A Fine Imitation (11 page)

“One should always think before one speaks.”

He chuckled. “Another lesson in etiquette from Mrs. Bellington. Don't tell me you don't sometimes wish you could say whatever's on your mind?” He raised an eyebrow. “It would make those little cocktail parties much more interesting.”

A laugh threatened to bubble up. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm sure you don't.” He held out his elbow. “Come on, we don't want to stand here all day.”

She hesitated a moment, then slipped her arm through his. They walked on, passing a Madonna and several more portraits. Hallan stopped at one, leaning close as he had done with the Ghirlandaio.

“I want to paint like this,” he said, in an awed whisper. “So soft, so gentle. Human. Living.”

Vera did not speak at first, afraid to break the spell the painting had on him. “So why don't you?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He stepped back with a shrug. “Everything now is all modern, lots of hard lines. Geometric figures. I'm a product of my time. But I still keep some of that yielding in there. At least, I try.”

A group of people came into the room. Vera gestured to a bench against the wall, and she and Hallan sat together. “I know,” she said. “I saw the photographs you sent.”

“You did? How?”

“Clarence showed me.” She picked at the hem of her glove. “They wanted my opinion, since I studied art.”

“That's right. Which you refused to tell me about.” He pressed his lips together, but the smile broke through anyway. “So? What was your opinion?”

She shifted in her seat. “I'm sure that hardly matters.”

He cocked his head. “You didn't like them.”

“Quite the opposite.” She met his gaze, and warmth flooded her cheeks. “They were lovely. Really extraordinary.”

His face grew serious. “That's very kind of you. Thank you.”

Vera turned back to the wall of paintings, reluctant to continue that thread of conversation. “Yes. Well. They were the reason we gave you the job, weren't they? How is the work progressing?”

“I've got an idea, it's taking shape. I want to be sure to capture the spirit of the building. Got to get the mood just right. It will take a while, you know. It's a big project.”

She smiled. “So it really must be a secret? Or maybe you're trying to kill the ladies with suspense.”

“It will be a wonderful surprise. Provided it doesn't kill anyone, of course.” He stood and offered her his hand. She gripped it and stood, and their fingertips brushed as she drew away.

“Shall we see the rest?” Her voice was tight and about a note too high.

“Let's.”

They strolled through the rest of the exhibit, occasionally remarking on the paintings but not making much conversation. From the exhibit hall, they went on to the regular collection. Vera might have excused herself to go through the museum alone, but she was enjoying Hallan's company so much, she hardly noticed as the time passed. Each time she checked her watch, she convinced herself she had a few minutes more than she really did, that her driver would circle the block if she did not appear outside at four on the dot.

She was checking the time once again when Hallan remarked on a certain shade of pale green in a textile by William Morris, and how it was the same color as the curtains in his bedroom.

“I thought you would like those,” she said. “Something subtle.”

“You decorated the apartment?”

“I did.”

“Makes sense.” He shot her a sidelong look. “Nothing subtle about Ida Bloomer. Or Poppy Hastings, while we're on the subject.”

She broke into a wide smile as she glanced around the room.

“What are you doing that for?” he asked. “If they're anywhere in the world, they're not in an art museum.”

She shook her head. “Really, Mr. Hallan. That's terrible.”

“It's worth it. Got a smile out of you.” He looked at her pointedly. “That might be the first smile I've seen from you. Real smile, that is.”

At the mention of it, her smile cinched up into its usual slim line. She glanced at her watch. “I'd better go. My driver will be here soon.”

“Right.”

She knew she ought to offer him a ride back to the building, but she could not bear the thought of the whispers that would ensue if they arrived in the same car. To make him walk back in the rain would be almost cruel…but, then, he had come in dry, he must have had a dry method of travel. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes. The softness in his eyes as he looked at the Ghirlandaio flashed in her mind.

She took a step closer. “Won't you—may I offer you a ride back to the building? I have a car coming.”

“Well, you know, I think I may stay a bit longer, get a look at some of the other exhibits,” he said at last.

The tightness in her chest relaxed, and the words rushed out a little too quickly in her gratitude at his discretion. “Wonderful. So much to see.”

“Yes.” His eyes met hers. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”

“You're very welcome. It was nice running into you.”

When Vera walked out of the building, she noted that the rain had stopped, though wet cotton clouds still hung in the sky. The driver waited for her beside the car, and he opened the door for her. As they pulled away from the museum, it seemed to her as if the hand she had felt holding her back since she had first gone to the docks to meet the artist was loosening its grasp. She very much wished it would not.

Arthur walked into the bedroom a little past six, just as Vera stepped out of her dressing room. She smiled brightly.

“I didn't know you would be home for dinner. What a nice surprise.” She secured her earring and sat on the bed.

He sighed. “I won't. I only came home to change. Business meeting at the Plaza with some men from Chicago.”

Her shoulders drooped. “That's too bad. I feel like we haven't had a moment to ourselves in so long. You're always out so late.”

“You know I'd rather be here than with those blowhards from the Real Estate Board.”

“Of course. I know. I worry you're working too hard.”

He walked into his dressing room and spoke louder so she could hear him. “You don't need to worry about me.”

Silence hung heavy as he finished dressing. A few minutes later he stepped out, in a darker evening suit. He had slicked back his curls once more, and the smell of his hair treatment tickled Vera's nose. She stood and crossed to him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“Please, can't we make plans to have dinner together? Out somewhere, perhaps.” She slid her hands down his arms, the fabric of his jacket cool and starched under her fingers. One hand drifted up to his jaw. “Or you could be late to your meeting. They'll wait for you, won't they?”

He stared at the wall behind her. “These gentlemen came a long way, they shouldn't have to wait.”

Vera's face burned as she jerked her hand away. She sat on the bed and let out a hollow laugh. “I have to, though, don't I? I always do.”

“What's gotten into you? Why are you talking like that?”

“Because I miss you. I miss…well, it's been so long…”

Arthur adjusted his cuffs, the lines on his face betraying his weariness. “Don't you think I know that? This is the way it has to be.”

“But I'm your wife,” she said, her voice rising. “I want to be with you.”

He stepped closer. “Then you will have to wait.” Each word came out flat.

She swallowed hard and looked away once more. Saying anything else would only hurt her cause. She did not know why she continued to try in the first place. The last time they had shared the bed for anything other than sleeping was a distant memory. Vera had excused him countless times, as he had excused himself, with any convenient explanation. He was too tired, work had him agitated, he had an early morning—and those were for the times he was home at all. She might have wondered if age had taken its toll on her beauty or figure, but the mirror told her otherwise. Besides, there had never been a time when he seemed compelled by her. He was clearly proud to have her on his arm, but that pride never became passion. She tortured herself wondering what might be tempting to him. Perhaps he preferred blondes, redheads, curvy girls. She could only conclude that whatever interested him in a woman, it was not her. At last, to appease herself more than anything, she concluded that the famous male appetite must be a modern myth.

Arthur went back into his dressing room for a final check in the mirror, then breezed past her toward the bedroom door. Before he crossed the threshold he stopped and turned.

“Have Evans make a reservation. For Wednesday night. Somewhere with a good steak. But not earlier than eight, please.”

Then he left.

Vera struggled to keep her thoughts on the lecture, but they kept drifting back to what was coming that afternoon. Or, rather,
who
was coming. Who was on the way at that very moment. She looked out the window, hoping for some sign of an unexpected hurricane or a well-timed war that would make the roads unusable. But these thoughts came with a stab of guilt. She shouldn't wish for devastation to serve her own ends, especially not with the idea of preventing her own mother from coming to visit.

Her mother had visited before, though never with such short notice. The letter had come on Wednesday with the news that her mother had taken a room in Poughkeepsie for Friday through Sunday. Vera spent all Thursday evening taking her decorations down. Under the dried flowers and postcards she'd pulled from the walls, she had buried the two letters Cliff had sent her so far. Still, she almost feared her mother would sense them stowed in their box under the bed.

She must have sensed something, anyhow. Her mother usually came at the start of the year or the end, and never without warning. Had Vera said something in one of her letters that gave off the whiff of her recent misbehavior? Surely not. They were the usual routine descriptions of her schedule with wishes for her mother's good health thrown in before the signature. The only new information was mention of Bea, but never in a way that her mother could disapprove of. She had even taken care to give Bea's full name, knowing her mother would associate “Stillman” with the right circles, and maybe even approve.

Her mother would definitely not approve, however, of Cliff, no matter how Vera couched their correspondence. Though Vera had felt a looming sense of regret from the morning after she'd agreed to the letters until she received the first one, they turned out to be entirely innocent. Cliff had made good on his promise to tell her more about himself, but had not taken any liberties or written some silly love note. She didn't know why she'd worried about that, given his quiet seriousness by the lake. His letters did reveal a more talkative side, one with a quick, dry wit and a headstrong confidence. He talked of growing up at his father's side in the family's factories, how his father had made him sweep up loose fibers from the concrete floors to teach Cliff the value of a solid day's work. Cliff planned to use his Yale finance education to help his father expand the business. His ultimate goal was to relieve his father of his seventy- and eighty-hour workweeks, though he'd never told his father that plan. He knew his father's pride would prevent him from accepting that kind of help, if he knew the real reason behind it. Cliff joked that the only way to keep his father from wearing himself out completely was to grow the business beyond the point where his father could manage it all alone.

Vera found Cliff's devotion to his father and the closeness of their relationship disarming. She'd always considered herself close to her father, but only in learning about a father and child who were practically inseparable did she realize how little she saw of her own. With her father, she always mentally added the caveat “when he's home,” but Cliff simply followed his father to work and beyond. She supposed that was a luxury boys had with their fathers that girls simply didn't. Anyway, her father always brought her back gifts from his travels, and wasn't that a clear signal he was thinking of her the whole time?

It was no wonder Cliff had said to Vera at the lake that money buys better tickets; he wanted to travel. She expected dreams of European tours, but he went further. He wanted to hike the mountains in Nepal, visit tiny villages in remotest China, take a boat down the Nile. He wanted more than the kind of luxury travel to the usual museums and restaurants Vera's circle was accustomed to, though he tactfully avoided saying so in an explicit way. He wanted to “uncover the world.” The idea made for a romantic picture of an adventurous soul, and Vera spent an afternoon in the library leafing through
Scenes from Every Land
and imagining what trips like those would be like.

Of course,
Cliff added at the end of one of these written daydreams,
these are not the kind of trips a man makes alone. I'd like some company, a gal who understands why I need to see it all.
The mention of female companionship was the closest he ever came to writing anything inappropriate, and Vera felt the idea was so obvious it could hardly be read as an overture to her. Her own letters to him were equally chaste. He asked about art, and she discussed her favorite pieces and what drew her to them. She listed her favorite songs and books, and told what she hoped were funny stories about her professors and fellow students. Sprinkled in were descriptions of her trips to Europe, in the hopes they would inspire him as he made his own plans someday.

The friendship they were striking up via their letters was so wholesome, only the most stern mind would disapprove. This was precisely why Vera would not tell her mother, who was the possessor of just such a mind. What Vera could not reconcile with herself was why she was keeping the letters a secret from Bea.

“What's got you off in the clouds today?” Bea asked as they walked in the quad after class.

Vera sucked in a deep breath and hoped her voice didn't shake. “My mother's visit.”

“Is that all? She must really be something.”

“She is. I hope it's all right if we don't see much of each other this weekend. Entertaining her requires all my attention.”

Bea frowned. “I'd be happy to help you keep her busy. We could take her into town. Go to the shops, get all dolled up.”

“Don't use slang,” Vera said absently.

“You don't have to remind me every time I use it,” Bea said.

“Yes, but you don't have to use it at all. It doesn't sound refined. If you get used to using it now, you'll never get rid of it. Then how will you sound making a speech to the Museum Board or welcoming guests to your dinner party? Like a silly college girl, that's how.”

“Don't snap at me.” Bea stuck out her tongue. “Save it for your mother.”

“You don't understand. Your mother sounds lovely. Mine's…” Vera clamped her mouth down on the words. Even with no chance her mother might hear, Vera couldn't criticize her out loud. Part of her knew she shouldn't criticize her mother at all. “She only wants what's best for me. It just feels as though I never quite please her.”

“Are you sure you don't want some company? I'm very good with parents,” Bea said.

“It's simpler to deal with her on my own, really. The offer is much appreciated, though.” The bell tower chimed behind them, and Vera gasped. “I'd better go. She'll be driving up any second.”

“Good luck.” Bea's voice still wavered with concern.

Vera mustered a smile. “I'll come by to see you Sunday, after she's gone.”

Bea nodded and walked off toward her dorm. Vera couldn't admit to her friend that she wasn't confident Bea wouldn't let slip something about their nighttime trip with the boys. Bea was too lively, too talkative, and Vera's mother was a skilled hunter. When she wanted to ferret out a secret, she did. That was one good reason not to tell Bea about the letters from Cliff. It didn't take an expert to get a secret out of her. On the off chance her mother ever did cross paths with Bea, that would probably be the first thing Bea let slip.

Vera took a deep breath and headed for her own building to drop off her books and freshen her hair. She called a greeting to the girl at the desk as she entered the foyer. A resonant voice stopped her before she reached the stairs.

“If you insist on carrying such a heavy load, you'll have arms like a sailor before you know it.”

Vera's heart sank. She turned and pasted on a look of delight. “Hello, Mother. Your train must have gotten in early.”

Her mother rose from the chair where she'd been waiting and looked Vera over from head to toe. “I decided not to bother with the train. Always so cramped, and you never know what sort of element you're riding with. Franklin drove me.”

“Of course. Well, I'm so glad you could come this weekend. Have you checked into your room yet?” Vera shifted the books in her arms in a vain effort to make them look less heavy.

“I haven't. I thought you might like to go with me. We can have a nice dinner in town. I expect you haven't had a decent meal since you arrived.” Her mother's eyes narrowed at the sight of Vera's hair. “Who dresses your hair, darling? You look as though you've been laboring in the field. I don't know why you wouldn't let me send Paula with you.”

Vera's cheeks warmed. “Mother, I've told you. No one here has a maid. We do our own hair in the mornings.”

Her mother sniffed. “Yes, well, I can certainly see that. Never mind. Go put your things away and come with me. I'll take you to the salon before dinner.”

Vera took the stairs step by plodding step. She wished there were some way to make the trip to and from her room last for days. Then when she came back down, it would be Sunday, and her mother would be gone. Where she had wished before for a storm to impede her mother's progress, now she hoped for nothing but clear skies. A disaster now would trap her mother there with her, and the thought was too much to bear.