There, above the desk, equally spaced apart and centered on the wall with great care, were her illustrations.
By the time she found Mr. Lorette, Clara’s limbs shook with rage. He was in an animated conversation with Mr. Zakarian while Mrs. Lorette looked on. Clara had met her in passing at one of the faculty get-togethers, awed by the puffy, out-of-date pompadour that perched on the woman’s head like a long-haired cat.
She inserted herself into the group. “Mr. Lorette, my illustrations have been hung in a back office. A back office!”
While Mr. Lorette sputtered at her rudeness, she continued on. “I am a faculty member of the School of Art, and yet my work has been placed in a cave where no one would think to go.”
“I am sorry, Miss Darden. We were in a tight spot, you see.” He paused. “Quite literally.”
As Mr. Lorette laughed at his own joke, Clara noticed the editor of Vogue headed for the exit. For certain, he’d never even seen her work.
Mr. Zakarian spoke up. “Where was her art hung?”
“Just off a main gallery,” said Mr. Lorette. “They are illustrations. We concluded they were more suited to an intimate environment.”
“Perhaps you could guarantee her a spot here in the first room next year, to make it up to her?” Mr. Zakarian held out his hand to Clara. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mr. Levon Zakarian, one of your fellow teachers.”
She shook it without looking at him, her glare fixed on Mr. Lorette. “Next year it’ll be too late. It’s already too late.”
Unlike students such as Nadine, for whom the Grand Central School of Art was just a pit stop on the way to marital bliss, Clara had sunk every ounce of energy into her career as an artist. Against her parents’ wishes, she’d arrived in New York, knowing no one, and done everything she could to make it as an illustrator. What made it worse was knowing she’d been given a shot that other artists would have been envious of—to teach at the Grand Central School of Art, to show her work at the galleries—only to see it vaporize.
Mr. Lorette shrugged. “I can’t seem to please anyone tonight. We will make it up to you; my deepest apologies, Miss Darden.” He turned to Mr. Zakarian. “Have you seen Edmund’s latest work? Come with me. I assure you it’ll give you something to think about.”
“I believe Miss Darden may give you something to think about, if you try to shake her off.” Mr. Zakarian wore a crooked smile. “I have an idea. Let’s take down one of mine, and we’ll replace it with her work. Get it right out there in the center.”
She didn’t need one of the faculty stars to swoop down and protect her. The very thought made her sick with embarrassment.
Unwilling to give Mr. Lorette any further satisfaction at her distress, Clara stormed out without uttering a reply.
CHAPTER TWO
New York City, November 1974
When Virginia signed with the Trimble Temp Agency, desperate to fill her empty days as well as her dwindling bank account, she’d expected to be sent to one of the fancy skyscrapers where lawyers conferred in hushed tones with their elegant, efficient secretaries. Not the dumpy train station that squatted like a toad beneath the New York skyline.
But she’d shown up at Grand Central at 9:20 the following morning and, as directed by the agency, taken the elevator near track 23 up to the seventh floor. A wooden door marked PENN CENTRAL IN-HOUSE LEGAL DEPT opened to a reception area where a pretty blonde with Joni Mitchell hair sat.
“I’m here from the Trimble Temp Agency.”
The receptionist motioned to the chairs along one wall. “Please take a seat. You can hang your coat in the closet.”
Not very fancy, this law office, with its oatmeal-colored carpeting and matching walls. But still as good a place as any to start a career. She liked to think she was changing with the times. The 1950s, when she got married and had her daughter, Ruby, were all about family. But the seventies, as Ruby liked to inform her, were about finding yourself. Of course, Ruby was more than busy finding herself these days, having withdrawn from Sarah Lawrence less than a month into her freshman year, telling Virginia she needed a breather. For now, Virginia had to admit she liked having her back in their apartment. Someone to take care of again. Fuss over.
She’d do the same with her new lawyer boss. Over time, she’d joke with his wife that they knew him better than he did himself, share a chuckle over the phone about how he’d forget his daughter’s birthday if they weren’t there to remind him. Just as she’d done with Chester’s legal secretary once upon a time. The tables had turned: She was now the secretary, no longer the wife, but what was life without a little shake-up? She sat up straighter and tried to believe it.
A woman around her own age, with tight curls and a rough voice, walked into the foyer. “Ms. Clay?”
“Yes.” She hated her married name but couldn’t imagine changing it back. After all, it’d been her identity for almost two decades. Still. Virginia Clay. Sounded like something you dug up in a quarry.
“Right. Follow me.”
The woman explained she was the head of human resources at Penn Central, the company that owned Grand Central Terminal, and that Virginia would be working for one of the lawyers whose secretary had left to have a baby. If all went well, Virginia had a chance of being hired full-time, once her contract with the temp agency was up.
“Have you worked for attorneys before?” asked the woman.
Virginia had already forgotten the woman’s name. She really needed to pay more attention, now that she was a part of the business world. “Yes, for a firm in Midtown.”
She’d said the same lie to the man who ran the temp agency, but she figured being married to a corporate lawyer for the past nineteen years was pretty much the same thing. He’d spent most weekends and evenings on the phone with clients and associates, and some of what she’d overheard must have seeped into her brain.
The woman led her to a desk with a typewriter and a fancy phone, with one of the plastic buttons lit up in red. “Mr. Huckle’s on the phone, so I won’t interrupt him to introduce you. He’ll be out when he needs something.”
Virginia tucked her purse into one of the lower drawers and explored the others, which contained pencils, pens, Wite-Out, and carbon paper, all the usual accoutrements of the modern secretary. Behind her was a big metal filing cabinet. As she rose to see what was inside, a man barreled out of one of the offices. He had movie-star eyes, a brilliant blue, and a thick head of hair. Not what she’d expected, and she tried not to gawk.
“You the new girl?” He eyed her, from her scuffed gray pumps to the top of her head. She tried not to squirm under his gaze. Earlier this year, she’d had her brown hair cut in what she hoped was a trendy shag, but without regular trims, it had curled into a bird’s nest.
Mr. Huckle’s gaze traveled back to her midsection and lingered there. Even if her nose was slightly too wide and her eyes deep-set, she’d always had a remarkable figure. Her waist stayed thin even after having Ruby, her chest double D’s. Single D, now, she’d remarked to Chester after the operation. He hadn’t laughed.
“How old are you?”
The question was unexpected. “I’m thirty-five.” Shaving off five years didn’t seem too egregious.
“Fine.” He took one last survey of her hips and motioned for her to follow him. “Come into my office. Bring your steno pad.”
The nameplate on the office door read DENNIS HUCKLE. She grabbed the steno pad from her desk and followed him in, her stomach queasy. Mr. Huckle began rattling off dictation, but she had to stop him almost immediately.
“In Ray?”
He looked at her as if she were mad. “What? Yes.”
“Is there a last name?”
He didn’t dress like the other attorneys she’d met before, at business dinners and off-site conferences. The top button of his shirt was undone, his striped tie loosened, exposing the strong tendons of his neck. But in-house lawyers probably didn’t need to impress the same way ones at white-shoe firms did. The client was already guaranteed. “This is a memo to files. There’s no last name.”