The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  Things were moving too fast. She turned to Mrs. Lorette. “What if I take it to Sotheby Parke Bernet and show them what I’ve found?”

  Mrs. Lorette poured herself more tea. “They have a lot at stake, with the auction coming up. I’m not saying they’d do anything unethical, but it wouldn’t be in their best interests to have the provenance of the Clyde painting questioned so soon before the sale.”

  “What if Penn Central decides it’s theirs? After all, they own the space where it was found.”

  “Art belongs to the public, not a corporation. And certainly not a mercenary one like Penn Central. No need to involve them.”

  Virginia sighed. “I almost hate to let it go. My first thought was to hang it in my apartment; I figured it’d make me smile every time I passed by.”

  Mrs. Lorette picked up her teacup and saucer and wandered over to a painting above the fireplace, an oil of a woman in a fancy dress standing next to a greyhound. “I know what you mean. You become attached. Every time I look at this painting, I see something different, like a subtle aura around her head that I’d never noticed before, or the way the greyhound’s eyes are flecked with yellow.” She turned around. “But yours needs to be cared for. Poor thing’s been sitting in a dusty room for ages. Sammy will know what to do, how to preserve it, restore it, if need be.”

  Mr. Lorette returned, looking triumphant. “Sammy’s quite interested. We have an appointment on Monday at ten o’clock.”

  Virginia held up one hand. “I can’t, I have to work then. Can we make it during my lunch hour?”

  “He’s off to Europe then, some kind of partnership with the Louvre in Paris.”

  “Maybe when he gets back?”

  “He’ll be back in the New Year.”

  More than a month away. “Do you think he’ll be able to help?” She knew the answer but wanted reassurance.

  “Of course. He knows that era well. Best man in town. Heck, in the world.”

  Virginia looked from one to the other. According to her temp contract, she wasn’t allowed to take off work until she’d been there a month. A little less than two weeks had passed since she started, and she couldn’t risk losing her job. She’d never find another. She supposed she could leave the watercolor with the Lorettes.

  And after that mugging, it would be a relief to have it taken off her hands. But she should warn them. “Just so you know, I got a threatening letter, telling me to put the watercolor back. I think that mugger was after it as well. Someone wants it badly.” She paused. “I worry that giving it to you may put you in harm’s way.”

  Mr. Lorette didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. “The ghost of Levon Zakarian, trying to fight for his legacy, perhaps?”

  “Or Clara Darden’s.”

  His smile faded. “Just goes to show that your instincts are on track. You’ve discovered what might be an important piece of art. We’ll guard it closely and make sure it gets safely uptown to Sammy. Don’t you worry about us. We’ve lasted longer in this city than almost anyone we know.”

  They had a point. The Depression, the war years. The Lorettes had seen it all.

  Virginia placed it back in the portfolio. “All right. Take it to Sammy, and then let me know what he says.”

  “Are you sure you can’t come?” asked Mrs. Lorette. “It could be a fun meeting; we’d learn a lot.”

  “Let’s not get our hopes up too high, now,” added Mr. Lorette. “Who knows? We might learn that it’s all a hoax, that a student was copying one of his teacher’s works in progress. Although I certainly hope not. It might be an important piece of the Grand Central School of Art’s history.”

  Virginia agreed. “I’ll call you on my lunch hour to find out what you learn.”

  “Very good. We shall speak to you Monday.” Mr. Lorette held out his hand, and Virginia shook it. “Let’s pray for good news.”

  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 cotta
ge 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 wha
t 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.