Dawn of a New Day (19 page)

The hum of talking filled the large room, and the light filtered down through the north glass. The smells were as familiar to Prue as anything by now, so that this studio had become her medium. She lived here, or at her apartment, with a few brief excursions outside. Now she shook her head, saying wearily, “You may be right. I'm awfully tired.”

Abruptly Maxwell said, “Let me get cleaned up. We'll go out and uncoil a little bit.”

“Oh, I'd rather not. I just want to go home.”

“Well, I won't let you. Wait until I get ready.”

An hour later they were sitting in a Chinese restaurant named The Bamboo Palace. Kent had ordered for them both, for he discovered that she had rarely eaten in a Chinese restaurant. Soon their plates were filled with succulent vegetables, sweet and sour pork, moo goo gai pan, delicious crab cakes, and spicy fried rice, and he was instructing her, “Put just a little of this mustard on there. Not too much.”

Prue took the spoon and put a generous dollop of mustard on her fried rice, then took a bite of it. For a moment, it seemed that the top of her head was being blasted off, and she could only stare open-eyed, unable to get her breath.

Kent grinned. “I told you to use a little. It's pretty potent stuff.”

Prue grabbed the glass of water before her, drank half of it down, then gasped. “That stuff's the hottest thing I've ever tasted.”

She continued eating cautiously, avoiding the hot mustard, and the soft Chinese music seemed exotic and strange to her ears. “All those songs they sing,” she said once, “sound just alike.”

“I imagine those we sing sound alike to them. You know we Caucasians think all Orientals look alike, but I don't imagine they do to each other.” He was watching her carefully now, his eyes half hooded, noting the fatigue in her features. He continued to talk gently, hoping that she would relax. “I have a Chinese friend who told me once, when we have a baby we know what we're going to get. Dark hair, and dark eyes, and yellow skin. When you Americans have them, you don't know what you'll get. Blond hair, brown hair, red hair—blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes.” He grinned and said, “There may be something in that.”

As the music jangled on with its eerie rhythm, so different from that of the Western world, Kent began to speak of art. “You remember the poem of Browning, Prue? The one about the faultless painter?”

“‘Andrea del Sarto'?” Prue nodded. “Yes. I got a copy of Browning. I've read that poem over and over. Some of his poems I don't understand, but that one is a good one.”

“Have you read ‘Fra Lippo Lippi'?”

“No. I haven't gotten to that one yet.”

“You'll like it,” Kent nodded. “I don't have it with me, but I've almost got it memorized. It's another poem about a painter. Browning was a lover of art and culture, and he knew more about the nature of art and the philosophy of art than most of the modern critics, all of them, I might say.”

“‘Fra Lippo Lippi.' What kind of a name is that?”

“Italian,” Kent said. He took a bite of sesame chicken, dipped it in sweet and sour sauce, and put it into his mouth. “This is good,” he said. “I wish I could have it every day.” Then he shrugged, saying, “The poem is about a young Italian boy, a beggar, who is taken off the street. He's an orphan and has to make his own way and almost dies of starvation. The monks want to take him in and make a monk of him. There's one portion where he speaks of the kind of eye that I think that an artist has to have—quick, and sharp, and looking in the very heart of things. In any case, they took the boy in and found out that he could paint.” He laughed then and looked pleased.

“What's funny about that?” Prue asked.

“Well, back in those days, in the Renaissance, painting was all very ethereal. You've seen pictures of where the Virgin, and Joseph, and the baby look like plaster saints? No reality at all.”

“Yes, I always thought that was odd.”

“It was the way they did it back then. Lippi didn't want to do that. When he first painted, and the priests came to look at it, and the prior, they were shocked. How does it go? Let's see:

Prue laughed. “That must have been quite a shock for those monks to see real arms, and legs, and flesh and blood bodies.”

“It was, but the lines that I want you to underline I think you'll like.” He quoted the line softly:

He looked embarrassed then and said, “You think me an irreligious dog, no doubt, but that's what I believe. God made this world in all its beauty, and as artists somehow we've got to show it.”

“I didn't know you felt like that, Kent.”

“It's hard for me to put into words. You remember the Ash Can School of Art.”

“Yes. I thought it was ugly and hideous.”

“They like to paint garbage cans and the garbage that was in them and the ugly things of the world. Well, those things are here, but that's not all that's here.” He leaned forward and said, “God has put in you the gift to show the beauty that he made. You show it in your paintings of the Ozark people—where they live, where they work—and somehow when I look at your paintings I see into the hearts of those people. I see their goodness, their struggles, their flaws as well—but I've learned to love them through your work.”

Prue flushed. It was the most extreme compliment that Kent Maxwell had ever paid her. It was also what she longed so desperately to put into her paintings. She wanted to show the world the beauty and the dignity of the people of the Ozarks. Now she could barely speak she was so full of pleasure at his words. “Every time I see a painting of a place that I've seen, even though I've seen that place a million times, the painting holds me. It sort of brings it back to me,” she said quietly.

“That's what art does. It reminds us of good things and teaches us things. I would guess that as you painted these people you learned about them.”

Prue glanced up startled, for this was a secret, or she had thought so. “That's right, Kent. Somehow when I try to get them on canvas, I seem to see deeper into their hearts.”

They talked for hours, and finally they left the restaurant. He took her to her door and said, “It's been a wonderful evening.”

“Thank you so much. I feel better now.”

“We're not through yet. We've got to talk some more.”

“Would you—would you like to come in?”

“Yes.”

Prue opened the door, and the two went in. After they hung up their coats, she put the coffeepot on and came to sit by him. As soon as she sat down, he said, “Prue, I want you to have a show.”

His words seemed to paralyze her. “Oh no! Not yet! I'm not ready! I'm not good enough!”

“That's for me to decide. You're not as good as you will be,” he said earnestly, reaching for her hand. “But you're good enough. I'm setting it up for two weeks from today. Don't be afraid,” he said quickly, seeing the panic in her eyes. “You're better than you know, and it's time for you to share what God has given you with the world.”

It took nearly an hour before he could convince Prue that this was the right thing. At last she took a deep breath and said tremulously, “If that's what you want, and if you think I'm ready—”

He nodded confidently. “It's your time.” He talked for some time about the details, then suddenly fell silent. He remained so for so long that she said, “What's wrong, Kent?”

“I'd like to tell you a little more about myself.”

“Why, if you want to.”

Prue sat listening quietly as Maxwell spoke, slowly at first, and always with pain. He spoke of his marriage, and in his tones there were echoes of grief.

“Remember my telling you about my wife? Well, when I went off to Korea I hadn't been there for more than six months before I got a letter. She had fallen in love with another man. She wanted a divorce.”

“Oh, Kent—” Prue reached over, took his hand, and held it between both of hers. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

He looked down at her hands and then lifted his eyes. “That was it. I never saw her again; then I got this leg blown out from under me and became a cripple. When I came home I didn't have faith or love for anybody.” He continued to speak of how he had thrown himself into his career, and finally he said, “Prue, I was an angry, bitter man when you first met me.”

“Not that bad, Kent.”

“Bad enough.” He took a deep breath and turned to her. “Prue, something has happened to me, and you're at the heart of it. I don't hate my ex-wife anymore. I don't know what you had to do with it, but something about being around you and seeing your sweetness and your goodness. It restored my faith. I've even started believing in God again.”

“I'm so glad, Kent. You've done so much for me, but I've really done nothing for you.”

Suddenly he reached forward and pulled her toward him. His move was so swift that she could not, at first, understand, and then his lips fell on hers, and he pulled her closer. His arms were strong, and she lay in them, and for a moment she was completely shocked and confused. Finally he drew back and said clearly, “I love you, Prue, and I want to marry you.”

The silence of the room seemed deafening to Prue as she sat there, his arms still half around her. She remembered how closed off he had been for months, but now there was a pleading in his eyes and she could not think of what to say. Finally she sat back and said gently, “I never thought of such a thing, Kent!”

“Didn't you? But I'm not a man who shows his feelings much. I wish I could do it more. I'd hope you would see that side of me. If you marry me, I know you will.”

She hated to hurt this man, for he had been so kind to her, but she knew what she had to say. “I can't give you an answer.”

“I didn't expect you would. Things never come easy for me, Prudence, but I love you, and I hope you'll come to love me. This has been sudden for you.” He stood and picked up his cane; she stood too, and they were silent for a moment. Each of them knew that they could never go back to what they were before; they had crossed some sort of an invisible line and nothing could be the same again.

“Good night,” Kent Maxwell said abruptly.

“Good night, Kent.” She walked with him to the door, and when he left, she closed it and leaned against it. She felt confused, and somehow afraid, and could not think clearly. His proposal had taken her completely off guard, and now she stood there leaning against the door, wondering how she could face him, and what would come of this strange evening.

A
s Prue entered the Morgan Museum, a sense of inadequacy washed over her. Her one-woman show had been well advertised, and it had given her an almost eerie feeling when she had seen the announcement in the paper with her picture staring out at her. As she walked up the white marble steps with Kent Maxwell by her side, she felt a weakness in her legs and could not say a word.

Maxwell turned to look at her and saw the paleness of her cheeks. Taking his left hand, he held her arm and smiled reassuringly. “It's going to be great, Prue,” he smiled. “You're going to be a famous artist before this day is over.”

“Oh, Kent, I'd like to turn, and run away, and hide!”

Pausing, he held her and they stood in the middle of the steps. The Morgan Museum towered over them, its modernistic curves and angles scoring the blueness of the sky as it was outlined. Several people passed them by, stopped to look at the two, noting the tall young woman and the man who held on to her arm while balancing on a cane with his right hand. “You've got to learn to put your head down and go right at it. Smile! Show the people that you're the artist! You created all these works! They're the ones who ought to be humble, not you!”

Prue tried to smile, but it was not a good effort. “I just don't
feel
very victorious,” she said. “I wish I had your confidence. You always seem to know what to do.”

“You're wrong about that. I don't always know what to do,” Kent said, “but I don't let anybody know about it. The worse I feel and the more inadequate I feel, the more I smile and the louder I talk.” He hesitated, then said in a more gentle tone, “It will be all right, Prue, after the first fifteen minutes. Come along.”

“But what do I
do
, Kent? Just stand around?”

“Don't worry about that. You won't have time to think much. Everyone will want to meet you, and we're going to have some pretty big guns here.”

“Well, that doesn't encourage me any!” Prue said.

They reached the top of the stairs and entered through the revolving doors that hissed as they made their majestic sweeps. They were the biggest revolving doors Prue had ever seen. Ordinarily there was room for only one or two people, but these were so enormous she could walk through without being afraid that the door behind her was going to clip her heels. When they emerged, it was like stepping into the future.

“This is where the shows take place. Pretty fancy, isn't it?” Kent said as he led her across the black marble floor.

Prue saw that the room was already occupied by people going around to various stations where her works were exhibited. Some paintings were on the wall, and some were on modernistic sculptured bases created out of alternating black and white marble. The light flooded in from overhead through enormous skylights, and each painting had its own lighting system. The walls were pure alabaster white, and the ceiling rose majestically and had a cathedral feel to it.

Stopping before Prue's painting of Pearl and her daughter, Melody, Kent motioned to it with his free hand. “It looks different here, doesn't it? How do you like it?”

“I don't know. It doesn't look like the same painting.” She studied the painting, which was framed simply enough, but somehow being set off on the expanse of the white wall in its dark frame, and with the lights cast on it from every possible direction including the sunlight from overhead, the painting seemed to glow with a light that it had not had in the studio. “It's like I'm seeing it for the first time,” she whispered.

“That's the way it is with a good exhibit. Look. You can see the lines of fatigue on Pearl's face the way you never could in any other setting. And the girl. Look at her. You can see the yearning in her eyes for things in life that she never had, and probably never will have. It's a great painting.”

He grinned at her and said, “I wish I could afford to buy it myself.”

“How much is it?” Prue asked.

“Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Prue gasped. “Why, you must be crazy! Nobody would pay that for that painting!”

“It'll be worth ten times that someday. Some of these people,” Kent said, “don't know much about art, but they're investors, speculators. They find young artists who are on their way up, buy their paintings while they're cheap, and then make a killing when the artist gets a big name.”

“Cheap? I wouldn't call ten thousand dollars cheap!”

“You've got to get used to the big time.” Kent studied her carefully, then said, “I don't know if anybody will buy it or not. These one-man, or one-woman, shows are strange. Sometimes they don't go over at all, and you have to be ready for that, Prue.”

“Why, I am ready for that,” Prue said. “I just hate to think of all the time and money you invested in me, for this show must have cost a fortune.”

“One painting will pay for all of that,” Kent said. “Sometimes the things get hot.”

“What do you mean ‘hot'?”

“I mean the paintings start going, and sort of a panic sets in. People are afraid they won't be able to have anything, and they snap up all the rest of the paintings. That's what I'm hoping for here.”

He broke off abruptly and said, “Look. There's Art Kensey over there.”

“Who's Art Kensey?”

Maxwell laughed and shook his head in despair. “You really aren't with it, are you, Prue? Art Kensey is the most influential art critic in Chicago. He'll be coming over to meet you pretty soon. Remember now, be cool.”

But Prue was anything but cool. Her face felt hot, and as she stood next to Kent she had not the faintest desire to speak to Art Kensey or anybody else.

“Here he comes. Don't pay any attention to his ways.”

Kensey was a tall, muscular man who looked more like an athlete than an art critic. He had a shock of salt and pepper hair and appeared to be about fifty. His eyes were alert, and he put out a huge hand, saying, “You must be Prue Deforge. I'm Art Kensey.”

“I'm happy to know you, Mr. Kensey.”

“How are you, Kent?”

Kent took the man's huge hand and smiled. “I'm doing fine, Art. I'm glad to see you here.”

“So this is your protégé?” Kensey grinned at Prue. “He took me out and bought me a steak the other night. First time he's ever offered to buy me anything. I take it it was in the nature of a bribe.”

“You know better than that, Art,” Kent protested.

“You never bought me a steak when I was reviewing your shows. But it was a good steak.” He studied the young woman, who was not at all what he expected. He had heard she was from the Ozarks, and he had seen enough of her work to know that her specialty was the mountain country—its people, its scenery—and he had expected someone like a young Grandma Moses, a country girl. What he saw was something quite different, and as Kent watched him, he was glad that he had taken Prue in hand, as far as her dress and appearance were concerned. He had gone with her on a shopping trip and then visited a beauty salon, where he had given specific instructions to the hairdresser.

What Art Kensey saw was a young woman, at least six feet tall, who was wearing a royal blue crepe dress that had cut-away shoulders, a high neckline with pearls decorating the band encircling her neck, a snug-fitting bodice, and a skirt that flared out delicately to where it ended at midthigh. The dress set her figure off admirably, and as Kensey studied the sculptured contours of her face, the high cheekbones, the beautifully coiffured hair, and the enormous, dark eyes, he said, “You don't look like most of the other artists that I see around. More like a high-fashion model.”

“I don't know whether to thank you or not for that.” Prue smiled. She liked the man and was surprised. He seemed not at all distant but warm and friendly. “Most of the models I see look like they're refugees and haven't eaten in a month.”

“You don't have to worry about looking like them,” Art said. “Now, tell me about yourself.”

Kensey found that Prue apparently had no ego, which came as something of a shock to him. He was accustomed to being bombarded by artists eager to convince him of the value of their work, but Prudence Deforge was a modest young woman who spoke softly and seemed to have no idea of her own importance.

Others began to come around to meet Prudence, and Kensey stepped aside to let them have their chance. He stopped long enough to say to Maxwell, “I think you've got a winner there, Kent. You'd better hang on to her.”

“I'm doing my best.” Kent smiled enigmatically. “I can't wait for the reviews. You've already looked around. What are you going to say about Prue's work?”

“You know better than to ask me that! I never reveal what I'm going to say.”

“Come on. Just between us.”

Kensey raised his eyebrows. “You're really interested in this girl, aren't you, Kent?”

“Never mind that. What about her work?”

“It's good. She's young, and there are some technical flaws that I'll have to mention.” His eyes sharpened, and he looked over at the young woman, who seemed to be doing very well in meeting people. “She's almost too good to be true, isn't she? I guess they don't grow them like that here in Chicago, or New York, or Paris.” He turned and said, “You know her strengths, and you know her weaknesses. Five years from now she'll be a lot better, but she's got it, Kent, and that's what I intend to say.”

A sense of relief rose in Kent Maxwell, and he said, “Thanks, Art. Thank you for coming.”

Christie Castellano entered the display room hauling her husband, Mario, as if she were tugging at him, saying, “Hurry up, Mario.”

“What's the hurry, Christie?”

“I don't want all the paintings to be sold.”

“I don't think they'll sell that quickly.” He opened the buff-colored brochure that listed the paintings and their prices and shook his head and whistled. “She's not giving them away, that's for sure! Look at these prices!” Castellano had been one of the most successful lawyers in Chicago. He was, however, far prouder of his wife, Christie, and his two children, Maria and Anthony, than he was of his fame as a crack tax lawyer. His sharp black eyes studied the paintings as they moved along toward where Prue was standing with a tall, lean man, and he said, “They're good, aren't they? I hope she makes a bundle.”

Mario stopped in front of Prue, and when she turned they saw that she was flushed with excitement.

“I'm so glad you've come, Aunt Christie and Uncle Mario.”

“Why, we wouldn't miss your show for anything in the world,” Christie said. Her eyes turned to the man standing beside Prue. He had a vaguely familiar appearance, and Prue said, “I want to introduce you to Mr. Vincent Price. Mr. Price, this is my great-aunt Christie and her husband, Mario Castellano.”

“Vincent Price?” Mario gasped and moved to face the tall man with the bony face, the sleepy eyes, and the wide mouth. “Why, I think I've seen every movie you ever made!”

A laugh began deep in the actor's chest, and he put out his hand, smiling. “I bet you say that to all the actors you meet.” He was a suave, cosmopolitan man, and as Prue had found out, an expert in art. She had gasped too when he had walked up and introduced himself, and she said almost the same thing as her uncle.

Mario shook his head. “No. I love old movies. Don't care much about the new ones.”

“I was just telling Mr. Price my favorite film of his was
Laura
.”

“That's mine too,” Christie said quickly, as the actor bowed slightly and smiled. “I know you must be very proud of giving so many people pleasure.”

Before Vincent Price could answer, Mario said aggressively, “Well, that wasn't my favorite picture. I like those horror films you made. With all the dark, dank castles, and secret passageways, and lots of blood and violence. And the vampire ones were the best of all.”

Price found this amusing, and he stood there speaking to the three in a very warm, natural manner. Then he turned and said, “Miss Deforge, you're standing on the brink of a wonderful career. I bought two of your paintings. Number 7 and number 22, and I shall get a great deal of pleasure out of them, I assure you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Price. That makes me feel very good, indeed.”

The actor nodded to the three of them, then turned and began to go around the display again.

“Oh, it's been so exciting,” Prue said. “Paul Newman was here, and Richard Daley, the mayor. I didn't care for him much, but Mr. Newman was very nice.”

“Have you sold any paintings except for those that Price bought?” Castellano asked.

“I don't know. Kent takes care of all of that, but it's been so wonderful. I was scared to death when I came in, but it's going very well.”