A Fine Imitation

by Amber Brock

  “I’m so sorry, Poppy, I didn’t know you had a cocktail hour,” Vera said, straining to keep her tone polite.

  “No, no, I didn’t. There’s been a—a delay.” She clenched her teeth. “It seems the menu was very nearly too much for my mai—my cook. But don’t fret, she’s nearly got everything together.”

  Without a word, Arthur left them to go talk to Clarence Bloomer. Vera patted her chignon, trying to think of what to say as Poppy darted nervous looks toward the dining room. Just as Vera opened her mouth to speak, the maid appeared. She was red-faced and sweating, and her starched cap leaned perilously over one side of her head.

  “Dinner is served, ma’am,” the maid said, holding out an arm in the general direction of the dining room.

  Poppy stomped over to the maid. “About time,” she hissed. “And it’s not ‘ma’am.’ It’s ‘madam.’ Emily Post says it should be ‘madam.’ ” She turned and painted on a cheerless smile. “Come, everyone. So sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Bessie Harper, patting her wilting gray curls, fell into step beside Vera. “What a horror. Talking to her maid like that in front of everyone. You know she didn’t hire anyone for the evening, except for that boy who answered the door?”

  Vera scanned the group. “Where is Julius?”

  “Still not well, poor man.” Bessie held her elbow to keep her drink from sloshing.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope Poppy knew she didn’t have to hold the party on our account.”

  “She was most insistent. When I phoned earlier today she said Julius wanted us all to go on without him. Which, of course, we do.” Bessie chuckled. “Even when he’s present.”

  Vera did not answer. She had noticed another absence from the group. “And Mr. Hallan? Won’t he join us? He’s been at every dinner since he arrived.”

  Bessie’s eyes gleamed. “I asked Poppy about that. You know, ever since the doubts about him began to surface, she said she felt uncomfortable inviting him to our little get-togethers. So she phoned and told him the dinner was off. I told her she was quite right, that it really ought to be just the usual gathering. Looks as though she can barely handle that.”

  Vera sucked in a short breath. “I see. Ah, excuse me, that’s my seat over there.”

  She fell into the seat with her place card, almost forgetting to take off her gloves. Walter Litchfield and Andrew Keller sat on either side of her, and Arthur sat a few seats away, near the head of the table. As she turned to greet Andrew, she almost gasped. There, hanging above the fireplace, was the fake Vermeer from Fleming’s shop. The sight of it transported Vera to the back room of the gallery, down to the acrid smell of turpentine. She knew she should not say anything, but the temptation was too much.

  “Poppy, I didn’t know you were collecting art these days.” Vera smiled up the table.

  Poppy’s frazzled demeanor faded as she beamed up at the painting. “Yes, do you like it? It’s a Verdeer, you know. I saw a letter from the lord who sold it.”

  “What a find.”

  “It wasn’t cheap, but I adore his work. I had to have it. Don’t you love the…um. The…” Poppy’s eyes darted around the canvas as she struggled for words. Vera decided to have mercy on her.

  “Yes, the lines. And the use of shadow.”

  Poppy nodded hard. “Shadow, yes, that’s the word I was looking for. Shadow. And the…ah…well, the colors.”

  “Mmm. Vermeer is known for his blues, isn’t he?”

  The door to the dining room swung open, interrupting them. Poppy’s maid came out with a tureen of soup. As the woman ladled servings into bowls, Vera glanced up at the painting again. She might have a chance to get close enough to inspect it after dinner. There may be some hint, something in the odd blue color or the brushwork, that would reveal the painting as Bea’s handiwork. But what if there was nothing? Would the lack of a sign settle the question at all? Vera would never reach out to Bea, no matter what her level of involvement in the forgery scheme.

  No need for a closer look, Vera thought, returning her attention to the bowl of soup in front of her. When she ate her first spoonful, she nearly spit it back out. The broth was ice cold, though it ought to have been served hot. She steeled herself for a very long evening.

  The maid appeared again a few minutes later and whisked the soup bowls away, well before the course ought to have been finished. No one complained, least of all Poppy, who likely wanted everyone to forget the untouched portions in front of them as soon as possible. The boy who answered the door had been pressed into service in the dining room, and he brought out a tray of watery salmon mousse. Bessie Harper could not hide the sneer of disgust that temporarily crossed her face. In what must have been an attempt to distract himself from the gelatinous glob of pink paste now trembling in the middle of the table, Andrew Keller turned to Vera.

  “So, have you heard anything lately about the mural? How is the artist progressing?” he asked, his thin face aglow with false cheer.

  “What? Oh, sorry, I haven’t heard anything,” Vera said.

  “I thought he might be more willing to talk to you, what with your art education and all,” Andrew continued.

  “We were discussing at tea how he doesn’t talk much about anything,” Caroline Litchfield said from across the table.

  “What do you mean?” Andrew asked.

  “Only that no one knows a thing about him, and he was hardly forthcoming in Montauk when Vera’s mother asked him about his family,” Caroline said. “A perfectly innocent question, and he wouldn’t answer.”

  “Let’s not trot that conversation out again,” Vera said. It seemed the discussion at tea had been enough to change Caroline’s mind about Hallan. “I imagine he doesn’t talk about his family because there’s nothing to tell.”

  Walter Litchfield cut in. “You know, I thought he seemed an odd fellow, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. Didn’t seem to be the popular opinion.”

  “And the business with the keys,” Ida said, with a wag of her finger. “What’s he got to hide? If he were really that good, I imagine he’d want everyone to see him work.”

  “Some artists prefer to finish a work before anyone sees it,” Vera said. “My father thought highly of him, and my father is an impeccable judge of character.”

  “What do we know about Mr. Hallan? Really?” Poppy’s voice rang out from the head of the table. “The accent tells us where he’s from, at least in the most general sense. He claims to have gone to this school—”

  “Clarence’s friend knew him personally. I doubt he’d have reason to lie. Don’t you agree, Clarence?” Vera reached for her wineglass, bumping Andrew’s with her hand and nearly sending its contents onto the tablecloth.

  Poppy did not give Clarence time to speak. “We know Clarence’s friend wouldn’t lie to him, but who’s to say Hallan didn’t lie in the first place? This job, lots of money. Seems a good enough reason to me.”

  “But there were paintings,” Vera said.

  Poppy smirked. “Photos of paintings.”

  “That’s true, very true,” Vera said. She realized conceding to Poppy was wiser than embroiling herself further in the argument. “I suppose he’s here now, isn’t he? He’ll either paint or not paint, and it’s not as if we have to pay him if the mural isn’t complete.” She offered a serene smile down the table and was pleased to see more relaxed, calm expressions. “Why should we worry ourselves so much about him?”

  Before anyone could respond, the maid burst into the dining room once more. After the maid removed the mousse, she and the boy walked around delivering plates of lamb chops in the tense silence. A few of the women commented on the lovely presentation, despite the fact that each chop sat in a congealed pool of blood, accompanied by a limp sprig of mint and a few warm, dry cucumber slices. Poppy’s eyes darkened, and she scrunched down in her chair throughout the equally disastrous fish course, dessert, and cordials.

  At last the men excused themselves and went to the library
for cigars. The lack of decent food combined with copious amounts of alcohol had left most of them red-faced, with glazed eyes. The women returned to the drawing room, where they sipped sherry. The maid set out small bowls of cashews, and Vera resisted the urge to pour two or three of them straight down her throat. A few of the ladies started a halfhearted game of whist, which fizzled out into a few idle questions about just who designed the first playing cards, anyway. No one seemed to be able to muster up the courage to mention the artist again after Vera’s admonition.

  Vera had never been so glad to see Arthur appear at a door as she was when he came to take her home. Poppy made a perfunctory protest through puckered lips, then thanked them for coming. The boy opened the front door for them and watched them go through heavy-lidded eyes, the sleeves of his oversized jacket nearly down to his fingertips.

  In the elevator, Vera exhaled hard. “What an evening.”

  “A woman of her means never should have attempted a party like that,” Arthur said.

  “I quite agree. And such silly gossip at the dinner table.”

  “I’m tired of hearing about it.”

  Vera brightened at the idea that Arthur was in agreement with her. “All that speculation about the poor man, when they all fawned over him like schoolgirls when he arrived.”

  Arthur nodded. “Well, it will all be at rest soon enough.”

  “What? How?”

  “The men all agreed that we’ve had enough of this nattering. If he won’t tell us who he is, we’ll find out.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Walter’s agreed to hire a private investigator.”

  Vera’s mouth went dry. “I thought everything was resolved at dinner. Hiring an investigator isn’t necessary. Why not just talk to the man?”

  The doors opened, and they stepped out into the penthouse hallway. Vera tried hard to keep her steps steady. Arthur opened the door, and Evans appeared to take her gloves. After assuring him that they did not need anything else, Vera followed Arthur up the stairs to the bedroom.

  “Arthur? You didn’t answer me. Why not talk to Mr. Hallan? I’m sure no one needs to spend good money on an investigator.”

  Arthur unbuttoned his jacket. “I thought it was foolish, too. But they seemed determined, and what do I care what they do with their money?”

  “What do they expect to find out? That he’s a fake? Not an artist? His background is immaterial as long as he can paint, you’ve said that yourself.” Vera paced the floor as Arthur dressed for bed.

  He chuckled. “Perhaps they’ll discover he can’t paint.”

  “Then why don’t they break into the pool room? That would settle it once and for all.”

  “I asked that. They said they want to go about it the proper way. If he’s misrepresenting himself, they can have him deported or put in prison rather than giving him the opportunity to run. Or something to that effect.”

  She threw up her hands. “That’s absurd. They’re bored. They have nothing better to do than to sit around making up stories about people.”

  Arthur eyed her wearily. “You’re right about that. Don’t wear yourself out over how those people entertain themselves. It’s nothing to you. Get some sleep.”

  Vera went into her dressing room and changed into her nightgown. By the time she returned, Arthur had turned off the lamps in the bedroom. In the dark, she tossed under the sheets, unable to sleep.

  When Vera woke, she brushed powder onto the dark circles under her eyes from her sleepless night and took the stairs down to the second floor. Hallan met her at the door to 2A, but his smile drooped at the sight of her appearance.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No.”

  He took a step toward her, but she stepped back. His expression darkened.

  “What’s the matter? Did Arthur find out?” he asked.

  “Goodness, no. And if he did, he most likely wouldn’t care, as far as I can tell. But we need to talk.”

  He led the way to the drawing room. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Not now.” She inhaled deeply. “Emil, you need to tell me about yourself.”

  “I told you, I can’t. Not now.”

  “I know. It’s something painful for you. But you may have to tell me, and it may have to be now. There was a dinner party last night.”

  He frowned. “Where?”

  “At Poppy’s.”

  “She told me that was canceled.” His face went slack. “Oh. I see.”

  Vera worried the clasp of her watch. “The usual questions about you came up. If you would tell people more about who you are—it doesn’t have to be whatever is worrying you so much. Little details, that’s all. Your childhood, maybe. Your family. Something simple.”

  He groaned. “Not this again. Who cares what neighborhood I lived in as a boy, or how many cousins I have?”

  “It’s not that, and you know it. No one knows anything about you, and they’re suspicious.”

  “About what? Do they think I’m planning to burn the building to the ground?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his mouth. “Fine, I don’t care what they say about me. I don’t have to tell them anything.”

  “Then tell me,” she cried, standing. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? Why does it have to be such a secret? If anyone can know, shouldn’t I?”

  He did not answer, but instead rose and crossed to the mantel, facing away from her. She went over and laid her hands on his back.

  “They’re hiring a private investigator,” she said softly.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Let them. They won’t find anything.”

  “Emil.”

  He finally turned to her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his chest, closing her eyes at the feel of his heart beating. He was real. She could verify that, at least. Beyond that, there were only a few scraps of him, nothing for her to piece together into a full man.

  “I want so badly to love you,” she said.

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t know enough. You must give me something.”

  “You said yourself there are things I don’t know about you. I love you the way I know you now, isn’t that enough?”

  Her eyes flew open and she pulled away. “I’ll tell you about me. Something I haven’t told anyone. But you must do the same.”

  He dropped his arms and turned again, the struggle plain on his face. She sat on the couch. After slipping off her shoes, she tucked her feet under her. She supported her elbow on the arm of the couch, and held her face in her hand. Perhaps if she gave him a part of herself, he would offer something in return. At first, she did not know what to say. Then she realized: her marriage. She could tell him about Arthur.

  “I got married in 1914. Nine years ago now, though it doesn’t feel like it could be that long. I had just left college.” Bea’s face appeared unbidden in Vera’s mind, but she brushed it away. She still could not bring herself to unearth that whole fiasco. “For all the good college did me. Sometimes I wonder why I went at all.”

  Hallan moved to the couch, resting on the edge of the cushion. Vera smiled sadly at him.

  “We married in May,” she continued. “In my youth and naïveté I thought, Oh, he’s just a serious person. He’ll warm to me. He must love me, why else would he want to marry me? He was kind enough, treated me well, bought me enough jewelry to open my own shop. But now, you know, I don’t think he ever did care for me, only my family’s name and what it could do for him in society. And I wanted someone to care for me.” She reached for Hallan’s hand and squeezed it. “I planned this honeymoon, a grand trip to the capitals of Europe. London, Paris, Madrid, Rome. As soon as we got off the boat, he holed up in the hotel room, reading the financial news. Oh, he took me to dinner, of course. Sent me out shopping with plenty of cash. He was forever writing letters or telegraphing someone in the
office, always some urgent matter. I felt like I was a nuisance more than anything.

  “And so I did all those things I thought would be so lovely and romantic. I toured the Louvre, the Coliseum, standing close to families so people wouldn’t know I was alone. I stood in the Prado, in front of my favorite painting in the world, and cried. I’m sure people thought I was a passionate soul.” She sniffled. “But I realized, standing there, that I was at the edge of the loneliest precipice of my life.”

  Hallan gave her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.

  “I have so much, I feel ungrateful,” she continued. “How can I be so sad when there’s so much tragedy I’m not living?”

  He considered this. “You’re living the tragedy you know.”

  “I feel like there’s this other woman I should have been. Almost was. Someone vibrant and happy. And she starved.”

  He reached up and stroked her hair. “She’s still in there. I see her.”

  Vera looked at him expectantly, and he withdrew his hand. He sat in silence, the muscles of his jaw tense, opening his mouth once or twice before beginning.

  “I…my father died when my brother and I were very young. Peter—my brother—he was older. I was a baby, so I never knew Papa. My mother…now, I did know her. When she got sick, Grandmother came to take care of us. I was about five then.” His eyes lit up. “Grandmother was wonderful. She’s the reason I came to love art. Part of the reason. And Peter. He’s my best friend.”

  “You left them behind? Are they in Paris?”

  “Peter is in France, but not Paris. Grandmother is in London, but…well, I don’t write her like I should.”

  She sighed. “It doesn’t sound like there’s anything in your past dark enough to justify worrying the residents so.”

  “There’s something dark in everyone’s past,” he said.

  Vera thought of the wreckage of her friendship with Bea, the only person other than Hallan to see that woman who might have been. For all Vera’s sadness at having lost her friend, she was almost as sad to have lost that piece of herself.