Page 18 of Drawing Home
The hostess was a friend of Lois Dodd, one of the founders of the Tanager Gallery on East Tenth Street. Bea wanted an in with Tanager because it was one of the few spaces that seemed open to work beyond abstract expressionism, a movement that was already heavily represented. In order to break out, Bea needed to discover the next big thing.
She worked the party methodically, all business. But that changed the minute she spotted a tall, lanky, dark-haired young man at the center of a conversation near the makeshift bar. His hair was long enough that it would have drawn disapproving stares on the streets of Newport; his clothes were bohemian bordering on homelessness. But with his strong jaw and enviably symmetrical features, he seemed aristocratic. Bea moved closer, and her heart fluttered when she noticed his large hands were those of an artist, with tapered fingers and paint under his nails.
At one point, the handsome stranger fixed his blue eyes on her, and Bea forgot everyone else in the room. She hovered around the edges of that group until she was able to talk to him one-on-one. Later, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, she’d said to him. He might have made some vague mention of his painting, but for the first time since Bea had arrived in New York City fifteen months earlier, art was the last thing on her mind.
She learned his name was Henry Wyatt, that he was from Texas, and that, like herself, he was a recent transplant to New York City.
There was some discussion of his painting, but mostly they drank too much gin and gossiped about everyone in their striving little circle. At some point when night had become morning, she stumbled home with him to his apartment above a deli on Greenwich Avenue that smelled of turpentine. They kissed and clawed at each other with drunken abandon, fumbling to remove their clothes. It was just after the birth control pill arrived on the market. Hugh Hefner’s new Playboy Club had recently opened its doors. And that night, on Henry Wyatt’s bare mattress on the floor, another watershed moment: Bea Winstead lost her virginity.
In the morning, her personal milestone was forgotten the minute she set eyes on a painting propped up in the corner: The image was simple: symmetrical blocks of cobalt blue bisected by white lines. It was a stark and refreshing departure from abstract expressionism.
“Henry, my God. This is good.” She moved from the bed to examine it closer and from different angles. “What’s it called?”
He shrugged. “I don’t name my paintings.”
In her mind she was already calling itUntitled Blue,oil on canvas.
He reached for her, but she pulled away. Sleeping with him had been a moment of weakness. She had not come to New York to find a man. She’d come to find a career, to be independent.
She couldn’t let herself become Henry Wyatt’s lover. They would eventually fight and break up. And no one would take her seriously. No, the only possible direction for their relationship now that she’d seen his work was professional. There was no doubt in her mind she could make him famous and that he in turn would make her a fortune.
And she had been right.
The cozy hotel room suddenly felt small and claustrophobic. Bea pulled her quilted robe tighter around her. She would not lie there ruminating, alternating between feeling like a victim and feeling like a criminal. She put on her Belgian slippers and turned on the lights so she could see her way down the stairs to the lower level.
Kyle snored gently on the couch. She flipped on the end-table lamp and stood over him. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and shook his shoulder.
“Kyle,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
He barely stirred.
“Kyle, I need your help.”
He sat up with a start. “Bea? What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, but I need help getting something out of the car and into this room.”
“Now?” He checked his phone. “It’s one in the morning.”
“It’s important.”
“What did you leave in the car?”
“One of Henry’s paintings.”
“From the house?”
She nodded.
“Bea, that’s…I think that’s stealing. You’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“Let me be the one to worry about that. In the meantime, I can’t leave it in the car overnight.”
Kyle sank back against his pillow. “You’re going to have to. I’m not getting involved in this.”
“You don’t understand!” she said.
“You’re right. I don’t,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
