by Amber Brock
The doorknob turned, and the sudden click woke Vera. She sat up. The stream of thought that blared through the fuzziness of sleep said there must be an emergency in the building. But Bea, not the dorm matron, appeared in the crack of light from the hall. She slipped into the room, fully dressed, and crept to Vera’s bed. A tingle of relief ran down Vera’s spine.
“Goodness, I thought the building was burning down,” Vera said. “What on earth are you doing?”
Bea’s cheeks were flushed, and her breath carried a faint sting. “Get dressed. We’re going out. Oh, and do something with your hair.”
“My hair? It’s the middle of the night.”
“It’s not really the middle, more like the beginning. You go to bed earlier than my grandmother.” Bea opened the wardrobe and began to paw through the skirts inside. She pulled out a royal blue one. “Ooh, this one is killing.”
Vera rubbed her eyes and slung her legs out from under the quilt. “Don’t use slang.”
“Listen to you. Even half asleep, you’re still a walking rule book. Here, let me pin your hair. Oh, and have a sip of this.” Bea pulled a flask from her purse and held it out to Vera.
Vera reached for the flask, and warmth hummed through her chest before she even took a drink. Her mind grew sharp, now she was wildly awake. “Where are we going?”
“To meet the boys, of course. I promised you boys. I deliver on my promises.” Bea fished combs out of the box on the dresser and started arranging them in Vera’s hair. “It’s my cousin—he goes to Yale—and a few of his pals from the rowing team. You’ll like them.”
Vera laughed nervously. “My mother would die if she knew I was doing this. Really, she would fall down dead.”
Bea turned Vera by the shoulders to inspect her hair. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to go.”
“Not at all. Let’s go.” Vera pressed her fingertips to her mouth. In her excitement, her voice had gotten a bit loud. Both girls sat still, waiting for a creak in the hall or a voice from downstairs, but the building was silent. Vera moved toward the door, but Bea held her back.
“Don’t forget these,” she said, holding Vera’s shoes. “You are ready, aren’t you?”
Vera’s face warmed, though her smile didn’t waver. Her blood sang in her veins. She put on the shoes and followed Bea out. The night air tingled with chill, and Vera was glad she had brought her coat.
“This way,” Bea said, weaving through the shadows to avoid the quad, lit brightly by the moon. They snuck across the lawn to the gravel road, where a Ford sat. In the car, Vera counted three shadowy forms. Bea got into the front seat, and arms reached out to help Vera into the back.
“Took you long enough,” the boy in the driver’s seat said. He turned the key, and the car roared to life.
“Be nice,” Bea said, with an exaggerated wag of her finger. “You’re in the presence of ladies now.”
The boy snorted. “I don’t know your friend, but if you’re a lady, then I am.”
“Maybe I should introduce you,” Bea said. “Vera, this is my cousin, Harry Morton. Harry, this is Vera Longacre.”
Harry turned his attention from the bumpy drive to the backseat. “Longacre, you say? Well, now. It is nice to meet you.”
“I think she prefers to be called Vera,” Bea said, her tone dry. “I just wanted you to know you’re in polite company.”
“Looks like I’m in society,” he said.
“Don’t listen to him, Vera.” Bea faced Vera after a hard swat to Harry’s arm. “Introduce your friends, Harry, don’t make Vera think you were raised in a barn.”
“The goofy mug on the far end is Gene,” Harry said. “The one breathing all over you is Cliff.”
Vera turned to the boys sharing the seat with her. Gene looked like a cornstalk, tall with gangly limbs and tufts of light blond hair. He shot Vera a toothy grin and waved. Cliff was a handsome athletic type, with red waves and a somber affect. He nodded at her.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said. She scooted up to the edge of the seat to get close to Bea’s ear. “Where are we going? You never did say.”
“To the lake. The boys are building us a bonfire.” Bea pointed to the fork ahead in the road. “Harry, that’s our left.”
Harry obediently steered the jostling Ford to the left.
“Is this your car, Harry?” Vera asked.
“It is indeed. A congratulatory gift from my father for my excellent grades last year. Father knows I like the newest toys, but this was a surprise,” Harry said.
Concealed by the darkness, Vera raised her eyebrows. If Harry’s family had bought a college-age boy his own car, that told her everything she needed to know about their wealth.
Gene leaned over Cliff. “So, Vera, how do you like Vassar?”
“I like it very much.”
“Are you a junior like Bea?”
“A senior.”
“And do you study anything in particular?”
Vera groaned inwardly. This was turning into one of those conversations she had with her parents’ friends. The patronizing guesses at what her work must be like or what they actually do at women’s colleges would come next. And the gentlemen always liked to get in a little dig about the higher education of women in general. A glance at Gene’s smiling eyes made her more sympathetic, and she pushed back her reluctance. “I’ve concentrated on art history. The Spanish masters mainly, but Vassar has a wonderful program. The instructors give a thorough grounding in all the major movements and European schools.”
“I took an art history class,” Gene said, “but I’m afraid I was hopeless at it. Couldn’t tell any of the paintings apart. You must have a good eye.”
“I don’t know if I can say that, but thank you,” Vera said. “What do you study?”
“Finance,” Harry piped up from the front. “Same as all of us. Same as anyone with good sense.”
“I thought you studied law,” Bea said.
“Never got the hang of all that Latin,” Harry said. “Might as well do something in a language I know.”
“Are you claiming to know English now?” Bea asked with a snort.
“Better than you lot from Georgia.” Harry drew out the vowels in the word with gusto.
“I’m betting I know finance better than you.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to let out a grunt of derision. “Not likely. I saw how you spent your parents’ money at Agnes Scott.”
Even in the dim light from the windshield, Vera could see Bea’s angry glare. Harry wisely said no more. Vera was curious to know what Harry had meant by that, but did not want to receive the type of look Harry had gotten by asking.
They puttered along through the countryside, their chatter turning amiably to classes and teachers. Vera noticed Cliff didn’t jump in to add to the other boys’ funny stories, but it wasn’t as though he was falling asleep. He sat, silent but alert, his eyes mostly on the road. She wondered why he had come at all if he didn’t want to be friendly.
Harry pulled the car into a clearing and cut the engine. They had arrived at the edge of a lake, and despite the brightness of the moon shimmering on the water, Vera struggled to see the boundaries in the wooded darkness. The smell of pine lit up the night air as they walked to the fire pit at the shore. Four large logs encircled the pit, evidence that they were not the first to use the site for that purpose. A pyramid of new wood stood ready, and Vera guessed that the boys must have come by before picking them up at school.
She settled on a log beside Bea, and the three boys made a show of getting the fire going. If Cliff had been reticent in the car, he was not now. He strode around, instructing the other two and shooting glances at Vera and Bea.
“He’s divine, isn’t he?” Bea asked in a quiet voice, her cheek nearly touching Vera’s. “Don’t worry, if you want him, he’s yours. He is a thing of beauty.”
Vera had to admit that Cliff was handsomer than she’d been able to see in the shadows of the car. The new flames of th
e fire made his auburn hair look even redder and lit up his square jaw. Arthur popped, unwelcome, into her mind. Though she found Arthur handsome, he’d never provoked quite the same warmth in her chest she got when she looked at Cliff. She turned away to keep the heat from rising into her face, where Bea would easily read it.
“I guess you’ve met him before?” Vera asked.
“Harry’s parents have a place at the Cape, I’ve met him there a couple of times.”
“Is Harry ‘those Stillmans’?”
“No, he’s my cousin on my mother’s side. His mother grew up in Atlanta, though you’d be hard-pressed to get her to admit it these days. She’s even mostly gotten rid of her accent.”
“So Harry and Cliff are school friends?”
Bea nodded. “Since freshman year. I think Harry’s good for Cliff. He’ll introduce him to the right people. Get him moving in better circles.” Bea noted Vera’s surprise. “Cliff’s not destitute or anything, but his family’s not ‘society,’ you know? Of course, I don’t know that much about him. Hard to get him talking, and I’ve tried.”
“I bet you have.”
“You know I have. But maybe you’re the one to make him come out of his shell.”
Vera guessed that if Bea couldn’t tempt him, with her curves and flashing blue eyes, then he would not start telling his life story to her skinny friend. Still, when he finished with the fire, it was Vera he sat by. Bea passed her the flask, and Vera had to turn away from her devilish look. Vera took a nip, then offered the flask to Cliff.
“No, thanks,” he said. He took a small glass bottle from his inside pocket. “Brought my own.”
“How clever,” Bea said. “Then you don’t have to share.”
“I don’t mind sharing,” he said. He drank a bit of the brown liquid.
Before Bea could make another crack, Vera jumped in. “So, Bea tells me you’re all on the rowing team?”
Gene sat on the log nearest the three of them. “That’s right. Unstoppable and unbeatable.”
“I imagine that takes a lot of energy,” Bea said, undaunted by Vera’s glare.
“I guess so,” Gene said. “No more than any other sport.”
“What do you say, Cliff?” Bea said. “Do you have more energy than the average boy?”
Before he could answer, Vera tried again. “Bea tells me you summer with Harry’s family, Cliff. Does your family have a house on the Cape, too?”
“No, nothing like that. We’ve only got one house.” He peered at the fire, then stood. “Excuse me. I ought to get more kindling, or we’ll lose the flame.”
He walked away, his steps crunching through the carpet of leaves surrounding the logs. Beside her, Bea struck up a lively conversation with Gene, punctuated by an occasional quip from Harry. But Vera’s head swam with the alcohol’s drowsy warmth, and she was content to sit quietly, watching the dark spot where Cliff disappeared into the shadows under the trees. She had the passing thought that she ought to have fewer houses, but she brushed it away. It was a silly thing to wish for, and she smiled a little at her own embarrassment.
Though Vera held a party to introduce Hallan to the building the evening after his arrival, it seemed everyone had already bumped into him by the time dawn broke on his first full day at the Angelus. One by one, the ladies called on Vera, ostensibly with a question or the need to borrow some trifle. Mostly they just bragged about having met “the artist.” Poppy said she ran into him in the elevator, and Vera supposed she had ridden the elevator up and down all afternoon hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Caroline Litchfield said she saw him in the hallway, but Vera could not fathom any reason for her to be on the second floor at all. Bessie Harper, true to form, was the most brazen; ignoring etiquette, she had simply knocked on his door. The women buzzed with excitement, almost floating above the chairs Vera offered.
Though the invitation clearly stated, “cocktails at 7:30, seating at 8,” people began arriving as soon as the clock read seven twenty-five. Vera had Evans direct them into the drawing room and waited until the exact time on the invitation to enter. Arthur followed shortly after. Hallan arrived late.
He stood in the doorway, and the room immediately broke into applause. He smiled, but his brow knitted almost imperceptibly. Vera walked over to greet him, and he gave the room a little nod of acknowledgment before stepping to her side. His dark suit made the bluish hue in his eyes more prominent, and he had tamed his hair into a sharp part. Vera thought it fortunate that he knew how to dress himself appropriately for a formal dinner party. There was no knowing what kind of savagery a working artist might be accustomed to.
“Good evening, Mr. Hallan. So kind of you to come,” she said.
“How are you this evening?” he asked.
“Very well, and you?”
“I’m well. Thank you for hosting, I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.” He scanned the room. “Well, everyone I haven’t met yet.”
“In that case, let me introduce you to my husband.” She turned and laid a hand on Arthur’s sleeve. He disengaged himself from his conversation. “Arthur, I’d like to present Mr. Emil Hallan.”
The men shook hands, and Arthur drew himself up to his full height. “How do you do? I received your letter, of course.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hallan said.
“I’m sure my wife has inquired about the suitability of your accommodations.”
Hallan glanced from Arthur to Vera, then back again. “Oh, the apartment is excellent, thank you.”
Arthur took a sip from his highball glass. “When do you plan to begin work?”
“Very soon. Haven’t made it down to the pool yet. I’ll need to get a sense of the size of it, do some sketches, that sort of thing.” Hallan turned to Vera. “I was hoping you could take me down there tomorrow morning. Would you?”
Vera gave a pinched smile. “So sorry, I have an engagement in the morning. I’m sure Ida would be delighted to show you, though. She is head of the Mural Board, after all.” She beckoned to a waiter with a tray of drinks. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Hallan?”
He took a drink from the tray. Arthur returned to his group, and Vera stepped to the side to allow others to approach the artist. But Hallan, instead of circulating, stayed close to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, allowing a hint of irritation into her voice. “Would you like me to introduce you to anyone?”
“I’ve met a good number already, actually. In the halls and the like.” He lifted a hand to the crowd. “These people certainly aren’t shy.”
Vera studied her drink to avoid his gaze. Something about the focus and energy in his eyes, the candidness in his manner, made her unsteady. He was too comfortable with her, as though they were old friends. “No, I suppose they aren’t,” she finally managed.
“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?” he asked under his breath, leaning in.
“I beg your pardon?”
His face was so close to hers she could smell his shaving lotion. “The applause, the fuss. A Mural Board? It’s not what I expected.”
Vera pulled on the pendant of one of her canary diamond earrings. “Everyone is excited, that’s all.”
“And you?”
“Me what?”
His eyes gleamed. “Are you excited?”
Vera’s lips parted, and she clamped them shut. When she spoke, her voice came out like the blade of a knife. “I’m generally a calm person by nature. If you’ll excuse me, I ought to check on the kitchen.”
She left the drawing room and downed the last of her cocktail. If this was how the artist was planning to behave for the entirety of his stay, she did not know how much of his company she could tolerate. What was he thinking, asking her if she was excited? What was that in his tone? Was he actually flirting? With her husband standing not two feet away? Surely not. She stepped into the kitchen and took a deep breath to restore her composure.
When the cook confirmed everything was running on time, Vera sent the ma
id out with the dinner bell. The party progressed to the dining room, and the guests found their seats. Vera was glad she had put Hallan three seats away, between the matronly Ida Bloomer and the reedy Bessie Harper. The distance was a relief. Poppy Hastings was likewise too far away to enjoy a chat with the artist; a good thing, since she had been on the point of salivating over him when Vera had returned to the drawing room.
Vera congratulated herself on having planned and timed the meal perfectly. The chilled caviar melted like ice, and the sole that followed was still steaming. She would have to commend Gertrude on the perfect presentation of the artichokes, and the chicken had just the right amount of herb seasoning. The only tiny hiccup was when Julius Hastings bellowed an order to a servant who passed away at least two years before, but that sort of thing could be forgiven at his age. Otherwise, everything flowed as Vera had planned, until the waiters brought in the cordials.
Hallan stood and clinked his fork to his glass, silencing the party. “Good evening, everyone. I want to thank you again for my appointment as your muralist. I’m delighted to begin work on the project very soon.”
There was light applause around the table, which he waved off with a gracious nod before continuing. “I do have a request to make, and I thought it easiest to make it when we are all assembled together. I must ask that all keys to the pool room be turned over to me, and that no one enter the pool until the painting is finished.”
Dull silence greeted this statement, followed by a rumbling murmur that increased in volume. After a stern look from his wife, Clarence Bloomer stood.
“I understand artistic temperament and all that,” Clarence said, “but my wife has to take her daily exercise in the pool. Doctor’s orders.”
Hallan nodded. “I know it will be an inconvenience, but I really cannot proceed without privacy while I work. I never let anyone see my work until it’s done. I’m afraid I must insist.”
The murmur resumed, and Clarence took his seat. Kenneth Harper leaned in to Vera, speaking under his breath. “Yes, you know, I’ve heard of that with artists. Don’t like anyone seeing a work in progress.”