by Amber Brock
“No. Just curious if you paint. As much as you love art, I would assume you dabble.” His voice was as casual as that of someone on the street asking directions. He pointed to the crystal carafes on the beverage cart. “May I pour myself a drink?”
She nodded. The pounding of her heart had slowed, and only a few warm tears trickled down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with his handkerchief. “I don’t paint.”
“I find that surprising.” He sat on the chair near the sofa and took a sip from the glass of whiskey he had poured. “You never wanted to give it a go?”
“I did try, years ago. When I was a girl.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I wasn’t very good.”
“It’s like any other pursuit. It takes practice.” He sat forward. “Can I tell you how I paint? My process, I mean?”
She nodded again. At last she had the opportunity to find out what might really be going on in the pool room. If he said something ridiculous, surely she would recognize it as a lie.
He gazed into the distance. “For me, the color is what’s vital. I can have an idea, a picture in my mind, but I have to choose a core color as a place to start. To set the mood, if you like. And then I build the other colors and the rest of the composition around that. That’s when it begins to really take shape.” He glanced behind him to the portrait of Vera. “If I were going to paint you, I certainly wouldn’t start with black. That’s why that painting is all wrong, you know. Not that you don’t look lovely in it. But you must admit, it’s wrong.”
Unsure how to respond to that, Vera asked, “What color will you use in the pool room? Have you decided?”
“I have.”
“Will you tell me?”
“You’ll see. And I think you’ll understand when you see. You more than anyone else.”
“Why me?”
“Because you understand art, of course.” Worry flickered across his face. “Are you feeling any better? I’m glad to see you’ve stopped crying at least.”
And she had stopped crying. He had distracted her with the talk of painting, and she had not even realized it. She twisted the handkerchief in her hand.
“Yes, feeling much better,” she said. She was not, not really, but the embarrassment of having lost her composure in front of the artist, coupled with the thought of what a fright she must look after such a scene, engulfed her, and now she wanted nothing more than for him to leave. She stood. “Thank you for the book.”
Hallan hesitated, then glanced at the door. “You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
He stood. “May I ask you one thing?”
“Yes?”
“What color would you choose? Right now. If you had to.”
She sighed. “I told you, I don’t paint.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t choose a color.”
She met his gaze, staring deep into those blue-green eyes. “Orange. Like the sky outside the theater.”
“Orange.” He rubbed his chin, then inclined his head. “I think that would do nicely, yes.”
He put down his half-finished drink and turned to go.
“It was the monster.” The words surprised even Vera herself.
Hallan took a step back toward her. “Excuse me?”
Vera pulled in a wavering breath. “The monster. In the picture today. I just…felt, well, awful for him, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He loved that woman, but she didn’t love him back.” She forced a light laugh. “What a silly thing to be so emotional about.”
He shook his head and walked slowly to the door. “I felt rather sorry for him myself. Good night, Vera.”
The driver brought Vera’s mother back to campus on Saturday morning, though Vera had tried all through dinner the night before to discourage her from spending the day at school. She suggested the china shop, the lace and embroidery house, even the theater. Her mother could sometimes be tempted by a play, and a popular one had just opened in town. When her mother stepped out of the car that morning, Vera made one last effort.
“Really, town is far more interesting than campus,” she said.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “It’s a lovely day. I think a stroll around that little lake would be refreshing.”
Vera pulled her coat tighter. “But isn’t it chilly? Do we really want to walk around in the cold?”
“I am not old, nor am I infirm,” her mother said, in a tone icier than the day could ever be. “Besides, if we were in town we’d be out in the air, wouldn’t we?”
“Not if we were in the playhouse. It’s really—”
“Goodness, Vera. Is there something illicit happening at this school you intend to prevent me from seeing?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
“Of course not. I only wanted to make sure you had a nice visit, that’s all.” The truth was she couldn’t bear her mother’s scornful remarks about every detail of the campus and its inhabitants. Each criticism chipped away at Vera’s own enjoyment of her sanctuary, until she could see only the faults her mother saw. She especially didn’t want her mother employing this process with Bea. The more time they spent at school, the more chances they had to run into her. If Bea said anything out of line, the dissection would begin. Inflicting her mother on her sweet and lively friend would have no good outcome.
“I’m sure a day here will make for a perfectly acceptable visit. If you’re going to be a good hostess, you must allow your guests to choose what suits them, and not wear them out with suggestions.” Her mother turned to the driver. “Franklin, please return for us at five o’clock. We’ll have dinner in town. Hand Vera the lunch basket, will you?”
Vera took the basket from Franklin, grateful that her mother didn’t have plans to eat in the dining room. The man climbed back into the car, and Vera watched her last hope of keeping her mother in town drive away.
“We’ll have a nice picnic on the lake,” her mother continued. “I want to talk to you, that’s what this little visit is about. Lead the way, please.”
With a tightening grip on the basket, Vera started for the lake. If her mother had gone to all this trouble just for a talk, the topic must be serious. Vera thought of the letters under her bed, with Cliff’s boxy handwriting on the small pages. Her mother couldn’t know about the letters, could she? Vera begin mentally preparing a defense for the correspondence, an explanation of its perfect innocence that her mother would immediately disregard. And why shouldn’t she? Even if the letters themselves were innocent, the way she’d entered into an acquaintance with Cliff was not.
All the way down the path, Vera checked the faces of the other girls. A boisterous interruption from Bea would be even less welcome if her mother wanted a private conversation. But Bea was nowhere to be seen. Vera calmed herself with the thought that she could count on Bea to stay in bed asleep for a good portion of the morning, and maybe the afternoon, too. She did love to sleep in on the weekends.
At the lake, her mother pointed out a bench, and she and Vera sat. The sun shimmered off the gold and red leaves, and a light breeze sent ripples across the water. Of all Vera’s protests, the weather was the weakest. The day had turned out idyllic.
“I have something important to discuss with you,” her mother began, “and I see no reason to be less than plain about it. Arthur has spoken to your father and made his intentions clear. He plans to propose to you when you’re home for Christmas.”
“I see.” Vera felt light-headed with relief. Her mother didn’t seem to know about Cliff or the letters, or that would have been the first thing out of her mouth. Cliff. A proposal from Arthur would mean the abrupt end of the letter writing, no matter what its intent. Vera reminded herself quickly that Cliff was just a friend, and they hadn’t known each other long. He hadn’t even asked her if she had a beau. “What did Daddy say?” she asked, though she knew her mother’s opinion was the only one that would matter.
Her mother’s jaw tensed. “Well. He always did indulge you too much. He says
he approves, but it will be your decision. But I came here to make sure you understand fully what you’re doing if you accept him.”
“But I thought you liked Arthur. Don’t you?”
“He’s a good man, and he can give you the type of life a girl like you should expect. That’s important. But it’s also important that you are aware you will be trading the Longacre name for a name that means much less.”
Vera let the words roll around in her head. Her mother had never indicated any hesitation about Arthur before. “I know he’s not from an old family, of course. But those sorts of things don’t matter as much these days.”
Her mother pressed her lips together tightly. “They may not matter to some. I still think a legacy is essential. Arthur seems to understand that, too. After all, if he gets you, he gets an attachment to this family. Don’t think he hasn’t considered that. What you can do for him in society.”
Vera scanned the lake. She had realized Arthur’s interest in a girl ten years younger might not be entirely romantic, especially given that they had almost nothing in common. Mutual attraction was a possibility she’d preferred to consider, especially since she found him so strikingly handsome. And love could grow from attraction, couldn’t it? From time and closeness. Above all, she wanted to love whoever she married and be loved by him. Her parents’ relationship hadn’t given her much hope on that front. Though neither her mother nor her father had been inclined to discuss their courtship, Vera got the impression that it had been less of a choice and more of an inevitability, dictated by social rank and like-minded parents. Rather than discouraging Vera, it had given her the motivation to make a better match for herself. She had seen couples, even those likely thrown together as her parents had been, who had learned to enjoy each other’s company. Who had found common ground. She was willing to work for affection, even if her mother and father had not.
The warning implicit in her mother’s words gave her pause. They suggested a consideration of Vera’s future happiness, an acknowledgment that her mother had spent time weighing the advantages and disadvantages of the match. Of course she would be thinking about the connections the marriage would make, but her mention of “society” suggested she was contemplating more for her daughter. That maybe they wanted the same things for Vera’s future.
With this in mind, Vera ventured a question she might not otherwise have dared. “Are you saying you think I should wait for someone else? Someone with a better family name?”
“I thought of that, but there’s no knowing. Could you wait? It’s possible you might make another match. You turned out quite pretty, not that I think that concerns Arthur much.”
Vera felt herself deflate. Didn’t her mother think Arthur would find Vera attractive? Was she truly only a name to him? She’d never ask, and her mother didn’t give her time anyway. Her mother took in a deep breath and continued.
“It’s not worth waiting for a name and squandering the opportunity before you. As much as I don’t like it, I knew you’d likely have to choose someone who’d made his own fortune. That’s the way things are going nowadays. I’m just grateful he’s no robber baron or war profiteer. At least he made his money the proper way, there’s something admirable about that.” Her mother sighed. “There’s no sense in going round and round with it. I’ve done enough of that in my head. And I came here to discuss it with you in person, because I need you to understand what accepting him will mean. I don’t want you thinking of marriage as some fairy tale. You’ve always had romantic notions, but life is not like one of your novels.” Her mother’s pause prompted Vera’s hasty response.
“Of course not, Mother. I understand.”
“Taking everything into account, I do approve of Arthur. Your father approves of him. If you want to accept him, I see no reason not to.”
Vera’s gaze went to her ring finger. The idea of a sparkling gem on it did give her a little shiver of excitement. She imagined herself at Christmas, Arthur sliding the ring on, maybe giving her a kiss. Then Cliff’s face, lit by firelight, floated into her mind. She pushed the thought of him away. No matter how enlightened her mother was on the subject of a man making his own fortune, Cliff could never even compete with someone like Arthur for a seat at her mother’s table, let alone marriage to her daughter. His letters were sweet, but she would have to end them before Arthur made his offer. Vera knew the right answer. “I think I should accept Arthur,” she said, though the words came out more heavily than she meant them to.
Her mother nodded. “At least it’s settled, and I won’t have to worry about you anymore. Of course, there will be no need to come back for spring term. We’ll have to plan the wedding.”
Vera whipped around to face her mother. All thoughts of men and proposals evaporated at the prospect that she might not return to school. “But I have to finish the year, it’s my last. There’s the senior dance, and senior weekend…not to mention graduation.”
Her mother’s features darkened. “I am not asking you, I’m telling you. There’s no way to properly plan a wedding like this through letters. You’ll stay home, and that’s final. If he’d proposed to you earlier, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.” She shook her head. “I’d have liked a nice winter wedding, but summer it is.”
“Then why don’t we have it next winter?” Vera said, her voice growing shakier. “That would give us plenty of time to plan—”
“Stop that this instant.” Her mother pressed her hand to her forehead. “I really cannot stand these theatrics right now. Can we have a civil conversation, or should I go home?”
Go home, Vera begged in her mind. But she knew the threat was idle. If she wanted to keep from leaving on Sunday with her mother, Vera would have to stay in her good graces. She could always revisit the discussion about spring semester at Christmas. Or, if all else failed, she could appeal to her father. No need to upset her mother further now. “I’m sorry, Mother. I do appreciate you advising me. Why don’t we have some lunch?”
Her mother nodded, her lips still a thin line. But she accepted the sandwich Vera offered, as well as the cup of tea poured from the thermos. The conversation even steered toward the more genial topic of wedding gown styles, which visibly calmed her mother. Vera let herself think she would survive the day, until she heard a bright voice behind them call her name. She and her mother turned to see Bea, taking long strides down the path to the lake.
“Who is that?” her mother asked.
“Oh…that’s my friend. Bea. Bea Stillman.” Vera gave the last name as much emphasis as she could.
“The Stillmans don’t have a daughter your age.”
“Oh, she’s not from the city. She’s a cousin, from Atlanta.”
Her mother frowned. “What did she do to get sent up here?”
Vera’s face went hot with indignation. “She didn’t do anything. Her family wanted her to benefit from the society here.”
“They have plenty of society down south. I think she’d benefit more from a hobble skirt and the recommendation not to shout at people.”
Vera ignored the wheels turning in her mother’s mind and leapt off the bench to meet Bea on the path. “Why are you running? It’s not like you have to catch up to us.”
Bea laughed. “I can’t run in front of your mother? She must be worse than I thought.”
There was no polite way to avoid it now. Vera would have to introduce them. “Come on,” she said, her tone harsher than she would have liked.
Vera’s mother stood as they approached. Her features were placid, and her lids drooped slightly. The expression might have looked like boredom to an untrained eye, but Vera knew her mother already found much to dislike about Bea.
“Mother, may I present Bea Stillman. Bea, this is my mother.” Vera wrung her hands in front of her.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Longacre,” Bea said. “Vera’s said so many lovely things about you.”
“How nice that I can count on my daughter to speak well of me,”
Vera’s mother said.
“But then not every mother can say that, can they?” The corner of Bea’s mouth inched up the side of her face, and her eyes sparkled.
Vera forced out a laugh. “Oh, Bea. Don’t be silly.”
“I’ve so enjoyed getting to know Vera,” Bea continued. “She is just a living doll. And such a good influence. Though we do have our share of fun.”
“Is that right? I’m delighted to hear it.” Vera’s mother gave a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “What sort of fun might that be?”
“Don’t worry, we don’t get into too much trouble.” Bea laughed. “Mostly because no one catches us.”
Vera’s mother dropped what little pretense of graciousness she had. “Is that right? Vera, what sort of things have you been getting up to?”
“Nothing, Mother.” Vera’s stomach threatened to send her sandwich back up. “Bea is joking. She loves to joke.”
“She’s right,” Bea said, blanching. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to concern you.”
“Believe me, you do not concern me.” Vera’s mother drew herself up. “Vera, bring the basket. We’re going back up to call the driver. A day in town does sound good after all.”
Vera tossed the remnants of lunch back into the basket and hurried in her mother’s wake. She turned to look at Bea, who mouthed “sorry” and offered a small wave. Vera did not wave back. She couldn’t believe Bea would be so insensitive. For a moment, Vera wondered if Bea thought her mocking comments might actually charm Lorna, but Vera angrily dismissed any charitable explanation of Bea’s behavior. Was Bea trying to get her in trouble? No, Bea was just Bea. Incorrigible. At least Vera had had the sense to keep the letters from Cliff to herself. A bad afternoon could have been a disastrous one.
When Marguerite came in with the breakfast tray, Vera’s eyes stung and watered. A sinking sense of embarrassment flooded through her, but she tamped down the hazy memory of her day at the movies and the unfortunate episode with the vase. Instead, she focused on that evening’s dinner with Arthur. Something in what she had said must have gotten through to her husband, and she needed to concentrate on making the most of her opportunity. She could not waste time fretting about the nonsense the night before. She lay in bed for so long planning what she would wear and how the evening would go, she nearly forgot it was Wednesday, and had to rush to dress for lunch with her mother.