The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “He loves Cherie. I know he’d never hurt her on purpose. I’m sure he thought he was—”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me, dear,” she said softly, squeezing my hand again. “I’ve known your brother since before he could put two words together. He wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt her, and if she was taking it when I went to see her in the fall, then it really was a miracle drug . . . with awful side effects.”

  “I’m glad she’s all right,” I said, horrified by the knowledge that Cherie could’ve been one of the casualties. “I don’t know for sure, but I think Lydia and the others . . . I think they took too much.”

  “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 ha
ve 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.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  FEBRUARY 1893

  Henry Holt Publishing Company

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  Would 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.