A Fine Imitation (20 page)

“What sort of man do you find him to be?” her mother asked.

Caroline's hand rose to her cheek, and she spoke in an almost girlish voice. “Delightful. Fascinating and so intelligent. You're going to love him, Lorna, I'm sure of it.”

Vera's mother sipped from a small china cup, painted with violets that matched her eyes. “He seemed well mannered enough earlier. But so many of those artists have a wild streak. You haven't noticed anything like that, have you?”

“Goodness, no,” Caroline said. “You'd never know he was in the building, except that he turns up to every occasion we invite him to. Hasn't turned down the first one. So polite.” She frowned. “I suppose he has been late a few times, but that's hardly—”

“Vera, dear,” her mother said. “If you have something to add to the conversation, please join in. Eavesdropping is not limited to listening through walls, you know.”

Vera cleared her throat. “I wouldn't want to interrupt.”

“Then don't. But please don't just sit there hovering. Speak if you have something to say.”

“I really don't, thank you, Mother.”

Her mother drew languid circles in her cup with a tiny spoon. “You have nothing to add about our guest?”

“I don't know much about him myself. Only what Caroline's already told you.”

“You don't know where he comes from? Who his family is? Have you spoken to the man at all?”

“I have,” Vera said, suppressing a sigh. “He was living in Paris before he came to the city, that's all I know. I'm sure you can find out everything you want to know if you ask him yourself.”

“I'm sure I can.”

Vera's mother studied her as the grandfather clock ticked away to their left. Under her mother's inquisitive gaze, Vera grew steadily more uncomfortable. Could her mother see something behind her calm demeanor? Did something of her experiences with Hallan show through? At last her mother set her spoon in her saucer and drank the last drops of her tea, satisfied with whatever she had seen.

Vera braced herself for dinner.

Bea didn't bother to knock on Vera's door anymore. She barged in one evening after dinner, a leather portfolio in her hands. Vera sat on the bed, pen poised over a letter to Cliff. She folded it quickly and stuffed it under a textbook, glad that Bea was too enamored with whatever she had in the portfolio to notice.

“Aren't you worried you're going to walk in on me dressing one day?” Vera asked.

“No, you're worried about that.” Bea held the portfolio out. “Take a look.”

Vera took the folder and opened it. Inside lay two pieces of ivory paper, each with a different letterhead. The typewritten words on each were mostly identical, but the signatures were different.

“ ‘This letter certifies that I give my daughter permission to travel to New Haven, Connecticut, for the weekend of November 22–23. I will arrange for her to be properly chaperoned to and from school,' ” Vera read aloud. “Gracious, Bea, this looks exactly like my mother's letterhead. And her signature. How did you manage it?”

Bea sat on the bed. “I swiped a letter from her off your desk. It was murder getting the letters and ink to match up to look like real embossing. I went through three sheets of paper before I stopped punching holes and got the letters raised up the right way.”

Vera turned the page to look at the back. “It does look real though.”

“I wasn't happy with some of the detail, but…” Bea shrugged. “It's good enough. They won't exactly be inspecting it.”

Vera wondered at the time and precision it must have required to create the letters. If Bea applied herself half so much to her studies, she'd be at the top of her class. Vera thought of the copy of the
Bon Ton
cover Bea had made for her a month ago. She had an unquestionable skill for reproduction and an eye for detail.

“You're definitely coming now, aren't you?” Bea continued. “Don't tell me I did all that for nothing.”

“I suppose I have to,” Vera said, a smile breaking out on her face. “This is so exciting.”

“Hooray! Oh, we'll have a fabulous time.” Bea stood. “I'll send Harry a telegram and tell him when to pick us up. You can give the letter to the dorm matron tonight.”

“But won't you need to make an envelope?”

Bea took Vera's letter out of the portfolio and folded it into a square. “There. Tell her your mother put it in with your letter. That way I don't have to try to make it look like it came from the city.”

“Genius.” Vera shook her head. “But there's so much we haven't thought of. What if Mother telephones while we're away?”

“When has she ever telephoned you at school?”

“That's true. Oh, Bea, I don't know…”

Bea held out a hand. “Stop right there. We're not the first to sneak out of the school for a weekend, and we won't be the last. I can promise you that. And when did you ever hear of anyone getting caught? Especially with the precautions we've taken? It will be fine. Try to enjoy it, all right?”

Vera nodded and Bea let herself out, humming as she went. But Vera could not be so cheerful. Doubts wormed their way into her mind as she thought of what would happen if her mother ever found out. To go out for a few hours with college boys was one thing. But two days away left them open to innumerable ways to get caught. And the rules were there for a reason. What if something terrible happened to them? Cliff, Harry, and Gene were harmless, but Vera couldn't count on all the boys at Yale being so benign.

Surely Cliff would keep a protective watch on her, though. Seeing him again would make the risk worth it. Maybe she didn't have to tell him about Arthur during the visit after all. She had thought telling him in person would be preferable, but maybe she should enjoy her time with him and tell him afterward in a well-written letter. Yes, that would give him some fond memories of her, and leave him alone with the news.

Her mother's voice echoed shapeless warnings in Vera's head, years of stern comments piling on top of each other until all she could hear was the disapproving tone. If her mother ever found out that the girls had snuck out to attend a football game with boys she'd never met, Vera would be sunk.

Her stomach squirmed, and she stood up and paced the few feet of floor. She would have to tell Bea that the plan was off. Maybe Bea could find another girl to go. She pictured some other girl with Cliff, crushed into a gang of students cheering the game, and a pang of jealousy went through her. Vera really did want to go. She picked up the folded letter to look again at the impressive “embossing.” No one would question the letter's authenticity. She almost believed it was real herself. She set the open letter on the desk, positioning it so she could continue to admire Bea's talents as she returned to her letter to Cliff. Now at least she could give him the good news that he would see her soon.

At seven-thirty p.m. sharp, Vera and Arthur stepped into Abide Away's drawing room for cocktails. Vera had selected a sunny yellow drop-waist dress in honor of the surprise holiday, but she looked odd standing next to Arthur in his staid gray suit. She had managed to talk him into adding a purple pocket square, giving him a little splash of color.

Vera's parents were already in the drawing room, sipping martinis with Caroline and Walter. The Litchfields' children would dine upstairs as, at ten and seven years old, they were still too young to be much company. Just as Vera took her gin and tonic from the waiter, a car door slammed outside, announcing Poppy's arrival. Her nursemaid would be at the cottage with the children while Poppy dined.

She had, at least, restrained herself somewhat in dress. She wore an off-white gown with gold beading and a thin, glittery ribbon in her short curls. A maid showed Poppy into the drawing room, and she thanked Vera's parents for inviting her.

“What a charming room, just charming,” she said, admiring a Tiffany lamp. “So restrained. So elegant.”

“We find the best things often are, dear,” Vera's mother said in an airy tone.

Shoes sounded on the stairs behind Vera, and her pulse quickened. Hallan walked into the drawing room in a raw linen suit, his hair parted and combed as it had been on the night Vera had seen him at the restaurant. She had to admit, he looked very handsome when he made the effort to look presentable.

“Good evening, Mr. Hallan,” Vera's mother said, striding across the room to him. “I hope you found your room to your liking?”

“Very much, Mrs. Longacre, thank you. You have a beautiful home here.” He smiled. “I'm only sorry I didn't make it to tea.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Vera's father said, stepping forward. “The tea is for the women anyhow. Would you like a cocktail?”

He slapped a meaty hand on Hallan's back and waved the waiter over. They made an odd pair, the tall, slim, angular artist next to Vera's doughy father. Joseph Longacre was a big man in every way, though there was a bit less of him since his gray hair had thinned on top. But his wide brown eyes had lost none of their intensity as he aged.

“Is the martini how you like it?” he asked Hallan. “Don't be polite about it, now, you can speak up. We'll mix it until it's perfect.”

“Just how I like it, truly. So, when did you buy the house, if I may ask?” Hallan said, directing attention away from his drink.

“Buy the house? No, my boy, Lorna and I built this house,” Vera's father said. “Got in with the Georgica Association just in time. This was the last of the big lots left.”

Poppy sighed. “Julius wanted in with the Georgica Association, but he simply didn't move fast enough. We do love our little cottage, but the beach on this side is without equal.”

“The sands are beautiful here,” Hallan agreed. “I've never seen sand so white.”

“Not a great deal of white sand in England,” Vera's mother said, her eyes fixed on Hallan. “Forgive me, I noticed your accent. Tell me, what part of England do you come from?”

Hallan took a sip of his drink before answering. “London.”

“I adore London. One of the finest cities in the world. Why, I've been so many times, it's like a second home to me,” she said. “Where did you live there?”

“Westminster,” he said.

She sniffed. “Lovely area.”

“I think so.”

A maid stepped in, and Vera realized she was holding her empty drink so tightly her knuckles were white. She could not even recall finishing it. She set the glass on a tray.

“Dinner is served in the dining room,” the maid said.

“Thank you, Esther,” Vera's mother said. She turned to the rest of the group. “Shall we go in?”

The party went across the hall to the dining room. Vera was not surprised to see the artist's place card to the left of her mother's seat at the head of the table but was dismayed that Arthur was on her mother's right, putting the two men across from each other. Then Vera realized, with some horror, that etiquette would prevent her from being seated by her own husband. She prayed she would be between her father and Walter but saw her own name to the left of Hallan's plate. At least she would be close enough to keep track of her mother's conversation with Hallan even if, like a speeding train, nothing could be done to slow it. She sat, removing her gloves and laying them in her lap. Hallan sat beside her, and his sleeve brushed her arm as he settled in.

Once the party was seated, the waiters began to serve the soup course, a steaming cream chowder with potatoes and flakes of fish. Conversations started in earnest, and Vera's mother turned her attention once more to Hallan.

“So, Westminster, you say? I know a number of families in that neighborhood. I'm surprised I haven't heard the name Hallan before.”

“It was only me and my grandmother, and her last name isn't Hallan,” he said.

“And what was her name?”

The corners of Hallan's mouth twitched. “You probably haven't heard her name either.”

Vera's mother's eyes darkened. “I see. And my daughter tells me you studied art in Paris? Will I have heard of the school?”

“I studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” Hallan said calmly.

Vera drew in a hard breath. “Mother, I told you.”

Vera's mother stared at her for a long moment, then lifted her wineglass. “Darling, you haven't touched your soup. Don't you like it?”

“I think it's delicious,” Hallan said, lifting a big spoonful.

“So glad to hear it.” Vera's mother wrinkled her nose and turned to strike up a conversation with Arthur about his latest building project.

Vera leaned toward Hallan and spoke under her breath. “Don't toy with her like that. She hates it.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” he said quietly. “You're both so very interested in me.”

She rubbed her palms on her skirt, then reached for her drink. “You ought to be more careful with her.”

“Do you mean I won't be invited back to the house? Shame. I'd better make the most of tomorrow, then. Are you going out to the beach in the morning?”

“I haven't decided.”

“I'd like to join you on the beach, if you go.”

“Whatever you like. Caroline will likely let the children go. You'll have someone to play with.”

Hallan sucked in a breath through his teeth. “And here I was hoping you'd play with me.”

Vera's spoon clattered against her bowl, and heads all around the table swiveled. “So sorry,” she said. “Lost my grip.”

Poppy frowned. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, I'm fine.” Vera forced a smile.

Arthur pointed at Hallan. “Tell me, when did you move to Paris? I expect after the war, of course. But that wouldn't have given you much time to finish your studies.”

Hallan's jaw clenched. “Got there just at the end of the war, actually. Did you serve?”

A smirk flicked across Arthur's lips. “No. Flat feet. And I was needed here. War effort, and all that. You know,” Arthur said to Vera's mother, “I haven't even seen any of his paintings. Vera saw some photographs, but I haven't seen anything.”

“The photographs were very good. The paintings looked good in them, I mean,” Vera said through a constricting throat. Though Arthur had not been part of the conversation between her mother and Hallan, he had certainly been listening to it. He must not have liked what he heard. Now he was gunning for Hallan as well.

“Is that so?” Vera's mother turned to Hallan. “Do tell us about your work.”

“Perhaps Vera ought to describe it,” Hallan said. “I just paint, but she went to college to study how to talk about art. I'm sure you'd rather hear it in her words. You must love to hear her talk about art.”

Arthur waved Vera off before she could speak again. “I'd like to hear how you see what you do. For example, is it real art you do, or that modern sort?”

Hallan locked eyes with him. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You know.” Arthur offered him a hard, cold smile. “The things they try to pass off as art these days. Even in the paintings, it doesn't look like anything. A bunch of lines, shapes, things a child could do. Is that what you do, or do you paint in the more traditional style?”

“I know not if you would know the difference.” Hallan's voice was strained, rigid.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You have the oddest way of phrasing things at times, Mr. Hallan, did you know that? Is that the French influence on your speech?”

Vera stood, her gloves dropping out of her lap. “You know, I'm not feeling well after all. Arthur, will you walk me to the room, please?”

“Of course, dear.” Arthur held Hallan's gaze a moment longer, though every other eye was on Vera.

As she took Arthur's arm and left the room, she heard Hallan making his apologies as well, attributing his own illness to the extended car travel. She was relieved not to be leaving him alone with her mother, but she could not have stayed for his sake. Besides, she wanted a private word with Arthur.

When the bedroom door closed behind them, she dropped his arm. “Why were you and my mother going after Hallan like that? The whole scene was unpardonably rude, he's a guest.”

“He's not my guest. He's a painter, for God's sake, I have no idea why your mother wanted him here in the first place.”

“Do you think he's an imposter? If you think that, why not come out and say it?”

“Because I don't care who he is. If he does the work I've hired him for, I'll pay him. If not, I won't. Doesn't matter what the man calls himself. I could hire a vagrant off the street to paint that wall whatever color he likes. If I say he's an artist, those damn biddies in the building will swoon anyway.”

“But what if he means to rob someone? What if he's dangerous?”

“Then I'll call the police and have him locked away. Do you honestly think the man is dangerous? Really, Vera, I expected this foolishness from the others, but not from you. Do you really care what he paints on the pool room wall? Or what school he says he's studied at?” Arthur brushed off his shoulder with his hand and straightened his jacket. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go finish my dinner.”

Before Vera could say anything else, he strode out and slammed the door behind him. She sank onto the bed and took a shaky breath. She had been foolish to encourage Arthur's suspicions, though her questioning likely came more out of anger at herself than any real distrust of Hallan. Of course she did not believe he was dangerous, and his hesitancy to talk about his upbringing could merely be because his family was poor or in disgrace of some kind. Her mother had been playing the game she loved to play with those she did not feel belonged. And Arthur was right. The worst Hallan could do was leave the pool wall unpainted.

But that was not what bothered her most. What bothered her more than any question of his identity or intention was that she could not stop thinking about the look of wonder on his face when he described the portrait in the museum. Or the feel of his breath in her ear as they danced, or the scrawl of the lines on the card he left for her. No, the worst would not be to leave without completing his work. The worst would be if all of it, his captivated gaze at the paintings and at her, turned out to be a lie.