A Fine Imitation (7 page)

“As head of the Mural Board, I feel I should certainly be there to welcome Mr. Hallan,” Ida said, her hand fluttering to her chest.

“I ought to go,” Caroline Litchfield cut in. “I'm the head of the Welcoming Committee, and he could be considered a new resident.”

“I want to go,” Poppy Hastings said.

“Why should you go?” Vera asked.

Poppy's cheeks colored. “I speak French.”

Vera pressed her lips together for a moment, summoning all her patience. “He speaks English perfectly. Or at least he writes it. If we crowd the car with a delegation, there will be no room for Mr. Hallan, to say nothing of his trunk.”

“We could take two cars.” Poppy's voice lifted with hope.

“Why only two?” Bessie Harper asked, in her usual dry tone. “We could all arrive in separate cars. Give him a grand welcome. Let him know he's meeting the upper crust.”

A faint line of confusion appeared between Ida's brows. “I suppose that would be grand…”

Vera cut in without giving Ida a chance to decide if Bessie was serious. “I really don't think that's necessary. We'll all have a chance to meet him. He'll be working here for a while. Besides, the night after he arrives I'm having a dinner party. He won't have been here more than a day, and you'll all have met him. Then Ida's having cocktails, and didn't you mention a luncheon, Caroline? You'll be positively sick of him before two weeks are done.” She pulled her shoulders back and spoke in her most authoritative tone. “Ida and I will go. That will be plenty of welcome.”

Caroline nodded. “Of course.”

“I suppose,” Poppy said, deflated.

“Be sure to take an extra car or two, just in case,” Bessie added.

After the ladies left, Vera lingered in the library. Why had she said she would go? Ida ought not go alone, but Vera had not really meant to volunteer herself. She was as anxious as the others to catch a glimpse of the artist, but she felt as if there were a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She thought again of the paintings in the photographs, and stood to pour a drink. What if he was not the man those paintings made him seem to be?

With a knot of apprehension in her chest, Vera climbed into the backseat of a car with Ida two weeks later. Though Vera looked out the window as they cruised through the city, her mind was too clouded with a jumble of thoughts to notice much. At the docks, they waited in the car while the driver took a sign with Hallan's name on it and went down to retrieve him.

“In that letter he sent your husband, did he say how old he is?” Ida asked.

“You know, I don't think he did.”

Ida sighed. “I don't suppose he said what he looks like. No, he wouldn't, would he?”

Vera tugged the band of her thin silver watch. “You'll see him soon enough.”

“He must be a young man, don't you think? If he's just starting to make a name for himself. And to think, our building will have his first major work.” Ida tittered. “We'll say, ‘Oh yes, it's an original Hallan.' And then you know 863 Park will have to have one.”

Vera fanned herself. “Hmm. Does it seem a bit warm in here to you?”

“Are you feeling well?” Ida asked, leaning in.

“I need a bit of fresh air. I'm going to step out.” Vera opened the car door to a blast of the sour sea air only found near docks. She stood by the side of the car, scanning the crowds for the driver and fighting the trapped feeling the cramped car gave her. The hot air did not help revive her.

All the drivers looked the same in the sea of cars and people, with their black hats and white gloves. At last she saw Ida's driver step into view, followed by two porters lugging a trunk. Behind them was a tall, long-limbed man in a tweed suit. Ida must have been watching out the window, because as soon as the driver appeared, she leapt from the car and stood beside Vera. Ida beamed, but Vera could only stare.

The porters loaded the trunk onto the back of the car, and the driver slipped them some coins. Ida all but thrust herself at the auburn-haired young man, whose mouth lifted into a slightly baffled smile.

“You must be Mr. Hallan,” Ida cried. “What a pleasure to meet you. I'm Ida Bloomer, head of the Mural Board.” She turned, holding out a hand to indicate Vera. “And this is Vera Bellington. Her husband owns the Angelus.”

Vera cursed Ida's ridiculous and improper introduction but kept her face still in a well-practiced expression of coolness. Hallan greeted Ida, then turned to Vera. His face was all angles, like his paintings, but with a loose, friendly grin that softened his features. His eyes were striking, the color of heaven in a children's illustrated Bible, all faded blue-green and glorious. She could have inspected them as she inspected the paintings on her wall, each little glint and shift in shade. She caught herself and looked away.

“Hello, Mrs. Bellington. Pleased to meet you.” He held out a hand, and she hesitated. She could not politely refuse such a gesture, but that same phantom grip that had pulled on her shoulder before held her back.

“How do you do?” she said, forcing her hand forward. He gripped it, and her cheeks grew warm. She gestured to the car, ready to go home and be done with the pleasantries. “You must be exhausted. Let's get you to your apartment, so you can settle in.”

“How was your journey?” Ida asked as she and Vera climbed into the backseat.

Hallan took the seat up front by the driver. “There was a bit of rough weather on the third and fourth days, but otherwise it was lovely. It's a beautiful ship. And the food was wonderful.”

“So glad you enjoyed it,” Ida said. “You know, Clarence and I were thinking of taking a trip on the
Leviathan
next spring. I do love Europe in the spring. Don't you, Vera?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Just lovely.” Vera looked out the window.

Ida chatted with Hallan the whole way, occasionally pulling Vera into the conversation for a word or two. She concentrated on listening, trying to place his accent. He had a clipped British accent, very posh, that sounded to Vera like the ones she had heard among the better families of London. Nothing of the aristocracy, but certainly something one would hear at a fine restaurant, and not from a waiter. Every once in a while a hint of something else would creep in at the back of his throat, a sort of hard, brushed sound, like something scraping metal. But it was fleeting and always disappeared before Vera could identify it.

A week or two had passed since Vera had exploded with questions at Bea's declaration that she would somehow be delivering boys. Uncharacteristically stoic, Bea had refused to answer, saying only that Vera should be on her guard. Despite this warning, Vera hadn't thought to be on guard as she slept in her bed.

The doorknob turned, and the sudden click woke Vera. She sat up. The stream of thought that blared through the fuzziness of sleep said there must be an emergency in the building. But Bea, not the dorm matron, appeared in the crack of light from the hall. She slipped into the room, fully dressed, and crept to Vera's bed. A tingle of relief ran down Vera's spine.

“Goodness, I thought the building was burning down,” Vera said. “What on earth are you doing?”

Bea's cheeks were flushed, and her breath carried a faint sting. “Get dressed. We're going out. Oh, and do something with your hair.”

“My hair? It's the middle of the night.”

“It's not really the middle, more like the beginning. You go to bed earlier than my grandmother.” Bea opened the wardrobe and began to paw through the skirts inside. She pulled out a royal blue one. “Ooh, this one is killing.”

Vera rubbed her eyes and slung her legs out from under the quilt. “Don't use slang.”

“Listen to you. Even half asleep, you're still a walking rule book. Here, let me pin your hair. Oh, and have a sip of this.” Bea pulled a flask from her purse and held it out to Vera.

Vera reached for the flask, and warmth hummed through her chest before she even took a drink. Her mind grew sharp, now she was wildly awake. “Where are we going?”

“To meet the boys, of course. I promised you boys. I deliver on my promises.” Bea fished combs out of the box on the dresser and started arranging them in Vera's hair. “It's my cousin—he goes to Yale—and a few of his pals from the rowing team. You'll like them.”

Vera laughed nervously. “My mother would die if she knew I was doing this. Really, she would fall down dead.”

Bea turned Vera by the shoulders to inspect her hair. “Don't tell me you're afraid to go.”

“Not at all. Let's go.” Vera pressed her fingertips to her mouth. In her excitement, her voice had gotten a bit loud. Both girls sat still, waiting for a creak in the hall or a voice from downstairs, but the building was silent. Vera moved toward the door, but Bea held her back.

“Don't forget these,” she said, holding Vera's shoes. “You are ready, aren't you?”

Vera's face warmed, though her smile didn't waver. Her blood sang in her veins. She put on the shoes and followed Bea out. The night air tingled with chill, and Vera was glad she had brought her coat.

“This way,” Bea said, weaving through the shadows to avoid the quad, lit brightly by the moon. They snuck across the lawn to the gravel road, where a Ford sat. In the car, Vera counted three shadowy forms. Bea got into the front seat, and arms reached out to help Vera into the back.

“Took you long enough,” the boy in the driver's seat said. He turned the key, and the car roared to life.

“Be nice,” Bea said, with an exaggerated wag of her finger. “You're in the presence of ladies now.”

The boy snorted. “I don't know your friend, but if you're a lady, then I am.”

“Maybe I should introduce you,” Bea said. “Vera, this is my cousin, Harry Morton. Harry, this is Vera Longacre.”

Harry turned his attention from the bumpy drive to the backseat. “Longacre, you say? Well, now. It is nice to meet you.”

“I think she prefers to be called Vera,” Bea said, her tone dry. “I just wanted you to know you're in polite company.”

“Looks like I'm in society,” he said.

“Don't listen to him, Vera.” Bea faced Vera after a hard swat to Harry's arm. “Introduce your friends, Harry, don't make Vera think you were raised in a barn.”

“The goofy mug on the far end is Gene,” Harry said. “The one breathing all over you is Cliff.”

Vera turned to the boys sharing the seat with her. Gene looked like a cornstalk, tall with gangly limbs and tufts of light blond hair. He shot Vera a toothy grin and waved. Cliff was a handsome athletic type, with red waves and a somber affect. He nodded at her.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. She scooted up to the edge of the seat to get close to Bea's ear. “Where are we going? You never did say.”

“To the lake. The boys are building us a bonfire.” Bea pointed to the fork ahead in the road. “Harry, that's our left.”

Harry obediently steered the jostling Ford to the left.

“Is this your car, Harry?” Vera asked.

“It is indeed. A congratulatory gift from my father for my excellent grades last year. Father knows I like the newest toys, but this was a surprise,” Harry said.

Concealed by the darkness, Vera raised her eyebrows. If Harry's family had bought a college-age boy his own car, that told her everything she needed to know about their wealth.

Gene leaned over Cliff. “So, Vera, how do you like Vassar?”

“I like it very much.”

“Are you a junior like Bea?”

“A senior.”

“And do you study anything in particular?”

Vera groaned inwardly. This was turning into one of those conversations she had with her parents' friends. The patronizing guesses at what her work must be like or what they actually do at women's colleges would come next. And the gentlemen always liked to get in a little dig about the higher education of women in general. A glance at Gene's smiling eyes made her more sympathetic, and she pushed back her reluctance. “I've concentrated on art history. The Spanish masters mainly, but Vassar has a wonderful program. The instructors give a thorough grounding in all the major movements and European schools.”

“I took an art history class,” Gene said, “but I'm afraid I was hopeless at it. Couldn't tell any of the paintings apart. You must have a good eye.”

“I don't know if I can say that, but thank you,” Vera said. “What do you study?”

“Finance,” Harry piped up from the front. “Same as all of us. Same as anyone with good sense.”

“I thought you studied law,” Bea said.

“Never got the hang of all that Latin,” Harry said. “Might as well do something in a language I know.”

“Are you claiming to know English now?” Bea asked with a snort.

“Better than you lot from Georgia.” Harry drew out the vowels in the word with gusto.

“I'm betting I know finance better than you.”

Now it was Harry's turn to let out a grunt of derision. “Not likely. I saw how you spent your parents' money at Agnes Scott.”

Even in the dim light from the windshield, Vera could see Bea's angry glare. Harry wisely said no more. Vera was curious to know what Harry had meant by that, but did not want to receive the type of look Harry had gotten by asking.

They puttered along through the countryside, their chatter turning amiably to classes and teachers. Vera noticed Cliff didn't jump in to add to the other boys' funny stories, but it wasn't as though he was falling asleep. He sat, silent but alert, his eyes mostly on the road. She wondered why he had come at all if he didn't want to be friendly.

Harry pulled the car into a clearing and cut the engine. They had arrived at the edge of a lake, and despite the brightness of the moon shimmering on the water, Vera struggled to see the boundaries in the wooded darkness. The smell of pine lit up the night air as they walked to the fire pit at the shore. Four large logs encircled the pit, evidence that they were not the first to use the site for that purpose. A pyramid of new wood stood ready, and Vera guessed that the boys must have come by before picking them up at school.

She settled on a log beside Bea, and the three boys made a show of getting the fire going. If Cliff had been reticent in the car, he was not now. He strode around, instructing the other two and shooting glances at Vera and Bea.

“He's divine, isn't he?” Bea asked in a quiet voice, her cheek nearly touching Vera's. “Don't worry, if you want him, he's yours. He is a thing of beauty.”

Vera had to admit that Cliff was handsomer than she'd been able to see in the shadows of the car. The new flames of the fire made his auburn hair look even redder and lit up his square jaw. Arthur popped, unwelcome, into her mind. Though she found Arthur handsome, he'd never provoked quite the same warmth in her chest she got when she looked at Cliff. She turned away to keep the heat from rising into her face, where Bea would easily read it.

“I guess you've met him before?” Vera asked.

“Harry's parents have a place at the Cape, I've met him there a couple of times.”

“Is Harry ‘those Stillmans'?”

“No, he's my cousin on my mother's side. His mother grew up in Atlanta, though you'd be hard-pressed to get her to admit it these days. She's even mostly gotten rid of her accent.”

“So Harry and Cliff are school friends?”

Bea nodded. “Since freshman year. I think Harry's good for Cliff. He'll introduce him to the right people. Get him moving in better circles.” Bea noted Vera's surprise. “Cliff's not destitute or anything, but his family's not ‘society,' you know? Of course, I don't know that much about him. Hard to get him talking, and I've tried.”

“I bet you have.”

“You know I have. But maybe you're the one to make him come out of his shell.”

Vera guessed that if Bea couldn't tempt him, with her curves and flashing blue eyes, then he would not start telling his life story to her skinny friend. Still, when he finished with the fire, it was Vera he sat by. Bea passed her the flask, and Vera had to turn away from her devilish look. Vera took a nip, then offered the flask to Cliff.

“No, thanks,” he said. He took a small glass bottle from his inside pocket. “Brought my own.”

“How clever,” Bea said. “Then you don't have to share.”

“I don't mind sharing,” he said. He drank a bit of the brown liquid.

Before Bea could make another crack, Vera jumped in. “So, Bea tells me you're all on the rowing team?”

Gene sat on the log nearest the three of them. “That's right. Unstoppable and unbeatable.”

“I imagine that takes a lot of energy,” Bea said, undaunted by Vera's glare.

“I guess so,” Gene said. “No more than any other sport.”

“What do you say, Cliff?” Bea said. “Do you have more energy than the average boy?”

Before he could answer, Vera tried again. “Bea tells me you summer with Harry's family, Cliff. Does your family have a house on the Cape, too?”

“No, nothing like that. We've only got one house.” He peered at the fire, then stood. “Excuse me. I ought to get more kindling, or we'll lose the flame.”

He walked away, his steps crunching through the carpet of leaves surrounding the logs. Beside her, Bea struck up a lively conversation with Gene, punctuated by an occasional quip from Harry. But Vera's head swam with the alcohol's drowsy warmth, and she was content to sit quietly, watching the dark spot where Cliff disappeared into the shadows under the trees. She had the passing thought that she ought to have fewer houses, but she brushed it away. It was a silly thing to wish for, and she smiled a little at her own embarrassment.