The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (22 page)

“No. He can't,” I said, answering her last question. “Mr. Harvey deals in books, not magazines, and the story in
The Century
wouldn't matter to his business with me anyway. I'm afraid nothing can be done about Tom, as much as it horrifies me that he'll get away with passing my work off as his own.” I was still furious at Tom, but the news of my deal with Henry Holt dulled it a bit. I looked up to find Mae still glaring at me. I hadn't explained why I hadn't told her of my news. “The meeting was a bit last minute,” I said, sitting across from her. “Mr. Harvey only sent a letter a few days ago and I figured you and Henry would be at school or at the orphanage.”

“If you thought that then why did you come calling?” Mae's cheeks flushed and her eyes were hard. She was clearly upset about something else.

“Because I needed you. I took a chance.” The words came out in a whisper, all of the emotions of the past hour flooding back in the seconds it took to utter them, and Mae's face softened.

“Did Mr. Harvey . . . did he reject it?”

“No. He asked that I revise it, but he loved it. He's giving me eight hundred up front and ten cents per copy if sales go over that amount.” Mae gasped.

“Eight
hundred
? That's more than Henry and I will make in a year at our jobs.” I squinted at her, unsure if I'd heard right.

“Jobs?”

“Oh. We found out several days ago that we'll both be employed by Grammar School Eighty-Five, in the twenty-third ward, starting in August. Miss Culpepper at the orphanage gave us a very
complimentary reference, as did Mrs. Greenwood and—” Mae's jaw set and her face flushed again, no doubt realizing she'd kept something from me as well. “I'm sorry. I suppose we both forget to write sometimes.” She looked down and I knew I'd been right. Mae wasn't acting like herself.

“Are you all right?” I leaned across the table to grab her hand and she nodded, before shaking her head. Tears blurred her eyes and she blinked them away.

“No. I'm not,” she sniffed. “I can't stand it here, but Henry insists that we stay. I prayed we would find jobs in the country because I knew if we found positions here, we would have to stay in this blasted shed, living behind his parents.” The last words came out in a hiss and she wiped her eyes. I'd had no idea that she'd been so unhappy.

“Have you told him?”

“Of course,” she said, “but he thinks it's best for us to stay. I know it's because of her . . . his . . . his wife that he's scared to move away.” Mae closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You know that she died in the country. I think our wedding was the first time he'd been out there since.”

“And he's scared you'll die, too?” Mae's shoulders lifted in a lackluster shrug.

“Either that or it would remind him of her, I suppose.” Anger on my sister's behalf ran through me like a flame and I stood from my chair, hands clenched at my sides.

“If that's the case, he's being ridiculous. She's dead,” I said, fully aware of how insensitive I sounded. The knowledge that Mae had to sacrifice even an ounce of her happiness for the sake of Henry's filled me with rage. I'd thought their relationship near perfect, but clearly didn't know the full picture. “I heard him that day, the day that he told you. He said he hadn't loved her the way
he loves you. Was he lying?” I half-hoped Henry was home to hear me shouting.

“It's okay, Gin. Sit down. No, he wasn't lying,” she said, a slight smile drifting across her lips at my fury. “He loves me. Only me. I'm the only one he ever has and I know that. It's just that he feels guilty, I think, that he didn't love her the same way and she died.” I felt the anger drain. Mae sighed. “I think he thinks that if we stay right here where we met, if we never change, I'll be with him always. Instead of being excited about our life together, he's petrified that I'll get pregnant while I'm praying that I will.” I didn't know what to say, so I stayed quiet. “I'm fine living in the city. Actually, I never really cared to go anywhere else. But I can't stay here, living behind his parents.” I knew she was telling the truth. Mae had never wanted to travel. Adventure had really only appealed to Franklin and me, but as I sat listening to her new worries, I realized that this life was much different from her life in Mott Haven. She'd gained Henry, but she'd forfeited the everyday company of our family, and the excitement to start her own was lost in Henry's fear. The realization struck me. Every marriage required surrendering something. The only way a union would be a truly happy one was if love for your spouse eclipsed all other devotions.

“You came to talk to me about something and I've burdened you with my problems.” Mae closed the books on the table and looked at me. “Enough about me. Tell me about you.”

“It's nothing,” I said, unable to have an unbiased conversation about my possible marriage when she clearly had worries of her own. “I only missed you and wanted to say hello.”

“I don't believe you.” Mae tapped her fingers on the table, puffing air into one cheek and then the other as she thought. “Let's see, you went to see Mr. Harvey who knows . . . have you given John
an answer?” She held my gaze. I knew she could see my answer without my saying it, but I shook my head anyway.

“No. That's why I needed to talk to you. I can't stop worrying and thinking about it. I don't know what to do.”

“Yes you do,” she said. I withered with the implication of her words. At times, the answer was so clear that I knew I could either accept or reject him right then—and that was the problem. It was never the same answer from day to day or even hour to hour. I knew that would be Mae's point, that my reply should be immediate and constant if it was right, but even though I knew it had been that way for her and Henry, I wasn't sure it always had to be.

“How would I know, Mae? I'm so confused that at times I feel like my brain is about to explode with the strain of trying to make sense of what I want. I care for him, deeply. At times I think that it's love, but I don't know for certain. It was so different with Charlie, so gradual and so clear. John and I . . . it's happened so quickly. He's my friend. He encourages me. We make sense.” I knew my words were jumbled, but the thought of telling John no, of breaking his heart distressed me to no end. “How could I refuse him?”

“You can't take him if your answer isn't wholeheartedly yes. It's not fair,” she said softly, but bluntly, and my heart dropped.

“It is sometimes,” I protested. “I told you before that—”

“You don't love him. Not enough or you wouldn't question it. And I know you, Gin. You're so worried that marriage will prevent you from doing something extraordinary with your life that you won't allow yourself to go through with it. The only man you would've taken a gamble on was Charlie, because when you love someone like that, you know you'll be happy even if none of your plans work out.” Mae sighed and squeezed my hand. “But if you marry John and something happens . . . if your next book doesn't sell or you find yourself too busy with family life to write as much
as you want, you'll resent him because a love as deep and powerful as the love you had for Charlie won't be there to remind you why you married John in the first place.”

Mae didn't fully understand. My indecision wasn't only about my muddled feelings. She was right: I'd loved Charlie, a part of me always would, but I hadn't questioned marriage to Charlie because I knew my writing would always be a necessity, a living that couldn't be sacrificed. If I married John, I would want for nothing. I'd write for self-fulfillment alone, a luxury that could be buried under other commitments when life became too busy. Even though I knew John would loathe the loss of his art as much as I would, I couldn't risk a life of regret and bitterness.

“I don't know if I'll be able to tell him no. He'll hate me.” Something in the back of my mind kept urging me to marry John, to make him happy and to save both of us the heartache. “Why did he have to ask me? Why couldn't we just go on like we were? We were happy.” I slapped my hand on the knotted oak table.

“You can tell him the truth. He might be hurt, but he won't hate you,” Mae said, ignoring my emotional second statement. My mind flitted to my brother, and I took a sharp breath.

“But what about Franklin? What will I tell him?” My brother had been adamant about the fact that John and I were perfect for each other and that I was brainless and naïve if I thought otherwise.

“What do you mean?” Mae's eyebrows scrunched. “I know John is his best friend, but he can't expect his sister to marry someone just because he wants her to.”

“After the proposal, I couldn't even look at anyone. I was so flustered that I went up to my room to think and Franklin followed me. I could tell he was disappointed that I wasn't excited. He knows my concerns about marriage well enough.” Mae rolled her eyes.

“I don't know why he's trying to push you into this,” she snapped. “You won't marry John. Do you understand me? You won't. Every time you mention it, I think of Cherie's portrait. She talked herself into marriage. You won't do the same. Henry and I have our problems, Ginny, everyone does, but I never questioned marrying him. That's the difference.” Mae stood from the table, pushed the chair in with a screech, and disappeared into the kitchen. She wouldn't allow me to marry John and a strange mix of comfort and unease drifted over me at that thought.

I
t was only early September, but the leaves were beginning to change. In the late-afternoon light you could see tinges of red and orange around the green veins. I tried to focus on the colors as I walked along Fifth Avenue instead of dwelling on what I was about to do. I tipped my head at a young girl pushing a pram and tilted my head back up toward the branches. John was home. Franklin had mentioned that he'd returned yesterday, just in time for tonight's Society meeting, and I knew right then that I'd have to go see him. It was either face him now or avoid him until he tracked me down. The latter wasn't fair, but I couldn't wait to talk to him at the Society meeting either. I hadn't told anyone I was going to see him. Franklin would've tried to reason with me, Bess would've laughed at my stupidity, and Mother and Alevia would've wanted to talk about it to death.

I spotted the brick turrets on the next corner and my heart began to race. One of the Hoppers' Irish maids was hunched over sweeping the front stairs and each swish of her broom seemed to leave me more light-headed.

“Can I help you, miss?” The maid spun around at the sound of my feet on the walk and I swallowed hard.

“Yes. I'm here to call on Mr. John Hopper,” I said.

“Oh, well, come in. I'll go fetch him. What's your name?” She eyed my burgundy morning dress, doubtless wondering why I hadn't changed, and I pinched the wool at my side in reflex.

“Miss Virginia Loftin. We're very well acquainted, in fact . . .” I started to say nearly engaged, but stopped myself, stunned by that instinct. “So there's no need to make a formal introduction of my being here. Do you know where he is?”

“I suppose he's in the study, though I really do think I should—”

“Thank you,” I said, opening the door and throwing myself inside before she had a chance to insist on making my presence known first. I paused at the entrance to the vacant drawing room. My eyes drifted from the cherub mural to the chandelier, down to the Weber piano, and across to one of the twin etched mahogany fireplaces. This room, the relationships I'd formed at the Society, had changed my life over the past year. The thought that I'd never see this room again was heartbreaking. If I changed my mind and accepted him, I could keep the Society. I could live in this house that had become such a part of me with a man I loved. The notion passed through my mind as quickly as a lightning bolt, warming me through, but shocking me at the same time. I'd never allowed myself to truly visualize what life with John would be like without trepidation eclipsing all else.

“Are you all right, Miss Loftin?” A familiar, crackly voice sounded behind me and a wrinkled hand touched my arm.

“Doctor Hopper. Yes, I'm fine.” I smiled, though my palm pressed instantly to my chest as though it would slow my startled heart. “I was just . . . trying to figure how all of those people fit in there each month,” I said stupidly. The room was huge.

“It's quite a large room,” he said, lips curling up. The hallway was so dim that I could mainly see the gleam of his glasses.

“Yes, I know. But so many people come and—”

“Are you looking for John?” Doctor Hopper interrupted me and I saw his grin grow wider at the mention of his son.

“I am. I understand he's in his study?” Hopper nodded.

“Has been for hours. Writing, I think. He'll be thrilled to see you. You're all he's talked about from the time we left until the time we got back.”

“I'll go find him then,” I whispered. By the time I got to the study door, I was shaking with nerves. My hand hovered over the doorknob and I nearly turned around and went home, but steeled myself and opened it. John's eyes met mine. He was sitting at his desk, feet propped lazily on top of it, and he slowly lowered them and stood. I didn't look away, but held his gaze as I walked toward him. Neither of us said anything, but his lips transformed into a hesitant smile as he reached for me. He pulled me close and I let him, wrapping my arms around him in turn, reveling in the comforting weight of his body pressed to mine, knowing I'd never feel it again.

He took my face in his hands and kissed me, tasting like his scotch, vanilla and caramel. I wanted him more than I ever had before. I could feel it swimming in my stomach and couldn't tell if it was simply my knowledge that I would leave him or that in the course of a few minutes I'd changed my mind. His teeth bit down on my bottom lip. He was being tender, but I could feel his desire, ferocious and wanting, in the grip of his hands in my hair. He started walking forward, lips and arms still locked on mine, and I stumbled backward, tripping and falling onto the edge of the leather couch. Undaunted, he kept kissing me, burying his face in my neck and lowering his lips to my shoulders. I arched up as
his fingers found the ivory silk bow and pushed the fabric down. John's hands held my waist as his mouth dropped down my chest. I closed my eyes, fingers gripped hard to the back of his head as his lips trailed from my breasts to my stomach. I reached under his jacket to lift his linen shirt, and he looked down at me, eyes full of longing, and leaned down to kiss me. Skin to skin, I could feel the warmth of his body, and thought that maybe I'd been wrong to question my feelings for him. Though it felt different from how it had with Charlie, it felt consuming and true, like love all the same. John's mouth broke from mine and he lifted his neck to look at me, smoothing the hair from my face.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I want you so badly, but I can't. Not here, not now.” He kissed my collarbone and pulled the burgundy wool back over my chest. My heart felt as though it had stopped beating, afraid of what he would say next. John smiled, lifted off of me, and knelt down beside the couch. Finding my hand, he clutched my fingers in his, and I sat up. “Ginny, you know I love you and you know I want you to be my wife. We're the same, you and I. We'll push each other; we'll fight for each other's dreams. Please . . .” He stopped midsentence. I could feel his nerves, the wild vibration of his heart, and felt my own pick up. “Will you . . . will you marry me?” The tears I'd been holding back suddenly began to fall.

“I love you, but I can't.” The last bit, the words I'd rehearsed, sounded foreign and wrong preceded by sentiments I hadn't planned. He jolted away from me, eyes wide. He turned toward the wall, his head bowed. I began to sob, but didn't retract my words. There were other things to consider besides the answer my heart wanted. I'd made up my mind.

“You love me, and you'd have me right there on that couch, but you won't marry me?” John spun toward me, jaw gripped in hurt. I
didn't know what to say; I didn't have an answer. I covered my eyes, trying to hide from his face. “Answer me . . . please,” he said softly. I heard his footsteps, slow and steady, start toward me. “Ginny, I know I'm not him. I'm not so naïve to think that you love me like Charlie.” I cried harder. John's words slayed me. I couldn't stand that he thought my answer was based on the notion that I didn't love him as much as I loved—or had loved—Charlie.

I dropped my hands from my face and glanced at him standing above me, looking miserable. “John, you have to know it's not that.” My voice was a series of screeches and whispers. “I'm only—” I started to explain myself, to tell him my fears, but he cut me off.

“It is. If you loved me like that you wouldn't hesitate.” John sat down in an oversized chair next to the couch. “I suppose I should tell you that I went to see Rachel last night.” He stared down at his hands. I felt a jolt of jealousy at this declaration, making me wonder if I was torturing myself by saying no. He didn't elaborate, so I cleared my throat and asked.

“Why?”

John shrugged. “I don't know, really. Only that you're all I've thought of for months and I suppose I needed to know if she'd lost her effect on me. It wouldn't be fair to offer myself to you if she hadn't.” I watched his lips move as he spoke, lips that had, just minutes ago, been on my mouth, my skin. “Not that it matters now, but I felt nothing when I saw her. Charlie wasn't home so I saw her alone in their drawing room, but when she walked in all I wanted to do was turn around and come home to you.” He dropped down in front of me. His hand grasped mine, fingers wrapping hard around my palm. “Ginny, if you can't be with me, tell me why. That way, I'll at least be able to confront the heartache instead of wondering.”

“I'm afraid,” I said, reaching to wipe a lingering tear from his cheek. “John . . . I'm so sorry.” He raised himself up and hugged
me. I clung to him, letting my tears soak into his tweed jacket as he held me.

“It's all right,” he whispered. I sniffed and stopped crying. He pulled away and sat down beside me.

“I'm worried that marriage will change me . . . that it would change us. We're so good together just as we are.” He grinned at me, the first time since I'd walked through the door, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. “What if our shared life consumes us to the point that we become too busy to write? What if one of us is more successful? We could end up resenting each other, John. We could lose everything we love—our writing, each other.”

“I promise we wouldn't change. Even if the whole world tempted us to forget why we married in the first place, I wouldn't let it happen. I promise you, Ginny. I wouldn't let us end up miserable. We have everything.” I looked away from him. The answer wasn't clear. My mind held true to my response, but my heart begged me to change my mind. I could be making a horrible, horrible mistake. He took me in his arms again and I pressed my head against his chest as his fingers wove through the upswept hair at my nape.

“If your life doesn't work out as you planned it . . . professionally, I mean,” I whispered, remembering Mae's words. “If you never publish another book and you're left with just me, would you be happy?”

“Yes,” he said immediately and goose bumps rose along my arms. “But my dreams are important to me, as are yours. I think we can make them happen together. I wouldn't have asked you to spend your life with me if I thought it would stop you from doing what you love the most.” His lips met the top of my head and lingered there. “I want to marry you because I love you and I want to be with you always, not because I want to control you or have you spend your life organizing luncheons.”

I laughed a little at the thought. “Thank goodness,” I said. “John, I do love you.” Something in my soul lightened with the reiteration of those words, and the strain in my chest burst at last. Perhaps I'd questioned my feelings for so long that reason had eclipsed my true affection. I tilted my head to meet his eyes.

“I know you do.” He leaned down and kissed me. I closed my eyes. I could feel the melancholy in the stilted movement of his lips, in the way he pressed down on my mouth. He pulled away from me, but I reached up, holding his head against mine.

“I mean it. I love you. So I'm not saying no,” I said against his lips. “But could you give me a little more time to think about how it would all work?” John smiled and pecked my mouth.

“Of course,” he said. “But, god, Virginia, how you break my heart.”

H
is words kept ringing through my head as I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling hours later. We'd talked about other things after—about my deal with Frederick Harvey, about what we'd been doing since we'd seen each other last, and of Tom's plagiarism. A copy of
The Century
had been among a pile of mail on John's desk, and he'd read the story immediately. He recognized my writing from the first line, his face burning with rage. John vowed to expel Tom from the Society and to speak with Mr. Gilder at an International Copyright League luncheon the following day.

Even though the conversation had shifted away from his proposal, I couldn't forget what he'd said to me or how the threat of his heartache had affected me. I shifted against my pillow and buried my face, hoping to force sleep. It was nearing early morning. The Society meeting would be almost wrapped up and everyone, possibly John included, would be retiring. The thought of him made
my chest clench and I flipped back over on my back to stare out the window at the moon. As much as I'd thought myself confused for so long, I'd realized, wrapped in his arms, that it was a lot simpler than I'd made it to be. I'd been so worried about misreading my heart and about the implications of my career if I married John, that I'd been blinded. I'd only needed to feel his presence and to speak to him, to hear his adamant vow that my art would never be forfeited. I'd been right to hope for both all along; perhaps with John it was possible to marry and sustain my writing. Something in his words or his touch had allowed clarity. He'd been right about us. We had everything in common; furthermore, we were equals. We would only sharpen each other. More than anything, I wished I would have accepted him right then, instead of postponing. But I'd wanted to collect my thoughts first, to make sure my decision wasn't based solely on the flood of emotions I'd felt in his presence.

No one knew we'd talked, though I wondered if John had talked to Frank about it tonight. I'd arrived home in the early evening, in time to have Bessie plop an understated hat on my head, decorated only by a tiny praying mantis on the brim, and ask me what I thought. She hadn't actually cared. What she'd really been after was my attention to tell me that she knew Tom was going to propose before a showing of the play
The Masked Ball
tomorrow evening. I knew she was waiting for a reaction, for my disapproval, but I gave none. As much as I wanted to tell her that John believed me about Tom, that he was planning to dismiss him from the Society and speak to Mr. Gilder, I held my tongue. None of it would matter. Bess would accept Tom regardless. I hoped she'd be happy.