The Shadow Portrait (23 page)

“There’s really no reason why we should. But if we do, we do.” Rising to her feet, she said, “You’ll help me, won’t you, Mary Ann?”

“Of course I will.”

As soon as Cara was out the door, Mary Ann began to walk rapidly back and forth. Her mind hummed with ideas, but she began to devise a plan of her own. Quickly she went over to her writing desk and scratched out a quick note. It simply said, “George, this is a secret, but tell Phil that Cara will be
at his show tomorrow. Tell him to look for her and to be very nice. She needs some encouragement.” She hesitated for a moment, then wrote with a slight blush, “Love, Mary Ann.”

Putting the letter in an envelope, she took it downstairs and found James, the coachman. “James,” she said, “I have a very special errand for you, and I want you to take this note to Reverend George Camrose over at his church. Be sure you don’t give it to anyone else. Find him and put it right in his hand.” She had slipped two dollars around the envelope and smiled winsomely. “This is for you if you do it—and be sure you don’t tell anybody.”

James had an adventurous spirit, despite his forty years and thickening body. Eyes twinkling, he winked and grinned. “You can count on me, Miss Mary Ann. Nothing I like better than taking love letters between sweethearts.”

Mary Ann smiled back, and as James quickly left, she spoke to the empty room, jaw firm. “Now, Father dear, let’s see you stop this meeting from taking place.”

Phil looked across the table at Jolie and nodded approvingly. His artist’s eye took in the gently tailored soft brown woolen jacket and matching skirt that set off her lovely form. The snowy white lace-trimmed blouse gave her a bright, fresh look. The late-winter sun streaming through the cafe window brought out the highlights of her dark hair and finished the picture perfectly.

“I like that outfit,” Phil said. “You make a lovely picture in it.”

Jolie flushed. “Thank you, Phil,” she said.

As he often did now, Phil had come by to see what progress was being made on the car. Jolie had quickly accepted his invitation to lunch. Now she was eating her chocolate ice cream with great relish and did, indeed, look very well, except for a worried expression about her eyes.

“Something troubling you, Jolie? You seem a little bit . . . well . . . not depressed, but worried. Are you worried a little?”

“I am a little . . . about—” She broke off abruptly and put her spoon down. She shifted in her chair a moment, then said, “Well, it’s really about Peter. I’m concerned about him. He spends almost every night with Avis Warwick.”

“That’s what Easy told me. He doesn’t care for her, and I see you don’t either.”

“Nothing personal, but she could cause Peter a great deal of trouble.”

Phil leaned back and studied the young woman carefully. He knew he had to be very cautious with what he said, for Jolie obviously was in love with Peter Winslow, even though she had never said so. Finally he said, “Peter’s a levelheaded fellow. He’ll be all right.”

“No man’s levelheaded where women are concerned. He’s just as capable of making a fool out of himself as any man.”

Phil laughed. “You don’t think much of us, do you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Phil. I didn’t mean to be so snappy.” Slowly Jolie picked up her spoon and took another bite of the ice cream, rolling it over her tongue as she thought about happier days in the past. Things had changed, and not for the better. Before, she had done her work and then rushed home to work on the car with Peter and Easy. They would go out to eat, or eat at the rooming house, after which they would take walks or just relax and talk together. Mostly the talk had been of cars and racing, but Jolie had not cared; it was the feeling of camaraderie she treasured. Now it seemed to be slipping away from her.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to talk to him. As a matter of fact, I tried a little bit. But he seemed to have wax in his ears or something.” Phil made a grimace and shook his head. “I believe you’re right. When a good-looking woman throws herself our way, most of us men are apt to be a little bit dazzled.”

He looked at his watch and then exclaimed, “I’ve got to go!
This is the day for my great show—you know, the one when I’m going to sell all those paintings and get rich and famous.” He grinned wryly as he stood up. “You care to come along?”

“I’ll come by later, Phil. Easy wanted to come, too, so we’ll see you at the gallery.”

“All right. Wish me luck.”

“I’ll always do that, Phil.”

Phil smiled, reached out, and squeezed the girl’s shoulder. He had a fondness for her, and her unhappiness troubled him. Now he hurried out the door and made his way quickly to the gallery. As he rushed in, he found Maxim pacing back and forth with excitement.

“Where have you been?” Maxim demanded. “We’ve had people coming in for an hour.”

“Sell anything yet?”

“Not yet, but lots of lookers.” Maxim tried to hide a grin. “I think some of them have come to see what Ashcan painters look like. Come on. I’ll introduce you to them.”

The time went quickly, and Phil found himself besieged with questions. “How did you learn to paint?” “Why do you paint such dreadful scenes, like the slums?” “Have you ever sold any paintings?” “What’s the least you would take for this painting?”

He fielded all the questions but sold no paintings. Maxim kept coffee and hot tea on, for the weather outside was brisk. After about twenty cups of coffee, Phil began to feel as though he was sloshing when he walked. He had started to remark on this when he turned and saw the trio coming through the door—Cara Lanier with Mary Ann and George Camrose.

George’s eyes lit up as he spotted Phil. “Well, we’re here to salute the conquering hero.” After shaking hands with Phil, he winked at the two women. “Would you like to have his autograph?”

“I’d like to see all of your paintings,” Mary Ann said. “I demand a lot of attention.”

Cara said nothing. She felt intimidated and oddly out of
place. She rarely escaped the confines of her room, and now the large number of paintings on the walls and their kaleidoscope of color dazzled her. Maxim had literally covered the walls with pictures, besides stacking others on racks around the shop.

Seeing Phil’s friends gathered around him, Maxim came over and let Phil introduce him.

“Let me show you around, Reverend, Miss Lanier.”

“All right,” George said. “Come on, Mary Ann. Maybe we can buy each other a present.”

As soon as they were gone, Phil turned to Cara and said quietly, “It’s so good to see you here, Cara.”

“I . . . I read about the show in the paper, and I wanted so much to come.”

“Does your father know you’re here?”

“N-no, not exactly. Actually, he’s been insisting that I go have my picture made at the photographic studio. It was just down the street and—” She halted suddenly and said with a disgusted look in her eye, “I don’t know why I’m lying to you, Phil. Mary Ann and I decided to break away. Well,
I
decided, and she’s helping me. If Father finds out, he’ll probably throw me out of the house.”

Phil laughed with delight. “I don’t think so. He’s very fond of you, Cara.”

“Yes, he is.” Cara felt uncomfortable with this, for she knew Phil had only seen the hard side of her father. But it was not possible to explain the other side to anyone. She said, “Show me your paintings, Phil.”

“All right.”

The next two hours were, perhaps, the most delightful in Cara’s life, at least in recent memory. Phil was a good host. He took her around, showing her not only his own pictures but those of the other artists. He talked about them with warmth, with intelligence, being highly critical and at the same time pointing out the good things about them.

As for Cara, she was dazed by the vivid colors, the
exuberance, the vitality of all the different paintings. They portrayed a side of New York City she had never seen, streets where the poor and downtrodden gathered—and showed them, not always miserable, but sometimes dancing. One painting portrayed the celebration of an election victory, with people dancing in the streets. Another, by Luks, simply showed a young, ragged boy with a broad, hilarious grin and the love of life twinkling in his eyes.

“Now, I like this young man,” she said. “I’m sure Mr. Luks must have seen him somewhere. Nobody could dream up a face like that.”

“He looks happy in spite of those ragged clothes and his dirty face. I guess it’s well to remember that the rich aren’t always happy and the poor aren’t always miserable.” Phil grew serious then and drew close to Cara. She could feel the pressure of his arm against her as he pointed out how excellent the painting was. Finally they got to a picture of a young couple walking down Broadway. They were obviously poor, and also obviously in love with each other. The young woman was wearing a very modest, worn dress, and the young man had a derby tilted over his eye. It was a fine summer afternoon, and they were out enjoying the weather and a leisurely stroll together.

“You can see how much she loves him. How do you ever put that on a piece of canvas?”

“I guess you have to need somebody,” Phil said slowly.

“
Need
somebody?” Cara was amazed. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t explain it, Cara.” Phil turned to look at her. She was pale from her long confinement. Still, there was a half-hidden vibrancy in this woman that he had learned to admire. As he watched her now, he thought,
If she could only get away and have some freedom, she could be a woman any man would be proud of.
He struggled to find the words he needed, and finally only said, “I can’t explain it. It’s just that when I try to paint, I usually need to do something. I need to
say something.” He looked at her and asked abruptly, “Have you ever wanted a man, Cara?”

Cara’s face suddenly grew pink, and her eyes flew open with astonishment. “Why . . . why, what a thing to ask!”

“Well, have you?” Phil persisted. “I’m not being nosy. It’s just obvious that the young woman in the painting needs that young man. There’s something in her eyes, in her body language, that says it, and I think artists have to have something inside that’s reaching out, needing to be expressed. Sort of swelling up, and then, somehow, through a God-given ability, they can put it on canvas.”

Cara was silent. She did not know what to say to such frankness.
Have I ever wanted a man?
she asked herself, and then as she looked up, almost timidly, she whispered, “I could never paint like that.”

“You don’t need to paint like
that,
” Phil said. “That’s the way this particular painter puts paint on canvas. It’s his vision. But you’ve got something in you, Cara Lanier. I knew it the first time I met you. You’ve got more talent in you than any five painters need, but you’ve kept your heart bottled up and refuse to let the things out.” Phil suddenly reached out and took her hands, ignoring the onlookers who were moving about. “There’s something in you, Cara,” he said quietly, “and someday you’re going to let it out.”

Intensely aware of his hands holding hers and of his eyes seeming to pierce her spirit, Cara could say nothing. Somehow she recognized the truth but could not respond to the things this tall, strong man was saying. She stood there for one moment, then pulled her hands back and turned away, leaving Phil shaking his head and wondering if anyone or anything could bring out the woman Cara Lanier had never let the world see.

Peter and Avis Warwick came to the exhibition that
afternoon. Peter informed Phil they were on their way to a race. “Come on and go with us,” he said.

“I wish I could, but who knows? Somebody might stop by and buy a picture.”

Avis had been looking around at the paintings by herself. She walked back over to where Phil and Peter were talking about the race and said, “I’ll buy this one, Phil.” She pointed to a small oil nearby.

Phil was surprised. “Aren’t you going to ask how much it is?”

“All right. How much is it?”

Phil suddenly grinned. “How much have you got, Avis?”

Avis winked at him. “Come on, now. Name your price, then I’ll bargain with you.”

Peter went over to the picture and examined it. It was a crowded picture of New York stevedores, strong men straining to move heavy barrels and bales to and from oceangoing ships. There was an obvious poverty about them, yet they exuded life and excitement. “Why would you want this? Just go down to the docks,” he grinned, winking at Phil.