by Joy Callaway
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, though the sentiment was insufficient.
“It’s all right. He’ll always be with us, really.” Mr. Hopper leaned back in his chair. My eyes drifted over his shoulder to a portrait of a gentleman in Union army garb. I laughed.
“What?” He leaned forward.
“No, I apologize. My amusement was misplaced. I was just looking at that portrait there. He’s smiling.” John looked over his shoulder. Though it wasn’t uncommon to see a slight grin on the closed lips of a few portrait subjects, I had yet to see a portrayal quite like this one. His lips were parted, exposing a row of square teeth.
“Yes. You wouldn’t be able to tell it without the beard, but that’s my father. His mother asked him to sit for a nice, serious portrait. As you can see, it turned out quite well.” He grinned at me, holding my gaze. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight, Miss Loftin?” He stood and rounded the desk. He was doing it again, the same thing he’d done at the Symphony. I couldn’t tell if it was his tone, his proximity, or the use of my name, but in the course of a few moments, he’d made me feel at ease, as though he knew me and was genuinely interested in my response.
“Very much. Though I have to admit I’m overwhelmed, in a good way. My limited exposure to artist gatherings has consisted of ladies’ groups, and—” Mr. Hopper coughed. “I don’t mean to discount them,” I said quickly. “It’s only that they’re not serious about writing. It’s a pastime until they procure a proper husband, which isn’t a dishonorable goal in the slightest, but . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to appear as though I thought myself superior, or come off as one of those women who looked upon marriage as declared warfare.
“You want something more,” Mr. Hopper said, mouth quirking up. “You want to make more of your writing.” I nodded, pressing my palms to the leather seat. “It’s rare,” he continued, leaning against his desk. “There aren’t many women keen to make a career of their prose, even here.” He gestured toward the drawing room. “I suppose most believe that men prefer the naïve over the ambitious and intelligent. It’s unfortunate. Especially for a man who believes that the splendor of a woman’s beauty is only magnified by a clever mind.” He held my eyes, and I felt my cheeks redden, instantly hoping he’d mistake my color for the warmth in the room.
“It is,” I said, composing myself. The thought that a woman would balk from her talents in order to please a man saddened me, though I knew it happened often. “I’ve only met one other female who aimed to make writing a career. She was an acquaintance of my sister Mae’s, a student at Hunter College. We’d thought to begin meeting to share our writing, but she married and her husband had work in Milwaukee.” I broke from his gaze. “I am so thankful for your invitation, Mr. Hopper. This, the Society, is incredible, the number of men and women sharing ideas, respecting each other’s art. I was turned away from a men’s writing group once, and when I walked into your drawing room, I was sure I was dreaming.”
“Artistic interaction between the sexes is not at all uncommon in France. I’m convinced that it’ll eventually become commonplace here, so long as people like us make a point to encourage it,” he said, gesturing from him to me and back again. “I’m glad you’re pleased. Have you met anyone of particular interest? I know Lydia mentioned wanting to introduce you to Tom.” I kept silent and he smiled at me. “What is it?”
“It seems that he’s already met my sister Bessie. Perhaps they’ll be a match.”
“You think he’s that terrible?” Mr. Hopper grinned and held up his hand. “Forgive me. I don’t know her. I’ve only heard the few stories Franklin has told me.”
“She’s undoubtedly more pleasant than Franklin has made her out to be. He loves her, but they’ve always been at odds. Frank can be so carefree, and Bess is always so calculated.” Bess had been old enough to remember my parents’ miniscule apartment in the city, the dirty, rodent-infested building we’d lived in before our move to Mott Haven. At times, she’d mention it, and I knew that those memories, coupled with Great-aunt Rose’s influence, had impelled her to want more for her life, to desire the comfort afforded high society.
“So the sentiment that she’s a fortune hunter is an incorrect one?” he asked, amber eyes dancing. He fit his hands in his pockets. “And what of your other sisters? What’re they like? I feel now that Franklin might’ve stymied my understanding of your entire family.”
I laughed.
“I doubt it. He’s quite devoted to the rest of us. You met Mae; she’s lovely, completely committed to education, and Alevia is beautiful and so talented on the piano. You’ve seen her before.” The last sentence came out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“I have? She wasn’t at the Symphony, was she?” His eyes squinted, as if the effort to try to remember was too much for them.
“Oh, right. Maybe you haven’t,” I said quickly, but he shook his head, thinking.
“I remember the name.” He tapped his fingers on the table and then looked up suddenly. “Oh, Charlie Aldridge’s party. You were there, too, weren’t you?” His eyes flashed with emotion, then dulled, though the edges of his mouth twitched with an impending smile. “I thought you looked familiar at Carnegie Hall.”
“Yes, I was at-at Charlie’s,” I stuttered, barely able to force his name from my lips, “but you and I didn’t meet.” I prayed that Mr. Hopper hadn’t noticed my heartbreak that night. “I just heard your name.”
“Did you now? Tell me. What did you hear?” Heat crept from my neck to my face. I knew how my words had come across. I cleared my throat.
“Nothing at all, really. It’s just that . . . I was in the library during the party and at one point I looked out and noticed . . . well, noticed your friend with the beard staring at my sister, and asked Charlie who the man was. He mistook my inquiry. He thought I was asking after you.” I got up from my chair. I’d embarrassed myself as well as Mr. Hopper and needed to go. I started to cross the room, but his hand caught my arm.
“Don’t leave,” he said. I turned, nearly colliding with his chest. He didn’t back away or let go. Nerves tumbled in my stomach. I wouldn’t allow him to assume that I could be another one of his conquests. “Please sit back down.” He smiled and I broke from his stare to pace past him toward the chair I’d just abandoned. I needed to continue the conversation to reiterate that I hadn’t been asking after him. “To be clear, that man is not my friend. Mr. Roger Williams is a first cousin of Miss Kent’s . . . Rachel’s. He’s quite irritating.” The mention of her name was unwelcome. I stared into my lap, trying in vain to think of a topic that would steer my mind away from the worst night of my life. Mr. Hopper twirled his pencil between his fingertips and sighed, taking his seat behind his desk. “I asked who you were, too. I saw you standing beside Charlie and Rachel and didn’t recognize you.” He lifted his eyes and met my gaze. My mouth went dry. As much as I tried to ignore the image of Charlie down on one knee, I couldn’t. Hurt echoed in my chest.
“Then I suppose we were both dishonest at the Symphony.” My voice was strained.
“I wouldn’t call it dishonest, just polite. We hadn’t been properly introduced. I couldn’t say, ‘Well, hello, Miss Loftin. I asked about you at Aldridge’s party the other week’ without the connotation being misconstrued.” He winked and I smiled gratefully.
“By some, perhaps, but not by me.” I didn’t feel the need to elaborate further. How could I explain that I’d never entertained the thought of a man’s interest because I’d loved the same one, blindly, for so long? We sat in silence for a few moments and then he stood up and rounded the desk to face me.
“Would you tell me something, Miss Loftin? What do you write about? I’m just wondering. That’s the purpose of all of this anyway, you know—to talk about it.”
“Then why aren’t you still out there?” I tipped my head toward the drawing room.
“After I hear reactions, I need to think,” he said. “It’s nice to read through a passage w
hile listening to the music. But I can’t concentrate enough to figure out how I’ll change a piece until I’m alone—especially if I’ve received a bit of criticism as I did tonight. Some people could write through doomsday, but I need silence.”
“Likewise.” I sighed, fell back against the chair, and tilted my neck forward to look at him. “I write a monthly column for the Bronx Review, mostly about current events, though at times they ask me to write a women’s opinion piece since I’m the only female columnist. And I write down our family’s stories for fun.” I paused, considering whether or not I should mention the rejected article I’d submitted to Scribner’s and Atlantic Monthly, and decided against it. “But the book I wrote is just a silly story about a man and woman who grow up together, find love in each other. It’s my first attempt at a novel and I have to admit that I’m quite unsure that it’s any good at all.” I stopped, noticing John was looking up at the ceiling, studying the deep squares of crown molding, obviously bored. He didn’t say anything but crossed to the opposite wall, opened a cabinet, and turned to me.
“What would you like to drink? Bourbon? Scotch? I don’t have ice.” I stared at his back, shocked at the forwardness of his question. Proper women never drank liquor and rarely alcohol, only imbibing a bit of wine behind the veil of their homes or a glass of sparkling wine at the theater. I started to get up. Why would he bother asking about my work? He clearly didn’t care about my reputation or my writing.
“I’ve got to go find Franklin. It’s getting late.” It was. If Mother woke to find us absent at this hour, we’d be in quite a bit of trouble. Mr. Hopper turned mid-pour, sloshing scotch all over his black silk vest and down the side of the wall.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I apologize for my language. Don’t go. I want to talk about your book. I just thought it’d be nice to have a drink while we do,” he said. I kept walking. “Please, Miss Loftin. I didn’t mean to offend you by offering spirits. It’s only that I’ve found having a small nip clears my head.”
“Very well,” I said, stepping gingerly across the expanse of the rug to Mr. Hopper’s outstretched hand. I was desperate to talk about my writing with another author, with someone who had proficiently written a novel and could help me better my own. Feeling very defiant, I took a sip, inhaling the earthy smell of it, tasting the smooth hint of caramel on my tongue.
“Is it a true story?” His words took me by surprise and I choked on the scotch.
“What?”
“Your book. Is it based on real life?” I took another drink.
“No,” I lied.
“That’s a pity. I was hoping I’d get to learn more about you.”
I fidgeted with the black lace that trimmed the end of my sleeve above my elbow.
“I’m afraid it’s just a notion I had. Some romantic fantasy that will never see the literary shelves, but may entertain a housewife or two.” Mr. Hopper’s brows furrowed.
“Just because it’s romantic doesn’t mean it’s not literature. The one novel I’ve had published had a bit of romance.”
“But it was mostly based on some lofty theme, right? I mean, that’s what all the greats do, write about something they notice in human nature.” He leaned against the desk.
“You just got done saying that your story is about a lifelong relationship. If that’s the case, then you’re no different. You’re writing about the test of loyalty—about how difficult it must be to stand by someone throughout an entire lifetime, yet how it’s possible.” I was impressed. He’d captured the purpose of my story without knowing anything about it.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Isn’t that what we’re all asking ourselves? Who will stand by us? Who will love us?” He dipped his head for a moment, then lifted his eyes to the room and took a sip of scotch. “And yes. My novel is called The Blood Runs from Antietam. It’s about war and what it is that makes men want to declare it.”
“Let me hazard a guess. Blood, lust, and the want for power?” Mr. Hopper chuckled and shook his head. “What’s the answer then?”
“You’ll have to read it to find out,” he said, winking at me again. Lifting his glass, he downed what remained. “I know you said you weren’t ready to read your book to strangers, but since I’m at least a little more familiar, would you share it with me?”
I nodded, thankful that I’d taken the time to rewrite it without Charlie’s name.
“I can’t promise that it’ll be good,” I said.
“First drafts never are.” Mr. Hopper set the glass down and held out his hand. I gave him the notebook, feeling as though I’d just severed a limb. “I’m eager to read it, Miss Loftin. Would you like me to tell you my thoughts or simply read it and keep my opinion to myself?”
“Of course I’d appreciate your thoughts,” I said. “I’m well aware that publishable writing comes with the price of criticism.” His eyebrow quirked up.
“You’re serious indeed,” he said, as though he questioned it even after I’d stated my intentions. “When I’ve finished revising my new story, I’d like you to tell me what you think of it. It’s about a wealthy society man who flees his life to travel the world like a vagabond.”
“Of course. But let me guess the theme. Something about the making of a man, whether or not he can escape the life he’s been bred to live?” Mr. Hopper’s eyes glinted.
“Something along those lines,” he said, turning to put my book in the top drawer of his desk.
“I look forward to reading it.” I started to stand. It was getting late. “It’s been so lovely speaking with you, Mr. Hopper. I hope—”
“There’s one more thing,” he said, cutting me off. “Of course you don’t have to take my advice, but you might want to speak further with Tom.” He couldn’t be serious. I wouldn’t be pushed into a courtship, especially with a man I found exasperating—never mind the fact that he clearly fancied my sister. I felt my eyes narrow and Mr. Hopper grinned. “No, not in that manner,” he said. “I’m not suggesting the two of you as a love match, but he is a talented writer. You’ll need more than one opinion if you plan to make this a career, and it’s helpful to know another writer striving toward publication . . . at least it helped me. You have no idea how cathartic it can be to commiserate with someone else on the prepublication seesaw of promise and rejection. The two of you could share publishing ideas, read each other’s writing.” I cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Share your writing with Mr. Blaine?” I asked. Mr. Hopper shook his head.
“I used to. I don’t anymore, but that wasn’t my decision,” he said. “After I got published, he acted as though he didn’t want my help. It’s just his pride. I know he hoped we’d be published around the same time, but he’s had a string of poor luck with editors and publishers alike.” Mr. Hopper pressed his lips together and shrugged. “I simply thought that knowing him—and his knowing you—might be beneficial.”
“Perhaps it would be,” I said, “if he could stop praising his work long enough to hear of mine.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Forgive me. I’ve spoken out of turn.” Mr. Hopper chuckled.
“It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Miss Loftin.” He swept my hand from my side and lifted it to his lips, the kiss he placed upon it as light and quick as a butterfly landing on my skin. “As to Tom,” he said. “He’s only trying to conceal his insecurity. Though if you do decide to make a habit of speaking with him, it’d be wise to throw propriety out of the window and learn to interrupt him.”
I found Mr. Blaine where Lydia and I had left him, hunched over the carved mahogany writing desk in the alcove. Lifting my hand to knock on the doorframe, I paused for a moment, arm suspended in midair, wondering if taking Mr. Hopper’s advice would be a mistake. Then again, if this didn’t go well, I didn’t have to talk to either of them again.
Tapping my fist into the wood frame before I could second guess myself, I jumpe
d as Mr. Blaine pushed back from the desk and slammed his hand on the top.
“What is it now, Lyd?” he said. “I told you I was in the middle of a scene the last time you—” Swiveling his neck around to look at me, he stopped midsentence and straightened in his chair. “Oh. Miss Loftin. I apologize.”
“That’s all right. I can come back later,” I said, realizing as his blue eyes met mine that the nervousness I’d felt earlier had returned. My conversation with Mr. Hopper had settled me temporarily—or perhaps it was the scotch—but now, I felt nervous. I took one step backward and whirled toward the door, but Mr. Blaine started toward me before I could reach it.
“No. Stay, Miss Loftin. I-I wasn’t really writing anyway,” he said. His breath wavered across my face, rank with the stench of whisky.
“It looked like you were. Writing, I mean,” I clarified, glancing down at the desk to avoid his eyes. I took a breath and forced calm. I’d only come to speak to Mr. Blaine as a fellow writer. There was no harm or expectation in that.
“Oh,” he said abruptly as if he’d somehow forgotten how to speak. Running a hand through his cropped blond hair, he blinked and sat down in the desk chair. “I suppose I was writing, but not my novel, see. I just thought you were Lydia and wanted her to leave me alone. She always seems to break my concentration when I need it the most.” He lifted a shoulder. “But your presence, Miss Loftin, is certainly welcome,” he said. Leaning back in the chair, Tom grinned.
“I wanted to talk to you about publishing,” I said.
“Publishing,” he repeated. Biting his bottom lip, he leaned forward, shook his head as if to clear it, and glanced up at me. “What about it?” Mr. Blaine slumped down in the chair, posture completely different from a second before. Clearly he’d thought my presence driven by something else. Perhaps he’d assumed I’d come to request a private reading, lured back by the intrigue of his self-proclaimed brilliance.
“Well, I’ve been a writer my whole life—short stories mostly—but I just wrote a novel and haven’t the slightest idea if it’s good or not or how to go about getting a book published,” I began.