by Fiona Davis
If the girl was going to jabber on, Clara might as well investigate the paints. She opened one, a sunflower yellow, and squeezed it out onto the palette in a brightly colored worm.
Virginia showed no signs of letting up. “Ruby was a lovely girl, but so shy. After I got divorced, she really lost her way, which maybe would have happened anyway at that age. Kids want to find their own space, and I was crowding her, telling her what to do with her life. Which made her resent me, which made me crowd her more, you know?”
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?”
“Honestly, Clara, we don’t know.” Mr. Lorette leaned hard on his cane. “We have no idea how it ended up at auction.”
“What about the watercolor?” Virginia again. “You took it from me.” The woman had no idea when to tread lightly.
“You originally took it from the art school,” said Mrs. Lorette. “We don’t know who you are. If anything, we’re protecting it.”
Mr. Lorette grew stern. “This is about more than possession. It’s about protecting art, protecting a legacy.”
“Whose legacy?” asked Clara.
“Levon Zakarian’s.”
“The watercolor is mine. You can tell from the sketch on the back. Which means the oil painting is also mine.”
“Did anyone else see you painting it?”
“Oliver, of course. Levon.”
“Both are long gone. Did anyone who’s still alive see you painting it?”
No. No one. There was no point in saying the words out loud.
Mr. Lorette shook his head. “Then there’s really no proof at all that it’s yours. I’m sorry, but how do we know you’re not trying to claim Zakarian’s legacy for your own? You were an illustrator. That’s all. No one ever saw you paint, really paint. You did magazine covers and car advertisements and that sort of thing. Then you appear out of the blue, claiming a watercolor that you say proves you’re Clyde? Fishy, all around.”
Clara couldn’t believe his audacity. “Why would Levon not use his own name for those works? You know as well as I do what an enormous ego that man had. Besides, he couldn’t paint at that time. Lead poisoning. His arm was numb. I did the paintings. All of them. Including The Siren.”
Mrs. Lorette shook her head. “Is that what you’re calling it? But no one saw you paint any of them.”
“What about the existence of the watercolor?” asked Virginia.
“The watercolor is nothing.” Mr. Lorette dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “We had it evaluated. It’s meaningless. Artists copy each other all the time. Levon was copying Picasso for ages, until he hit his stride. For all we know, you were copying Levon.”
A policeman peered in on them. “Everything all right in here?”
Mr. Lorette continued, emboldened. “You were a second-rate illustrator, selling your name and your work for the masses. Not like Levon, who was a genius. Then you show up decades later, trying to ruin him?” He drew Mrs. Lorette closer to him and started edging in the direction of the policeman. “We are the protectors of his legacy, and we’ll do everything we can to keep you from meddling. Including calling lawyers.”
“I know lawyers.” Virginia, barging in again. “I have friends who will take up our case. We’ll track down the watercolor and get it back and prove to everyone that Clara is Clyde. Don’t think we won’t.” But her voice trailed off as the policeman offered to escort Mrs. Lorette up to the street.
The Lorettes were right. The last thing the art world wanted was someone coming in and upending what would be a deliciously rich sale of a work by a master. How Levon would have loved this, being called a genius, selling a painting for gobs of money.
That afternoon, Clara gave her notice to Terrence. He pleaded with her to stay on past the Easter rush, and she relented. On top of not wanting to let down a friend, she also wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t running blindly away, like she had the last time.
Four weeks and then she could leave all this behind her.
It was time to seek solace out west, just as she’d done before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
March 1975
As the weekend crawled by, Virginia replayed the confrontation with the Lorettes in her head, kicking herself for how stupid she’d sounded. When she’d spotted the couple on the lower concourse, she’d been sure it was a sign, that this was their chance to shock them with Clara’s existence and force their hand. Now she was even more convinced that they were the sellers of The Siren. Their excuses for hanging on to the watercolor were thin. It had to be because they didn’t want the auction interfered with.
On Sunday morning, as Virginia was drying dishes at the sink in her apartment, Ruby touched her arm and made her jump.
“Mom. Hello? I said your name three times.” Ruby looked more confused than exasperated.
Virginia picked up the spoon she’d dropped into the sink. “Sorry, darling. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Ruby perched up on the counter. “Ryan and I are going out for a bite before we open up for the day. Wanna come? You’ve been holed up in the apartment all weekend.”
“No, I’m fine here. You go, enjoy yourself.”
“You seem weird. Is something going on?”
Even though Virginia had promised not to reveal Clara’s identity, Ruby had been by Virginia’s side through some difficult months and deserved to hear the story. She could be trusted to keep the secret. Virginia threw the tea towel over her shoulder. “I found the artist. The one who did the Clyde sketch.”
“Clara Darden?”
“Exactly.”
Ruby squealed. “That’s wild. What’s she like? Where was she?”
“She was dressed as a he and was working in the information booth with me. Right under my nose the entire time. She was also trying to track down the watercolor, but I got to it before she did.”
“Fantastic! Then she can claim it back.”
Virginia sighed. “We tried that. The Lorettes won’t budge. So now I’ve ruined her life.”
“Come on, Mom. You’re being dramatic.”
She gave a rueful smile. “You’re right. Here I thought you were the dramatic one. But still. I feel really bad.”
“Can we go to the police?”
“Unfortunately, it’s not really an option. No New York cop is going to stop fighting crime long enough to mediate an art dispute between a bunch of old folks.” And neither she nor Clara had the money to hire lawyers. Her empty threat to the Lorettes was just that. Empty. Dead ends all around.
But it helped, having talked it through, and by Monday morning, Virginia was eager to try to apologize again, let Clara know that she was truly sorry for having mucked it all up. But Clara ignored her, turning away when she approached.
“Serious cold shoulder going on there,” observed Doris. “Did you have a spat? Put the timetable in the wrong slot or something?”
“Very funny.” Virginia backed off but kept a close eye on Clara when she left for lunch. Virginia waited ten minutes and then followed her path.
She found Clara in the art school, in the smaller studio, palette in hand, staring hard at a piece of paper on an easel. Clara looked up, and her forehead creased. “You.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to bother you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do. I want to talk. Can we talk?”
“About what? About how you ruined everything?”
“Yes. I own that responsibility and want to apologize to you.”
Judging by the furious look in Clara’s eyes, she’d been stewing all weekend as well. “That’s all you do, apologize. I came back to stake my claim and instead have been maligned, yet again, by the Lorettes. A ‘second-rate illustrator.’ How dare they! I’m worse off than when I started. I have no money left, no reputation. With no chance of reclaiming either.”
Virginia stood her ground. She’d heard enough moaning from h
aving a teenaged daughter over the past few years, and this was no different. “You’re the one who ran away in the first place, may I remind you? Yes, there was a terrible tragedy, but you could have bounced back. Declared that you were Clyde, staked a claim. You had talent, but you took off for the hills and threw away your life.”
“Far from it.” Clara threw back her shoulders. “I taught generations of children how to draw. When I watched a child blossom during class, saw her recognize her own talent and feel special, it was well worth it. I might have lost my chance to make it big, but I did everything in my power to ensure other young girls could reach their full potential. The students at the Grand Central School of Art could be petty, competitive. Once I removed myself from the fickle art world, I began to appreciate art for its own sake, like I had long ago. In many ways, I was finally free. After I became Totto, I wasn’t beholden to anyone. I had mad affairs, some thrilling, some not.”
“You had affairs?” An unexpected admission. Clara as Totto was so tightly wound, Virginia couldn’t imagine it.
A glint of pride shone in Clara’s eyes. “Does that shock you?”
“Nothing shocks me anymore.” Virginia envied Clara’s life, suddenly. No longer trying to please everyone else, only herself. “But then you came back.”
“When I saw the painting in the catalog, it was like seeing my own reflection. It made me realize I deserved more. This was my last shot.”
She had a point. She did deserve more. “I’m sorry the Lorettes have stolen that opportunity from you and that I had a hand in it. But I’m still glad I found the watercolor. The watercolor, the sketch—they were magical when my life was not. They helped me get by.” She stared up at the skylights, where a weak sun filtered through a thin coating of dirt. “I wanted to be like that woman, The Siren. The woman in the painting, mysterious and powerful.” She paused. “How can I make it up to you?”