by Amber Brock
“I will soon enough. Don’t you worry on my account.”
“I won’t.”
Bea lifted a piece of stationery from the bedside table. Her eyes widened. “Ooh, is this a love letter?”
Vera rolled her eyes. “It’s a letter to a friend from finishing school. But she’s married and living in England now.”
“Married already.” Bea clicked her tongue. “Lucky duck.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you could see who she’s married to, or where she lives. She’s in a broken-down estate in the middle of nowhere. Wouldn’t you prefer to be here?”
“Sure, but wouldn’t you like to have it all settled?” A flash of annoyance crossed Bea’s face. “I’d like to have it decided, so I don’t have to wonder anymore.”
Vera took the letter back from Bea and placed it on her desk. “It is settled for me, as far as I know. I’ve got Arthur. At least, I expect I’ll have Arthur. A whole summer of coming to the shore every weekend and escorting me to the soda fountain isn’t nothing, even if Daddy did put him up to it. I’d say if he doesn’t propose when I’m home for Christmas, he never will.” A little thrill ran through Vera as she thought of Arthur down on one knee, his cool blue eyes pleading a bit. She would never admit, not even to Bea, that she had practiced saying yes, had imagined him sweeping her into his arms for the first time.
Bea’s dry tone put a momentary end to the fantasy. “Ah, yes. The terribly un-scandalous, un-forbidden Arthur.”
“I know you’re only joking, but he is a nice man at heart, even if he isn’t quite as lively as you.” Vera held out her wrist, which was encircled by a thin gold braid. “Look, he sent me this, isn’t it pretty?”
Bea inspected the bracelet. “It is…”
“What?” Vera pulled her arm back.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t…look like you. The one your father gave you is much more your style.”
“Of course Daddy knows me better. I’m sure Arthur’s not used to buying jewelry.”
Bea’s smile was a white flag. “It’s a beautiful bracelet, really. And Arthur will have years to get to know your style, won’t he? Did he send a note with it? Where are you hiding his love letters? You know I really want to see those.”
“He’s written a few times, but hardly what you’d call love letters. They might as well be telegrams. For all of his good points, he’s no poet.” She giggled. “ ‘Dearest Vera, stop. How is Poughkeepsie? stop. Business is fine, stop.’ ”
“ ‘Can’t stop thinking about you, stop.’ ” Bea laughed. “But then who cares if he’s romantic? That’s not the point, is it? He’s disgustingly rich. That’s all I need from a husband.”
Vera sat on the bed beside Bea, her back against the wall, and elbowed her. “You don’t want a little romance in your life?”
A wicked smile curved up the side of Bea’s face. “I’ll have loads of romance, of course. But who needs a husband for that?”
Vera glanced at the open door. “Honestly, Bea.”
“I’ll have to marry someone as rich as Arthur, and then we can live in the same building. We’ll patronize the same charities, serve on the same boards, and you’ll always have me around to bring you candy and say shocking things.” Bea settled against the wall and laid her head on Vera’s shoulder.
“You don’t think you’ll go back to Atlanta? Not that I want you to.”
Bea pursed her lips. “Atlanta has lost its charms for me. No, I’m planning to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
“We’ll make you into a real New Yorker. I’m sure Arthur has some friends. Shall I play matchmaker?”
“Sweet of you to offer, but I’ve got a cousin at Yale, remember? Some of those boys are downright gorgeous. Then again, who knows? If that doesn’t work out, I might be interested in taking my chances with Arthur’s friends.” Bea lifted her head, turning to admire a postcard Vera had pinned to the wall. “I love your room. I ought to do mine up.”
“Maybe your room is all done up, and you just can’t see it under all the mess,” Vera said.
“Then we’ll never know, because the mess is there to stay, sadly.”
Vera looked around, trying to see what her room must look like to someone who didn’t spend hours every day there. On the walls, she displayed cards, prints, newspaper articles, and ticket stubs from museums she loved. Fragrant sprigs of dried lavender and rosemary, picked over the spring months and stored carefully in her trunks over the summer, ringed the window. The room was smaller than a maid’s room at her summer house, but she would never have been able to decorate her expansive suite in her home in the city the way she did here. Even when she removed nearly everything for one of her mother’s infrequent visits, her mother still complained of the clutter. Still, there wasn’t much about Vera’s college experience that didn’t wrinkle her mother’s nose. She could not abide the dining room, even when it was emptied of gossiping young women. The quad had been declared “too airy,” the classrooms “musty,” and she had no intention of going to the art gallery on the fourth floor of the Main Building at all. Even with her mother’s dissatisfaction, which had begun the minute Vera mentioned going to college in the first place, Vera loved every moment. She dreaded the coming May. Graduation would make the whole experience disappear like a dream.
The snap of the fudge tin lid next to her brought Vera out of her reverie. She watched Bea select a piece with a slight smile. If what Bea said was true, and they both married men of good standing, Vera could have a reminder of her college days with her in the city. Maybe a bit of fun, too. Maybe she should talk to Arthur about a friend for Bea.
“Come on,” Bea said through a mouthful of candy. “Let’s go to Sunset Lake. This might be the last of the really warm days we get.” She caught Vera’s peek at the desk. “Studying can wait. You’ve got all day tomorrow. Let’s go.”
Bea stood and grabbed Vera’s hands, pulling her off the bed. With a guilty glance at her books, Vera followed Bea out.
Vera awoke to find Arthur’s side of the bed cold and smooth. When he got home after she went to bed, he would usually sleep in one of the spare rooms rather than disturb her. She found him at the table in the dining room, dressed for work in a tweed suit. When she saw him like that, with his broad shoulders and black curls, she thought how formidable he must look to any rival. Like a nobleman visiting from the age of chivalry. He turned his ice-blue eyes from his newspaper to her when she entered.
“Good morning,” he said. His mahogany-dark voice commanded attention, even in the noisiest room.
“Good morning, dear. Long night?” Vera settled into the chair next to him and pulled her dressing gown tighter over her chest.
“Very long. Negotiating contracts with the Wilhelm group.”
“I hope you at least ate a little something.”
He smiled, but quickly turned his attention back to the financial page. “I did, thank you.”
“I worry about you being out so late.” She leaned in, hoping to catch his gaze again. “That’s the third night this week. And tomorrow you’re off to Chicago…when does your train leave? I could go down to the station with you, we could have a little lunch before you go.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Interrupting your schedule like that.”
She reached for a piece of toast and took a small bite of the corner. “It’s no trouble.”
He turned the page. “I have some notes to review for the meeting. Some other time.”
She did not want to risk being a nuisance by pressing him. They ate the rest of the meal in silence, except for the brush of the paper on the table and the rattle of china. After his second cup of coffee, Arthur excused himself, kissing her lightly on the top of her head before going. The cool tang of his aftershave hovered above her long after he had departed. Vera closed her eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the tingle of the scent in her nose.
After the driver took Arthur to work, he returned for Vera. Her schedule had been open that
morning, allowing her to get the gallery visit for her mother out of the way before lunch with the ladies. She gave George the directions, and he maneuvered the Packard into the flow of traffic.
When they arrived, Vera almost missed the entrance to the gallery. The door was narrow with no awning, wedged between a large bank and a restaurant patio. She was within two feet of the entrance before she could see the small black sign. The white lettering read M. FLEMING: FINE ART, the only clue that she was in the correct place. Though she knew the signage must have been temporary while Fleming was setting up shop, the place had an air of exclusivity. One had to know the gallery was there to find it.
She pushed the door open to reveal a long room with shining hardwood floors and a few framed paintings on the right-hand wall. The smell of lacquer and the gleaming white walls gave the old building a fresh, renovated feel. A pretty, dark-haired woman sat behind a desk against the left wall, and she stood when Vera entered. A quick shock pinched Vera’s nerves. She wanted to turn and walk right back through the door, but she stood still, willing herself to look calm. The woman looked just past Vera’s shoulder, her eyes indifferent.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Mr. Fleming,” Vera said, her voice measured. “Is he in?”
“He is. May I tell him who’s here?”
Vera waited a beat. “Mrs. Arthur Bellington. I’m here on behalf of my mother.”
The woman cocked an eyebrow. “Of course. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She crossed the long room to a door in the back wall and disappeared.
But Vera now felt deeply uncomfortable, a slow heaviness settling in the pit of her stomach. She distracted herself by examining the room. A handful of sculptures stood in a tight crowd in the corner, as though they were deep in conversation. Vera stepped closer to one of the paintings, a still life with a white vase of daisies on a gingham tablecloth. Nice, clean lines. Competent, but nothing notable. The display work must have been intended for the casual shopper looking to decorate the walls of an office or bank. More valuable works would be kept in the back, viewed by request only.
A sound from the far corner of the room startled Vera, but it was not the woman who had greeted her. A man emerged alone, as short and round as his gallery was long and thin. His mustache obscured his lips, and he had combed what was left of his hair over his scalp.
“Can I help you?” he asked, smoothing the strands of hair with his palm.
The flat sound of his vowels surprised Vera. She had expected someone with a gallery in Paris to be French, but this man was New York by way of the Bowery. Still, you never knew where the connoisseurs would come from these days. “Are you Mr. Fleming?” she asked.
“I am.” He adjusted the small spectacles he wore on the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Bellington, was it?”
“Yes. My mother, Mrs. Joseph Longacre, sent me to see you about a painting.”
His face lit up. “Yes, Mrs. Bellington. I’m sorry, I should have known. I spoke to your mother again this morning.” He thought for a moment. “Bellington…is that the Angelus Bellingtons, by any chance?”
“Yes.” She could not be surprised. Arthur’s reputation always preceded her.
“Well, welcome. Nice to meet you.” He offered her the hand he had been using to slick the hair on his scalp. His palm glistened in the beam of light from the single window. He must have imagined that the pomade gave him a sophisticated polish, but failed to realize it would come off on everything he touched. Vera took the tips of his fingers in hers and let go quickly.
“The painting Mrs. Longacre asked about is in the storage room. Just arrived, but I’ve had it framed.” He started for the corner he had appeared from, waving at her to follow him. “Good walnut frame. I can add it into the price.”
“Yes, well, she may want it redone. Who does your framing?” She did not really want to go with him to the back if that was where the woman from the desk had disappeared to, but she followed him anyway.
“I got a guy, all framing is done in-house. Back here, watch your step.” Fleming led her through a door in the back wall. The woman was nowhere to be seen. The room had a high ceiling, like the gallery, and was divided into smaller areas by low plywood partitions. On the far wall, a door opened up to the alley, letting in sunlight and fresh air.
Fleming stopped in front of a canvas, which was covered with a large piece of brown cloth. “Here we are,” he said, pulling the fabric off. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”
Vera stepped closer, inspecting the work. A blond girl sat at a table composing a letter in a shaft of pale light. She was in three-quarter profile, and the shading in the background made objects against the far wall difficult to distinguish. The use of shadow and light was spot-on. The painting looked a bit worn, but the texture and richness of detail were apparent. “Vermeer? I’ve never seen this one before,” she said.
Fleming beamed. “It was lost, very few records of it. Turned up in the south of France after the war. Painted around 1667, by my consultant’s guess.”
“I see.” Vera studied the girl’s skirt. The painting’s composition did suggest Vermeer. And yet…
Wood clattered behind Vera, and she jumped. She turned to the source of the noise, which had come from behind one of the plywood partitions, but saw nothing. Had the woman from the front been watching them? Fleming also turned to the sound, a deep frown darkening his features. He stepped between Vera and the space where the sound had come from, plastering on a cheery smile.
“Sorry, that’s my framer. I told him if he breaks one more, he’s out of here.” He clapped his hands together. “So? Should I wrap it up for Mrs. Longacre? Where would she like it delivered?”
Vera glanced at the painting again, then started for the door back to the gallery. “Thank you for showing me. I’ll tell her I saw it.”
He blocked her path. “But what did you think?”
“Excuse me?”
Fleming looked at her over his glasses. “I need to know if she wants to buy. This is a very special piece. I have a number of potential buyers lined up. If she wants the painting, she’ll have to jump.”
She shook her head. “I have to say no. I don’t think my mother will be buying. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“But why not?”
Vera cleared her throat, unwilling to have this discussion. “Surely you know.”
“I promise you, Mrs. Bellington, my consultant in Paris would know if this wasn’t the real McCoy. He’s an expert.” Fleming extended a hand back toward the front room. “Would you like to see the letter from the gentleman who sold it to me? The Duke of Aarschot, he has such a good eye. Fascinating man. Knows more about Vermeer than Vermeer’s wife did, I’d wager.”
She smiled, cold and tight. “And I can assure you, I know a few things myself. So sorry, I really must go. I’m late for an engagement.”
He made a few false starts, then let out a sigh of genuine pain. “Okay. But she’s missing out.”
“I’m sure one of your other buyers will be delighted to take her place.” Vera turned for the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Fleming.”
When she walked out onto the sidewalk, she found her car idling at the curb. The driver held the door open for her, and she got in, relieved to have left without seeing Fleming’s secretary again. She pushed the woman from her mind to concentrate on what had bothered her about the painting.
Once she was alone with her thoughts, the error was immediately clear. Though almost every detail was immaculate, down to the choice of scene and subtle flecks of color in the shadows, the blue was wrong. Vermeer’s blues were deep and bold, and had a quality that could be detected even after centuries of fading or mishandling. This blue was too high, too light. A robin’s-egg blue, not cobalt, and it could not be attributed to anything natural like sun damage. The painting had been aged to perfection, so it did not look new, and the difference was subtle enough to fool a less trained eye. Most of Fleming’s customers likely only
cared that the art they bought matched the drapes in the sitting room and sounded impressive. And the forgery was pristine, done by someone with deep knowledge. Even a gallery owner could be forgiven for missing the error, especially since Vermeer himself was such a mystery. She would be hard-pressed to prove the painting was a forgery, so the thought of reporting it to anyone made no sense. Someone would no doubt be made very happy by the painting, no matter what its origin.
Once she had settled the matter of the painting, the face of the woman at the desk intruded on Vera’s thoughts once more. She recognized her instantly, of course, as she had the other times she had spotted her around the city. Once at a museum, once at a restaurant. Most recently she had been at an auction, clinging to the arm of a well-dressed gentleman twice her age. The brief conversation in the gallery had been the first time she and Vera had so much as acknowledged each other in all those coincidental meetings, however. Their polite back-and-forth at Fleming’s had finally allowed Vera to get a good look, to see that her hair was still as black as Vera’s, her eyes still a vibrant blue. But some of the pink had faded from her cheeks, and time had chilled her warm demeanor.
Vera had honestly not expected to have any occasion to exchange words with her again. Not with Bea Stillman. Not after the heartbreak that had passed between them on that cold November weekend so many years ago.
Vera crossed the quad, the early fall air tempting her nose with the smell of leaves and smoke. She mentally rehearsed the terms and definitions for the day’s test, even though she’d been over them a thousand times since rolling over under her quilt before dawn that morning.
Bea ran up and fell into step beside her. “Honestly, if they’re going to insist on having these classes every day, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep this up.”
“Don’t be silly,” Vera said, her mind still on vocabulary. “It’s your junior year. They had classes at Agnes Scott. You’re used to it by now.”
“Used to something and delighted by something are two entirely different states.” Bea yawned, stretching a hand over her head. “I want to show you something after class.”