Mrs. Fletcher laughed. “Most women would be overpowered by the peacock design, but you have the height and authority to carry it off.”
She walked into the other room, where Oliver sat reading the newspaper as if they were an old married couple who did this kind of thing every other week.
He jumped out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box, the paper fluttering to the floor. “You look astonishing.”
“Doesn’t she?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “We have shoes and an evening bag as well.”
“We’ll take it all. Put it on my family’s account, please.”
After slipping out of the dress and handing it over to Mrs. Fletcher to wrap, Clara re-joined Oliver. For all she knew, Clara was one of a line of creative women whom Oliver took under his wing, bought trinkets and gowns for, and then dropped when his artistic ambitions didn’t come to fruition.
Clara’s mother would be horrified at the thought of her daughter being dressed and kissed by a man, even a wealthy man, when any intentions were strictly nonmarital. But the world had changed. Free love wasn’t necessarily as outrageous, at least among the bohemians, as it might have been ten years ago. Just as waistlines had disappeared from fashion, the restrictions of courting had loosened considerably.
At least in New York.
And among the more scandalous set.
Oliver broke into her thoughts. “I know this seems crazy, but I’d like you to meet my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. I’m expected for tea at my parents’ in a half hour. I know you’ll hit it off, and it would help. You’re a real working artist, and it would give her a lift that she sorely needs.”
“That seems rather fast.” All thoughts of having Oliver take her to his apartment and make love to her dissipated. With disappointment, she had to admit. In the end, she relented, after he described the fresh scones to be served. Her diet the past many months had been one of baked beans and cold meats. High tea at Oliver’s parents’, no matter how it went or why he was so insistent she go, would be an extra meal she didn’t have to pay for.
His motives for the visit worried her, though, as he ushered her inside the elevator of a handsome limestone apartment building. What if he was doing this to shock his parents—show them what a bad boy he was, hobnobbing with the arty set? Better to be aware of his immaturity sooner rather than later, she supposed. If so, she’d at least gotten a swanky dress out of the deal.
The operator pulled the lever to bring them up to the tenth floor and shared an easy repartee with Oliver, ribbing him about his muddy shoes and how much dirt he was tracking inside. Oliver didn’t take offense, joking back that he’d return with a broom and clean it right up, like he used to do as a little boy.
“I wanted to work as a doorman since I was about three, I’d say,” he told Clara, turning to the operator for confirmation. “I’d dress in my fanciest suit and join them in the lobby, holding the door open and greeting the residents.”
The very idea made her smile. They stepped off into a wide hallway with a marble floor, the door slamming hard behind them. “I’m surprised your parents allowed it.”
“My father didn’t know; he was off working. My mother, well, you’ll see.”
The minute Clara entered the apartment, a more feminine, older version of Oliver greeted them. “Oliver?” She looked over at Clara, confused.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Miss Clara Darden, who’s on the faculty of the Grand Central School of Art. Miss Darden is an esteemed illustrator.”
“An artist. Aren’t we lucky?” She was a ghost of a woman, thin and pale, a suggestion of sadness in her mouth and eyes, which were the same blue as her son’s. Her hand in Clara’s was cool, her fingers fragile and light.
Oliver placed a protective hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I told her you also paint.”
She shook her head. “Used to paint. In my youth. Not anymore. But my goodness, you teach art. Are there many women teachers?”
“Just me.”
A much older man with a rheumatic cough and milky eyes emerged from a doorway without bothering to acknowledge the stranger in the room. “Come, I’d like to drink my tea before the sun sets.” His voice rumbled like the subway. Underneath the pillowy folds of his face and neck, Clara recognized the slice of Oliver’s cheekbones. If there were two more mismatched spouses in the city, Clara would be surprised.
After introductions, the four settled at a dining room table with a sweeping view of Central Park. It was all Clara could do to keep her gaze on the table’s occupants and not get distracted by the lush carpet of new green leaves outside the window. April had been a dull, rainy month, and she hadn’t ventured uptown in a while. The bright pink shock of cherry blooms excited her. She wished she could just stand at the window and drink in the colors of spring.
Mrs. Smith beamed as a maid passed around the plate of warm scones. “How long have you been teaching at Grand Central?”
“Since January. I started as a student last fall.”
“A quick promotion.”
“I suppose.” The tinkling of silverware on china and the way the scone melted in her mouth brought memories rushing back. After all, she’d been raised in luxury and in many ways felt at home here more than in her stark artist’s garret. While the ostentatiousness of the Campbell Apartment had thrown her off-balance, the Smiths’ refinement closely mirrored her mother’s.
“I did love painting.” Mrs. Smith dabbed at a crumb that had fallen onto the tablecloth. “I never could get people right, faces seemed to elude me, but I loved painting landscapes. Turner’s my favorite, the way he paints the sea and the sky, simply breathtaking.”
“Cologne from the River,” suggested Clara.
Both women sighed at the same time, then laughed.
“Never mind that.” Mr. Smith’s gruff voice practically rattled the Tuscan china. “Where do you come from? Where’s your family?”
Oliver threw her an apologetic look. “Father, you don’t know anyone in common, so don’t start fishing to see if she’s a debutante.”
Clara wasn’t about to let Oliver speak for her. “My family is in copper; we’ve invested in several mines out west, including a lucrative arrangement with the Brawleys of Phoenix. Perhaps you’re acquainted with them?”
Mr. Smith sat back, suspicious. “I don’t know them personally, but of course I’ve heard of them.” He looked over at his wife. “Own the biggest mines in the country.”
Clara launched into a protracted explanation of the speculative copper industry out west and her father’s partnership with the Brawleys, watching with satisfaction as the man’s eyes widened with surprise. Her father had taught her well. Of course, she skipped the part about his attempt to swindle the Brawleys out of thousands of dollars. Hopefully, enough time had passed that the fraud was no longer remembered outside of Maricopa County.
Oliver, laughing, finally cut her off. “Enough about metals. Father seems to have met his match.” He turned to his parents. “Miss Darden and I have a ball to attend, and I was hoping she could get dressed here.”
“No, I couldn’t intrude.”
“Please, we insist.” Mrs. Smith practically levitated from the table with excitement. “My Rose can set hair like no one else in this town, and you can borrow whatever you need, lipstick, rouge. I have it all.”
“That would be lovely.”
By the time the maid was finished with her, Clara could hardly contain her surprise. She thanked the woman profusely and entered the parlor where Oliver waited.
“You look exquisite.” Oliver stuttered over the last word.
Her hair, set in regular waves along her skull instead of flying about, was like a sleek helmet. The beads of the dress gave it a weight that offset the silky lightness of the fabric, and she’d borrowed a pair of pearl-colored gloves to go with her shoes. For once, her height worked in her favor, just as Mrs. Fletcher in the shop had predicted. She was a smooth, aquamarine column of elegance.