Myrna shook her head. Didn’t say what she suspected. That there was really only one reason for Lillian to return.

To ruin Clara’s big day.

And she had. Only not, almost certainly, in the way Lillian had planned.

Which, of course, begged the question: Who had planned this?

“Can I say something to you?” Myrna asked.

Clara made a face. “I hate it when people ask that. It means something awful’s coming. What is it?”

“Hope takes its place among the modern masters.”

“I was wrong,” said Clara, perplexed and relieved. “It’s just nonsense. Is this a new game? Can I play? Wallpaper chair is often cows. Or,” Clara looked at Myrna with suspicion, “have you been smoking your caftan again? I know they say hemp isn’t really dope, but I still wonder.”

“Clara Morrow’s art makes rejoicing cool again.”

“Ah, a conversation of non sequiturs,” said Clara. “It’s like talking to Ruth, only not as many fucking swear words.”

Myrna smiled. “Do you know what I was just quoting?”

“Those were quotes?” asked Clara.

Myrna nodded and looked over at the damp and smelly newspapers. Clara’s eyes followed her, then widened. Myrna rose and went upstairs, finding her own copies of the papers. Clean and dry. Clara reached out but her hands were trembling too hard and Myrna had to find the sections.

The portrait of Ruth, as the Virgin Mary, glared from the front page of the New York Times art section. Above it was a single word, “Arisen.” And below it the headline HOPE TAKES ITS PLACE AMONG THE MODERN MASTERS.

Clara dropped the section and grabbed for the London Times art review. On the front page was a photo of a Maoist accountant at Clara’s vernissage. And below it the quote, “Clara Morrow Makes Rejoicing Cool Again.”

“They’re raving, Clara,” said Myrna with a smile so wide it hurt.

The pages dropped from Clara’s hand and she looked at her friend. The one who’d whispered into the silence.

Clara got up. Arisen, she thought. Arisen.

And she hugged Myrna.

*   *   *

Peter Morrow sat in his studio. Hiding from the ringing phone.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He’d gone back into their home after lunch, hoping for some peace and quiet. Clara had taken the papers and gone off, presumably to read them by herself. So he had no idea what the critics had said. But as soon as he’d walked in the door the phone had started to ring, and had barely stopped since. All wanting to congratulate Clara.

There were messages from the curators at the Musée, thrilled with the reviews and the subsequent ticket sales. There was a message from Vanessa Destin-Browne, of the Tate Modern in London, thanking them for the party and congratulating Clara. And wondering if they might get together to discuss a show.

For Clara.

He’d eventually just let the phone ring and had gone to stand at the open door to her studio. From there he could see a few puppets, from the time she thought she might do a series on them.

“Perhaps too political,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” said Peter, but “political” wasn’t the word that had sprung to mind.

He could see the Warrior Uteruses stacked in the corner. Left there after another disastrous show.

“Perhaps ahead of its time,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” said Peter. But “ahead of its time” wasn’t what came to mind either.

And when she’d started in on the Three Graces, and even had the three elderly friends pose for her, he’d felt sorry for the women. Thought Clara was being selfish, expecting the old women to stand there for some painting that would never see the light of day.

But the women hadn’t minded. Had seemed to have fun, judging by the laughter that disturbed his concentration.

And now that painting was hanging in the Musée d’Art Contemporain. While his meticulous works were on someone’s stairway or perhaps, if he was lucky, above a fireplace.

Seen by a dozen people a year. And noticed as much as the wallpaper or curtains. Interior decoration in an affluent home.

How could Clara’s portraits of unremarkable women possibly be masterpieces?

Peter turned his back on her studio, but not before he saw the afternoon sun catch Clara’s huge fiberglass feet, marching across the back of her space.

“Perhaps too sophisticated,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” Peter had mumbled.

He closed the door and went back to his studio, the sound of the ringing phone in his ears.