A Fine Imitation (15 page)

Vera's mother stood as they approached. Her features were placid, and her lids drooped slightly. The expression might have looked like boredom to an untrained eye, but Vera knew her mother already found much to dislike about Bea.

“Mother, may I present Bea Stillman. Bea, this is my mother.” Vera wrung her hands in front of her.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Longacre,” Bea said. “Vera's said so many lovely things about you.”

“How nice that I can count on my daughter to speak well of me,” Vera's mother said.

“But then not every mother can say that, can they?” The corner of Bea's mouth inched up the side of her face, and her eyes sparkled.

Vera forced out a laugh. “Oh, Bea. Don't be silly.”

“I've so enjoyed getting to know Vera,” Bea continued. “She is just a living doll. And such a good influence. Though we do have our share of fun.”

“Is that right? I'm delighted to hear it.” Vera's mother gave a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “What sort of fun might that be?”

“Don't worry, we don't get into too much trouble.” Bea laughed. “Mostly because no one catches us.”

Vera's mother dropped what little pretense of graciousness she had. “Is that right? Vera, what sort of things have you been getting up to?”

“Nothing, Mother.” Vera's stomach threatened to send her sandwich back up. “Bea is joking. She loves to joke.”

“She's right,” Bea said, blanching. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to concern you.”

“Believe me, you do not concern me.” Vera's mother drew herself up. “Vera, bring the basket. We're going back up to call the driver. A day in town does sound good after all.”

Vera tossed the remnants of lunch back into the basket and hurried in her mother's wake. She turned to look at Bea, who mouthed “sorry” and offered a small wave. Vera did not wave back. She couldn't believe Bea would be so insensitive. For a moment, Vera wondered if Bea thought her mocking comments might actually charm Lorna, but Vera angrily dismissed any charitable explanation of Bea's behavior. Was Bea trying to get her in trouble? No, Bea was just Bea. Incorrigible. At least Vera had had the sense to keep the letters from Cliff to herself. A bad afternoon could have been a disastrous one.

When Marguerite came in with the breakfast tray, Vera's eyes stung and watered. A sinking sense of embarrassment flooded through her, but she tamped down the hazy memory of her day at the movies and the unfortunate episode with the vase. Instead, she focused on that evening's dinner with Arthur. Something in what she had said must have gotten through to her husband, and she needed to concentrate on making the most of her opportunity. She could not waste time fretting about the nonsense the night before. She lay in bed for so long planning what she would wear and how the evening would go, she nearly forgot it was Wednesday, and had to rush to dress for lunch with her mother.

Despite her delay, she hurried enough that she arrived at the restaurant right on time. She ordered her crab salad and tomatoes, and she and her mother began their usual run of questions and answers. When the meal arrived, however, her mother surprised her with an unexpected change in topic.

“Tell me, how is the mural project coming along?”

Hallan's face leapt to Vera's mind, and she nearly dropped her fork. “Oh. It's coming along well, I think.” She had been forced to mention the mural to explain why she had to miss lunch the day Hallan arrived, and her mother had latched on to the project. She wanted to know everything about the artist: where he came from, where he studied. Vera had been grateful to have the Ecole des Beaux-Arts as an answer, since she knew very little else. The lack of information only encouraged her mother's interest, and she inquired about the mural's status every time they saw each other.

Her mother's lips tightened. “You don't know? You mustn't speculate, Vera. You either know or you don't.”

“He arrived and he's begun painting. That's all I know, Mother.”

“Still? You haven't seen the work?”

“No. He asked to work in privacy. No one is allowed in the pool room until the painting is complete.”

Her mother took a bite of salad. “Sounds like an artist. Have you spoken to him more? You hired him, you have a right to know how it's progressing.”

“I haven't had much of a chance to talk to him.” Vera kept her eyes on her tomatoes.

“I'd like to meet him. Remind me of his name…Emil…?”

Vera fought the rising panic at the thought of her mother and Hallan exchanging pleasantries. “Emil Hallan.”

“Unusual name. Hmm. You'll have to have us over and invite him.”

“Yes, I will.” Vera prayed her mother would forget that little notion but knew her mother's bear-trap mind would not allow for such a reprieve. As her mother moved into a story about the latest ballet she had attended, Vera mentally calculated how many people she would need to invite to dinner to put a suitable distance between her mother and the artist.

That afternoon, Vera and Marguerite went through nearly all of Vera's dinner dresses, as Vera tried to choose the one that might appeal to Arthur most. She chose a sapphire satin gown with silver beading, a long multi-strand silver chain necklace, and a headband with silver scrolls. Marguerite pinned her hair into an elaborate chignon, and Vera hung large diamond teardrop earrings in her ears.

At last, she made her way down to the car. She had chosen the Crystal Room at the Ritz and could easily have walked the few blocks, but she did not want to arrive mussed or dirty. When she went in, the maître d' led her to her requested table by the window. She settled in to wait, resisting the urge to consult the mirror in her small beaded handbag. She did not have to wait long. A white-gloved waiter came over after a few minutes.

“Ma'am, there's a telephone call for you,” he said.

She felt a sharp pang of dread. “For me?”

He nodded, and she rose to follow him to the front desk. The maître d' handed her the receiver, and she pulled it to her ear.

“Arthur?” she asked.

“Yes, it's me.” He sounded reluctant to admit it.

“Where are you?”

“The office.”

A little thrill of hope ran through her. “Oh, are you running late?”

“No. I'm afraid I have to leave for Chicago tonight.”

“What?” She had the sudden impulse to bash the receiver on the brick wall beside her.

“Yes, the deal is in danger of falling to pieces. I hoped there would be a later train, but I have to leave from the office this instant to make the last one. I hardly have time for this call.”

She turned away from the maître d'. “But Arthur,” she whispered.

“I am sorry, truly.” His voice was heavy and hoarse. “Leaving you alone like this, it's terrible…but it was unavoidable. When I get back, we'll plan something else. A whole evening—dinner and a show, if you like. How does that sound?”

She swallowed. “Very nice. Of course. Safe travels.”

She handed the phone back to the maître d' and walked in a daze back to her table without even realizing she was doing so. The waiter appeared at her arm, jolting her back to her senses.

“Has the gentleman been delayed?” he asked.

“Oh. Oh, no. He's not coming,” she said. The words stung coming out of her mouth.

“Will you still be dining with us?”

Why not?
she thought. Better than going back to her empty apartment in her fine clothes. “I will. May I have a glass of Bordeaux, please?”

The waiter's eyes widened. “I'm sorry…no. The…the law, madam.”

She forced a laugh. “No, of course. So silly of me. Sparkling water will do.”

“Right away.”

Vera stared at the plate in front of her as silverware clinked against china under the quiet chatter and laughter of the other diners. She did not even notice when her drink arrived, and when the waiter asked what she would like to eat, the only thing she could think to order was steak. Then a voice cut through the cloud surrounding her, but not the waiter's.

“Vera?”

She looked up. Hallan stood by the table, dressed in a well-cut black suit.

“My goodness. Mr. Hallan,” she said, a little breathless. “I certainly didn't expect to see you.”

“I can tell by the look on your face. I didn't know eyes could get that wide without falling out entirely. Are you waiting for your husband?”

She straightened her shoulders, resisting the urge to lift her chin. “He was unavoidably detained.”

“That's a shame.” Hallan gestured to her dress. “He shouldn't miss seeing you like this, you look stunning.”

Vera grabbed her glass of water. “What a thing to say.”

“I think the thing to say is ‘thank you.' It was meant to be a compliment.”

She relaxed a bit. “Thank you.”

He glanced at the empty chair across from her. “If your husband isn't…” He caught himself, then started again. “I don't want to impose, but may I join you?”

“You're not meeting someone?”

He smiled faintly. “No, actually. I was walking by and saw you through the window. I thought I ought to say hello.”

“How kind of you.” She looked up at him. He had tamed his unruly reddish waves into a neat part. First the museum, now the restaurant. If she did not know better, she might wonder if he was following her around. But surely he would not have expected her to be on her own. She was not the type of woman to dress up and dine out alone. “Are you sure you're not meeting someone? You're dressed so nicely.”

“I was planning to meet up with some friends later on, and I thought I'd have a bite to eat before.” He looked around the dining room. “Well, not here, of course. But since we're both here, I'd be happy to keep you company.”

She thought again of Arthur's regretful words and eager promises on the phone. Chicago, indeed. She wondered who had made their dinner plans so easy to discard. What hotel or apartment he might be staying in for the next few nights. What kind of cheap scent he would come home reeking of. She deserved a little company if her husband was determined to ignore her. And maybe if he heard Vera had had dinner with another man, the thought might awaken a little jealousy in him. Besides, Vera did not want Hallan's most recent memory of her to be the emotional spectacle in her apartment the night before. Perhaps she could make clear that she was not typically given to such outbursts.

She smiled up at Hallan. “Please, I would love for you to join me.”

His blue-green eyes shone, and he sat across from her. “Wonderful, thank you. So, what do you recommend here?”

“The steak is very good.”

He pointed at her glass of water. “Wine is out of the question?”

Her mouth lifted in a half smile. “I'm afraid so.”

“So strange. As I was leaving, half my friends told me, ‘there is no alcohol in America.' The other half said, ‘America is floating away on alcohol.' I come here, your building is awash with it. But we go to a fine restaurant and—” He shook his head. “No, we have to pretend it doesn't exist. Interesting situation you find yourselves in.”

“This is your first time in America, then?” she asked.

Hallan looked out the window. “Yes.”

“And your accent leads me to believe you are not originally from Paris.” She leaned in. “For all the conversations people in the building have had with you, no one ever seems to recall you saying much about your family, or where you're from.”

He shrugged. “I find people prefer to talk about themselves rather than listen.”

“I'm listening. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Hallan.”

He turned to her, and they held each other's gaze for a long moment.

“What's there to tell? I studied art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. I paint.” His words had the air of being both carefully chosen and practiced.

“I know that. Where are you from? Who is your family?”

He squinted a bit, and his mouth ticked up in amusement. “I'm not in the habit of boring people with my biography.”

Her own words from the party. She would have been irritated, but there was something refreshing about chatting with someone so sharp. “I see. Very clever.”