A Fine Imitation (18 page)

Vera woke late the morning after her trip to the roof with Hallan. Her head throbbed a bit but did not hurt nearly as bad as she expected. Her stomach was not even a little bit wobbly. She guessed all those dinner parties, with course after course of alcohol, were good for something. Still, she asked Marguerite to draw her a bath and ignored her breakfast tray in favor of a glass of club soda and a cool cloth for her forehead.

After dressing, she had Marguerite phone with regrets to the luncheon she was scheduled to attend at Caroline Litchfield's, and also instructed her to tell any callers that she was ill. Vera had no desire to leave the apartment, though it might have provided some distraction from thoughts of the artist and her two strange evenings in a row with him. But she relished the idea of running into him even less. Avoiding him would not be too difficult. The social functions in his honor had finally slowed, and she might not have to see him again for a good long while if she prepared carefully. She decided to spend the morning in the study, where she could read and take care of her correspondence.

She had just reached the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Evans appeared, and Vera slipped behind the open study door to watch.

“Good day, sir,” Evans said.

“Hello, yes, I'm here to see Mrs. Bellington.”

Hallan
. A thousand curses rang through Vera's head. Of course he would have no qualms about walking right up to her door.

“I'm sorry, sir. She's not well.”

“I'll bet she's not,” Hallan said with a short laugh.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.” He took a pencil from his vest and scratched something on a card. “Will you give her this?”

“Yes, sir,” Evans said.

Vera heard the front door close, and she rushed to a chair. A few moments later, Evans appeared with an ivory calling card in hand. He gave it to her, then left. The front of the card read, in bold block letters:

Vera rolled her eyes. One of the other ladies must have had them made up for him. She flipped it over to see what he had written. Hallan's wispy letters read:

“They say, best men are moulded out of faults,

And, for the most, become much more the better

By being a little bad.”

That's the Bard. Suspected you might be indisposed today, but thanks for a lovely night anyway.

—E.H.

After a moment's deliberation, she ripped the card in half and tossed it in the wastebasket.

Three days after Vera's night out with Hallan, Marguerite woke her with the breakfast tray and the rather surprising news that Arthur was in the dining room having his coffee. Vera dressed and asked the maid to take her food in so she could join him.

He sat reading the paper at the end of the table and barely looked up when Vera walked in.

“When did you get home?” she asked, settling into her place.

“Late. Didn't want to wake you.”

“Productive trip, I hope? How was the train?”

“Yes, it was all fine.” He folded the paper and laid it by his plate. “Terribly sorry again about missing dinner the other night. I hope you weren't too inconvenienced.”

“Not at all.” She tried to keep her voice cheerful. “As you said, work comes first.”

“So it does.”

He retrieved his paper and they sat together in silence. Vera spread jam on her toast and took a bite, but it settled in her stomach like a rock, so she concentrated on her tea.

Arthur put the paper down again. “I nearly forgot. You'll need to look at your calendar.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Your father phoned. He and your mother want to take us to Abide Away for a weekend before the weather changes.”

Vera nearly jumped with delight. Abide Away was her parents' summer home in Montauk, and a weekend there would allow her several guaranteed artist-free days. There was the added bonus of getting her husband out of the city, where they could spend some time together in the place where they had courted. They could have a nice dinner out, maybe, just the two of them.

“What a lovely idea,” she said. “We could go next weekend. I don't have anything that would keep me here.”

Arthur rubbed his chin as he thought. “Nor do I, come to think of it. I can always take the car back if something comes up at the office. You can ride back with your parents if need be.”

Even that caveat could not dull Vera's excitement. The ocean might still be comfortable for bathing, though the water was never warm enough for her taste. At the very least she would get a little sun. She mentally moved through her closet, trying to decide which dresses she ought to take, barely noticing that Arthur had continued talking.

“…so you'll need to ask that Hallan fellow,” Arthur concluded, raising the newspaper once more.

A cold chill trickled down the back of Vera's throat. “Ask him what?”

“If he's available. Your father says your mother wants to meet him. Thought it would be nice to show him a weekend at the beach, or something on that order.”

“She can meet him here, in the city. There's no need to take him out of town. It should be a family trip, don't you agree?” Vera's pitch rose as the words came clambering out.

“She's
your
mother, Vera. If you don't want him there, tell her,” Arthur said.

Speaking candidly to her mother was the last thing Vera wanted to do. She thought of creating an imaginary event that would prevent her from going, but that would never work. Nothing on Vera's calendar would be crucial enough that it could not be rescheduled. Besides, her fellow residents in the Angelus were her primary social sphere, and once some of them heard that Vera and Arthur were off to Montauk, they would all certainly have to go, too. Throw the artist into the plans, and half the building would be empty by Friday morning. There would be no engagements left for Vera to hide behind.

Vera sat down that morning to write an invitation to Hallan, but after four or five false starts, it became clear she would not get the wording right. She thought of having Evans phone. She could not imagine what Hallan would think, after her two odd evenings with him, if she invited him out of town for the weekend. The conversation was not one she wanted to have face to face. However, if she spoke to him herself, she could make it evident that she did not want him there. She could dissuade him from accepting the invitation, something Evans or a properly written note would not do. With that in mind, she rode the elevator down to the second floor and knocked on the door of 2A.

She expected his valet to answer, so she almost gasped when Hallan himself flung the door open. His eyes lit up.

“Vera. I was hardly expecting you. Come in, please,” he said.

She pulled her shoulders back. “I can't stay. Where's your man?”

Hallan frowned. “Who, Michael? Why do you need to see him?”

“I don't. But you shouldn't answer your own door. That's what he's there for.”

He stared at her, then shook his head. “All right, noted. Please, come in. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

“No, thank you. I just came by…” She could not get the words out. “I wanted to—or really, my mother—that is—”

He laughed. “Whatever it is, it can't be all that bad. Maybe you need something stronger than tea, you're flushed.”

“No,” she cried, as she thought of the influence alcohol had had on their other interludes. “No. Nothing, no tea, thank you.”

“At least come in. Sit down.”

Her unsteady knees begged her to agree. And sitting would allow her to get her thoughts together. “Yes, all right.”

She followed him to the sitting room, which remained as tidy as she and Ida had left it the day before Hallan arrived. In fact, everything still looked as if Hallan had never moved in. There were no photographs on the mantel, no letters on the desk. No personal touches of any kind. And no art supplies. No sketches. No easels.

“May I ask you something?” She took a seat on the couch, and he sat in the chair beside her.