A Fine Imitation

by Amber Brock

  Bea smiled. “It is a good plan. Don’t you at least want to hear it?”

  Vera sighed. “All right. I know you won’t rest until you tell me.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.” Bea made a big show of clearing her throat. “I’m taking you to a Yale football game. For the whole weekend.”

  “I repeat: absolutely not. We’d need letters from our parents, and you know my mother would never agree.”

  “Let me worry about that. I’ll get the letter. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know.” Bea took a step toward Vera. “If I can get us letters, will you go?”

  “But we’d need a car, a room…”

  “I’ve thought of all that. Harry can drive us. And there’s a girls’ boardinghouse in town. It’s for teachers, but my friend lives there. She said no one would care if we stayed one night.” Bea elbowed Vera. “I bet Cliff would like to see you again.”

  Vera turned so Bea could not read her expression. Did she know about the letters, or was she just teasing? If she knew something, it was unlike Bea to be coy. Vera decided to play it safe. “I’m not going to be silly about some boy. Especially not now.”

  “Then don’t come for him. Come for me.” Bea took Vera’s hands. “Please? Say you’ll think about it. I swear your mother would never have to know. And you deserve to do your last year of college in style.”

  “There’s no way my mother would be involved?” Vera asked.

  “Not at all. She’d never hear the first word about it. I can get letters, the dorm matron would never call her to question them. Plenty of girls go on weekend trips.”

  Vera pursed her lips. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But that’s all. No promises. And I want to see these letters before we take it any further.”

  Bea squealed and clapped. She ignored Vera’s shushing and said, “You’ll be glad we did this. I know you will.”

  Though she didn’t really believe Bea would be able to produce letters good enough to fool the dorm matron, Vera also had a little flicker of hope. Besides the opportunity to meet up with Cliff again, she’d never gotten to go to a football game, and she realized the days when that sort of thing might be possible were growing ever fewer. Everything shrunk before her: her remaining life at college, her days of taking chances, and her time to have any kind of relationship with Cliff, friendly or otherwise. Bea was right. Vera deserved a grand finale to all of it.

  Vera woke late the morning after her trip to the roof with Hallan. Her head throbbed a bit but did not hurt nearly as bad as she expected. Her stomach was not even a little bit wobbly. She guessed all those dinner parties, with course after course of alcohol, were good for something. Still, she asked Marguerite to draw her a bath and ignored her breakfast tray in favor of a glass of club soda and a cool cloth for her forehead.

  After dressing, she had Marguerite phone with regrets to the luncheon she was scheduled to attend at Caroline Litchfield’s, and also instructed her to tell any callers that she was ill. Vera had no desire to leave the apartment, though it might have provided some distraction from thoughts of the artist and her two strange evenings in a row with him. But she relished the idea of running into him even less. Avoiding him would not be too difficult. The social functions in his honor had finally slowed, and she might not have to see him again for a good long while if she prepared carefully. She decided to spend the morning in the study, where she could read and take care of her correspondence.

  She had just reached the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Evans appeared, and Vera slipped behind the open study door to watch.

  “Good day, sir,” Evans said.

  “Hello, yes, I’m here to see Mrs. Bellington.”

  Hallan. A thousand curses rang through Vera’s head. Of course he would have no qualms about walking right up to her door.

  “I’m sorry, sir. She’s not well.”

  “I’ll bet she’s not,” Hallan said with a short laugh.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” He took a pencil from his vest and scratched something on a card. “Will you give her this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Evans said.

  Vera heard the front door close, and she rushed to a chair. A few moments later, Evans appeared with an ivory calling card in hand. He gave it to her, then left. The front of the card read, in bold block letters:

  Vera rolled her eyes. One of the other ladies must have had them made up for him. She flipped it over to see what he had written. Hallan’s wispy letters read:

  “They say, best men are moulded out of faults,

  And, for the most, become much more the better

  By being a little bad.”

  That’s the Bard. Suspected you might be indisposed today, but thanks for a lovely night anyway.

  —E.H.

  After a moment’s deliberation, she ripped the card in half and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  Three days after Vera’s night out with Hallan, Marguerite woke her with the breakfast tray and the rather surprising news that Arthur was in the dining room having his coffee. Vera dressed and asked the maid to take her food in so she could join him.

  He sat reading the paper at the end of the table and barely looked up when Vera walked in.

  “When did you get home?” she asked, settling into her place.

  “Late. Didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Productive trip, I hope? How was the train?”

  “Yes, it was all fine.” He folded the paper and laid it by his plate. “Terribly sorry again about missing dinner the other night. I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced.”

  “Not at all.” She tried to keep her voice cheerful. “As you said, work comes first.”

  “So it does.”

  He retrieved his paper and they sat together in silence. Vera spread jam on her toast and took a bite, but it settled in her stomach like a rock, so she concentrated on her tea.

  Arthur put the paper down again. “I nearly forgot. You’ll need to look at your calendar.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Your father phoned. He and your mother want to take us to Abide Away for a weekend before the weather changes.”

  Vera nearly jumped with delight. Abide Away was her parents’ summer home in Montauk, and a weekend there would allow her several guaranteed artist-free days. There was the added bonus of getting her husband out of the city, where they could spend some time together in the place where they had courted. They could have a nice dinner out, maybe, just the two of them.

  “What a lovely idea,” she said. “We could go next weekend. I don’t have anything that would keep me here.”

  Arthur rubbed his chin as he thought. “Nor do I, come to think of it. I can always take the car back if something comes up at the office. You can ride back with your parents if need be.”

  Even that caveat could not dull Vera’s excitement. The ocean might still be comfortable for bathing, though the water was never warm enough for her taste. At the very least she would get a little sun. She mentally moved through her closet, trying to decide which dresses she ought to take, barely noticing that Arthur had continued talking.

  “…so you’ll need to ask that Hallan fellow,” Arthur concluded, raising the newspaper once more.

  A cold chill trickled down the back of Vera’s throat. “Ask him what?”

  “If he’s available. Your father says your mother wants to meet him. Thought it would be nice to show him a weekend at the beach, or something on that order.”

  “She can meet him here, in the city. There’s no need to take him out of town. It should be a family trip, don’t you agree?” Vera’s pitch rose as the words came clambering out.

  “She’s your mother, Vera. If you don’t want him there, tell her,” Arthur said.

  Speaking candidly to her mother was the last thing Vera wanted to do. She thought of creating an imaginary event that would prevent her from going, but that would never work. Nothing on Vera’s calendar would be crucial enough that it c
ould not be rescheduled. Besides, her fellow residents in the Angelus were her primary social sphere, and once some of them heard that Vera and Arthur were off to Montauk, they would all certainly have to go, too. Throw the artist into the plans, and half the building would be empty by Friday morning. There would be no engagements left for Vera to hide behind.

  Vera sat down that morning to write an invitation to Hallan, but after four or five false starts, it became clear she would not get the wording right. She thought of having Evans phone. She could not imagine what Hallan would think, after her two odd evenings with him, if she invited him out of town for the weekend. The conversation was not one she wanted to have face to face. However, if she spoke to him herself, she could make it evident that she did not want him there. She could dissuade him from accepting the invitation, something Evans or a properly written note would not do. With that in mind, she rode the elevator down to the second floor and knocked on the door of 2A.

  She expected his valet to answer, so she almost gasped when Hallan himself flung the door open. His eyes lit up.

  “Vera. I was hardly expecting you. Come in, please,” he said.

  She pulled her shoulders back. “I can’t stay. Where’s your man?”

  Hallan frowned. “Who, Michael? Why do you need to see him?”

  “I don’t. But you shouldn’t answer your own door. That’s what he’s there for.”

  He stared at her, then shook his head. “All right, noted. Please, come in. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you. I just came by…” She could not get the words out. “I wanted to—or really, my mother—that is—”

  He laughed. “Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad. Maybe you need something stronger than tea, you’re flushed.”

  “No,” she cried, as she thought of the influence alcohol had had on their other interludes. “No. Nothing, no tea, thank you.”

  “At least come in. Sit down.”

  Her unsteady knees begged her to agree. And sitting would allow her to get her thoughts together. “Yes, all right.”

  She followed him to the sitting room, which remained as tidy as she and Ida had left it the day before Hallan arrived. In fact, everything still looked as if Hallan had never moved in. There were no photographs on the mantel, no letters on the desk. No personal touches of any kind. And no art supplies. No sketches. No easels.

  “May I ask you something?” She took a seat on the couch, and he sat in the chair beside her.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I didn’t expect to find you in. What time do you start work each day?”

  “Usually after lunch. I don’t work well in the mornings.” He sat against the back of the chair. “You sound concerned. Don’t worry. You’ll get your money’s worth from me. Is that what you came for?”

  “Ah, no.” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “My mother has taken it into her head that we all need to go to Montauk together, and she wanted me to invite you.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, I’ve been keeping her up to date about the mural project since we had the idea. She’s curious about you.” Vera paused. “My mother has a great deal of influence in the city, and she doesn’t like to feel she’s been left out of any interesting developments, especially in my life. She likes to be…involved.”

  “I see. This Montauk. It’s a restaurant?”

  Vera stared. “No, it’s a town on the shore. My parents have a summer home there, we’ll make a weekend of it. My parents, Arthur and me, and you.”

  Hallan thought for a moment. “I’d love to meet your parents. And to see what a vacation looks like for the Bellingtons. Yes, wonderful. Tell your mother I’d love to go.”

  “I really don’t think you should go, Mr. Hallan. Don’t you have work to do?”

  “It will keep. No one’s given me a deadline, have they?”

  Vera pursed her lips. “But my mother…she’s a formidable lady.”

  He gestured to Vera. “She’d have to be.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid you might not have…compatible spirits. A weekend can be longer than it seems.”

  “I think I can handle it, thank you. Tell her I’d love to come. When do we leave?”

  She hesitated. “Friday morning. But if you change your mind—”

  He leaned in, eyes shining. “I won’t.”

  “Fine. I shouldn’t impose anymore. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.” She stood and took a deep breath. “I hope you understand that it’s better not to mention our outings to my mother. The museum and dinner. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

  He nodded and rose. “About the other night…surely you can stay a little while. We never got to speak.”

  She looked out the window. “I’m sorry, I really can’t stay.”

  “Did you get my card? I came by, but your butler said you were ill.”

  “I got your card. Thank you for calling.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, are you feeling better at least?”

  She turned back to him and spoke slowly. “Yes. Much.”

  He took a step toward her, but she walked past him.

  “Shall I show myself out, then?” she asked.

  “Of course not, I’ll walk you out.”

  She went to the door with Hallan in her wake. He opened the door, and she stepped through.

  “Good day,” she said.

  A wicked gleam appeared in his eye. “Tell your mother how much I’m looking forward to this weekend. What a treat, a few days at the shore.”

  Without another word, Vera spun on her heel and went for the elevator, her mind buzzing with the many ways he could make trouble in a house with her mother and husband.

  The following Friday at ten a.m. sharp, three gleaming cars pulled up to the front of the Angelus. As soon as Poppy heard about the trip, she had arranged to go with her two children to their cottage at Fort Pond Bay. Poor Julius was down with a cold and not able to travel. Walter and Caroline Litchfield had also decided to go with the group, along with their boys. Since Walter and Vera’s father golfed together occasionally, Vera’s father had invited them to stay at the house as well. Ida Bloomer had an opera board meeting she absolutely could not miss, so she had been unable to go, much to her dismay. Bessie Harper declined to join the party, concerned about the effect the sea air would have on her curls. Vera secretly wondered if Bessie was more worried about sand in her martini.

  Vera climbed into the car with Arthur, grateful Poppy had insisted Hallan ride with her and the children. Three hours in the car with Hallan and Arthur together was really not the start the trip needed. The other two groups crowded into their cars, and the procession drifted through the city streets.

  The height of the buildings descended as they moved out of the city. The sky seemed to Vera to grow brighter, the air cooler and more mobile, and even the weight on her shoulders lightened. Though she did not relish the thought of whatever troubles awaited her this weekend, she always loved going to the summer home and the feel of hot, white sand under her bare feet. There were plenty of distractions at the shore, and surely she could put distance between herself and Hallan where necessary. Once her mother had her fun dissecting him, she would move on to other prey, which again made Vera glad to have Poppy along. She would certainly do or say something that would prove a useful distraction.

  They passed through the village, with its cozy inns and dance hall. Vera made a mental note to have one of the servants go to town to buy her a magazine. The only place she ever allowed herself to read fashion magazines was on the beach. At the edge of town, the land beside the road yielded to grassy fields, and then finally to white pebbled driveways that led to neighboring estates. Poppy’s car would have turned off at Fort Pond Bay to go to her cottage, but they had to follow to drop the artist off at Abide Away. Despite Vera’s protests, her mother had insisted Hallan stay with them. After all, she had been the one to issue the invitation.

/>   At last, they drove up to a rustic-style wooden gate and down a long paved path. Before them, Abide Away rose up against the teal sky. The house’s dark wood exterior had been weathered by the sea air, and square red brick chimneys rose high above the two-story building. Vera’s parents waited in rocking chairs on the wraparound porch as she and Arthur stepped out into the crisp, salty air. The other cars pulled up, and their occupants exited as the house’s staff raced to take luggage inside. The group ascended the stairs, and Vera’s father and mother came forward. Hallan hesitated at the foot of the stairs, taking in the size of the house as the flurry of greetings took place on the porch.

  “Vera, darling,” her mother said, taking Vera’s hands. “I hope the drive wasn’t too difficult.”

  “Not at all, Mother. The traffic was lighter than usual, actually.”

  Her mother nodded at Hallan, who had started up the steps. “I suppose that will be him, then. Hmm. Look at that hair. What an Irish spectacle.”

  “Actually, he’s English, Mother.” Vera said this with more confidence than she felt, though his accent seemed to make his origin clear enough. She held out an arm, and Hallan crossed to where they stood. “Mother, may I present Mr. Emil Hallan.”

  “How do you do?” Vera’s mother said.

  He removed his hat and nodded. “Mrs. Longacre.”

  Vera supposed Poppy had given him her parents’ names in the car, as Vera realized she had neglected to do so. His propriety took her aback for a few seconds, and she stood silent while she tried to think of what to say next.

  “So you’re the artist?” Vera’s mother continued.

  He smiled and inclined his head. “I am.”

  “Well.”

  When her mother did not speak further, panic welled in Vera. She turned and waved to Poppy. “Please, do come here. Mother, may I present Poppy Hastings?”

  Before Vera’s mother could speak, Poppy quickly strode over, her short curls bouncing. “Oh, charmed,” Poppy trilled.

  Vera’s mother’s mouth tightened into a small pucker. “How do you do?”