The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (33 page)

“Then he never loved me,” she said. “He wouldn't have been able to let me go.” She started to walk out of the room, but Mother grabbed her wrist.

“Sit,” she hissed. “Tom is still in crisis. He can't think of anything but the death of his sister.”

“Shall I play while you cut the cake?” Alevia asked. She started through the pocket doors toward the piano before she got a reply and I was glad for it. We all needed a distraction. Mae squeezed my leg under the table again and tipped her head toward Charlie. His face was cast into his lap likely in an attempt to avoid my family's reaction to his confession.

“It's too bad things didn't turn out differently,” she whispered, so low I could barely hear her. “Good lord, you have him under a spell.”

“I wish I didn't,” I whispered back. “Too much has changed.
Even if . . . even if he divorced her, I don't think I could marry him. Not now . . . not after everything.”

“But you love him.”

“I do,” I said. “But I can't be his wife.” The largest piece of coconut pound cake I'd ever seen landed in front of me. Flakes drifted off the top to the floor of the plate, mimicking the snow pouring down outside. Alevia was playing an upbeat tune I recognized. At once, I was back in the Hoppers' drawing room coughing through the smoke. I could see Lydia's blue eyes focused intently on the music in front of her, arm barely moving on the strings, and Franklin watching behind her.

“If you're not going to eat your cake, I will.” Henry's voice woke me from the memory.

“I'm sure Mother will be happy to give you another slice,” I said, still reeling from the notion that half of the people I'd cared for that night were gone or dead. I took a bite, though the spongy cake and toasted coconut turned to mortar in my mouth. Mae patted me on the back as I coughed and I could feel Charlie's eyes on my face. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was wondering if I was all right. I shook my head just enough for him to see.

“I think it's high time we found out what was in that box,” Charlie said cheerily, still staring at me. Bessie jumped up from her chair.

“It's only fair that I open it,” she said, crossing to the buffet. She looked from Mae to me and back again. I shrugged. I didn't care if she took all of the ribbon. Alevia's hands lifted from the piano and she materialized in the doorway.

“At least save me a few, Bess. I haven't had new trimmings in months.” She pulled the tattered end of her navy blue ribbon toward her face in illustration.

“Very well,” Bessie said, though as she turned away she rolled
her eyes. Mother handed Bess a small knife from the buffet drawer.

Suddenly Bessie screamed beside me and then I heard my mother sob, a deep, gutting hiccup in her throat. Whirling around, I saw a bit of white drop back into the box. Bessie backed away, mouth hanging open.

“What?” I asked alarmed. Alevia and Mother were staring at the box as though whatever had come out of it had turned them to stone. No one would answer me, but I noticed that Mae had begun shaking. My eyes locked on Charlie's across the table and I watched as he craned his neck forward and swallowed hard.

“Ginny,” he said hoarsely. “It's . . . it's . . .” Mother was bawling. I could feel tension starting to constrict my neck, blocking my breath. Bessie was on the ground now, face between her knees, but Alevia still stood staring at the box, tears pouring from the corners of her eyes. No one could talk. I paced toward the box and threw the edges open. The crisp white sleeves of a gentleman's shirt were balled on top and the tightness in my chest gave a little as I clutched the fabric and pulled it out. I couldn't breathe, but I could feel my body trying to, lungs begging me to inhale. An enormous brown-red ring stretched from the collarbone to the waistline, dried and crusty along a torn gap in the middle. Snow had leaked through the box, wetting the dry material, and the metallic stench of spilled blood filtered through my nostrils. Alevia was whimpering behind me and I was barely aware of my mother and my sisters sobbing as I fell to the floor. The room was spinning and the sides of my vision seemed to close in. I forced my arm toward one of the table legs to steady myself.

“Gin, you're all right. It's all right.” Charlie's fingers locked around my arms as a water glass was pressed to my lips. My dizziness slowed as the water trickled down my throat and down my neck, mixing with tears.

“My brother,” I whispered. I pitched forward. Charlie's fingertips were rough across my chest as he forced me back up. My heart had torn in two.

“I don't think this is Franklin's.” Charlie's voice sounded like he was speaking through a funnel, but I lifted my head. He was holding the edge of the shirt. “It's a seventeen and a half by thirty-five. Franklin is a sixteen by thirty-five. I know. We used to get fitted together when the tailor came to the neighborhood.”

“His size could've changed.” Mae's high voice came from above me. “Or maybe he was wearing another man's shirt.”
John.
Charlie had said it was a 17.5 x 35. That shirt would have been small on John. The only option was my brother.

“It has to be his. Why else would someone send it here?” Henry's voice was calm amid the hiccups and sobs echoing through the room. Bess, Alevia, and Mother had yet to speak. Franklin's grinning face jumped into my mind and something sparked in my chest. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe Franklin was still alive.

“I don't know. To make everyone think he's dead? To scare your family? I'm telling you, I don't think it's his shirt. It's not right.” Charlie was looking at me. I could feel his eyes on the top of my head and then his arms wrapped around me and he pulled me into my chair. “You've got to have faith, Gin. I don't believe it,” he whispered.

“I'll not have this in my house.” Mother's voice trembled with hysteria and I looked over Charlie's shoulder in time to see her clutch the box and walk out of the door. I jumped to my feet to go after her. I didn't know what she planned to do, but she couldn't get rid of the only thing I had left of my brother.

“Let her go.” Charlie grabbed my arm, but I glared at him and pulled loose, running down the hallway. I could see Mother's slight
frame pacing toward the back door and the white shirt gripped in her hand.

“Mother! Mother, stop!” I yelled, but she didn't listen to me. She opened the door and flung the shirt into the snow. She exhaled loudly into the silent night and then the door shut. She turned and her icy blue eyes prodded into mine. Her body was trembling with what I guessed was fury and I pushed past her toward the door. She caught my arm. “Leave it. He's gone.”

“He was your son. You're supposed to forgive him. Father would have.” Before I could duck, she lifted her hand and slapped me.

“I love all of you,” she growled. “But he ruined us, all of us. Even you.”

“Franklin,” I said out loud as she went back toward the dining room, wishing more than anything she could find it within herself to say his name. I stared through the window at the brown-red blotch on pure snow. The wind was blowing hard now, scattering flakes over the ground. I couldn't move from the window. The snow was covering the shirt. I closed my eyes, praying that wherever he was—dead or alive—he could be freed of the guilt, of his part in Lydia's death, of his knowledge that what he'd done had stolen all of his sisters' dreams. A strange sense of calm drifted through me and I opened my eyes to the yard, once again covered in white. The red was gone.

I continued to stare out the window, at the old oak tree with its gnarled branches, remembering the ribbon Franklin had hung from it to make a May pole for Mother's birthday two years back—something she hadn't had for her birthday since she was a girl. I remembered how touched she'd been and the tears in her eyes as she'd hugged him. Somewhere inside, I knew she still held him in her heart. I'd give my life to hear his voice one more time. The pain hit me. The past—good and bad—would never go away.

I could feel Charlie standing behind me. I hadn't even heard his footsteps, but knew he was there.

“I knew she was angry with Frank, but I didn't expect this.” He said it gently so that he wouldn't upset me further. Charlie's arms came warm and solid around my waist. I leaned against him. His untrimmed chin tickled the top of my forehead.

“Mother disowned him,” I said. “She couldn't accept the drugs and Lydia and the fact that he . . . he loved John.” Saying the last bit made it sound so inconsequential, and as far as I was concerned it was—even given the fact that John had nearly been my fiancé. My fiancé. I couldn't help but wonder when we would have married. I pushed the thought from my mind. It was pointless. Charlie was silent and I started to pull away from him, sure he'd react to Frank's love for John like most of my family had—revulsion on top of their hatred and disappointment—but his arms tightened around me, refusing to let me go.

“Oh,” he said finally. “John, eh?” Charlie smiled. “I didn't think he'd prefer a man like John.” I stared at him.

“John didn't . . . doesn't know,” I said. “How did you know about Frank?” His confession had taken me completely by surprise. As far as I knew he'd been in love with Lydia. Charlie reached for my hands and I let him. I searched his eyes needing to know what he knew.

“Well, I suppose I didn't know for sure, but I wasn't feeling so well after Mrs. Windemere's fiftieth-birthday luncheon, remember?” I nodded, recalling Charlie's clammy skin and pale face. “I excused myself to the library thinking I'd lie down and when I opened the door I saw your brother and a dark-haired fellow I'd never seen before standing a little too close to each other. Frank was leaning on his chest when I walked in. He babbled something about catching up with an old friend and then they both left im
mediately. I never mentioned it to him, of course, but thought it was a bit odd.” The thought that my brother had been interested in multiple men made his memory feel foreign. I blinked, holding back tears. He'd lived his entire life feeling he had to lie about who he was, who he loved.

“And it didn't make you angry?” I asked.

“I don't think I'll ever understand it, Gin, because I don't feel that way,” he said. “But no, it doesn't. Then again, it could be because Frank's not the first man I've known with that, uh, preference. My uncle James. Not that he or anyone else would have ever admitted it, of course, but he never married and from time to time one of us would find him in a compromising position with his butler.” I smiled at that, wishing more than anything that I could kiss him.

“Ginny, you've got to believe me. It's not his shirt. I feel it. He's not dead,” he said.

“And if you're wrong? We may never know. Even if he isn't, I don't think he'll ever come back.” Charlie wiped the tears falling now from my cheeks.

“If you never see him again, dead or not, at least he knew you loved him with your whole heart.” I looked down. “What is it?” Charlie kissed my mouth, a soft, closemouthed peck that made my heart skip in spite of my grief.

“He'd be alive if it wasn't for me,” I whispered. “At Christmas, he snuck in to get Father's gold watch to sell for ship fare. I was so relieved to see him that I woke the others. That's the night Mother disowned him. He left without the watch.” Charlie pressed the side of his face to mine and I felt his chest lift with a deep breath.

“Frank's fate—whatever it was or will be—wasn't dealt by your hand. He's one of the cleverest men I've ever known. If he wanted to find a way out of the country, rest assured he did, even
without the watch.” Pulling back, I looked at him, doubtful. “Guilt and I have become well acquainted over the past years, but most of my regret is earned. Yours isn't. He loved you, Gin. He wouldn't want you to blame yourself.” I thought of Frank's hug in the graveyard and his words as he left,
“Don't tell the others, but you know I love you more than the rest.”

“I miss him.”

“You always will,” Charlie said. In all of the chaos, I'd forgotten that Charlie had lost a brother, too. “Not a day goes by that I don't think of George. At the beginning—well, you know how I was—the thought that he was dead had the power to knock me down with guilt for letting him get hit by that sleigh. In those days, I wondered if the pain would ever stop. Now I know it does, but you'll never stop thinking of him.” Charlie hugged me tightly and then let me go.

“I'll be in Frank's room if you need me,” he said. I watched him walk down the hallway and up the stairs, thankful that he'd decided to stay. I needed him here.

I turned back toward the window and looked out at the lawn where the bloodied shirt lay inches under the snow. The house was completely quiet, save the familiar striking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. I shivered at the draft seeping in from the crack in the back door.
“Remember.”
That was the last thing Franklin said to me before he'd disappeared into the Christmas Eve night.

“How could I ever forget you?” I whispered to the silent house. I thought about Father, about the way we continued to celebrate him and the stories we told about Grandfather. Even though there was no way I'd ever forget Franklin, he'd thought it important to remind me anyway. By that point he knew the rest of our family would do their best to forget him. I looked away from the window and started down the hallway.

There was a puddle in the foyer. Moonlight gleamed off the moisture where the snow had melted and dripped from Charlie's jacket. I grabbed a rag from the linen closet. My body felt heavy as I leaned over to soak it up. Patting the spot, I moved one of Charlie's boots and an envelope fell from the space between them. The paper was wet, ink bleeding down the paper, but I could still make out my name scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. I sank to the floor, my finger hesitating on the seam, chest gripped with dread.