As long as she made it through the summer.
“Thank you, that’s wonderful news. Are there any summer classes available?” She knew she was pushing it, but better to ask than not.
“We bring a small number of students and teachers to Maine in the summer. So, no.”
Fine. She’d manage.
“Also, you’ll be giving out the illustration award tomorrow night at the May Ball, correct?” The ball, held in the art galleries, was an annual event for students and faculty. Student work was displayed, and awards were announced. Clara had been dreading going, but now, with the news she’d be staying on at the school, she didn’t mind.
“Yes. Looking forward to it.”
A student barged in, complaining to Mr. Lorette about a missing artwork. “I spent five weeks on it and it was finally finished, drying overnight, and now it’s gone.”
“Now then, Cyril, I’m sure we’ll track it down.”
“Same thing happened to Graham Hanover earlier in the term, Mr. Lorette. It’s an epidemic.”
“Let’s not be too dramatic, now. Come inside, tell me what’s going on.” Mr. Lorette waved Clara off. She thanked him once more before heading out.
Outside the office, Oliver stood speaking with three of her students, all of whom looked as if they wanted to devour him whole.
She heard Oliver laugh and say good-bye to his fan club. He caught up with her in front of the elevator. “Where are you off to?”
The arrow above the elevator door hit 5. She was heading home. Of course. As she always did, day after day. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to take you somewhere surprising.”
“I’m sure Gertrude or one of the others would be pleased to accompany you.”
He laughed. “Not them. You.”
She wanted to get back to her studio and work. But his excitement intrigued her, and she was flattered by his interest.
“You don’t have to leave Grand Central, Miss Darden. Even better, the crowd is an illustrator’s dream. Will you come?”
An illustrator’s dream.
She nodded and let him take her elbow as the elevator doors opened.
They crossed the concourse and went up the stairs of the West Balcony. “I thought you said we didn’t have to leave Grand Central,” said Clara as he ushered her out the doors that led to Vanderbilt Avenue.
“Not exactly.” He made a sharp left up a narrow staircase to a set of wrought iron doors.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.”
Inside the doorway stood a man holding a tray of glasses filled with bubbles.
It couldn’t be. “Champagne?”
Oliver put a finger to his lips. “Not at all. Prohibition, remember?”
“Right.”
She took the glass he offered her and let him lead her through a small anteroom, where she stopped cold.
She was no longer in the heart of New York City but in a thirteenth-century Florentine palazzo, the floor covered by a massive Persian rug. The painted wood ceiling soared a good twenty feet above her head, and everywhere were strange treasures: six-foot-tall vases, bronze sculptures, petrified tree trunks, and, up in a balcony, what appeared to be a pipe organ.
“What on earth is this?”
“It’s called the Campbell Apartment, but it’s an office.”
“For someone who works for the railroad?” She imagined a Vanderbilt installed here, running the trains from this magnificent headquarters.
“Not really. A financier who’s on the board of New York Central. He likes to throw parties every so often. I thought you’d get a kick out it.”
“More than a kick. This place is breathtaking.” She took a sip from the glass. The real thing. “How did you get in here?”
“I know someone who knows someone.”
A woman in a peach-colored chiffon gown spotted Oliver, and Clara watched as she drank him in, her fat-cat husband oblivious to his wife’s greedy leering.
New York City was full of people like Oliver: beautiful men and women used to being stared at, who politely looked away so you could drink in your fill of exquisite cheekbones or blue eyes. In Oliver’s case, both features.
When the woman’s eyes shifted to Clara, they registered something else entirely. Disdain. As someone who was used to being gawked at, for her height and her awkwardness, Clara knew the other side of the coin. Her defense was to stare back, widen her eyes, run her hands through her hair so it stuck up more than usual.
She did so, hard, until the woman turned away. When Clara turned back to Oliver, she caught her reflection in a smoky mirror on the wall. No wonder she drew stares. Her serviceable broadcloth frock had a rip in the elbow and the hem was coming loose. She’d meant to fix it but had never gotten around to it. She looked like a waif from the streets.
Before they’d moved to Tucson, when times were flush, Clara had watched her mother dress for balls and dinner parties. Truth be told, it would have been easier if she didn’t know how badly she stood out, if she were naive when it came to fashion and class. She’d enjoy herself, ignorant and blissful, pleased to have gained entry to high society instead of wishing she could crawl underneath the massive antique desk and hide.
She turned back to Oliver, wanting to focus on anything else but herself. “Tell me about your family. They don’t appreciate having a poet for a son?”
“I’m afraid not. I could tell, when we first met, that you understood what that feels like. Trying to please for so many years and then, ultimately, disappointing.”
She certainly did. “But your mother, she must be happy at your chosen path.”
“Quietly, she might be. But she married into wealth and subverted all her creativity. She’d adore you, though. You’re her dream. A woman artist out in the world. Not easy, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.” If he only knew. The champagne was making her tipsy, as though she could float away. Another woman looked her up and down, dismissively. Boy, was Oliver lucky. Money and looks, quite a combo. Even if he didn’t appreciate it now. “Could you give me an example of your work?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
He paused, then spoke in a clear, soft voice.
Thin fingered twigs clutch darkly at nothing.
Crackling skeletons shine.
Along the smutted horizon of Fifth Avenue
The hooded houses watch heavily
With oily gold eyes.
There was more to this sweet pea than she expected. She swallowed, trying to hide her shock. “What’s a smutted horizon?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not sure. I have to confess, those aren’t my words. It’s a poem called ‘Autumn Dusk in Central Park’ by Evelyn Scott.”
She tried to take this turn in stride. “It’s remarkable.”
“I don’t have any of mine memorized. They’re more of a work in progress. You put me on the spot and I was desperate to show off.”
“Why would you be wanting to impress me?” What a coy thing to say. Tingled by champagne, she was coming off as silly as Gertrude or Nadine. She continued before he replied. “You’ve been blessed with wealth and education, so I’m not sure what the problem is. Write your poems and get on with it already.”
He grinned. “You’ve summed it up perfectly. Yet I’m dismissed by the artistic set for my wealth and by the wealthy set for my artistic aspirations.” The words came out as a statement, not a complaint. But underneath lay a whiff of misery. The same she would have felt if she’d remained in Arizona, her creativity squelched.
The droning of the organ stopped, and a man with a tall forehead and hooded eyes leaned one hand against the imposing stone fireplace and asked for everyone’s attention. Apparently, this was the famous Mr. Campbell, who had an office that he called an apartment in the middle of Grand Central. He thanked everyone for stopping by, and when he finished, the crowd clapped with gusto—the alcohol certainly helped in this regard.