A Fine Imitation (29 page)

“And so I did all those things I thought would be so lovely and romantic. I toured the Louvre, the Coliseum, standing close to families so people wouldn't know I was alone. I stood in the Prado, in front of my favorite painting in the world, and cried. I'm sure people thought I was a passionate soul.” She sniffled. “But I realized, standing there, that I was at the edge of the loneliest precipice of my life.”

Hallan gave her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.

“I have so much, I feel ungrateful,” she continued. “How can I be so sad when there's so much tragedy I'm not living?”

He considered this. “You're living the tragedy you know.”

“I feel like there's this other woman I should have been. Almost was. Someone vibrant and happy. And she starved.”

He reached up and stroked her hair. “She's still in there. I see her.”

Vera looked at him expectantly, and he withdrew his hand. He sat in silence, the muscles of his jaw tense, opening his mouth once or twice before beginning.

“I…my father died when my brother and I were very young. Peter—my brother—he was older. I was a baby, so I never knew Papa. My mother…now, I did know her. When she got sick, Grandmother came to take care of us. I was about five then.” His eyes lit up. “Grandmother was wonderful. She's the reason I came to love art. Part of the reason. And Peter. He's my best friend.”

“You left them behind? Are they in Paris?”

“Peter is in France, but not Paris. Grandmother is in London, but…well, I don't write her like I should.”

She sighed. “It doesn't sound like there's anything in your past dark enough to justify worrying the residents so.”

“There's something dark in everyone's past,” he said.

Vera thought of the wreckage of her friendship with Bea, the only person other than Hallan to see that woman who might have been. For all Vera's sadness at having lost her friend, she was almost as sad to have lost that piece of herself.

The clock on the mantel chimed, and he stood.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to work. If your friends are forming a mob, I won't be welcome long.”

“But I'll tell them there's nothing to worry about.”

“Do you think they'll believe you?” He smiled. “Don't worry. And come earlier tomorrow, all right?”

“All right,” she said vaguely.

He saw her to the door, kissing her before opening it. “I want to get the painting done before they break down the door or some other such madness. No one can see it half finished.”

She nodded and headed for the stairwell. Taking the steps slowly, she wondered over their exchange. He seemed to be telling the truth about his family, but there was so much he did not say. And, despite her assertions to the contrary, she felt she was falling more in love with him even though she knew so little.

The next morning, Vera went down to the dining room as the first glimmer of dawn peeked over the trees in the park. She would not have guessed Arthur had been home at some point, were it not for the newspaper at his place setting, folded neatly beside an empty coffee cup. She debated ringing to have her own breakfast brought in but decided she would rather not eat with only his remnants for company. She rounded the table and caught sight of a headline that sent an icy bolt through her:
SUSPECTED
HEAD
OF
ART
FORGERY
RING
ARRESTED
. Her hand shook as she lifted the paper. She scanned the article for the most important details.
A man calling himself Michael Fleming…victims among the city's elite…arrested at his gallery…

No mention of Bea. No mention of anyone else, except to say that the ongoing investigation would likely turn up accomplices. Of course there would be accomplices. A memory of the
Bon Ton
cover Bea had re-created for her surfaced again. How the colors had matched exactly. And Bea had copied her mother's letterhead and signature so perfectly, even going so far as to replicate the embossing. Perhaps she had spent the decade since their college days perfecting her technique.

Bea would be discovered and arrested, no doubt about that. Vera sank into a chair and set the newspaper on the table. If only…but there was no sense thinking of “if”s. Bea's choices were her own. Her ruin would be, too. Vera wished she could believe that Bea was only a secretary, but the evidence left no question. If Vera was honest, there had never been any question to begin with. There was only one good reason Bea would be working in that gallery among forged paintings. Vera only hoped that she was smart enough not to get caught. She had imagined so many exciting lives for Bea over the years; but here was proof that Bea had simply taken too many wrong turns, too many risks. Vera had to stop blaming herself. Some people were born to turn out bad, and nothing anyone could do would change that.

Vera's plan to find Bea and talk the whole mess out had failed. After they left the café, her mother had insisted on staying by her side until Vera's appointment with the dean, Miss McCaleb, on Monday afternoon. She hadn't even been allowed to sleep in her dorm. She'd stayed with her mother in the hotel that night. That morning, her mother agreed that Vera needed to go to her room to get a change of clothes, although they went together for that, too.

A small part of Vera held out hope that Bea might be sitting on her bed, waiting for her when they arrived. Her mother might not permit them to have a full conversation, but Vera could at least say something that would help make sense of the situation. A few steps ahead of her mother, Vera swung the door open, but the bed was empty. Her heart sank until she heard a rustle under her foot. She scooped up the paper and put it inside her coat before her mother saw.

Back at the hotel, her mother freshened up for lunch. “Aren't you coming down?” she asked.

“I'm sorry, Mother. I have a headache. I think I'd better rest.”

Her mother looked her over. “Whatever you like. But I've got the whole staff looking out, and they know not to allow any telephone calls from this room.”

Vera held in a sigh. “I'm not going to try anything. I know better than that.”

Her mother nodded. As soon as the door closed, Vera pulled the letter from her coat. The grand flourishes of Bea's handwriting covered the front and back of the page.

Vera,

I'd hoped to see you, but I guess you're with your mother, and I'll bet she's angry. My mother almost didn't let me out of her sight long enough for me to write this.

I'm in real trouble. I thought it would only be probation. I've known girls who snuck out. That's how I got all the test answers and essays—I forged letters for a few of them. I should have told you, and I'm sorry. But the girls who got caught never got more than probation.

And it's worse—they've found out about the cheating. Professor Harrison figured it out from the test last week. And there's something I never told you about Agnes Scott. I've been in trouble before. I would have told you about it, but I didn't want you to think less of me. It's silly, because I know you're my true friend, and I know you'll understand.

There was an art professor at Agnes Scott, Professor Lewis. She thought I had talent, thought I should do more with my art. Just like you, she thought I should eventually go on to a studio program. She had studied in Paris and Chicago, she knew what she was talking about. The school wouldn't let us use nude models, but she mentioned that someday I'd have to work with nudes if I wanted a full art education. You know me—I couldn't resist. I didn't want to wait until I was in Paris or somewhere, surrounded by more experienced artists. I didn't want to look like a fool who didn't know anything. I dogged Professor Lewis until she gave me the contact information of a model I could practice with. A male model.

I arranged to meet with him after hours in one of the studios. I don't know why I didn't go off campus, that would have been the smart thing to do. I thought my roommate was asleep, but when she saw me leave so late, she went to the dorm matron. Sure enough, when she walked in, there I was alone in a classroom with a naked man. You can imagine what everyone thought, and I couldn't bring Professor Lewis into it. I didn't want to get her in trouble, too. I tried to explain, but I know how fake it must have sounded. The school agreed to keep it quiet if my parents took me out. I'm sure there was money involved, too.

I wanted to tell you everything. Now that I've come clean, I hope you'll forgive me for not telling you sooner. It wasn't what they thought it was, but it was enough to make my family send me here. I don't know what they'll do if I get expelled from Vassar, too. My father might throw me out when he finds out I'm in trouble again.

Maybe if you say something on my behalf, make it look better than it is, the school might reconsider. After all, you always follow the rules, and you're a model student. And your family is so respected—they'd listen to you. It's the only thing I can think of, and I'm desperate. This was supposed to be a fresh start for me, and now I've spoiled it.

Please help me any way you can think of. You're my dear and loving friend, and always will be, no matter what.

Love,

B.

If Vera didn't have a headache before reading the letter, she had a fierce one after. If she did what her mother asked, Bea would be expelled, which would cast an indelible shadow over her entire future. Even though Vera was frustrated Bea hadn't trusted her with the real reason for her transfer to Vassar, Vera knew Bea well enough to believe her version of the story. She didn't deserve to be punished for simply wanting to learn more about art, even if she had foolishly decided to involve a nude male model in her efforts. It was a youthful mistake, not a serious transgression. But if Vera did what Bea wanted, Vera's own prospects would be damaged, and not just with Arthur. The gossips of high society would never stop passing around the story about the Longacres' only daughter traipsing around unchaperoned with boys overnight. The tale would only grow worse as it reached the ears of any potential suitor, and Cliff, the one man who wouldn't hold it against her, would never be an acceptable choice now. He had only ever been a childish dream anyway.

What could she even say that would make things better for Bea? The facts told the complete story. They snuck out. They spent the night away and went out with boys without chaperones. Bea alone had faked the letters. She was a cheater who had once been caught alone in a room with a nude man. Vera could not dress any of it up to make what happened look less like the truth. Still, Vera couldn't stand the idea of saving herself while letting her friend suffer. Bea loved her, really loved her, without wanting anything more from her than her friendship. That was clear now.

The impossible choice tore at her. She could not satisfy both her mother and her conscience. She only had an hour to decide before her meeting with the dean.