A Fine Imitation (30 page)

Vera and Hallan continued to meet in the mornings, and he left his apartment after she did each time. He said he was working, and wanted to complete the job as soon as possible, given the increasingly hostile environment in the building. She had to admit that he was right about that. Every tea, luncheon, card game, and dinner she went to was consumed with talk of who Hallan might really be. Vera gave up defending him, not wishing to draw suspicions to herself. She hoped the men had forgotten their drunken decision to hire an investigator, but as she left one Wednesday to meet her mother for lunch, she discovered they had not forgotten a thing.

She got off the elevator on the ground floor, and her shoes clicked across the marble tiles as she made her way to the glass doors. Before she reached the entrance, the doorman let Clarence Bloomer in, along with a man Vera did not recognize.

“Vera,” Clarence called across the lobby. “Do you have a moment? I'd like you to meet Mr. Stanton.”

Mr. Stanton removed his bowler hat and nodded at her. He had a sturdy frame and wide, sad-dog eyes that made Vera feel she ought to rub his back and say soothing things.

“Mr. Stanton, is it? How do you do?” she said, with a discreet glance at her watch to be sure she was not running late for lunch.

“This is Mrs. Arthur Bellington, the wife of the building's owner and designer,” Clarence said.

“Ah. So nice to meet you.” Stanton took in the high ceilings of the lobby. “It's a grand building, just grand.”

Clarence lowered his voice. “Mr. Stanton is the investigator I've hired to look into our little mystery.”

Heat rose in Vera's face. “You're honestly going through with that? Forgive me, Mr. Stanton, I'm sure you do wonderful work. But really, Clarence. This is ludicrous.”

“Well. Humph. We'll see about that, won't we? Come on, Stanton. We ought to get upstairs so we can talk more in private.” Clarence strode toward the elevator.

“Yes. Right away.” Stanton turned to Vera and spoke in a low tone. “If you're worrying about a scandal in your building, I wouldn't, Mrs. Bellington. In my line of work, I find most people prefer to see ghosts where there are none.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, thank you.”

He inclined his head again and followed Clarence to the elevator.

“Mrs. Bellington?”

Vera turned. The doorman stood holding the door open.

“Your car's here,” he continued.

She hesitated, then left the building.

All through lunch with her mother and the evening that followed, Vera feared her nerves might jitter right out of her head. The investigator was here; he was right in the building, and he was on the hunt. What might he find out? And how quickly? If Hallan was not the man he said, would she want to know who he really was?

Alone in her bed that night, she sat up in the darkness, hugging her knees to her chest and trying not to think of what awful things she might learn. At last, she threw on a simple dress and went down the stairs to his apartment. She knew she should not wake him in the middle of the night. Worse still to wake his servants and have them talking. But she had to see him. Nothing else would suffice.

She had to knock twice before she got an answer, and even then it took five full minutes. The valet came to the door, bleary-eyed and blinking.

“And who should I tell him is calling?” the man asked.

“Just tell him someone's at the door, please. I believe he'll understand.” Vera had to credit Ida's choice in servants. The man was a professional who asked the right thing, even at three o'clock in the morning.

At last Hallan appeared. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He rushed to Vera, leading her in.

“Thank you, Michael, that will be all.” Hallan waited for the valet to leave. “Good Lord, Vera, what's the matter?”

Panic made her words tremble. “He's here. The private investigator. I've met him.”

Hallan slumped against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is that all? I told you, there's nothing to find.”

Vera shook all over, her nervous energy getting the better of her at last. “Who are you? You must tell me everything. You must. I'll find out anyway.”

Hallan grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down. Please. Come on, let's go talk.” He took her hand and started for the bedroom, but she tore her hand away. “We can't talk in the living room,” he said. “It's too close to the servants' rooms. Come with me.”

She followed him to the bedroom, where he closed the door. He pulled a chair from the corner, and Vera sat. If she touched him, she might lose her resolve.

“Who are you, really? Why won't you tell me anything?” she asked in a whisper.

He sighed. “I can't.”

“Are you a crook? Did you come here for money?”

“I came here for money for the work I'm doing. I would never steal.”

“Then you're really working?”

“I am. Of course I am.” He held up a hand, paint around the edges of his nails.

She sat silent, less terrified of the question she was about to ask than of its answer. “It's not just some painful memory, is it? You do have a secret.”

He stared straight ahead. “Yes.”

Vera felt as if someone had made a tiny hole in her, and everything inside was draining slowly away.

“Tell me. Tell me who you are,” she said.

“I told you, I can't.”

“You ought to leave. Get out of the city. When they find out, if it's bad enough, they'll throw you in prison. And that's not the worst of it. These are powerful men with enough money, friends, and time to make sure you regret coming here.”

He shook his head. “I have to finish the job first.”

“Why don't you have any work in the apartment?”

He looked at her askance. “Why would I have work in the apartment? I'm not painting a mural in here.”

“You have to show it to me. If you're really painting, I want to see it.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I don't want to show it to anyone until it's done. But you'll be the first, all right? Is that enough?”

“Enough?” She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “Emil, you lied to me. Whatever the truth is, it must be terrible. Am I wrong?”

“It's not bad in the way you think. You won't hate me, I swear it. I will tell you everything when the work is done. And it will all make sense. Please. Believe me.”

She dropped her eyes to the floor. “You know we can't see each other anymore.”

He stood and crossed to her, laying a hand on her arm. “Vera, darling, nothing has changed, has it? I'm still the man I was. You know now there's something I haven't told you about myself, but that's true of everyone you know, I'd wager. Arthur…even your mother. Everyone has secrets. And I will tell you. Later.”

Her shoulders drooped. He was right. She had withheld her secrets from him, for fear of what he would think. But she could not carry on with this man and whatever he was hiding. To do so would be too reckless. Even if Arthur would not be jealous, he would certainly make her sorry she embarrassed him. The other women would drop her from society. And her mother…no telling what her mother would do. But worst of all would be letting Hallan play her for a fool. She balled her hands into fists and gritted her teeth.

“No,” she said. “I can't continue what we shouldn't have started in the first place.”

He took her hand, easing the fingers from their clench. “I told you before, you've seen my art. That's the most important thing. All you need to know about me is in those paintings, my whole soul, everything I am. And I will tell you all those details you seem to feel are so important. I will. But I want you to see what I'm working on first. When you see that, it won't matter what I tell you.”

“How can you say that? How can you be sure?”

“I just know it.” A sad smile crossed his lips. “You love something about me, don't you? I know you do. Trust me now. You don't have to come here anymore, you don't even have to look at me if you don't want to. But allow me to show you the painting when it's done. Then I'll tell you everything.”

She thought of the pang she felt when she first saw the photos of his paintings. Of the irresistible pull deep within her since then. She took a step back. “I'd better go. I don't want your servants telling everyone there was a woman here all night.”

He nodded. “If that's what you want.”

Despite all the objections of her rational mind, it was not what she wanted. She tried to force her feet to carry her to the door, but instead she threw herself into his arms. He kissed her, as though his lips could erase all her fears and doubts. There was something, some part of him she had glimpsed, that insisted he was who she knew him to be. He gave her something she needed, something she had not had for a long time. But he was also pulling her closer to a choice she had been faced with once before, between the demands of her heart and the obligations of her life. She did not want to be tempted by the same mistake again, but she could no longer see clearly which choice was right.