The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (35 page)

“What?” I smiled as he pulled me onto his lap. His fingers drifted over my cheeks, down my face to my lips. I closed my eyes, feeling the rough calluses he'd earned from years of gripping charcoal pencils float off my face and settle at the back of my neck. I felt his lips on my mouth. He tasted sweet from the lemonade. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. The way he loved me, the way I loved him, still took me by surprise. Through all the years, it hadn't ever faded. Charlie pulled away.

“I know that you asked me not to read
The Web
,” he said softly. I froze. I'd asked him—begged him, actually, since the day it came out not to read it because I knew he'd recognize us. All this time, I thought he'd listened to me.

“If you—” I leaned away from him, voice rising as irritation and nerves balled in my stomach. He clapped a hand over my mouth to silence me and forced me back to him with the other.

“I have, but only the other day. A copy was lying on your table and the temptation was too great,” he said. “I read it in a night. It's a triumphant book, Gin. It tore me up.” His eyes met mine, a spark of fire in them, and a smile touched his lips. I knew that look well. I'd seen it countless times over the years. It meant he was proud of my work. At once, my mind flitted to Mr. Smith's face. Although Cherie had eventually taken to painting again in spite of his blatant disapproval, I'd never been able to forget the insensitive blankness in his eyes as he'd appraised Cherie's misery in her painting. Charlie cleared his throat. “I presume I'm Carlisle?” I started to shake my head to lie to him, but couldn't.

“It was a long time ago, Charlie.”

“I know. But, at the end,” he said. His voice sounded strange. “Ginny, you know I love you. I tell you that all the time.” He looked away from me, dug in his pocket, and withdrew a piece of paper—the permit for our show this evening. He flattened the folded document on the table in front of me and withdrew a ballpoint pen from the drawer below it.
Charlie and Virginia
, he signed at the signature line. His hand shook.

“And I love you,” I said back, hoping to settle whatever anxiety had overcome him.
Aldridge
, Charlie signed after my name, and set the pen down. I stared at his fingers, waiting for him to correct his mistake, to add Loftin as he hadn't all those years ago on our Centennial Time Capsule project. I felt his eyes and lifted my gaze to his.

“Years ago, I begged you to marry me. It wasn't the right time. I was married, you were heartbroken and then after . . . after Rachel's death, I wanted to ask you again and should have. But we were young and scared. We'd watched promises shatter love too many times.” He stopped and swallowed hard. I wondered, fleetingly, if my heart was still beating. I hadn't expected this. “At the end of your book, Carlisle . . . he's old, but he asks her to marry him and she finally . . . finally agrees.” Charlie lifted his hand to my cheek. “I told you I'd always love you and I always have. Now please, will you be my wife?” I nodded and at once, the green field and the open doors of my cottage faded and I found myself standing in the Aldridges' packed drawing room, hands balled in my skirt, heart pounding, as Charlie turned away from Rachel Kent and knelt in front of me.

The End

Dig around in your family's history long enough and you'll start to find stories behind the names and dates on your pedigree chart. Every family has them—tales of triumph and victory, love and tragedy, of tumultuous lives and simple days well lived.

For as long as I can recall, my family has made a habit of telling our ancestors' stories—a way to keep them alive in a world that has long since forgotten them. Because of this, I can't remember when I first heard of the real Loftins—Alevia VanPelt and William Lynch and their children, Annie (Bess), Virginia, Alice (Mae), Franklin, and Alevia—but I've always been entranced by this family of extraordinary artists.

My great-great-grandmother was Alice—Hunter College graduate, educator, and the only one to marry and have children. My grandmother, Alevia VanPelt Jenkins Ballard, often told me how lovely and kind and smart she was, but she also told me of the others—of Annie the milliner, Virginia the writer, Franklin the salesman, and Alevia the concert pianist. They have each captured hours upon hours of my thoughts, but when I sat down to write a story based on this family, it was Virginia's voice I heard, a voice I found rather fitting considering her profession.

Not only was Virginia an artist but also in her soul she was an adventurer. She traveled the world, seemingly unperturbed by the difficulty in doing so at the turn of the twentieth century, wrote several books—mostly nonfiction—and articles for the
Bronx Review
, painted, taught, organized a women's suffrage group, and helped establish an artists' colony in Lime Rock, Connecticut. Though she never married, I'd like to imagine that she'd had the option. Her diaries suggest her interest in a man who proposed to another woman quite without warning. The character of Charlie is fictional, but his profession is roughly based on lithographic illustrator Berhardt Wall. Wall illustrated Virginia's book
Washington Irving's Footprints
, but their relationship was likely much closer, as evident by his inscriptions in several of his own books to various members of the family. In later years, they both lived in the artists' colony in Lime Rock.

To this day, no one knows what became of Franklin. The prevailing rumor is that he was disowned for disappointing his parents, possibly for doing something corrupt, possibly for being gay. In my narrative, the latter option was so difficult to reconcile on its own, that I decided to create a fictional plot using the murky twentieth-century drug industry. After the blood-soaked clothes were delivered to their home, it was said that Virginia went searching for him, but he was never found.

Though only imagined, the Hoppers, Lydia and Tom, and the Society are a conglomeration of the colorful friends, artists, and groups mentioned in Virginia's diaries and Virginia and Alevia's letters to Alice. Alevia never sought acceptance into the Symphony or Philharmonic, though she did make her living both playing for hire and testing pianos at several of the local factories.

The place where the old Mott Haven home once stood on the corner of Morris Avenue and 142nd Street is now a parking lot, but the story of this remarkable family lives on each time it is told, made immortal by our remembrance.

Writing this book was a true gift to myself, a time I spent thinking of ancestors I'd never met but had often dreamed of meeting. It is a captivation like no other—to hear about the adventures of those that have come before, those whose legacies are entwined with ours. For the gift of the Lynch family story, I will thank Gran, Alevia, first and foremost. My love of family history was ignited by your influence.

I want to thank God for the miraculous blessing of perfect timing and the gift of imagination.

To my family—to my mom, Lynn, who has read and deemed genius every word I have ever penned, even the countless horse stories I wrote as a child, and who fostered my love of books. To my dad, Fred, who has always believed in my dreams and stressed the importance of chasing them. To my brother, Jed, one of my very best friends, whose relationship served as the basis for Ginny and Frank's close bond. To Gramps, Ed, a man whose surety in my success propelled me forward. To Momma Sandra and Daddy Tom, for their influential love of reading and unwavering support. I love you all so much.

To the best friend that ever lived, Maggie Tardy, who has read all of my work, even the embarrassing early attempts at novels.
Thank you for the lifelong friendship, the laughter, the definition of sisterhood.

To the early readers of this book, thank you for your comments and encouragement.

To my Lynch cousin, Dana, thank you for sharing not only our family's mementos, but your passion for our ancestry.

To my writing buddies—Sarah Henning, Renee Ahdieh, Cheyenne Campbell, Liz Penney, Alison Bliss, Sam Bohrman—thank you for the time, the sharpening, the friendship. I love and appreciate you more than you know.

To my dream team—to my savvy, whip-smart agent, Meredith Kaffel Simonoff, thank you for your ceaseless support and belief in both myself and this book. And to my editor, the brilliant Maya Ziv, whose keen eye and love for this story has molded this novel into something I am truly proud to share.

To the exceptional minds at Harper—Amy Baker, Dori Carlson, Emily Griffin, Jane Herman, Jamie Kerner, Joanne O'Neill, Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee, Leigh Raynor, Mary Sasso, Oriana Siska, Audrey Sussman, Jillian Verrillo, and Sherry Wasserman—thank you for all of your hard work and time.

Lastly, to my little family—to my children, Alevia and John, you are my happiness and my heart. And to my husband, John, for your enthusiasm for my work and steadfast belief in me. Thank you for being a true partner in all things. I can't imagine going through life without you. I love you.

JOY CALLAWAY'S
love of storytelling is a direct result of her parents' insistence that she read books or write stories instead of watching TV. Her interest in family history was fostered by her relatives' habit of recounting tales of ancestors' lives. Joy is a full-time mom and writer. She formerly served as a marketing director for a wealth-management company. She holds a BA in journalism and public relations from Marshall University and an MMC in mass communication from the University of South Carolina. She resides in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband, John, and her children, Alevia and John.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

D
IG AROUND
in your family's history long enough and you'll start to find stories behind the names and dates on your pedigree chart. Every family has them—tales of triumph and victory, love and tragedy, tumultuous lives and simple days well lived.

For as long as I can recall, my family has made a habit of telling stories about our ancestors—a way to keep them alive in a world that has long since forgotten them. Because of this, I can't remember when I first heard of the real Loftins—Alevia VanPelt and William Lynch and their children, Annie (Bess), Virginia, Alice (Mae), Franklin, and Alevia—but
I've
always been entranced by this family of extraordinary artists.

My great-great-grandmother was Alice—Hunter College graduate, educator, and the only one to marry and have children. My grandmother Alevia VanPelt Jenkins Ballard often told me how lovely and kind and smart she was, but she also told me of the others—of Annie the milliner, Virginia the writer, Franklin the salesman, and Alevia the concert pianist. They have each captured hours upon hours of my thoughts, but when I sat down to write a story based on this family, it was Virginia's voice I heard, a voice I found rather fitting considering her profession.

Not only was Virginia an artist, but in her soul she was also an adventurer. She traveled the world, seemingly
unperturbed by the difficulty in doing so at the turn of the twentieth century, wrote several books—mostly nonfiction—and articles for
The
Bronx Review
, painted, taught, organized a women's suffrage group, and helped establish an artists' colony in Lime Rock, Connecticut. Though she never married, I'd like to imagine that she would have. Her diaries suggest her interest in a man who proposed to another woman quite without warning. The character of Charlie is fictional, but his profession is roughly based on lithographic illustrator Berhardt Wall. Wall illustrated Virginia's book
Washington Irving Footprints
, but their relationship was likely much closer, as evident by his inscriptions in several of his own books to various members of the family. In later years, they both lived in the artists' colony in Lime Rock.

To this day, no one knows what became of Franklin. The prevailing rumor is that he was disowned for disappointing his parents, possibly for doing something corrupt, possibly for being gay. In my narrative, the latter option was so difficult to reconcile on its own that I decided to create a fictional plot using the murky twentieth-century drug industry. After the blood-soaked clothes were delivered to their home, it was said that Virginia went searching for him, but he was never found.

Though only imagined, the Hoppers, Lydia and Tom, and the society are a conglomeration of the colorful friends, artists, and groups mentioned in
Virginia's diaries and Virginia and Alevia's letters to Alice. Alevia never sought acceptance in to the Symphony or Philharmonic, though she did make her living both playing for hire and testing pianos at several of the local factories.

The place where the old Mott Haven home once stood on the corner of Morris Avenue and 142nd Street is now a parking lot, but the story of this remarkable family lives on each time it is told, made immortal by our remembrance.