The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (14 page)

“N-no,” I stammered. “That's ridiculous. He's a family friend of course, but—”

“If you regard me with any sort of care at all, Miss Loftin, don't lie to me.” I rose from my chair, and he turned away without apology and crossed the room. I didn't understand his anger. Even if he knew the truth, why would it affect him? Mr. Hopper opened the doors of the bar and braced himself against the frame. The careless way he'd accused me echoed in my mind. Perhaps he was accustomed to having the last word, but he wouldn't have it this time.

“I don't owe you any sort of reassurance, but I will not allow you to call me a liar, Mr. Hopper. It's fiction,” I said bluntly and he whirled on me.

“Maybe a part of it, but it's him. I saw you together tonight. Anyone would've been able to deduce you were lovers.” I shook my head, blood rising in my cheeks. Charlie was a married man, a man who'd never even kissed me. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mr. Hopper continued. “And the party in the book? I was there. I was at his party, remember?” Even across the room I could see that his knuckles had gone white around the rim of his green crystal lowball glass. “When I picked you up tonight and realized you lived next door to him, I should've known.” Was he jealous? Surely not. I'd seen him in the company of another beautiful woman only hours before.

“That's absurd,” I said, finally composing myself enough to speak without my voice shaking. “I told you. He's a family friend. The party in the book isn't remotely similar.” I hoped he could be convinced. I'd changed the location of the party to a random industrialist's ballroom, afraid that readers would connect the dots. Apparently one had regardless. I cursed under my breath for running after Charlie like a lovesick fool and mentioning that I'd seen Mr. Hopper at Charlie's party in the first place.

“I don't believe you,” he said evenly. Turning to the bar, he rummaged through the drawers. I walked across the rug, hearing the clatter of bottles behind me followed by the slap of his palm on the wood when he couldn't find what he was looking for. I looked back once, in time to see him tip a glass of scotch to his mouth. I was nearly to the door when something shattered behind me and a thud punctuated the aftermath. I whirled around, finding Mr. Hopper's broad frame crumpled against the cabinet, shattered crystal clutched in his hand.

I ran toward him and lifted his head from his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head, full lips quivering. Fleetingly, I wondered if he was dying and began to shake him.

“Mr. Hopper?” He blinked, and I jerked away from him, startled by the white occupying the expanse of his eye sockets. I rose, stumbling toward the door to fetch Doctor Hopper. I turned back to find him rubbing his eyes—his irises swung back into place. He groaned, a guttural sound that echoed through the room, and then his eyes met mine.

“What happened?” Mr. Hopper's voice was a hoarse whisper. He didn't bother to get up, likely because he couldn't. “I was so angry at him, so angry for you, and then I . . .” He trailed off, and cast his gaze to his lap. He still wasn't making sense. I knelt down in front of him.

“It seems you fainted,” I said, though I had never seen anyone look as he had. He shook his head as though the prospect was an impossibility. “We should summon your father.”

“There's no need. I feel fine now.” He ran a hand across his face and straightened against the cabinet, but didn't attempt to rise. “I'm terribly sorry for my behavior, Miss Loftin.” I tipped my head at him and started to stand, but his fingers swept across my arm, stopping me. “My words were misplaced. I didn't intend them; anger overtook me. I'll understand if my behavior has tainted your perception of the man I am. But before you go, I'd like to explain.” Mr. Hopper's right hand curled into a fist and he dug it into the oriental rug. Whatever the reason for his rage, it hadn't cooled. “That night at Aldridge's party I lost Miss Kent, the only woman I've ever loved.” I blinked at Mr. Hopper, shocked. His jaw clenched. Mr. Hopper had loved Miss Kent the way I'd loved Charlie. “And then I saw him tonight, stalking around the room like he was looking for someone. Eventually, he found me and asked where you were.
I'd been reading your book right before. I remembered the proposal, and it struck me that there were similarities . . .”

He looked at me, and something in his gaze quickened my heart, pumping fury through my veins. Is that why he'd decided to pursue me? Because Miss Kent had broken his heart and he needed a replacement? Her face flashed in my mind—her doll-like eyes and rosebud lips gilding what I recalled as an ordinary personality. I turned away from Mr. Hopper, disgusted. And then I remembered the way I'd felt watching Charlie propose—rejected, small, pathetic. Mr. Hopper had likely experienced the same debilitating heartbreak. I couldn't blame him for wanting to move on, to forget her. Hadn't I accepted his invitation to the opera because I wanted the same?

“You were there when Charlie asked Miss Kent to marry him, as Eleanor was present for Carlisle's proposal. You lived next door to Charlie as Eleanor lives next door to Carlisle,” Mr. Hopper continued. He reached for my hand and I let him take it. “And in your novel, Eleanor trusted that he loved her. She trusted Carlisle her whole life and he broke her heart. The thought that Charlie hurt you, a woman so worthy of admiration and love . . . it made me hate him more than I already did.” I diverted my eyes, blinking back tears. Charlie's rejection, the disregard he'd shown me tonight, had freshly seared my heart. “So I lied to him, Miss Loftin. I told him that I hadn't seen you. I couldn't stand to look at him for a moment longer, so I asked him to leave. It took all of my strength to keep my hands from him, to let him leave unscathed. If I'm right, if he broke your heart—”

“Why? Why didn't you say anything before?”

Not that I'd confessed either, I thought, but he'd barely reacted when we'd talked about seeing each other at the party. Then again, neither of us had mentioned the proposal and because of that, I'd been able to keep my composure, too.

“I suppose I don't prefer to suffer pity. I didn't want you to feel sorry for me,” he said. “I was ignorant to think I could lure Miss Kent with my money.” Mr. Hopper waved a hand at the mahogany walls and the tapestries. “We met at a talk I gave at Columbia right after
The Blood Runs from Antietam
was published. I saw her in the audience and, as cliché as it sounds, I loved her immediately. She was sitting next to her father sewing a handkerchief. It was clear that she'd only attended to humor him.” Mr. Hopper's lips quirked up just slightly and he ran a hand across a poppy woven into the rug. “After the talk, her father came over to speak with me. He'd loved the book, and so out of curiosity, I asked Miss Kent if she'd read it.” He laughed under his breath. I fiddled with the lace cuffs around my wrist in an attempt to distract the jealousy I felt at the repeated mention of her name. “She said she pitied me, that anyone with the capacity to write about that level of brutality must be in need of kindness.” Mr. Hopper's eyes creased. “Miss Kent was always honest. She never loved me, Miss Loftin. At first I thought she was put off by my despicable reputation.” He paused, doubtless trying to decipher whether I knew of it, too. When I didn't ask, his lips pinched. “It is like a cancer, and entirely untrue, a blemish on my character won by being friendly, I suppose. I've no idea of the origin or reason behind the rumor. In any case, she knew I wasn't the philanderer others assumed, but she still didn't love me. I knew that and yet I kept making excuses to see her, to hold on. It was pathetic and desperate, embarrassing even. She's always loved Charlie. She talked about him often, reminding me of her talented illustrator cousin in case any writers I knew ever needed an artist. He never seemed to give her the time of day though until—”

“Until he needed her money,” I interrupted, and Mr. Hopper gawked at me.

“What?” His forehead crinkled.

“Of course you were right. The story—it's about us, about Charlie and me. I loved him, but tonight—” I stopped midsentence, unable to talk about the disgust on his face when I'd mentioned his love for me. “But that night at his party,” I started again, “he chose Miss Kent and her money over me because he thought he needed it.” Mr. Hopper shook his head and his thumb drifted over the back of mine. Despite my heartbreak, my stomach fluttered at his touch. He wasn't the man I'd thought him to be. His interest was genuine and he cared for me enough to feel protective.

“It's a beautiful story, Miss Loftin,” he said softly, “beyond the fact that the truth of it has destroyed both of us.” His sleeve brushed against my arm as he moved closer to me.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and saw Charlie's face in the dim of Mother's room. I heard his voice as clearly as if he were standing in front of me,
“Ginny, I love you”
and then felt his mouth on mine. His lips were soft, but his stubble was rough against my skin. He tasted like vanilla and oak as his tongue tangled with mine. I pulled away, opened my eyes, and gasped.

“I have already lost her to him. I will not lose you,” Mr. Hopper whispered against my mouth and I felt the color drain from my face.

T
hough Mr. Hopper had returned to normal rather quickly, his fainting still unnerved me. I hadn't expected to think about it after the meeting, but I had. I couldn't stop wondering about the contradiction between the man who'd looked as though he was at the precipice of death and minutes later kissed me so tenderly I could still feel it on my mouth. In my mind it was still Charlie, but the astonishment that it had actually been Mr. Hopper was starting to wear off. I'd always thought that Charlie would be the man to kiss me first. We'd be in his library and he'd find an excuse to walk over to my writing perch on the settee. He'd sit close, his hand drifting to my knee as he pretended to read. And then he'd look at me and tell me he loved me, that he always had, and he'd ask to kiss me—a short, sweet kiss with the promise of more.

I lifted my hand to my lips. My first kiss had been nothing like I'd envisioned. My breath caught remembering the surprise of it. Mr. Hopper had been sure and deliberate, his lips slowly moving
on mine, taking the time to draw me in. I pulled my hand from my mouth and cleared the memory from my mind, wariness overtaking my attraction. Mr. Hopper was handsome, chivalrous, and intelligent, a man willing to fight for me. The combination was a dangerous temptation, one that would be difficult to resist, but the more I thought of the implications of a courtship, the more I knew I might have to—for my heart, for my writing.

“
I told him I was too occupied with my music.”
Alevia's words echoed in my mind. The man I'd noticed watching her at the Society had approached when she'd finished playing and asked her to accompany him to hear the London Philharmonic Choir.
“He had the audacity to tell me that he admired ambition in women.”
She'd rolled her eyes.
“Of course he would say that now, before he's had the opportunity to understand the time my music requires, but he
'd eventually change his mind. He's a Roosevelt. A man of society can't, in good faith, accept a striving wife. The social requirements are too great. My time to rehearse would be eaten up planning teas, soirees, and dinners.”
At the time, she hadn't any idea of Mr. Hopper's advances and was likely speaking from her experience with Mr. Winthrop, but her words had resonated with me. Perhaps I was naïve, but I wanted to think Alevia was wrong to discard the idea of marriage so quickly. My thoughts flit to Mr. Hopper, to the image of him crumpled against the open cabinet.

I'd meant to ask Franklin about Mr. Hopper's health, but the days following the Society had been busy for him. So busy, in fact, that it had been two weeks since I'd caught a glimpse of my brother—he left for work before I woke and didn't get home until I'd gone to sleep. But, as absent as Frank had been, his newfound wealth had certainly been at hand.

We'd each ordered two new dresses and winter coats at his insistence, feasted on roast turkey and mince pie, and followed
dinner with chilled champagne. Mother had seemed more contented than I'd seen her since Father's passing—baking for friends, taking us for drives in the Benz. She'd even been forgiving when she'd woken at eleven-thirty the night of the Society to find three of her children still out. It was peculiar, the luxury of having more money than we needed, though at times I still worried. It could be taken as quickly as it had come. Mae and Mother were nervous about it, too. Both of them had been grateful for new costumes, but had asked Frank not to buy them anything else for the rest of the month.

I tapped my pencil on the empty pad in front of me, hearing Mae practicing her lecture in the study and watching Bessie bite her lip as she pinned the final scarlet macaw feather on a day cap for Ava Astor. Mrs. Astor had demanded that Bessie make her something that would stand out. This bright red hat pluming with over fifty feathers certainly would.

“Does it look dramatic enough?” Bess asked. “It must, you know. I've become known for sensational pieces over the last year. It's the reason business has been so steady.” She shielded her eyes from the sun pouring into the parlor windows, the glint of it landing on the silver and turquoise cuff around her wrist. I nodded, inhaling the savory scent of mutton roasting in the kitchen. Mother and Mae had spent hours dressing it with the perfect blend of spices this morning before they'd gone down to the stationer's to order Mae's wedding invitations. “I wish I had Great-aunt Rose's old
Harper
's Bazaar
s
.
I can almost remember a hairstyle in the June 1872 issue. It was elaborate and serpentine and would make a striking design for the gold threading along the band of this hat, but I can't recall the details.”

“Well, it's already strange enough that I wouldn't wear it,” I said, answering her question. Bessie laughed.

“It's perfect, then.” Ever since she and Mr. Blaine had become somewhat steady a month ago, Bess hadn't been nearly as harsh as I was used to, and I wondered if we'd be friends in our old age after all.

“Let's see what you've got,” she said, stepping toward me. Her brows lifted when she noticed my notepad was empty. “You haven't written one idea in three
hours
?” I grimaced, resenting the fact that she was pointing out the obvious. As hard as I tried, as deeply as I concentrated, I couldn't come up with new ideas. It had begun to bother me that I wasn't writing. Before I'd been content to write as-needed for the
Review
or whenever I was inspired. Now, if I wasn't working on something, I felt as though I was squandering my progress. My compulsion had been worse since the last Society meeting. Though I'd been horrified in the moment, the way Mr. Hopper had so easily seen my real life in my work meant that my words had been so vivid he'd figured they could be true—a sure sign my writing was improving.

I thought of the books and magazines stacked in my room. Even reading hadn't inspired a premise. I'd read the monthly editions of
Scribner's, Atlantic Monthly,
and
The Century
from cover to cover, along with every new book I could acquire from the library—Arthur Conan Doyle's
The White Company
, W. B. Yeats's new volume of poetry
,
Mark Twain's
The American Claimant—
only to find myself intimidated by the genius of the prose in front of me.

I'd sent my story about noteworthy female explorers, “The Invisible Pioneers
,
” to
The Century
a week ago, after Mr. Blaine, who'd stopped by to pick up Bess for a show, read it and deemed it perfect. I hadn't written since—other than to work on my fast-concluding revision—and knew I'd have to come up with another novel idea in case an editor or publisher wondered what I planned to work on next.

“Perhaps it'd be best for you to stick to short stories and columns for the
Review
. It takes a different skill set to write novels, you know—at least that's what I've heard—and you're already so good at the shorter pieces.” Bessie's lips pursed as she surveyed the hat.

I rolled my eyes, refusing to let her words diminish my resolve, taking back my earlier thought of eventual friendship. We would always be sisters, but beyond moments of understanding, we would never be friends. Everything from our aspirations to our personalities was different.

I plucked Mother's discarded copy of the
New York Times
from the table next to me. Bess was right, novel writing was an entirely different skill altogether, but I would learn it just as well. I skimmed the headlines.
A Woman's Ambition: Starting as a Typewriter, She Became a Successful Lawyer.
It struck me as an interesting tale—a woman of a humble profession rising in education and intelligence to the rank of lawyer when there were but a handful of female attorneys in the country. I wrote the subject in my notebook and turned back to read the article. It started out well, touting the intelligence of the attorney, and I'd begun to admire the
Times
for printing such a piece, when I got to the last paragraph—an entire section focused on the valiancy of her railroad tycoon husband for sending her to school. “
Her every desire and ambition were gratified by her husband, and when she expressed a desire to study law, he sent her to take the course at Ann Arbor.”
I set the paper down.

“I'm going to find Franklin,” I said abruptly, unable to read further. I needed to talk to him, needed to ask about Mr. Hopper so I could stop wondering.

“He's at work,” Bessie mumbled, holding a pin between her lips.

“I know, but he's at the office this week and it's only a few blocks away.”

“More like half a mile,” Bess called as I walked out of the door.

Bessie was right. On warm days, the walk downtown felt like a block at most, but today the blistering wind chapped my face. Finally reaching the two-story limestone building, I flung the door open, and stopped for a moment to hang my grandmother's mink coat on the rack. This little block of offices and the plant on the bank of the Harlem was all that remained of J. L. Mott's former headquarters in Mott Haven. They'd moved the warehouse and the main office to Manhattan a few years back, but Franklin had fought to share my father's old office in this building with three other traveling salesmen. I walked through the lobby, by the old leather couches cracked and dusty with disuse and past a sketch of the twenty-five-foot cast-iron fountain Mr. Mott had debuted at the Centennial Exposition in '76 on my way to Frank's office.

“Hello, Mr. Brooks,” I said, finding one of Franklin's counterparts lounging back in the desk chair, clearly not working. Spinning around, he straightened quickly, and smoothed his jacket over his sizable belly.

“Miss Loftin,” he sputtered, as though his boss had just caught him sleeping on the job.

“Have you seen Frank? I need to talk to him.” Mr. Brooks's brows furrowed and he twirled a pen between his fingers.

“No . . . he's not here.” He tilted his head at me. “Haven't seen him in months, actually.”

“I know. He's been traveling a lot,” I said, “but he's home this week, working from here.”

“No, he's not. Actually he's not working this week at all.” My heart began to race. “Surely you know that he asked to be taken down to part-time. It's a damn nuisance to Rich and me, having to pick up the slack and all.”

“I didn't,” I said. “Why . . . why would he do that?” All of the extravagances—the Benz, the fancy new suits—jumped into my head at once. How could he possibly afford all of it on part-time wages? The sudden thought of my mother panhandling for coins, all of us thrown from the comfort of our home, made my stomach turn.

“Surely you know the answer to that,” Mr. Brooks said, exasperated. “To help your mother around the house of course, since none of you women seem to be up for the task.” I stared at him as though he'd sprouted two heads, wondering what in the world he was talking about. “I don't mean to be insensitive, but it's about time she abandon her paralyzing grief. Your father passed three years ago.”

“Just a moment. You're saying Frank's been part-time for three years?” I expected my voice to shake, but it didn't. Franklin had been lying to me, to all of us, and we'd suffered the consequences. I recalled December last year, a month we'd made so little money that we'd had to forgo coal and firewood to afford food. My hands were clenched at my sides and I gripped them tighter. Mr. Brooks laughed.

“No, Miss Loftin. Just the past four months or so. You know, about the time your mother fell down the steps and decided she would rather go be with your father than get better?” His lips turned up in a sneer, no doubt thinking I'd lost my mind.

“Oh . . . uhh . . . that's right,” I said, clearing my throat. My mother of course hadn't fallen down any stairs. “Well then, good day to you.”

I stumbled home unable to grasp what I'd heard. What was he doing? Where was he going when he said he was going to work? Where was the money coming from? Whatever it was, I would find out. My brother was a liar, but I wouldn't let him ruin us.

I avoided my family the rest of the evening with the excuse
that I was writing. Instead I paced back and forth across my room waiting for Franklin to come home, wondering what I would say to him, imagining his protests and my demands. I eyed the small wooden clock at my bedside. It was nearly eleven in the evening. Where was he?

I plucked Mr. Hopper's new manuscript from the top of my dressing table. I'd returned from Frank's office to find a package from Mr. Hopper with the mail. He hadn't written a lengthy letter, just a short note to say that he'd only had time to revise a bit of it, would appreciate my thoughts, and was looking forward to seeing me upon his return from visiting a cousin in Philadelphia. I couldn't help but think of the society women he was sure to meet while he was away, torturing myself with visions of his tall frame bent over a beautiful face, his mouth against her ear. Though I wanted to believe that his reputation had only been won by innocent sociability, I wasn't entirely convinced.

I sat down on my bed, huddled close to the oil lamp, and tried to force my mind blank. Mr. Hopper thought me talented enough that he wanted my opinion. I couldn't bog my mind down in jealousy or worry over Frank. Whenever Charlie used to ask me about a piece, I would wait until my mind was completely clear to appraise it. The thought made me realize how little my opinion should've mattered. I'd always been honest, but what had I known of sketching? Charlie had needed to consult with other illustrators, just as I'd needed the thoughts of other writers.

I closed my eyes, ran my hand over the paper, turned my gaze to Mr. Hopper's words, and began to read.

“
Middle of a scene, well into the last third of the novel.”
He'd scrawled at the top. “
Mr. Michael Wells finds himself in Newport, penniless. He's been gone from his wealthy family for five years and has
been making his way round the world, as I mentioned to you earlier.”
Mr. Hopper wrote out of order. I'd heard of other writers drafting this way, but hadn't ever done it myself.