The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (31 page)

“It's hard to tell,” she said finally. “All I know is that when I asked Cherie about it after I read the article, she denied it. In any case, William seems to think Cherie has recovered from whatever insanity or depression spell she was under, but I know she's unhappy still and has been for some time. I wish I could say that William's growing love for her blinds him to her actual state, but the truth is that he's always been a stranger to her heart.”

“I'll have to call on her soon,” I said, leaning in to hug her. “Rest assured she'll not get more of the solution. I doubt Franklin or the Hoppers are anywhere near the state.” I hoped I was right, that they were safe.

“I'm not worried.” She patted my back. “Cherie will learn to live, if not in happiness, in contentedness. Eventually the baby will make her happy and she'll be fine. I'm more concerned with all of you. I heard about Alevia's dismissal and Bessie's failed relationship with that Blaine fellow.” She pulled away and lifted her palm to my cheek. “You've always been the strong one. You and Mae. But you've lost so much, Virginia.” I stared at her, expecting to feel the grief hit me, but when it didn't engulf me, I realized the shock of John's disappearance was dulling. Subconsciously I suppose I'd begun to accept the fact that I'd likely never see him again.

“I'm all right. I have my writing and they'll never fully disappear in my stories.”

“Ah. I see,” she said. And she did. Her daughter lived through her art like me.

“I better be going, but I do hope you'll call on us soon,” I said.

“And I will,” she said, squeezing my hand. “My thoughts are with you, dear Virginia.” I tipped my head and walked away, fleetingly wishing that a little of her grace would rub off on Mother.

I clenched my fingers into my palm. Why had Franklin been dealt such a horrible fate? I bit the inside of my lip to keep from screaming in frustration.

“Ginny!” A deep familiar voice startled me, echoing between the rows of homes and over the whir of the trolley as it whizzed past. He was wearing a felt bowler over his curly brown hair, eyes piercing mine. I stopped in the middle of the road, heart pumping in my chest, and then he smiled. Without thinking, I ran to him, purple satin skirt whipping around my legs, lungs jabbing against my stays, and then I was in his arms.

“Charlie . . . I'm so glad you're here.” Half-crying, I ducked my head to hide it, but he tilted my chin up.

“What did I tell you about tears?” He laughed under his breath and I grinned at him, comforted by his presence. Charlie was one of the few people, if a person was lucky enough to have one at all, that you may not see for months, even years, but the minute you saw them, it was as if nothing had changed.

“I'm sure even Irving would've grown irritated with my tears by now,” I said. Charlie's arms clutched hard around my back, pulling me closer.

“I'm sorry I haven't been here, Gin. I came the moment I heard.” I sighed. It had been a month since the
Times
article. I doubted he'd just heard.

“It's not your responsibility to comfort me,” I said without thinking, not intending to sound so sharp. John had been my near fiancé;
he
was supposed to comfort me. But he hadn't even cared enough to write. Charlie's eyes flashed cold.

“Of course it is,” he said. “I . . . I love you.” The words shocked me. I hadn't heard them in so long that I didn't realize I was gaping at him until he laughed. “What? You thought I'd forgotten about you? I already told you that would be impossible.” Leaning down, he hesitated, then kissed my forehead. His mustache tickled my skin and I closed my eyes, remembering the last time we'd been this close. “God, I've missed you,” he whispered. “To think you've been by yourself all this time. I was away, in Europe. Rachel and I . . . we both needed a break. I went alone and just returned last week. I'm sorry I let you down.”

“Charlie, it's all right,” I said, trying to pull away. “And, you haven't let me down. You've done so much for me, with Tom and
The Century
. . . it was generous, what you did.” I found it rather silly that he thought he had to be there for me. He shouldn't be holding me like this. He was married. He had his wife to look out for.

“Oh. So Alevia told you.” A grin touched his lips. “I suppose I told her she could if my efforts were successful. I knew it was your work. I was on my way to the ship, but I couldn't bear to leave until I'd had a word with Mr. Blaine.”

“Thank you,” I said. I started to shift his arm from my waist, but he refused to let me go.

“Regardless, my absence is not all right.” His palm flattened on my back. “We've always helped each other through, Gin. I'm never going to stop and I know you wouldn't if it were me.” At once, our memories flipped through my mind—us as six-year-olds hiding in the cabinet in his library working on our project for the Centennial time capsule, the sweet fragrance of the lily of the valley he'd picked for me after the first time he held my hand—and I knew he was right. We'd always be linked by our history, like it or not. If the same had happened to him, I would be there.

“I know, but you have other—”

“No. Listen to me.” He cut me off. “I told you before and I meant it. Marrying Rachel was the biggest mistake I could've ever made. It's my fault and I know that. But you and I need each other, Ginny, and as hard as I've tried, I still love you.” His eyes searched mine, pleading. My stomach fluttered. As much as I'd tried to forget him, as much as I'd tried to convince myself that my love for him had deadened, I'd never truly stopped.

“I love you, too,” I said softly, though I had to force the words. It wasn't only that I didn't want to tell him; I didn't want to love him. Even though he'd been mine long before he'd been Rachel's, he was still married to a woman who adored him, and if John hadn't disappeared, I would have been near married myself. Charlie exhaled in relief and hugged me close.

“I suppose Mother would have told me if you'd had, but have you heard from Frank at all?”

“No.” I hated lying to him. A year ago I would've told him. But things had changed.

“I'm so sorry, Ginny. He couldn't have done it, at least not intentionally. I hope he's somewhere safe.” His face was serious, forehead crinkled in worry. He'd grown up with Frank and loved him. He also knew how close we were. I stared at Charlie, waiting for him to ask after John, too, to ask how my heart was faring, but he didn't. Perhaps his distaste for John ran as deeply as John's for Charlie, or perhaps it was simply that he didn't want to hear my answer.

“Me too.” I pulled away a little and Charlie let me, but kept his fingers gripped on my arms. I glanced at Charlie's house, eyes scanning across the porch to the library window. It seemed like decades ago that I'd stood looking out of it, thinking that he was about to propose to me. That was the first night my life had been rattled out
of place and the last time anything had made sense. I looked away, but not before Charlie noticed and followed the path of my eyes.

“Ginny.” He turned back to me, eyes dark with a heaviness I couldn't place. He lifted his hand, fingers trailing up my neck to rest against the side of my face. “Every time I think of that night, I hate myself.” His voice was coarse with strain. I knew he was telling the truth. Even though I'd never forget it, the pain felt distant. “You have to know that when I . . . when I proposed that night, everything, all of the things I said about her, they were about you.” Goose bumps rose along my arms and I looked at him, stunned. I could still remember every word and hear his voice shaking as he said them.

“Please say something,” Charlie said. A cluster of children rode down the street on their wheels, one of them wobbling unsteadily behind the rest. He held me closer, smoothing the hair back from my face. I didn't know what to do. “I wanted so badly to disregard Mother. To just turn to you and take you in my arms and tell you that I wanted you so much that I'd die if you wouldn't have me. Well, I've died all right.”

“Don't say that,” I said. His words reminded me of Frank's and I couldn't bear the weight. “I've wanted to hear you say that for so long. Thank you. But it's too late for us.” The last words came out in a whisper and he stared at me in disbelief.

“No, it's not,” he said. “The whole time I was away, I thought about what I'd do when I returned. I want to divorce her. I don't care what people think. I just want you, Gin.” Without warning, he kissed me. His lips were soft, opening my mouth slowly. He tasted like cinnamon, like the candy his mother kept in the drawing room, and I clutched the back of his head, unthinking, forcing his mouth into mine, and he groaned. The sound jarred me out of the moment and I stepped away. It wasn't right.

“I can't. You can't do this, Charlie. It's been too long. It's too late.” His lips fell and he shook his head.

“You keep saying that, but I promise it's not. I'll have the papers drawn up tomorrow and filed by next week.” He said the words so quickly, I stared at him for a moment trying to process them.

“I'll always love you,” I said. “But I can't.” Charlie pulled away from me. His hands fell to his sides, jaw working, as if he were either about to punch something or cry. A year ago, I would have accepted him without hesitation, but I'd changed. His words, his ardent promises reminded me of John's. At once John's face flashed in my mind—the last time I'd seen him, the last time I likely ever would—every line etched in desire and pain. My heart wrenched. He and Charlie had both said they loved me, but I could no longer stake my future on broken promises. As much as I wanted to trust Charlie, I couldn't. And over time, I'd learned that I didn't need to. I had my writing to fulfill me, to give me purpose.

“Why?” he barked, voice cracking. “For the love of god, Virginia. Am I to be punished for the rest of my life for the one mistake I've made?” He started to reach for me, but thought better of it, leaving his hand hovering in the air.

“No,” I said, though I knew the real answer was probably yes. Unfortunately, I'd recently found that the decisions we made could either ruin or save us entirely. Franklin, wherever he was, understood that well.

“I swear I will go insane. You're mine, damn it. I'm yours. I always have been. Every time I see you it's the most euphoric, miserable torture. Please. I'm begging you.” I wanted him. I always would, but I couldn't concede. I suddenly remembered my book, what I'd imagined would happen if he ever came back to me. Even if I said yes, it wouldn't be as simple as he was claiming it would be. He would go back and forth between Rachel and me, between
his love for me and his responsibility to her. I was stronger than I'd been before. I couldn't say yes. I'd given both him and John my heart and they'd fractured it. It wasn't whole and I didn't know if I could bear to give it away again for fear it would shatter.

“I just can't, Charlie. Not right now. Maybe . . . maybe someday.”

“Someday when we're old and sickly and gray?” He laughed once, though his eyes were heavy.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Maybe then things won't be so complicated.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. I stayed there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine.

“I don't know how I'll live until then.”

“We're strong, you and I,” I said, remembering Franklin telling the story of my grandfather. “We'll be all right,” I said. Charlie shook his head, his hands pressed to my back.

“Or you could marry me now,” he said softly. “We wouldn't have to go through life alone.”

“You know it's not going to be as easy as you think,” I said honestly. He started to open his mouth to argue with me, but I clapped my hand over his lips. “I love you and know you'll always love me. That's enough for me right now. I wouldn't be able to take it if it didn't work out the way we planned. Regardless of what you say, it would be difficult, and Rachel . . . it wouldn't be right.” I pulled his head down to mine, pecking his mouth once before taking his hand.

“Come with me,” I said. “This house needs some cheering.”

I turned to lead him up the rest of the walk and into the cold tomb that had become my home.

W
ould you like us to walk you in?” Alevia held my arm lightly. I'd stopped on the side of the road to stare through the two-story arching windows, past the line of glittering gold chandeliers to the reception area of the Henry Holt Publishing Company.

“No, I'm fine,” I said. I hadn't stopped because I was reluctant or nervous to go in alone, but because if I allowed myself to walk any further, the top of the publisher's building would give way to the white block letters of the J. L. Mott building behind it, and I couldn't bear to see it. Staring through the windows, I examined the marble floor as though it were the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. I needed a moment to collect myself before I went in to talk to Mr. Harvey.

“Go on, then,” Bess said. I glanced at her and she shooed me forward, her breath disturbing the ridiculous black blusher hanging from the brim of her hat. She'd started wearing black when she found out about Franklin's involvement in Lydia's death and
had continued to wear it in mourning for her relationship with Tom. Her daily letters to him had gone unanswered. She situated a crow's feather back into place at the top of her hat. The dark color made her pale skin look sickly against the gray sky.

“Yes, do. You'll be wonderful.” Alevia smiled at Bessie and then her dark eyes flit to mine. As at odds as Bessie and Alevia were at times and as close as Alevia and I were, Frank's disappearance had driven a wedge between us, shoving her closer to Bessie.

“I certainly hope he's planning to pay you today. God knows we need it,” Bess said to me. She pinched her faded black muslin skirt, nose crinkling. “Great-aunt Rose would turn over in her grave if she saw me right now.” My eyes started to roll, but I stopped them, deciding to ignore her instead. Mother had sold all of Franklin's belongings for two hundred dollars only weeks ago, buying us a little more time until we spent through the last of the money from the Building and Loan. We had just enough this month, but I worried that any purchases beyond groceries and paying our household fees would sink us further into debt.

“I suppose we should be getting on to the Vanderbilts',” Alevia said, letting go of my arm and looping hers through Bessie's. The gold filigree design along her sleeves seemed to glow against Bess's demure black.
Thank goodness for the Vanderbilts
. In spite of Mrs. Astor ordering a hat from Bessie last month—an olive branch that should have rippled throughout the upper class, but hadn't yet—Bess and Alevia had still been employed regularly by the Carnegies and Vanderbilts, the only households that had continued to hire them directly after the scandal. “Alice will be unhappy if we're not there in time to fit her for a hat before the luncheon. Your meeting will go wonderfully, Gin. I just know it.” Alevia's nose was pink in the early February cold. I nodded once and walked toward the doors. The street was vacant for a
Tuesday morning. Those who had decided to brave the weather were snuggled down in heavy coats, eyes barely peeping over their collars. I opened the door to the lobby. Condensation gathered on the steam radiators along the front wall and I stood there for a moment, warming myself.

“Can I help you, miss?” A young man's voice came bellowing down the long entry from the reception desk.

“Yes. Thank you,” I called out, starting toward him. Mr. Harvey had asked that I meet him at Delmonico's again, but I'd replied to his letter declining and asking that we meet at his office instead. Both times I'd gone to meet him at the restaurant I'd been at the crux of a major decision or crisis. Though I wasn't superstitious in the least, I couldn't stand to sit there continually being reminded of John, wondering if something else would come crashing down around me.

“I'm Virginia Loftin, here to see Frederick Harvey,” I said when I finally reached the desk. The man stared at me over the rim of his steel-framed glasses. I could tell he recognized my last name and wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how. Glancing down the asymmetrical white silk and lace insert below my high maroon collar, I avoided his eyes, praying he wouldn't ask.

“If you wouldn't mind me asking . . . I've heard about your brother and Mr. Hopper. Have they been found?”

“No,” I said quickly and swallowed hard. I wondered at what point, if ever, people would forget and stop asking me about it. For the most part, we'd all begun to go about our normal lives. I was writing; Bessie was immersing herself into the little amount of work she had, Alevia was playing again, and Mother had begun talking to us. They had yet to say Franklin's name, however.

“That's too bad,” the young man said, shaking his head. “I'll call for Mr. Harvey. Have a seat over there if you wish.” He ges
tured toward a circle of leather chairs situated on a red oriental rug and I took a seat with my back to the desk.

I ran my hand along the smooth leather. Had John sat here before me? The hollow feeling of betrayal and abandonment started to rise, but I refused to let it overtake me.
“You'll never be alone, Gin. I'll be here. I promise.”
Charlie's voice. He'd stayed in Mott Haven for a week, spending every waking moment in our company. On the last day, I'd been unable to let him go. I could still feel the grip of my fingers holding on to him next to the front door. His presence had done what I'd hoped. For a while, it had prompted my family to talk again—old friends tended to know just the thing to do to block out misery—and for a moment, while we'd all sat laughing around the fireplace, I'd tricked myself into believing the peace was permanent. As he'd gone to leave, though, I could feel sorrow seeping back in and worried the moment he left we'd go back to our own rooms, to silence. “Write. Art has always healed our wounds,” he'd said, touching my face. “But there's no escaping the scars and I hate that I've contributed to them. Please know that I have one, too.” He'd traced his index finger across my chest as he said it and then across his own. “But mine will never close up. Even if you'll not allow me to be with you, I can't stay away. I need you.”

“Miss Loftin.” Fred Harvey's deep voiced boomed from behind me, disturbing the memories. I smiled as he walked toward me, realizing I hadn't had to fake it. The void in my chest was gone.

“Good to see you,” I said. His lips turned up and I noticed that his mustache, usually trimmed to immaculate precision, hung long across his top lip. “Are you all right?” He looked around and nodded.

“We'll discuss in my office,” he whispered. “Can I have any refreshment brought up, Miss Loftin? Coffee, tea, water?” he asked,
much more loudly. “Scotch?” he asked softly, eyebrows quirking up. I laughed and then cleared my throat.

“No. I'm fine, thank you,” I said. “Actually, scotch sounds wonderful,” I whispered, even though it was still morning.

“Thank goodness. I need it today.” We didn't speak as the elevator launched upward and stopped at the fourth floor.

“Here we are.” He led me into a sizable office lined with inset bookshelves on three of the four walls. A picture window overlooked the city . . . and the side of the J. L. Mott building. My breath hitched in my throat when I saw it, and I looked away. Harvey circled his desk and gestured at the chairs in front of it. I took the seat with its back to the windows. Reaching into his desk, Harvey pulled out a crystal decanter and poured us two large glasses of scotch. “Here,” he said, setting it in front of me. “I know it's not yet noon, but it's been a difficult day already. The law paid me a visit first thing this morning asking me yet again if I'd heard from John. They've come every week since the first of January—the three-month anniversary of the filing, I suppose. I figured I might be called if it went to trial, but didn't think they would bother potential witnesses beforehand. They're probably just getting desperate thinking they'll never find them.” Harvey took a long sip of scotch. “I certainly hope they've had the decency to leave your family alone.”

“They haven't. They don't come every week, though. If we were in Manhattan, I'm certain they'd come more often. It's a haul out to the Bronx to hear the same response each time.” They'd come for the third time two weeks ago while Charlie was in town. It had been Detective Barfield again, a short waif of a man who—you could tell from his tone of voice—hadn't wanted to ask us again. Unfortunately for the detective, Charlie had reached the door before any of us had had a chance and told him in a cacophony of
curses and shouts that no we hadn't heard from Franklin and that he couldn't believe he was bothering us during this difficult time.

“I'm just tired of it all. And worried for John, too, I suppose. He was . . . is a good young man. I'm sure your brother's the same. I can't imagine they'd hurt Miss Blaine.” Harvey sighed and lifted the glass to his lips. He gulped the scotch as if it were water and leaned back in his chair. “But that's not why I asked to meet you, Miss Loftin.” He swirled the liquid around and set the glass down on the desk with a clink. I lifted mine, took a small sip to steady my nerves, and nearly gagged. It was scotch all right, but very low quality. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and tasted the same. “Suppose I should've warned you.” Harvey laughed. “It's a friend's homemade formula. A little stronger than the bottled variety.”

“I'd say,” I said and waited. Harvey stared at me as though he'd asked me a question. “You were going to tell me why you wanted to meet?”

“Ah, yes.” He took another swig from his glass and stood up, pacing behind his desk chair. “You took my advice. You channeled your heartache into something truly remarkable. I thought that you nailed the revision.” His tone was flat and emotionless. “The trouble is . . . Mr. Holt did not. I'm sorry, Miss Loftin, but I have to release you from our contract.” I stared at him, feeling the breath flee from my chest. “I'm so sorry. Please know it wasn't my decision—”

“Just like that?” Surprised I could find my voice at all, it came out in a screech.

“Excuse me?”

“You're saying that Mr. Holt found my book so awful that he forced you to fire me without a chance at revision? What was wrong with it? Did he hate the characters? The plot? Is it because I'm a woman?” Words were flying from my mouth as quickly as
I thought them. I tried to calm down, but couldn't, and started to stand. I had to get out of there.

“Of course not. Please, Miss Loftin. Let me explain.”

“There's apparently nothing to discuss.” I opened the door, but Harvey edged in front of me and slammed it shut.

“You deserve the truth,” he said. His eyes were watery, and I noticed on second glance that veins had started to snake across them as if he'd been up for days. “Please sit.” He whispered the words and when I complied, he exhaled loudly and ran a hand across his face. Practically falling into his desk chair, he yanked the wire-framed glasses from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. I waited, counting the muted ticks coming from the cuckoo clock on the wall so as to keep my composure. In truth, I wanted to throw something. I wanted to go to John and let him tell me how unfair it was, to hear that he'd endured similar hardships, but he was gone and the Society that had inspired me gone with him.

“This is hard for me to discuss, Virginia, as I don't agree with any of it,” Harvey started. Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out the decanter and poured himself another glass. He took a gulp and cleared his throat. “It comes down to this: the association with . . . with your last name. Mr. Holt feels that we can't afford an additional connection to this scandal without compromising the firm's reputation and—”

“That is absurd!” I was out of my chair before I could stop myself. I slammed my hand on his desk, rattling the pens in his holder and sloshing the liquor in his glass. “I don't even know where my brother is! Why should I have to pay for what he's done?” Harvey pressed his lips together. He wasn't going to say anything because he didn't have the answers. I whirled away from him and glared out of the windows at the J. L. Mott building that I'd worked so hard to avoid minutes earlier. “I hate you, Frank.”
The words came out so softly that I barely heard them myself. I knew Mr. Harvey hadn't heard me, but I clapped my hand over my mouth, shocked by the words I loathed hearing Alevia and Bessie say, words that I'd said countless times in my head but never permitted myself to say aloud. I swallowed hard, hoping to dissolve the lump in my throat, but it didn't budge. “I didn't mean that,” I whispered again, as if he could actually hear me. “Please. Just come back.”

“You shouldn't.” Harvey's voice came from behind me. I faced him, not entirely sure what he meant. “You shouldn't have to pay for what he's done,” he clarified. Running his finger around the rim of his glass, he shifted in his chair and the old wood screeched. “It's not fair and I told Holt the same, but he won't listen. For what it's worth, Holt has asked me to revoke John's contract, too . . . if he's ever found.” He flipped his hand at the desk, but his breath hitched on the last syllable. He clenched his jaw to stop the emotion.

“I know they couldn't have done it on purpose if they did it at all,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. I heard Harvey sniff once and glanced up at him to find his eyes dry. I wasn't quite sure why John's disappearance was affecting him so deeply—other than the nuisance of having officers barging into your workplace once a week. He didn't say anything, but plucked the glass from his desk, stood, and swirled the scotch once more. Staring out of the window at the street below, he shook his head. Unable to bear the silence, I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair. “A while ago you told me to turn my sadness into something good. I think it helped,” I said. “Perhaps you should try it.”