by Amber Brock
“Why, do you need fabric?”
She nudged him. “I thought you said you didn’t tease.”
“I don’t, I don’t. But you did sound like you were at a garden party just then.”
She lowered her voice. “I want to know more about you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
At that precise moment, Bea dropped down beside Vera, winded from her exertions. “And what are you two being so secretive about?”
“Not secretive.” Vera’s face flamed. Bea leaned in to whisper as Cliff turned back to the boys.
“Got him talking, did you? I knew you could.” Bea’s eyes danced with the glow of the fire.
“Could we go back? This has been fun, but I’m exhausted,” Vera said. That was only part of it. She was confused, too. Cliff’s assessment of money, of her life, had appealed to her when it normally would have irritated her. She liked his certainty. Most important, she liked that he had listened to her. Even from the outside, he seemed to have a perfect read on her world.
“Sure.” Bea turned to Harry. “Will you take us back?”
“Aw, but it’s early,” Harry said.
Bea stood. “Early in the morning. Come on, let’s go.”
The boys put out the fire, and the group trudged back to the car. Vera’s weariness caught up with her as they rumbled over the back roads toward campus. Her head drooped, and she straightened her back.
“Here,” Cliff said in a low voice. He patted his shoulder.
She hesitated. Aside from taking her hand to help her into and out of his car, Arthur had never touched her at all, and he was her current best prospect for a fiancé. She shouldn’t be so forward with any boy, least of all one of dubious background whom she’d only met a few hours ago. But then again, she shouldn’t be sneaking off campus and drinking by the fire with him either. Or saying the things she’d said. She thanked him quietly and rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the scent of cold air and smoke that lingered on his coat.
The campus gates were in sight when Cliff whispered again. “Vera, are you awake?”
She murmured a low “yes.”
He looked at Gene, who snored quietly beside him. “You really want to know more about me?”
She lifted her head off his shoulder and nodded.
“May I write to you?”
Still floating on the alcohol and the freedom of their conversation, she nodded. She pushed away the hazy thought of Arthur. Letters from Cliff wouldn’t hurt anything, as long as she was discreet about them. After all, she was the kind of girl who snuck out at night, she thought with a tingle of excitement. She could choose.
Vera made her way to yet another afternoon tea, although she was thankful the group was limited to the ladies. A break from Hallan’s attention was welcome. Then again, the artist might as well have been present, since he was all any of the other women wanted to talk about.
“He’s simply the most interesting man,” Poppy said, her teacup rattling in its saucer as she gestured.
“He is,” Ida agreed. “Did you know he once did a painting of a landscape entirely in shades of blue, just to see if he could use the different hues that way? Fascinating.”
“It’s not all that unusual for an artist to—” Vera began.
“Well, blue is his favorite,” Poppy said. “I asked him. He said no one ever asked him that before.”
“No one ever asked an artist about his favorite color before?” Bessie asked, widening her eyes a bit too much. Vera held a hand to her lips to hide a smile.
Poppy plumped her bobbed curls. “No one. Not a soul. He seemed very impressed.”
Vera waited for a pause in the conversation and chose the wording of her question carefully. “When do you think he works?”
Everyone turned to her, like hawks on prey.
“What do you mean?” Ida asked. “Why, he works all day. All day and all night. He must.”
“But he’s always at parties and the like,” Vera said. “I’ve run into him coming into the building from being out all day.”
“He’s probably buying supplies. Paint and…brushes,” Caroline said.
“But he never has any carrier bags with him,” Vera replied.
Ida sat up straight. “He must have them delivered. Anyway, he’s working, I’m sure of it. At the party the other night he said he’d chosen his subject.”
Vera tried to ignore the dreamy look in Poppy’s eye at that statement. “I did see him sketching once. I suppose I’m only curious because we know so little about him.”
Caroline laid a hand on Vera’s. “You worry too much, my dear. And didn’t we get a letter from Clarence’s friend, the man from the museum? With photographs of his work?”
“Yes. Clarence showed them to me.” A prickle ran between Vera’s shoulders at the memory of the photos.
“Well, then.” Caroline smiled triumphantly, as if that statement cleared everything up.
Vera stirred her tea. “I wonder if someone shouldn’t peek into the pool room, that’s all.”
“Nonsense,” Ida said. “As the head of the Mural Board, I say we ought to honor the conditions he set out.”
“There, the head of the Mural Board has spoken,” Bessie said. “Do you really need a higher authority than that?”
“Thank you, Bessie,” Ida continued, puffing out her chest. “If we go in there now, who knows how it might affect his work? Or worse, he may leave us with a half-finished product. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No,” Vera said. She plastered on a smile. “Never mind me.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, it’s getting late. I’d better dash.”
“But Bertha hasn’t even brought the cakes out,” Ida said.
“I’m very sorry. Prior commitment. With my mother.” Vera stood.
“Quite all right. Marshall will see you out.” Ida rang the bell for the butler, but the other ladies remained seated. A strange silence settled over the room after a few abrupt good-byes, and Vera knew with absolute certainty that as soon as the door closed behind her, the artist would no longer be the most interesting subject of discussion. Her better judgment said that leaving so suddenly was a misstep, but even talking about Hallan was beginning to wear on her. The relief would be worth whatever temporary price she paid as the day’s topic of gossip.
An advertisement in the paper reminded Vera that the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Italian Renaissance exhibition would close in a few weeks. She had already been twice since it opened in late spring, but she wanted to see everything one more time before the pieces were sent back to their home museums. Fortunately, she had nothing on her calendar that day. After she dressed, she had Evans call for the car.
She left the building so rarely. Apart from lunch with her mother and the occasional evening at the ballet or long weekend in Montauk, most of her engagements were on the floors below her penthouse. Rain drummed on the car window as they rolled through the city streets, and Vera peered up at the crowd of buildings that reached ever higher into the gray clouds.
The driver pulled up to the curb in front of the museum and ran around with an umbrella. He and Vera walked up the stairs together, and he kept her safe from the rain until she got to the main entryway.
“Thank you, George.” She swiped at the drops on her pale blue skirt.
“What time would you like me to return?”
Vera glanced at her watch. “Shall we say two o’clock?”
“I’m sorry, your husband has a lunch engagement. He’ll need the car.”
“How about four?” Better too much time than too little, she thought.
“Yes, Mrs. Bellington.”
The driver left, and Vera stepped inside. The swooping ecru arches of the entryway soared above her, with an elegance befitting the treasures the building held. All museums seemed to have an undercurrent of the same smell, whether they held art or artifacts. That faint, dusty scent of history, of important things preserved with reverence. I
f Vera could have bottled it and sprayed it around her home, she would have.
As she made her way to the Italian exhibition, her short heels clicking against the stone floor, she dug the catalog describing the pieces from her purse. She had penciled notes about her favorite items in the margins, and she wanted to do the same for the paintings, which she had neglected in favor of the sculpture on her last visit.
When she entered the first room, a couple already stood in front of one of the paintings. She pretended to fuss in her purse for another moment, allowing them to move on. Vera wanted solitude with the art. She would have liked to be completely alone with the paintings, but so far fortune had never afforded her that luxury.
The exhibit began with the Florentine school, mostly portraits with a religious work or two thrown in. By the time she had viewed the first few paintings, the couple had moved on to the next room. Vera paused at the portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni, by Ghirlandaio, and squinted at the inscription on the cartel. She took out her pencil to note the Latin in her catalog and saw that it was already translated there.
As she debated with herself whether or not to write out the Latin anyway, someone stepped into the room. A little flare of annoyance tickled her chest, but she could not rightfully begrudge someone being in a public place. She concentrated her attention on the portrait once more, studying the vibrant gold tones of the lady’s gown and the way they played with the deep red on the decorations on her sleeve. The reddish-brown twists of the elaborate hairstyle united the warm hues. She sat in a straight-backed pose Vera herself had held many times, and Vera felt a sympathetic twinge along her spine.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Vera whirled around, holding in a gasp of surprise at the familiar voice. Hallan stood behind her, dressed in a light brown suit with a cheerful red bow tie. His grin climbed up one side of his angular face.
“Sorry, I didn’t startle you, did I?” he asked, taking a few slow steps toward Vera.
“Not at all. I heard you come in, I just didn’t realize it was you.” She held her chin in the air. “Taking a day off, are you?”
He looked at her appraisingly. “You do that a lot.”
“What, take the day off? I don’t work.”
“No.” He lifted his nose in imitation of her stance. “Lift your nose up. Do you like looking down at me?”
Heat tingled in the back of her neck. “Really, Mr. Hallan, the things that come out of your mouth. Do you relish being impolite, or is it some accident of nature?”
He held up his hands. “Forgive me. I had no intention of being rude.”
“Intention or not, you have an awful way of saying the wrong thing.”
He nodded. “That’s probably true.”
Vera turned back to the painting. “Anyway, you won’t be paid if you spend all your time running around the city.”
Hallan stepped beside her to look at the portrait. “Not running around the city. And to answer your earlier question, not exactly taking the day off. I got a bit stuck, you see, so I decided to consult some of my betters.” He leaned in to the painting, and his voice took on a breathy, dreamy tone. “I love what he does with the colors here. So warm. Feels like she’s alive, doesn’t it?”
The sudden change of topic unsteadied Vera. “It’s…it’s lovely.”
“So rare for the time, that portrait in profile. Normally they’re looking at us. What do you think she’s looking at?”
Vera twisted one of her earrings. “I couldn’t say.”
With one hand, Hallan traced the arc of the woman’s back in the air. “Ah, but you see the light, the way it falls on her dress? And the shadows, here in the folds? I think she’s looking out the window.”
“Oh.” Vera peered at the shadows he indicated, and saw immediately what he meant. “So she is.”
“Who wouldn’t? She was in Florence, wasn’t she? Have you been there?”
“No, I never have.”
Hallan did not take his eyes off the portrait. “Too bad. It’s lovely. All pinks and oranges, and great shining domes. If I were stuck in the house, modeling for a painting, I’d be staring out the window, too. Look, the corner of her mouth, lifted…her eyes wide, alert. She looks hopeful.”
Vera stared at him, speechless. The prolonged silence as she watched him examine the painting must have caught his attention, because he straightened up and turned to her with a questioning look. She struggled for words.
“You let every single thought you have come out of your mouth, don’t you?” she asked slowly. “You don’t hold anything back.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” he said.
“One should always think before one speaks.”
He chuckled. “Another lesson in etiquette from Mrs. Bellington. Don’t tell me you don’t sometimes wish you could say whatever’s on your mind?” He raised an eyebrow. “It would make those little cocktail parties much more interesting.”
A laugh threatened to bubble up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” He held out his elbow. “Come on, we don’t want to stand here all day.”
She hesitated a moment, then slipped her arm through his. They walked on, passing a Madonna and several more portraits. Hallan stopped at one, leaning close as he had done with the Ghirlandaio.
“I want to paint like this,” he said, in an awed whisper. “So soft, so gentle. Human. Living.”
Vera did not speak at first, afraid to break the spell the painting had on him. “So why don’t you?” she asked in a quiet voice.
He stepped back with a shrug. “Everything now is all modern, lots of hard lines. Geometric figures. I’m a product of my time. But I still keep some of that yielding in there. At least, I try.”
A group of people came into the room. Vera gestured to a bench against the wall, and she and Hallan sat together. “I know,” she said. “I saw the photographs you sent.”
“You did? How?”
“Clarence showed me.” She picked at the hem of her glove. “They wanted my opinion, since I studied art.”
“That’s right. Which you refused to tell me about.” He pressed his lips together, but the smile broke through anyway. “So? What was your opinion?”
She shifted in her seat. “I’m sure that hardly matters.”
He cocked his head. “You didn’t like them.”
“Quite the opposite.” She met his gaze, and warmth flooded her cheeks. “They were lovely. Really extraordinary.”
His face grew serious. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
Vera turned back to the wall of paintings, reluctant to continue that thread of conversation. “Yes. Well. They were the reason we gave you the job, weren’t they? How is the work progressing?”
“I’ve got an idea, it’s taking shape. I want to be sure to capture the spirit of the building. Got to get the mood just right. It will take a while, you know. It’s a big project.”
She smiled. “So it really must be a secret? Or maybe you’re trying to kill the ladies with suspense.”
“It will be a wonderful surprise. Provided it doesn’t kill anyone, of course.” He stood and offered her his hand. She gripped it and stood, and their fingertips brushed as she drew away.
“Shall we see the rest?” Her voice was tight and about a note too high.
“Let’s.”
They strolled through the rest of the exhibit, occasionally remarking on the paintings but not making much conversation. From the exhibit hall, they went on to the regular collection. Vera might have excused herself to go through the museum alone, but she was enjoying Hallan’s company so much, she hardly noticed as the time passed. Each time she checked her watch, she convinced herself she had a few minutes more than she really did, that her driver would circle the block if she did not appear outside at four on the dot.
She was checking the time once again when Hallan remarked on a certain shade of pale green in a textile by William Morr
is, and how it was the same color as the curtains in his bedroom.
“I thought you would like those,” she said. “Something subtle.”
“You decorated the apartment?”
“I did.”
“Makes sense.” He shot her a sidelong look. “Nothing subtle about Ida Bloomer. Or Poppy Hastings, while we’re on the subject.”
She broke into a wide smile as she glanced around the room.
“What are you doing that for?” he asked. “If they’re anywhere in the world, they’re not in an art museum.”
She shook her head. “Really, Mr. Hallan. That’s terrible.”
“It’s worth it. Got a smile out of you.” He looked at her pointedly. “That might be the first smile I’ve seen from you. Real smile, that is.”
At the mention of it, her smile cinched up into its usual slim line. She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go. My driver will be here soon.”
“Right.”
She knew she ought to offer him a ride back to the building, but she could not bear the thought of the whispers that would ensue if they arrived in the same car. To make him walk back in the rain would be almost cruel…but, then, he had come in dry, he must have had a dry method of travel. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes. The softness in his eyes as he looked at the Ghirlandaio flashed in her mind.
She took a step closer. “Won’t you—may I offer you a ride back to the building? I have a car coming.”
“Well, you know, I think I may stay a bit longer, get a look at some of the other exhibits,” he said at last.
The tightness in her chest relaxed, and the words rushed out a little too quickly in her gratitude at his discretion. “Wonderful. So much to see.”
“Yes.” His eyes met hers. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
“You’re very welcome. It was nice running into you.”
When Vera walked out of the building, she noted that the rain had stopped, though wet cotton clouds still hung in the sky. The driver waited for her beside the car, and he opened the door for her. As they pulled away from the museum, it seemed to her as if the hand she had felt holding her back since she had first gone to the docks to meet the artist was loosening its grasp. She very much wished it would not.