to a few of his other students. By the time he reached her easel, Sarah had covered his figure with thick gray strokes and created a jagged rock rising up out of a red boiling sea. Similar in style to the painting she’d found in Ada’s studio. She didn’t think it was Champlin who had painted it, but she wanted to see if he recognized the style.
He stood behind her and squinted at her canvas through his monocle.
“Do any of your other students paint like this?” she asked.
“Certainly not.”
He walked over to Elizabeth’s easel. “Good work,” he said, loud enough for Sarah to hear. “You have followed my instructions.”
An hour later, Hallie and Jeanette came up to Sarah while she was putting away her supplies and invited her to go with them to the Mission Tea House.
“We all meet there at the end of the day for a cup of tea,” said Jeanette, flashing a conspiratorial grin toward her sister.
“I have to send a telegram,” replied Sarah. She needed to let Eric Crocker know that she was still tracking down the portraits and to please be patient. She should have telephoned him, but he would have wanted an explanation and she didn’t have one.
“If you tell me where to find the Tea House, I’ll join you later.”
Hallie and Jeanette pointed inland. “Just beyond the cow pasture you’ll see the old mission’s crumbling bell tower. The Tea House is down the hill in an orchard surrounded by an adobe wall.”
“Is it all right if I bring Albert?”
“Sure. Dogs are allowed everywhere in Carmel. It’s the law.”
A herd of cows raised their bulky heads to watch Sarah and Albert trespassing on their field. Chewing their cuds was far more interesting and they dropped their heads back down. Albert pulled her in the right direction and they made their way to the mission. Sarah heard voices interspersed with laughter spilling over a chipped wall. Several bicycles were propped up against it. None were red. She passed through an opening into a courtyard bordered by beds of flowers in the spectrum of a rainbow.
Crimson geraniums in large terra cotta planters hung in front of the windows of an ancient one-story adobe. A summery pastoral scene.
Rustic picnic tables were arranged on the grass patio under the shade of fragrant fruit trees. The seats were taken by young men and women who sipped from teacups, smoked cigarettes, and bantered loudly across the tables. The men wore white boater hats with black or red striped bands and beige linen suits or sweaters with open collars. The women art students from Champlin’s class had shed their black paint smocks, revealing pastel summer dresses or slacks with loose blouses under embroidered Spanish vests. Most of them wore wide-brimmed straw hats. Sarah wished she was wearing one. Even with the shade of the orchard, the sun was glaring.
Sarah stood in the center of the courtyard breathing in the fragrances when she heard Ada say, See, Sarah, didn’t I tell you how dazzling Carmel is?
There you are, thought Sarah, happy to have her sister’s company, though her voice seemed to have faded since she last spoke. Please don’t leave me, Ada.
Why would I? I have nowhere else to go.
“You found us!” said Sirena, grabbing Sarah’s hand and pulling her over to a long table. Sarah bent down and unclipped Albert’s leash. He wagged his way from table to table and was rewarded with pats on the head and savory snacks.
Sirena had been saving a space for Sarah. When she sat down, the conversations stopped and everyone turned to look at her. The young man who’d given her abalone on the beach, Tony Mac Ginnis, was seated across from her and greeted her with a warm smile. He was hardly recognizable in a white linen suit, black bow tie, and boater hat.
Sirena leaned toward Sarah. “Hope you don’t mind,” she whispered. “News travels fast in our colony and everyone knows now that you’re Ada’s sister. They asked me to say something nice about her.”
Before Sarah could stop her, Sirena stood up. Everyone else at the table stood up. Teacups were raised toward Sarah.
“I’d like to make a toast to Ada Belle Davenport,” said Sirena. “She was a very special person, well-loved and respected by our colony, which is why we are so very pleased to have her sister, Sarah, with us today.”
Sarah was touched by their sympathetic faces and Sirena’s kind words. She stood up and chinked her cup against Sirena’s and acknowledged the raised cups of the rest of the party. “Please know that I really appreciate this warm welcome.” The unexpected taste of wine loosened her tongue. This must be the “cup of tea” Hallie and Jeanette had mentioned.
She raised her cup again, and in a stronger voice said, “To my sister, Ada. May she rest in peace.”
Everyone had sat down and resumed their animated conversations when two more guests joined their table. A very attractive couple, thought Sarah, admiring the girl’s skilled application of makeup, her painted red lips and perfectly manicured hands.
The girl’s kohl-penciled eyes were keeping a territorial watch over her escort and Sarah could see why. He was remarkably handsome in a linen suit and straw trilby hat pushed back from his face. He could’ve been a Hollywood film star.
People squeezed together to make room for the newcomers on the crowded bench. Sarah ended up between the tall, dark stranger and Elizabeth.
Elizabeth whispered in her ear that the stranger was Robert Pierce, a popular Hollywood photographer for the cinema beauties. His companion was Louise Brooks, an up-and-coming Hollywood starlet who had come to Carmel to perform in Pirates of Penzance, the same musical in which Rosie was a member of the chorus.
“Why, she can’t be much older than Sirena!” said Sarah.
Elizabeth raised her brow. “Yes, I think you’re right, but she’s already been around the block a few times, if you know what I mean.”
Sarah unintentionally bumped shoulders with Robert Pierce. She apologized but he was quick to say, “Don’t apologize! I like it when pretty women bump into me.” He winked and tipped his trilby at her.
What a ridiculous flirt, she thought, trying to deny the feeling of pleasure that ran through her when she looked into his sea-gray eyes shaded under thick black lashes.
She reached for her teacup. He saw that it was empty and poured from the pitcher. She was already starting to feel a bit tipsy, but didn’t stop him.
Tony came around the table and patted Robert on the back. “Hello, old man, good to see you’re back in Carmel.” Without waiting for Robert to reply, he said, “I don’t think you knew Ada Davenport, but this is her sister Sarah, an artist from Paris.”
Robert gave Sarah his condolences and lowered his voice, “I know how painful it is to lose a sibling to suicide. I lost my younger brother not so long ago.”
Sarah was eager to move on to a lighter subject. “What brings you to Carmel?” she asked.
“I’m a photographer and when I’m not shooting in Hollywood, I come here to get away and photograph nature. Sea otters are less troublesome and a lot cuter than starlets.” He looked over at Louise Brooks, who was laughing loudly at something Tony said.
Robert turned back to Sarah. “Have you been here before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“I could show you around if you’d like. Carmel has extraordinary scenic views.” Sarah shifted on the bench. His offer was tempting. Ada would’ve said yes. But Sarah wasn’t Ada. “I’m only here another week. I need to get back to Paris.”
“I wish I had that excuse,” he said. “What is it like living in Paris? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
As they discussed the Parisian art world, she heard a change in his tone that seemed far more sincere than his earlier flirtatious banter. He had a quick wit and a sympathetic ear when she spoke of the difficulties she faced being a woman artist living alone in Paris. He told her about his photography and how dissatisfying it was working with actresses in Hollywood. Whenever he could, he escaped to Ca
rmel to hike and shoot outdoor pictures. Nature asked nothing more of him other than to respect her beauty and tread lightly across her lands.
Immersed in their conversation, she lost all sense of time until Sirena tapped on her shoulder. “Sarah, it’s late. We have to get back to the Lodge for dinner or Rosie will be cross.” She and the other girls had gathered up their sketch boxes and smocks and were ready to leave.
Sarah was unsteady when she stood up. Unintentionally, she put her hand on Robert’s shoulder and leaned toward him. “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching out to stop her from falling in his lap.
“I think so. I’m just not used to so much sunshine and tea.”
He stood up and took her arm firmly. “I have a car. Let me take you home.”
“That’s all right, Robert,” said Sirena, coming between them. “We’ll take her home.”
Before letting go of her arm, he said, “I’d like to see you again. How do I find you?”
“I’m staying at my sister’s cottage on Camino Real.”
Sirena led her away, but Sarah managed to look back and say, “Across from McCann’s Lodge.”
Outside the adobe wall, Sarah leaned against Elizabeth and grinned foolishly. “I drank too much wine, didn’t I?”
“We all know what that’s like, don’t we, girls?” said Elizabeth.
Sirena had clipped on Albert’s leash and was pulling him toward the cow pasture. Annie and Elizabeth flanked Sarah, helping her walk, and Hallie and Jeanette brought up the rear.
The cows stopped chewing when they heard the girls mooing. Unimpressed, they returned to munching but a massive black bull showed far more interest. With his horns raised he started walking toward the mooing “cows.” The girls hushed up and escaped over the fence to the other side of the field.
After taking the rickety stairs up to St. Lucia Road, they all stopped to shake out their shoes and catch their breath.
“My, oh my, honey,” said Elizabeth in her slow Virginian drawl, “you certainly made an impression on Mr. Robert Pierce. Louise was hopping mad. He ignored her and spent the entire time talking to you.”
“Watch out, Sarah,” said Annie. “Robert is a ladies’ man. A lot of girls are stuck on him already in the colony.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Sarah, still feeling tipsy. “I know his kind.” Her face showed more distaste than she felt. “Even if he is woefully gorgeous, I know a flirt when I see one. I bet I never hear from him again.”
Sirena had walked on ahead with Albert. He kept looking back to make sure Sarah was close behind.
SATURDAY, JULY 26
—11—
Sarah walked up Ocean Avenue to May Laundry where she dropped off Ada’s mildewed clothes for cleaning and her red Chanel suit for pressing in preparation for her return to Paris in the near future.
She sat down at a table in the Blue Bird Tea Room where she had a clear view of the deVrais Gallery. While she waited for the art dealer to arrive, she thankfully sipped real tea from a cup. She’d awoken that morning with a splitting headache but managed to get herself up and dressed for the dreaded meeting with Paul deVrais.
She recognized the gray pinstripe suit deVrais had been wearing on the train. This morning he was wearing a maroon tie rather than the gaudy pink ascot. An elegantly dressed woman arrived as he unlocked the front door and they both went inside. He flipped the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN.
Sarah paid for her tea and made her away across the dirt road, holding up her mid-calf hem to keep it from getting mud-splattered. A seascape painting titled Sunrise at Carmel Beach, signed “A.B. Davenport,” was in the storefront window. Even with a wall of thick plate glass separating her from the canvas, Sarah felt like she could step onto the pristine beach and dig her bare feet into the warm sand. A sea breeze danced with her skirt, the early morning sun warmed her face.
Her brief escape from her worries was interrupted when deVrais’s diamond-studded, white-cuffed arm appeared over the painting. He placed a SOLD sign on the edge of the gilded frame. She was sorry it was sold, but then remembered she owned all the other Davenport paintings in deVrais’s gallery.
She was about to enter the gallery and claim her ownership when she saw a small poster taped to the glass door that stopped her. A.B Davenport, Portraitures, Hotel Del Monte Art Gallery, September 27–30, 1924, was written under Ada’s portrait of Katherine Mansfield.
Ada had told her that Mansfield had been the first portrait she’d made for the collection and how it had inspired her to make the others. “I was drawn to painting women. Not just famous women like Katherine, but others who live more common but noble lives. Cézanne once said that the goal of all art is to paint the face. I think he was right.”
Mr. Crocker, I have found the portraits, Sarah whispered, hardly able to control her excitement at seeing the first, if only a facsimile, from the missing collection of portraits her sister had painted.
The overhead doorbell jangled as she pushed open the door. Paul deVrais glanced over, but the lady who had just bought Sunrise at Carmel Beach required his attention. She was complaining about its elevated price.
A collector, thought Sarah, casting a side glance at the woman’s tailored jacket and ermine collar. Her silver-streaked hair was tightly pulled back into a round bun, her red polished fingers weighted down with jewels that sparkled under the overhead gallery lights. “I’ve met your type at the 291 gallery in New York,” Sarah said under her breath, “more of an investor in art than an aficionado.” She was equally disgusted to hear deVrais telling the buyer that Ada’s painting was a bargain considering the demand for her work after her suicide.
She wandered over to the other side of the gallery and began to examine the paintings displayed on the walls. She focused on several small California landscapes that were hung together. The artists’ names were familiar from her student days at the Art League in New York. Back then, she’d admired their work and tried to duplicate it, but since her time in Paris, she now found them quite conventional and drab. A flat, tonal representation. No emotional tension.
Across from one of the walls was a painting propped on an easel. When she stepped around to look at it, she slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle an involuntary cry. It was the painting she’d found in Ada’s studio. The plaque below read: A BLEAK MORNING: A.B. DAVENPORT (1886–1924). If that wasn’t obvious enough, a black mourning band was draped underneath the frame.
It was a forgery. Done at the behest of an art dealer who wouldn’t hesitate to exploit an artist’s death for profit. A buyer for this morbid painting would not be someone who loved art. It would be someone who thought a desperate artist had lashed out with her paintbrush to express her darkest emotions before destroying herself. DeVrais might as well have entitled it The Suicide.
Sarah wanted it off the easel, even if she had to take it down herself. She raised out her arms.
“Don’t touch!”
She twisted around and faced Paul deVrais’s eyes aimed at her like bullets. She’d been so consumed by her outrage that she hadn’t heard the jangling doorbell and she hadn’t heard him coming up behind her after his client had left.
“Oh, it’s you, Miss Cunningham. Excuse me, I thought you were a tourist who didn’t know how to behave properly in a gallery.”
Sarah gave him a calm, even smile and tried to appear in control of her emotions.
“What brings you to my gallery on this bright, sunny day?”
“You invited me.”
“Yes, I remember, but,” he showed his pearly teeth, “you weren’t exactly gracious on the train. I was planning to seek you out at Miss McCann’s lodge but I was detained in San Francisco on business. As you know, we have serious matters to discuss.”
She felt him hovering over her as she bent closer to inspect Ada’s forged signature in the bottom right corner. She clasped her hands behind her back and pretended to show good behavior while her mind went on a rampage. How could she pro
ve that Ada didn’t paint A Bleak Morning? It would be his word, a reputable dealer, against hers, the grieving sister of a suicider.
“I do worry about the canvas getting damaged,” he said. “It’s one of your sister’s last paintings, and as you can see the oil is still wet. It takes a very long time to dry thoroughly. Being an artist, of course, you would already know that.” He went on. “The demand for that painting has been incredible. Several dealers and art collectors have already made lucrative offers.”
“But why? It isn’t her style. It’s not anything like the painting you just sold.”
“I’m a dealer, Miss Cunningham. It doesn’t have to look like her work to be profitable. What matters is she painted it on River Beach where she later took her life. This painting represents her last moments. Her darkest thoughts.” Sarah imagined him telling this to a potential buyer with the same pitiful eyes he was now steadying on her.
“Ada never used black pigments in her paintings,” she said, flatly. “Even her shadows were brushed on in blues, greens, and reds. Never completely black like this.”
“As black as you might find it,”—irritation seeped into his mild manner—“Ada painted it, and, as I said, I’ve had several offers.”
He smoothed out his tie and the strident tone in his voice.
“Miss Cunningham, why are we standing here discussing Ada’s painting when there are urgent matters to discuss?” He walked to the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “Let’s sit down.” She followed him to his desk at the back of the gallery.
He opened the doors of a finely crafted antique breakfront. Inside was a liquor cabinet filled with glasses and bottles of wine and spirits. He saw her surprise. “It’s a Prohibition bar,” he said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Just water, thank you.” She sat down across from his desk. He leaned forward to light her cigarette with an inlaid mother-of-pearl lighter like the one he’d given Ada. Sarah now recognized its rich colors as abalone shell. She took a drag from her cigarette. Did Ada give him back the lighter? Or did he take it back after she was dead?
The Artist Colony Page 12