A Fine Imitation

by Amber Brock

“And those are my children, over there.” She pointed briefly to two small girls in matching sailor dresses, then turned back to Vera’s mother. “What a lovely home you have.”

  “Yes, well, the outside, anyway,” Vera’s mother said in a brisk tone.

  “You know, I told Vera that Emil could stay with us, but she said you wouldn’t hear of it. Now I see why.” Poppy’s green eyes widened as she held out her arms to indicate the size of the house.

  “Quite,” Vera’s mother said, and turned to greet Arthur.

  “Oh, your mother is lovely,” Poppy said under her breath.

  “Isn’t she?” Vera glanced at Poppy’s car, where the driver stood by the door. “I would invite you in for tea, but I’m sure you want to get to your place and get settled before you return for dinner.”

  “Yes. I guess we should, thank you.” Poppy shooed the little girls down the porch, calling good-byes over her shoulder.

  Vera’s mother walked back to where Vera stood. “Wherever did you find that woman?”

  “I didn’t find her, Julius Hastings did,” Vera said.

  “I wonder on what saloon bar she was dancing at the time. ‘Charmed’ indeed. Are we the only ones left with any manners at all?” Her mother raised her voice back to a normal level and addressed the party. “Let’s all go inside, shall we? I’m sure you want to rest and refresh yourselves before tea.”

  A team of maids in starched white aprons assembled in a row on the porch and led the way into the house. The foyer had a huge vaulted ceiling with a skylight on each side, and warm golden sunshine poured over the lacquered wood floors. On either side, doors led to the dining room and the drawing room, and a sliver of ocean and sand could be seen through the glass doors at the back. Beside the glass doors were the two hallways, one that led to the master suite, and the other to the suite Vera had occupied as a girl, both of which had access to the porch through French doors in the bedroom. Vera and Arthur would take Vera’s childhood suite. Upstairs there were an additional four bedrooms, one of which would be Hallan’s. The Litchfields and their boys would occupy the two on the other side of the house for more privacy.

  A cold lunch of cheese, fruit, and pâté had been laid out on the table in Vera and Arthur’s room under a glass dome, and a card noted that tea would be served at four in the drawing room. Arthur lay down on the small white bed to rest, while Vera changed out of her traveling clothes and into a linen dress. She wished Marguerite were with her, but she had given the girl the weekend off in a fit of generosity. Of course, she knew how to pin her own hair up in the most basic way, but Marguerite had an expert hand. Vera decided against brushing out the style the girl had set that morning, and simply added a silver barrette to the side. She dabbed a wet cloth against her neck, then touched up her powder. Refreshed, she rang the bell for one of the maids and gave instructions for unpacking. She still had a bit of time before tea, so she decided to go for a walk on the beach.

  The party at Abide Away was clearly not the only group taking advantage of the last hint of fading summer. As Vera walked, she dodged people in gaily striped bathing costumes and giggling children throwing balls to one another. The sea beyond glinted and glittered in the early afternoon sun, and Vera slipped off her shoes and walked down to the edge to cool her feet. She closed her eyes as the water slipped over her toes, and she briefly entertained the idea of staying on the beach all day, all night, and never going back in to the scene that awaited her.

  But her mother would be mortified if she did not return for tea, never mind if she attempted to camp on the beach all night, so Vera turned and walked back toward the house. Abide Away towered over the shoreline, a grim sentry keeping watch over the cheerful bathers under its nose.

  Back in her rooms, she found Arthur still asleep. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Darling, are you going to tea, or would you like me to wake you for dinner?” she asked.

  “Dinner.” He rolled over onto his side and pulled the thin blanket up to his ears.

  She checked her hair in the mirror and repinned the strands the breeze had blown loose. After another quick dusting of powder on her nose, she went down to the drawing room.

  Tea was not the event Vera was expecting. Like Arthur, Hallan and Walter had declined in favor of lunch and rest in their rooms. The Litchfield children were released to play on the lawn, so with only Vera, her mother, and Caroline present, the hour was not unlike the many Vera passed at the Angelus. Since her mother and Caroline were well acquainted, Vera did not have to take the lead. She sat back and watched the beach through the window, occasionally tuning in to what the other two said. Her ears perked up when her mother steered the conversation to the artist.

  “What sort of man do you find him to be?” her mother asked.

  Caroline’s hand rose to her cheek, and she spoke in an almost girlish voice. “Delightful. Fascinating and so intelligent. You’re going to love him, Lorna, I’m sure of it.”

  Vera’s mother sipped from a small china cup, painted with violets that matched her eyes. “He seemed well mannered enough earlier. But so many of those artists have a wild streak. You haven’t noticed anything like that, have you?”

  “Goodness, no,” Caroline said. “You’d never know he was in the building, except that he turns up to every occasion we invite him to. Hasn’t turned down the first one. So polite.” She frowned. “I suppose he has been late a few times, but that’s hardly—”

  “Vera, dear,” her mother said. “If you have something to add to the conversation, please join in. Eavesdropping is not limited to listening through walls, you know.”

  Vera cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Then don’t. But please don’t just sit there hovering. Speak if you have something to say.”

  “I really don’t, thank you, Mother.”

  Her mother drew languid circles in her cup with a tiny spoon. “You have nothing to add about our guest?”

  “I don’t know much about him myself. Only what Caroline’s already told you.”

  “You don’t know where he comes from? Who his family is? Have you spoken to the man at all?”

  “I have,” Vera said, suppressing a sigh. “He was living in Paris before he came to the city, that’s all I know. I’m sure you can find out everything you want to know if you ask him yourself.”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  Vera’s mother studied her as the grandfather clock ticked away to their left. Under her mother’s inquisitive gaze, Vera grew steadily more uncomfortable. Could her mother see something behind her calm demeanor? Did something of her experiences with Hallan show through? At last her mother set her spoon in her saucer and drank the last drops of her tea, satisfied with whatever she had seen.

  Vera braced herself for dinner.

  Bea didn’t bother to knock on Vera’s door anymore. She barged in one evening after dinner, a leather portfolio in her hands. Vera sat on the bed, pen poised over a letter to Cliff. She folded it quickly and stuffed it under a textbook, glad that Bea was too enamored with whatever she had in the portfolio to notice.

  “Aren’t you worried you’re going to walk in on me dressing one day?” Vera asked.

  “No, you’re worried about that.” Bea held the portfolio out. “Take a look.”

  Vera took the folder and opened it. Inside lay two pieces of ivory paper, each with a different letterhead. The typewritten words on each were mostly identical, but the signatures were different.

  “ ‘This letter certifies that I give my daughter permission to travel to New Haven, Connecticut, for the weekend of November 22–23. I will arrange for her to be properly chaperoned to and from school,’ ” Vera read aloud. “Gracious, Bea, this looks exactly like my mother’s letterhead. And her signature. How did you manage it?”

  Bea sat on the bed. “I swiped a letter from her off your desk. It was murder getting the letters and ink to match up to look like real embossing. I went through three shee
ts of paper before I stopped punching holes and got the letters raised up the right way.”

  Vera turned the page to look at the back. “It does look real though.”

  “I wasn’t happy with some of the detail, but…” Bea shrugged. “It’s good enough. They won’t exactly be inspecting it.”

  Vera wondered at the time and precision it must have required to create the letters. If Bea applied herself half so much to her studies, she’d be at the top of her class. Vera thought of the copy of the Bon Ton cover Bea had made for her a month ago. She had an unquestionable skill for reproduction and an eye for detail.

  “You’re definitely coming now, aren’t you?” Bea continued. “Don’t tell me I did all that for nothing.”

  “I suppose I have to,” Vera said, a smile breaking out on her face. “This is so exciting.”

  “Hooray! Oh, we’ll have a fabulous time.” Bea stood. “I’ll send Harry a telegram and tell him when to pick us up. You can give the letter to the dorm matron tonight.”

  “But won’t you need to make an envelope?”

  Bea took Vera’s letter out of the portfolio and folded it into a square. “There. Tell her your mother put it in with your letter. That way I don’t have to try to make it look like it came from the city.”

  “Genius.” Vera shook her head. “But there’s so much we haven’t thought of. What if Mother telephones while we’re away?”

  “When has she ever telephoned you at school?”

  “That’s true. Oh, Bea, I don’t know…”

  Bea held out a hand. “Stop right there. We’re not the first to sneak out of the school for a weekend, and we won’t be the last. I can promise you that. And when did you ever hear of anyone getting caught? Especially with the precautions we’ve taken? It will be fine. Try to enjoy it, all right?”

  Vera nodded and Bea let herself out, humming as she went. But Vera could not be so cheerful. Doubts wormed their way into her mind as she thought of what would happen if her mother ever found out. To go out for a few hours with college boys was one thing. But two days away left them open to innumerable ways to get caught. And the rules were there for a reason. What if something terrible happened to them? Cliff, Harry, and Gene were harmless, but Vera couldn’t count on all the boys at Yale being so benign.

  Surely Cliff would keep a protective watch on her, though. Seeing him again would make the risk worth it. Maybe she didn’t have to tell him about Arthur during the visit after all. She had thought telling him in person would be preferable, but maybe she should enjoy her time with him and tell him afterward in a well-written letter. Yes, that would give him some fond memories of her, and leave him alone with the news.

  Her mother’s voice echoed shapeless warnings in Vera’s head, years of stern comments piling on top of each other until all she could hear was the disapproving tone. If her mother ever found out that the girls had snuck out to attend a football game with boys she’d never met, Vera would be sunk.

  Her stomach squirmed, and she stood up and paced the few feet of floor. She would have to tell Bea that the plan was off. Maybe Bea could find another girl to go. She pictured some other girl with Cliff, crushed into a gang of students cheering the game, and a pang of jealousy went through her. Vera really did want to go. She picked up the folded letter to look again at the impressive “embossing.” No one would question the letter’s authenticity. She almost believed it was real herself. She set the open letter on the desk, positioning it so she could continue to admire Bea’s talents as she returned to her letter to Cliff. Now at least she could give him the good news that he would see her soon.

  At seven-thirty p.m. sharp, Vera and Arthur stepped into Abide Away’s drawing room for cocktails. Vera had selected a sunny yellow drop-waist dress in honor of the surprise holiday, but she looked odd standing next to Arthur in his staid gray suit. She had managed to talk him into adding a purple pocket square, giving him a little splash of color.

  Vera’s parents were already in the drawing room, sipping martinis with Caroline and Walter. The Litchfields’ children would dine upstairs as, at ten and seven years old, they were still too young to be much company. Just as Vera took her gin and tonic from the waiter, a car door slammed outside, announcing Poppy’s arrival. Her nursemaid would be at the cottage with the children while Poppy dined.

  She had, at least, restrained herself somewhat in dress. She wore an off-white gown with gold beading and a thin, glittery ribbon in her short curls. A maid showed Poppy into the drawing room, and she thanked Vera’s parents for inviting her.

  “What a charming room, just charming,” she said, admiring a Tiffany lamp. “So restrained. So elegant.”

  “We find the best things often are, dear,” Vera’s mother said in an airy tone.

  Shoes sounded on the stairs behind Vera, and her pulse quickened. Hallan walked into the drawing room in a raw linen suit, his hair parted and combed as it had been on the night Vera had seen him at the restaurant. She had to admit, he looked very handsome when he made the effort to look presentable.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hallan,” Vera’s mother said, striding across the room to him. “I hope you found your room to your liking?”

  “Very much, Mrs. Longacre, thank you. You have a beautiful home here.” He smiled. “I’m only sorry I didn’t make it to tea.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Vera’s father said, stepping forward. “The tea is for the women anyhow. Would you like a cocktail?”

  He slapped a meaty hand on Hallan’s back and waved the waiter over. They made an odd pair, the tall, slim, angular artist next to Vera’s doughy father. Joseph Longacre was a big man in every way, though there was a bit less of him since his gray hair had thinned on top. But his wide brown eyes had lost none of their intensity as he aged.

  “Is the martini how you like it?” he asked Hallan. “Don’t be polite about it, now, you can speak up. We’ll mix it until it’s perfect.”

  “Just how I like it, truly. So, when did you buy the house, if I may ask?” Hallan said, directing attention away from his drink.

  “Buy the house? No, my boy, Lorna and I built this house,” Vera’s father said. “Got in with the Georgica Association just in time. This was the last of the big lots left.”

  Poppy sighed. “Julius wanted in with the Georgica Association, but he simply didn’t move fast enough. We do love our little cottage, but the beach on this side is without equal.”

  “The sands are beautiful here,” Hallan agreed. “I’ve never seen sand so white.”

  “Not a great deal of white sand in England,” Vera’s mother said, her eyes fixed on Hallan. “Forgive me, I noticed your accent. Tell me, what part of England do you come from?”

  Hallan took a sip of his drink before answering. “London.”

  “I adore London. One of the finest cities in the world. Why, I’ve been so many times, it’s like a second home to me,” she said. “Where did you live there?”

  “Westminster,” he said.

  She sniffed. “Lovely area.”

  “I think so.”

  A maid stepped in, and Vera realized she was holding her empty drink so tightly her knuckles were white. She could not even recall finishing it. She set the glass on a tray.

  “Dinner is served in the dining room,” the maid said.

  “Thank you, Esther,” Vera’s mother said. She turned to the rest of the group. “Shall we go in?”

  The party went across the hall to the dining room. Vera was not surprised to see the artist’s place card to the left of her mother’s seat at the head of the table but was dismayed that Arthur was on her mother’s right, putting the two men across from each other. Then Vera realized, with some horror, that etiquette would prevent her from being seated by her own husband. She prayed she would be between her father and Walter but saw her own name to the left of Hallan’s plate. At least she would be close enough to keep track of her mother’s conversation with Hallan even if, like a speeding train, nothing could be done to slow
it. She sat, removing her gloves and laying them in her lap. Hallan sat beside her, and his sleeve brushed her arm as he settled in.

  Once the party was seated, the waiters began to serve the soup course, a steaming cream chowder with potatoes and flakes of fish. Conversations started in earnest, and Vera’s mother turned her attention once more to Hallan.

  “So, Westminster, you say? I know a number of families in that neighborhood. I’m surprised I haven’t heard the name Hallan before.”

  “It was only me and my grandmother, and her last name isn’t Hallan,” he said.

  “And what was her name?”

  The corners of Hallan’s mouth twitched. “You probably haven’t heard her name either.”

  Vera’s mother’s eyes darkened. “I see. And my daughter tells me you studied art in Paris? Will I have heard of the school?”

  “I studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” Hallan said calmly.

  Vera drew in a hard breath. “Mother, I told you.”

  Vera’s mother stared at her for a long moment, then lifted her wineglass. “Darling, you haven’t touched your soup. Don’t you like it?”

  “I think it’s delicious,” Hallan said, lifting a big spoonful.

  “So glad to hear it.” Vera’s mother wrinkled her nose and turned to strike up a conversation with Arthur about his latest building project.

  Vera leaned toward Hallan and spoke under her breath. “Don’t toy with her like that. She hates it.”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” he said quietly. “You’re both so very interested in me.”

  She rubbed her palms on her skirt, then reached for her drink. “You ought to be more careful with her.”

  “Do you mean I won’t be invited back to the house? Shame. I’d better make the most of tomorrow, then. Are you going out to the beach in the morning?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “I’d like to join you on the beach, if you go.”

  “Whatever you like. Caroline will likely let the children go. You’ll have someone to play with.”