A Fine Imitation (3 page)

The knots that gathered in Vera's shoulders during every visit with her mother began to untangle as she headed home after lunch to the Angelus building. Her husband, Arthur, had built the Angelus in 1919, intending to make the other luxury properties springing up on Park Avenue look like tenement housing. He may not have shamed them to that extent, but there was no question that the building dominated the block, as he and Vera dominated the society within the building. Four golden angel statues topped the roof, their wings tucked, and they glared down at Vera as she left her car and went into the lobby.

She nodded a greeting to the elevator operator as she stepped on, and he took her up to the twentieth floor. She let herself into the penthouse, her low heels clicking on the green marble floor of the foyer. A tall, silver-haired man in a dark suit came in at the sound. His long nose and pinched face always put Vera in mind of an eagle, fixed on some prey in the distance. She removed her gloves, and he accepted them with a nod of greeting.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellington.”

“Hello, Evans. Has my husband phoned?”

“No, madam.”

She did not know why she had asked. Still, arrangements needed to be made in case he did come home. “Please let me know when you hear from him. I'll need to be sure Gertrude times dinner for his arrival.”

“Yes, madam. Would you like me to bring up some wine for you and Mr. Bellington?”

“He'll want a bottle of the cabernet, will you fetch that? Not the '02, the '07.” Vera brushed a hair from her forehead, then checked her chignon to make sure there were no other escapees. Everything in its place. “Oh, and please send Marguerite to my room,” she continued. “Tell her I want to change into the black silk with silver beading for dinner.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Thank you, Evans. That will be all for now.”

Evans bowed slightly, then turned and went back through the door to Vera's right, which led from the foyer to the servants' rooms in the rear of the apartment. The three other huge oak doors on the semicircular foyer led to the library, the dining room, and the drawing room, and above them rose a dual staircase that led to the private areas of the home.

Vera took the right-hand staircase up to the hall, her steps muted by the thick red rug that ran up to the second floor. The door to the bedroom she shared with her husband, when he was not out of town for business, was the fourth one on the left. There were six bedrooms in all, although Vera toyed with the idea of turning the conservatory into a seventh; they never used it, after all. But then they hardly used the other bedrooms, either. Though they entertained regularly, they did not have overnight guests often.

The master bedroom held a huge brass bed, and one wall had a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view. Off the main room were Vera's dressing room, Arthur's dressing room, and a black-and-white marble bath. Inside the bathroom was a claw-foot tub Vera had purchased in France before the war, an item she was especially proud to have found. She went into the dressing room and sat on the stool at the vanity. While waiting for her lady's maid to bring her gown, she began removing her few items of day jewelry.

In the moment of solitude, Vera's conversation with her mother pushed its way back to the front of her mind. She wished she had not mentioned feeling lonely, but then
lonely
was not the most precise word. Her mother had been right; there were her so-called friends, there were charities. Though her mother failed to mention that most of Vera's time spent on charitable causes was limited to writing checks. The constant stream of dinner parties, teas, and luncheons meant Vera rarely had any time not occupied by other people. Arthur's work had kept him away from home throughout their marriage, so that was nothing new. Other women she knew had become mothers well before Vera's age, but the time never seemed to be right for her marriage to transition naturally to a family, so she had waited. Still, she wanted more from her husband, and more in general, and lately the need tugged harder at her. So perhaps the word she wanted was not
lonely
, but
neglected
. Or isolated. She wondered what her mother would have thought of that.

The maid, a slight girl with wispy blond hair, slipped into the room. She held the dress Vera had requested. “Good afternoon, madam.”

“Ah, Marguerite,” Vera said. “Thank you.”

Marguerite hung the dress from a bar on the wall, spreading the sleeves to avoid wrinkles. “How was lunch?”

“You've met my mother.”

The girl allowed herself a small smile. “Would you like me to arrange your hair for dinner?”

Vera patted her dark bun and adjusted a white enamel comb. “No, thank you. It still looks lovely. I will ask you to look at my calendar, though. I need a few hours set aside tomorrow to run to a gallery for my mother. It may mean calling Bessie Harper about the luncheon.”

“Of course.” Marguerite helped with the small buttons at the back of her neck, and Vera shimmied out of the yellow dress before pulling the black one over her head. The maid zipped her up and handed Vera a pair of black heels to slip on.

“Thank you, Marguerite, that will be all for now. Oh, and will you please tell Evans I'll be in the library? For when my husband phones.”

After Marguerite closed the door behind her, Vera sat on the stool once more and began to pick through the jewelry she kept in a lacquered box on the vanity. Dismissing a pair of ruby earrings, she chose understated diamond studs and decided against a necklace or bracelet. Arthur thought it distasteful for a woman to wear a lot of jewelry at home. He really only considered a display of jewelry appropriate for the theater or dining at a restaurant. He would never chide her directly, but a well-placed remark a few days later might indicate his true feelings.

When she was satisfied with her outfit, Vera left the bedroom and went back downstairs to the library. She liked the cozy feel the wood paneling gave the room, and the phonograph made it the perfect place to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail. Her favorite paintings from her collection also hung in that room, and she enjoyed the opportunity to admire them as she relaxed after the day's social visits. A colorful pastoral landscape hung above the piano. Beside the fireplace, a portrait of a sad-looking young man in Edwardian garb. Near the tall window, a few delicately posed ballerinas.

There was even a portrait of Vera herself, done right after she and Arthur moved into the Angelus. She sighed as she crossed to the liquor cart. The portrait was her least favorite, and she frequently thought of taking it down. It was unlikely anyone would notice if she did. She was convinced she was the only one who ever so much as glanced at any of the works that graced the walls, but she could spend hours looking them over, standing close enough to see each brushstroke, each gradient of color. No matter where she found herself, a well-chosen piece had the ability to make her feel more at home. She was of the opinion that good art lent a kind of dignity to everything.

Evans would have mixed her a drink if she had used the bell to summon him, but she preferred to pour her own. She placed an opera recording on the phonograph and had just lifted the crystal decanter when the phone rang in the distance. Her pulse quickened, but she continued mixing her cocktail, waiting for word that the call was for her. After a few moments, Evans stepped in.

“Madam, Mr. Bellington regrets he will be unable to dine at home this evening. He has an important meeting with clients.”

Vera's heart sank. The question
Again?
bounced against the inside of her mouth, but she did not let it out. The butler was hardly the man to bring into her personal troubles. She brought her gin and tonic to her lips to give herself a moment for composure. When she finally spoke, her voice remained pleasingly calm. “Thank you, Evans. Please tell Gertrude we'll only need one plate tonight.”

“Yes, madam. Will you take your dinner in the dining room?”

She hesitated. The thought of eating at the long table by herself for one too many nights in a row, with no sound but the scrape of her fork on her plate, was daunting. “You know, on second thought, I had a good bit to eat this afternoon,” she lied. “I'll call if I want anything.”

The butler inclined his head, then left the library. Vera, cocktail in hand, sank into a maroon leather chair. Around her the music swelled, accompanied by the occasional clink of ice in her glass, as she studied her paintings, alone and hungry.

Vera startled at a knock on her dorm room door. She hadn't expected company, and had even hung the placard on the door to indicate that she was studying. She slid a ribbon between the pages in her history text and stood, smoothing the loose strands of her hair back. The person on the other side of the door, still determined to ignore any wish for privacy, turned the knob.

“Vera, are you there?” Bea popped her head into the room, her blue eyes shining.

“Yes, you ninny, what did you think the ‘studying' sign was about?” Vera dropped back into her desk chair.

Bea frowned at the front of the door. “Oh. That. I didn't notice.” She stepped into the room, holding a silver tin aloft. “I had an important delivery to make.”

Vera accepted the tin and pried the lid off. A dark, sugary smell burst out from the soft-edged squares inside. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “You lovely dear. I have been thinking about fudge all week.”

Bea lolled on Vera's bed, her legs dangling off the side. “Why else would I have brought it? You haven't been thinking about it, you've been delivering entire sermons on it.”

“Because it's heaven.” Vera took a bite, letting the chocolate melt on her tongue. The sweetness seemed to curl through her mouth and into her chattering brain, pushing away the names and dates she'd spent the past hours trying to cram in. She let out a sigh.

“That good, eh?” Bea sat up. “Maybe I ought to have kept it all for myself.”

Vera held the tin out of Bea's reach. “Well, you didn't, so now you'll have to share.”

Bea laughed. “And by ‘share,' you mean I'll get the crumbs left when you're done.”

Vera ate another chunk, then pointed at Bea. “Why aren't you studying?

“I'm a natural genius, didn't I tell you? I don't study for anything.”

“And the essay for English?”

“How did you know about that? You're not even in that class.”

“Ella Gregory mentioned it after dinner a few nights ago. Have you started?”

“I will soon enough. Don't you worry on my account.”

“I won't.”

Bea lifted a piece of stationery from the bedside table. Her eyes widened. “Ooh, is this a love letter?”

Vera rolled her eyes. “It's a letter to a friend from finishing school. But she's married and living in England now.”

“Married already.” Bea clicked her tongue. “Lucky duck.”

“You wouldn't say that if you could see who she's married to, or where she lives. She's in a broken-down estate in the middle of nowhere. Wouldn't you prefer to be here?”

“Sure, but wouldn't you like to have it all settled?” A flash of annoyance crossed Bea's face. “I'd like to have it decided, so I don't have to wonder anymore.”

Vera took the letter back from Bea and placed it on her desk. “It is settled for me, as far as I know. I've got Arthur. At least, I expect I'll have Arthur. A whole summer of coming to the shore every weekend and escorting me to the soda fountain isn't nothing, even if Daddy did put him up to it. I'd say if he doesn't propose when I'm home for Christmas, he never will.” A little thrill ran through Vera as she thought of Arthur down on one knee, his cool blue eyes pleading a bit. She would never admit, not even to Bea, that she had practiced saying yes, had imagined him sweeping her into his arms for the first time.

Bea's dry tone put a momentary end to the fantasy. “Ah, yes. The terribly un-scandalous, un-forbidden Arthur.”

“I know you're only joking, but he is a nice man at heart, even if he isn't quite as lively as you.” Vera held out her wrist, which was encircled by a thin gold braid. “Look, he sent me this, isn't it pretty?”

Bea inspected the bracelet. “It is…”

“What?” Vera pulled her arm back.

“I don't know. It doesn't…look like you. The one your father gave you is much more your style.”

“Of course Daddy knows me better. I'm sure Arthur's not used to buying jewelry.”

Bea's smile was a white flag. “It's a beautiful bracelet, really. And Arthur will have years to get to know your style, won't he? Did he send a note with it? Where are you hiding his love letters? You know I really want to see those.”

“He's written a few times, but hardly what you'd call love letters. They might as well be telegrams. For all of his good points, he's no poet.” She giggled. “ ‘Dearest Vera, stop. How is Poughkeepsie? stop. Business is fine, stop.' ”

“ ‘Can't stop thinking about you, stop.' ” Bea laughed. “But then who cares if he's romantic? That's not the point, is it? He's disgustingly rich. That's all I need from a husband.”

Vera sat on the bed beside Bea, her back against the wall, and elbowed her. “You don't want a little romance in your life?”

A wicked smile curved up the side of Bea's face. “I'll have loads of romance, of course. But who needs a husband for that?”

Vera glanced at the open door. “Honestly, Bea.”

“I'll have to marry someone as rich as Arthur, and then we can live in the same building. We'll patronize the same charities, serve on the same boards, and you'll always have me around to bring you candy and say shocking things.” Bea settled against the wall and laid her head on Vera's shoulder.

“You don't think you'll go back to Atlanta? Not that I want you to.”

Bea pursed her lips. “Atlanta has lost its charms for me. No, I'm planning to stay here, if you'll have me.”

“We'll make you into a real New Yorker. I'm sure Arthur has some friends. Shall I play matchmaker?”

“Sweet of you to offer, but I've got a cousin at Yale, remember? Some of those boys are downright gorgeous. Then again, who knows? If that doesn't work out, I might be interested in taking my chances with Arthur's friends.” Bea lifted her head, turning to admire a postcard Vera had pinned to the wall. “I love your room. I ought to do mine up.”

“Maybe your room is all done up, and you just can't see it under all the mess,” Vera said.

“Then we'll never know, because the mess is there to stay, sadly.”

Vera looked around, trying to see what her room must look like to someone who didn't spend hours every day there. On the walls, she displayed cards, prints, newspaper articles, and ticket stubs from museums she loved. Fragrant sprigs of dried lavender and rosemary, picked over the spring months and stored carefully in her trunks over the summer, ringed the window. The room was smaller than a maid's room at her summer house, but she would never have been able to decorate her expansive suite in her home in the city the way she did here. Even when she removed nearly everything for one of her mother's infrequent visits, her mother still complained of the clutter. Still, there wasn't much about Vera's college experience that didn't wrinkle her mother's nose. She could not abide the dining room, even when it was emptied of gossiping young women. The quad had been declared “too airy,” the classrooms “musty,” and she had no intention of going to the art gallery on the fourth floor of the Main Building at all. Even with her mother's dissatisfaction, which had begun the minute Vera mentioned going to college in the first place, Vera loved every moment. She dreaded the coming May. Graduation would make the whole experience disappear like a dream.

The snap of the fudge tin lid next to her brought Vera out of her reverie. She watched Bea select a piece with a slight smile. If what Bea said was true, and they both married men of good standing, Vera could have a reminder of her college days with her in the city. Maybe a bit of fun, too. Maybe she should talk to Arthur about a friend for Bea.

“Come on,” Bea said through a mouthful of candy. “Let's go to Sunset Lake. This might be the last of the really warm days we get.” She caught Vera's peek at the desk. “Studying can wait. You've got all day tomorrow. Let's go.”

Bea stood and grabbed Vera's hands, pulling her off the bed. With a guilty glance at her books, Vera followed Bea out.