by Amber Brock
Vera swallowed. “I’m glad you like talking to Daddy. I’ll try to arrange for you to sit nearer to him tonight.”
Hallan looked as if he wanted to say something further but stopped himself and leaned on his mallet. “Sorry to say I won’t be able to join you this evening. Poppy invited me to dine at her house.”
Vera should have been glad at the chance to enjoy her meal without worrying about her mother and Arthur tormenting Hallan, but instead she thought several unpleasant things about Poppy stealing their guest away. “Well. Won’t that be nice?”
“That’s one thing about Hildegard Hastings. She’s always nice. To me, at least.” He gestured to the yellow ball. “Your turn.”
Hallan left in the car Poppy sent for him at around six-thirty. After handily winning the match with Vera, he had thanked her for the afternoon and gone inside to change into dinner clothes. She stayed on the lawn, walking close to the hedges at its perimeter and enjoying the salty breeze. The evening brought with it a brisk reminder that however warm the weekend had been, autumn was on its way soon.
The car carrying Hallan pulled out of the driveway, and the one bearing the other men took its place a few minutes later. Her father and Walter climbed out of the car, both sweaty and red-faced with their hair in wet curls on their foreheads. Arthur emerged, his clothes still as crisp as if he had just dressed. Vera waited until they disappeared into the house before going in.
The group had cocktails in the library, and the men cursed their clubs and scores until the maid came in to announce dinner. Vera was glad to see that her place card was by her father. She thought back to Hallan’s suggestion that her father might have a stronger influence over her mother and suppressed a laugh. Her mother could no more be controlled than the weather, and at least Vera’s father mitigated the sternness with an occasional dollop of sweetness.
Hallan was right; her father had doted on her all her life, as long as the doting could be done with money. During her childhood, he had been either working or traveling most of the time, so his involvement in decisions about Vera’s life had been limited. Her parents’ marriage had always seemed more like a business partnership to her. Their roles were carefully delineated, never overlapping, and requiring only a minimum of interaction. Even the house was divided by imaginary lines. The only place her parents’ spheres met was the dining room, where they sat at opposite ends of the table to entertain. The arrangement made sense, even if it did not make for a warm home. At least Vera and Arthur slept in the same room from time to time.
If she had been a son, her father might have taken more of an active role in her upbringing. Naturally, he did not have the faintest idea how to prepare a young woman for marriage and householding, let alone for her social obligations. He had resigned himself to his limited role of bringing her trinkets and complimenting her, and Vera was not one to take such kindnesses for granted. Not when she was hard-pressed to find them elsewhere. She took her seat and flashed him a bright smile.
“My dearest.” Her father kissed the top of her head before settling into his chair.
“Not your best day on the course, then?” she asked, tilting her head.
He grumbled a couple of unintelligible words under his breath. “Wouldn’t be so bad if that husband of yours didn’t show us up every time. I don’t know who decided the wretched game should be played by civilized men in the first place.”
Arthur, seated at the other end of the table by Vera’s mother, leaned over. “Come now, you and Walter did very well for yourselves.” He turned to the other diners. “Good bit of wind out there today, made things difficult.”
Vera’s father only snorted in response. Servants placed bowls of a pale green cream soup in front of each person. Vera’s father wrinkled his nose and spoke under his breath to her.
“And now cream of celery? Will the torture never end?”
Vera patted his arm. “Poor Daddy.”
“Tell me about your day, lovely. Distract me.” He took a drink of his wine. “Did you dance about while little birds sang only for you?”
“Sorry to tell you, that’s not how it happened,” she said.
“Then I hope you went to the shops and spent all your husband’s money. If he’s penniless, you can come back home with us where you belong.”
“No, no shops today.”
“Shame, shame.” He winked. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“I did get some air today. I played croquet out on the lawn.”
“All by yourself? Don’t tell me your mother played.”
She hesitated. “No, I invited Mr. Hallan to play.”
“Ah, the artist.” He sat back in his chair. “Good fellow. I like a man who’ll look you in the eye when he’s talking to you.”
“Did he tell you he rides?”
“He did. Surprised he knew so much about horses. Said his brother worked with them.”
Vera feigned interest in her glass. “Is that right? Which brother, did he say?”
Her father blinked. “Well, he’s only got the one, hasn’t he?”
“Of course.” A thousand questions scrambled to the front of her mind, but she did not ask. Her father would think it odd he knew more than she did, especially since he had only spoken with Hallan for a short while the previous afternoon. But, for some reason, the artist had confided these details in her father when he would talk to no one else. A brother; what else had he revealed?
“I’d have liked to hear more about his painting,” her father continued. “But of course your mother had him at the odd end of the table. A man ought to be able to sit where he likes, damn the rules.”
“He told you about the painting?” Vera could have bitten her tongue.
“Not the mural, if that’s what you’re after. Says it’s supposed to be a secret. Ah, thank you.” Her father inclined his head at the servant who removed the green soup, and rubbed his hands together at the plate of prawns that replaced them. “Smart of him, I’d say.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because you know very well if he even gave a hint, everyone in that building of yours would feel the need to offer their opinion of his plan. Better to be master of your own house.” Her father nudged her. “Or master of your own pool room, as the case may be.”
Vera did not answer right away. Her father’s instincts had proven far sharper than her own; the potential for interference had to be the reason for Hallan’s secrecy. She had let her imagination run wild once again. She forced a gulp of her wine down her tight throat.
“I’m sure you’ll have a chance to speak with him again tomorrow at Mother’s picnic,” she said, when she trusted her voice again.
“Wonderful,” her father said. “I’ve got a new mare I wanted to tell him about.” He turned to his left. “I’m sorry, Caroline, I’ve neglected you. How was the water today?”
Vera gazed up the table at where her mother and Arthur sat, leaning toward one another in intense conversation. If her father engaged Hallan in conversation before her mother or Arthur had a chance to pounce, then they might survive the weekend. She brushed away the thought that she ought to invite Hallan to join her on the beach the next day. Playing croquet had been a kindness on her part. If he did not know to avoid her mother and Arthur by now, then Vera certainly could not be expected to save him. He seemed to think he could handle the two of them just fine anyway. She deserved a few moments to herself. Her mind had been spinning since she arrived, and she needed a break from all of them.
Bea and Vera left Yale Field in a swell of students, all cheering and jostling. It didn’t seem to matter to any of them that Yale had lost. Even staid Cliff wore a big grin. She couldn’t help but admire how it lit up his normally solemn face. His letters had revealed depths of feeling and sentiment that his stoic expression hid the last time they met.
The boys picked them up in town, to hide from any prying eyes at Vassar the fact that there was no proper chaperone in the car. Vera had once aga
in climbed into the backseat with Cliff and Gene, praying nothing about her greetings to Cliff betrayed their more familiar relationship. She was surprised to find she felt totally at ease with him, despite only having met him in person once before. To Vera’s further relief, Bea seemed to suspect nothing. The ride to New Haven was similar to their first outing as a group: Bea and Harry teased each other, Gene peppered Vera with questions, and Cliff sat back against the seat, occasionally offering a word or two. Except this time, when Vera rested her hand on the seat, Cliff laid his beside hers. The brush of his fingers sent a tingle through her limbs that lasted far longer than the touch. As he helped her out of the car, he whispered how glad he was to see her. She nodded an agreement, supposing he had kept his end of the correspondence secret from his friends, too.
The game itself had mostly mystified Vera, despite Gene’s efforts to explain it to her. She gave up guessing at what the action on the field meant and resigned herself to yelling when the others did, which made for a surprisingly good time. In fact, everything about the game appealed to her. The muddy smell that rose up from the field as the players kicked up hunks of earth. The way some of the boys in the stands tore their hats from their heads and shouted at the players, as though they could be heard at such a distance. Most of all, the way the whole crowd could be united in emotion, cheering one minute, groaning the next. Vera had never before felt so connected to so many people at once.
Vera grabbed Bea’s arm. “What’s next?”
“I don’t know,” Bea shouted above the din. “Harry?”
“There’s a dance hall in town. A bunch of people are going. What do you think?” he asked.
“Ooh, I saw that place when we were coming in,” Vera said. “It’s just down the road from the boardinghouse.”
“Let’s go,” Bea said.
The five of them trooped off to Harry’s car and headed for town. Gene, Cliff, and Vera took the backseat again, and Bea hopped into the front with Harry.
Gene leaned over Cliff. “Do you dance, Vera?”
“Of course she dances,” Bea said. “She probably came into the world with a full dance card.”
“Thank you, Bea.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Yes, Gene, I love to dance.”
“Then I hope you’ll save one for me,” he said.
“And me,” Cliff said.
Her face flushed and she was grateful for the darkness of twilight. “Of course. I’d love to dance with you both.”
“Who’s going to dance with me while all this is going on?” Bea asked.
“I’ll dance with you, if it will make you be quiet,” Harry said.
Bea slapped his shoulder. “I can’t dance with you. You’re practically my brother.”
“Then forget I said it,” he replied. “I was trying to be nice, you know.”
“We’ll dance with you, too,” Gene said, looking as if his birthday had come early.
Harry pulled up in front of the dance hall, and they all piled out of the car. The two-story building had big plaster columns in front of a brick portico, which Vera guessed was a stab at elegance. She took the arm Cliff offered, hoping she looked appropriately nonchalant, and followed the other three through the doors.
Inside, the hall bounced with the excitement of the people crowded between the pink walls. A man played a jangling piano tune on a stage, and couples ringed him in various states of closeness.
“Say, Cliff, hope you don’t mind if I claim the first dance,” Gene said, extending a hand to Vera.
“You ought to ask Vera before you ask me,” Cliff said.
A bright flush climbed Gene’s neck. “Oh. Oh, right. Is that okay with you, Vera?”
She nodded.
“I get second,” Cliff said, with a hint of a smile.
Vera took Gene’s hand, and they made their way to where the other couples gathered. Over Gene’s shoulder, Vera saw Bea and Cliff join them. At first, she felt sorry Harry was left out, until she saw him chatting with a tall blonde at the entrance. She giggled. How could she have worried about someone that confident?
Gene was no elegant dancer, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in sheer concentrated effort. His face a stern mask, he guided Vera around the floor in such strict adherence to the steps, she wondered if he had written the official dance manual. When the song changed, she smiled and thanked him. Cliff quickly took his place, and Bea led Gene off to dance. Despite the people around them, something about the way Cliff looked down at her made Vera feel like the two of them were very much alone.
“You look beautiful, you know that?” he said. For the first time she’d heard, he had a slight waver in his voice.
“Th-thank you,” she said. “I don’t really feel dressed for dancing, this is such an old skirt—”
“Well, it’s beautiful on you.” He dropped his gaze to their feet.
“That’s so kind of you. Really.”
He met her eyes again. “Can we step off to the side? Just for a second. I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk to you in private.”
She followed him to the edge of the room. Up close, she could see that the building was shabbier than it seemed at first. The walls had cracks and chips where enthusiastic dancers had bumped against them. With her attention focused on a chink of wood grain, Vera didn’t notice right away that Cliff was leaning down. His face was within an inch of hers when she startled and jumped back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t spring something like that on you.” He ran a hand through his red waves.
“It’s all right.” She placed a hand on his. “I think you’re wonderful, I really do. Your letters…I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you.” She hesitated. Now or never, she thought. “It’s…there’s something I haven’t told you.”
His face went slack. “Oh. You’ve already got a beau, don’t you? Sure you do. Stupid to think a girl like you wouldn’t.”
She swallowed hard. Maybe she ought to lie. If she said her relationship with Arthur wasn’t serious, Cliff could kiss her. What would one little kiss really hurt anyway? But she knew if she allowed a kiss, she’d start to think of him as a real possibility, a real choice. He would want her to be his girl, and she would want to say yes. She summoned the courage to be honest. “I do have a beau. Practically a fiancé.”
He sighed, turning his gaze to the wall. “I should have known. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” He started to walk back, but she held his arm.
“If I didn’t have a beau, it might be different,” she said. “I wish I didn’t, I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”
His expression brightened. “Then it doesn’t, does it? If he’s not your fiancé yet, you still have a choice. You haven’t said yes to him.” Cliff took Vera’s hand. “You could say yes to me.”
She looked at Bea, who was oblivious, laughing through a dance with Gene. “We shouldn’t talk like this. Not in front of everyone.”
He indicated a side door near them. “Come on. We’ll go outside.”
They stepped into the icy night air. Vera shivered, and Cliff took off his jacket. “I wish I hadn’t checked my coat,” he said.
“Won’t you be cold?” she asked.
“Better than you being cold.”
Her stomach dipped. She wanted to go back in. Whatever he was going to say was only going to complicate her plans, she was sure of it. Before she could speak, Cliff began talking with a boyish enthusiasm she’d never heard from him.
“Think of it, Vera. We could see the whole world. Did you read the National Geographic article I sent you? About India? The spices, the music, the colors.” He caught himself and looked her in the eye. “I want to share it with you. Only you.”
“Why me?” Her voice took on an unflattering begging tone.
“Why you?” He pulled back. “Why anyone else? You’re beautiful—”
“So you want to have me to look at, is that it?” She knew she was antagonizing him, though she didn’t want to, not really. She wanted
to make turning him down easier.
His eyes widened. “No! You’re smart, and the way you talk about art…the way you talk about what you study, about the world. I’ve read your letters a hundred times each. I want to see the world through your eyes. More than that—I want to give you the world. Not jewelry or furs or whatever that guy is promising you. He’s a rich guy, right? I can give you more, because I can give you what you want. You deserve more. You deserve adventure.” He stopped, slightly out of breath.
Vera wanted to tell him he was wrong, but her throat tightened on the words. Though she had never imagined a life of travel and adventure before Cliff and his wonderful letters, now a vision of that kind of future began to take shape in her mind. He was right. Jewelry and furs wouldn’t be enough for her now, and Arthur couldn’t give her more than those empty status symbols. He probably couldn’t even conceive of offering a woman the world.
Even if Cliff wasn’t wrong, letting go of all her responsibilities right there on the street in New Haven wasn’t an option. She knew that much. She couldn’t just fall into his arms and promise him everything, no matter how much she may have wanted to. Her heart sank a little at the sobering thought that he was young and infatuated. His promises might only be temporary, and she still had a real future to safeguard.
“How could you possibly know what I want?” Vera said at last, her words as weak as she felt.
Cliff gripped her arms, pulling her close. “If you tell me you love him, I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”
“I don’t love him,” she said. “But I have to accept him.”
He moved a hand slowly down her arm. He traced her bare fingers, then entwined his fingers with hers. His rough palm pressed against hers, and fire raced through her. She thought of Arthur taking her hand to help her out of his car, the only real contact they’d ever had. Arthur’s touch was a duty, a requirement, like everything else about his behavior toward her. Even his proposal was a necessary next step. Cliff’s hand on hers was an embrace.
“I could be the one, couldn’t I?” he asked quietly. “Not tomorrow, no. When I make something of myself. I’ll be worthy of you.”