Work Text:
November, 1921
Angela sat at her easel twiddling her thumbs and glancing at the clock above the doorway. 3:15. She’s late.
Most afternoons she would already be at work jotting down orders and moving back and forth between the kitchen and the dining area at a half run, all while smiling as genuinely as she could muster to make sure she took home decent tips from the restaurant’s wealthy patrons. But this was one of Angela’s precious days off.
She got up to pace around her apartment for the twelfth time in the last half hour, refolded a comforter on the couch that was already perfectly cornered, and walked to her desk to straighten her papers and paint supplies when a knock on the door made her nearly drop a cup of brushes. After setting it back she rushed toward the door, smoothed her dress, and pushed her hair behind her ears before opening it to a young woman.
“You must be Angela,” the woman said, kissing her on the cheek and stepping inside before she even got the chance to invite her in.
“Yes,” Angela smiled. “Mrs. O’Banion?”
“Viola,” the woman nodded. “Show me what we’re doing today?” she asked, tilting her head to the other room where she could see an easel and paintings. Angela led the way to the room and gestured toward a desk where she had a sketchbook full of drawings and some of her finished works on the wall in front of it.
“Dean liked this one and he thought I might do something similar,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “But he told me we could do whatever you wanted.” Angela showed her, pointing to a sketch she did of a seated woman facing a window. She was in profile looking out at the ocean, a scarf tied in her short, wavy hair. It was in pencil, but Angela remembered that her hair was a reddish brown, the scarf matched the color of the ocean, and it had taken forever to get Louise to stop laughing long enough to be able to draw her face properly.
“He said you were good, but I didn’t think this good,” Viola said, looking up from the drawings and back at Angela. “He and I… Let’s just say we don’t always have the same taste, but this is just wonderful.” Angela instantly felt lighter. “We can definitely do something like that. I think it should be a bit more provocative though,” Viola continued.
Angela smiled, “He told me you’d say something like that.”
Viola rolled her eyes and took off her coat, revealing a light pink, elaborately beaded evening gown. “I guess he’s right sometimes,” Viola said, laughing. Around her neck a string of pearls was looped twice yet still hung long. Angela directed her to a seat near the window where the light was best and Viola skipped over to it. She sat down, not particularly gracefully, in profile with her left side visible to the artist. She twisted her torso so the top of her body was turned toward Angela and looked at her with a grin, “How’s this?
“Very good, but let me help,” Angela smiled. She she adjusted the way Viola’s left arm draped on the chair to look more natural and moved the other to rest on her front knee. Viola giggled. Angela then had her move her legs, one with her toes pointed forward resting on the floor, the other bent back under the chair so they would both be visible from her view, and had her arch her back a bit. “There.”
“Is my hair okay?” Viola’s hair was long but pinned up in the back to imitate a bob and perfectly waved in the front.
“Just fine.”
“You’re probably going to just hate me. I’m so bad at staying still, and I can’t keep my mouth shut to save my life,” Viola stated.
“I’m not detailing much today so you can talk and move your face around as much as you like. But do try not to move your body too much,” Angela said, taking a seat at her easel and getting her supplies ready.
Viola asked her questions as she began to work, “So, you’re a waitress? Do you like it?”
“It pays my bills.”
“Dean could get you a better job. He likes to help, you know? He knows a lot of people, he could make it happen,” Viola explained.
“I didn’t know florists were so influential,” Angela looked up to see Viola twist her face into a smile.
“You’re funny,” she laughed. Angela laughed back, but she didn’t really understand; her statement hadn’t been meant to be funny. “I am serious though. He tells me you’ve got a young son and you’re new here. No husband.” She was silent for a moment before she continued. “You don’t mind me asking what happened to him?”
“No, not at all,” Angela responded, shaking her head. In truth the question was a bit forward, but it didn’t feel that way coming from Viola. “It was an accident. On the job.” She thought it was best to be vague about Jimmy, and, in truth, she didn’t really know the details.
“You’re so young. I mean, it would be terrible anyway, but…” Viola trailed off. “I am serious though, you’re very talented. You should be doing something more creative.”
“I would like that, but I don’t want to be any trouble,” Angela said looking toward the floor. “Your husband has already been so kind to me.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll ask him and that way it’ll be for me.”
“Okay,” Angela nodded shyly and continued painting.
“Okay,” Viola chuckled back.
Angela noticed that Viola didn’t have the boyish body that was idealized in the magazines: her dress hugged her a little tighter at the hips and chest than was considered fashionable. But Angela thought she was beautiful, and she wasn’t alone. Having met Dean a few times, Angela would describe him as a particularly cheerful person, but he was even more so when he talked about Viola. He told her that he married her just two months after he met her. She saw why; on top of her beauty Viola possessed a certain untainted quality that shone through her eyes and an earnestness that was obvious to Angela even from just their brief conversation.
After a few more hours of work and chatting, Angela put down her brush and told Viola she could relax, "I think I’ve done all I can do for the day, but I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can sit more,” she said.
“Alright,” Viola said, relaxing her pose. “I don’t want to see it until it’s done, but I bet it’s lovely.”
“It’s getting there, it needs a lot of detail,” Angela said. “So you might have to be a bit quieter next time.” She didn’t expect it to take much more than a few more sittings to finish. Angela’s paintings sometimes took longer, but pretty girls were something like her specialty.
“I’ll get all of my chattering out tonight then,” Viola stated, standing up, stretching, and grabbing her coat before walking toward the door. “My driver is waiting for me. Would you like to come to dinner?”
“I would love to, but my son will be home soon,” Angela answered.
“Some other time then?”
“Of course,” Angela agreed.
She made it to the doorway and then turned back and grabbed Angela’s hands “You know, I’m good with telling these kinds of things, and I can tell that we’re going to be fast friends. Can’t you?” she asked.
Angela nodded, “Yes.”
“See you soon.” Viola gave her hands a squeeze and let them go, waving at her before walking out the door.
“Have a nice night,” Angela said, waving back and closing the door after her.
She looked at the clock again. 6:30. Richard will be bringing Tommy back from the park in about a half hour.
She crossed the room and turned on the Victrola in the corner, poured herself a small glass of wine from a bottle she kept hidden in a kitchen cabinet, and raised the glass in a toast to herself before drinking it down in one long sip. Angela closed her eyes and inhaled deeply while leaning against the wall. Taking in the quick piano strokes of Debussy, she thought that if she could make her living from moments like that she could be happy.
I would.