by Amber Brock
The clock on the mantel chimed, and he stood.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I need to work. If your friends are forming a mob, I won’t be welcome long.”
“But I’ll tell them there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Do you think they’ll believe you?” He smiled. “Don’t worry. And come earlier tomorrow, all right?”
“All right,” she said vaguely.
He saw her to the door, kissing her before opening it. “I want to get the painting done before they break down the door or some other such madness. No one can see it half finished.”
She nodded and headed for the stairwell. Taking the steps slowly, she wondered over their exchange. He seemed to be telling the truth about his family, but there was so much he did not say. And, despite her assertions to the contrary, she felt she was falling more in love with him even though she knew so little.
The next morning, Vera went down to the dining room as the first glimmer of dawn peeked over the trees in the park. She would not have guessed Arthur had been home at some point, were it not for the newspaper at his place setting, folded neatly beside an empty coffee cup. She debated ringing to have her own breakfast brought in but decided she would rather not eat with only his remnants for company. She rounded the table and caught sight of a headline that sent an icy bolt through her: SUSPECTED HEAD OF ART FORGERY RING ARRESTED. Her hand shook as she lifted the paper. She scanned the article for the most important details. A man calling himself Michael Fleming…victims among the city’s elite…arrested at his gallery…
No mention of Bea. No mention of anyone else, except to say that the ongoing investigation would likely turn up accomplices. Of course there would be accomplices. A memory of the Bon Ton cover Bea had re-created for her surfaced again. How the colors had matched exactly. And Bea had copied her mother’s letterhead and signature so perfectly, even going so far as to replicate the embossing. Perhaps she had spent the decade since their college days perfecting her technique.
Bea would be discovered and arrested, no doubt about that. Vera sank into a chair and set the newspaper on the table. If only…but there was no sense thinking of “if”s. Bea’s choices were her own. Her ruin would be, too. Vera wished she could believe that Bea was only a secretary, but the evidence left no question. If Vera was honest, there had never been any question to begin with. There was only one good reason Bea would be working in that gallery among forged paintings. Vera only hoped that she was smart enough not to get caught. She had imagined so many exciting lives for Bea over the years; but here was proof that Bea had simply taken too many wrong turns, too many risks. Vera had to stop blaming herself. Some people were born to turn out bad, and nothing anyone could do would change that.
Vera’s plan to find Bea and talk the whole mess out had failed. After they left the café, her mother had insisted on staying by her side until Vera’s appointment with the dean, Miss McCaleb, on Monday afternoon. She hadn’t even been allowed to sleep in her dorm. She’d stayed with her mother in the hotel that night. That morning, her mother agreed that Vera needed to go to her room to get a change of clothes, although they went together for that, too.
A small part of Vera held out hope that Bea might be sitting on her bed, waiting for her when they arrived. Her mother might not permit them to have a full conversation, but Vera could at least say something that would help make sense of the situation. A few steps ahead of her mother, Vera swung the door open, but the bed was empty. Her heart sank until she heard a rustle under her foot. She scooped up the paper and put it inside her coat before her mother saw.
Back at the hotel, her mother freshened up for lunch. “Aren’t you coming down?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I have a headache. I think I’d better rest.”
Her mother looked her over. “Whatever you like. But I’ve got the whole staff looking out, and they know not to allow any telephone calls from this room.”
Vera held in a sigh. “I’m not going to try anything. I know better than that.”
Her mother nodded. As soon as the door closed, Vera pulled the letter from her coat. The grand flourishes of Bea’s handwriting covered the front and back of the page.
Vera,
I’d hoped to see you, but I guess you’re with your mother, and I’ll bet she’s angry. My mother almost didn’t let me out of her sight long enough for me to write this.
I’m in real trouble. I thought it would only be probation. I’ve known girls who snuck out. That’s how I got all the test answers and essays—I forged letters for a few of them. I should have told you, and I’m sorry. But the girls who got caught never got more than probation.
And it’s worse—they’ve found out about the cheating. Professor Harrison figured it out from the test last week. And there’s something I never told you about Agnes Scott. I’ve been in trouble before. I would have told you about it, but I didn’t want you to think less of me. It’s silly, because I know you’re my true friend, and I know you’ll understand.
There was an art professor at Agnes Scott, Professor Lewis. She thought I had talent, thought I should do more with my art. Just like you, she thought I should eventually go on to a studio program. She had studied in Paris and Chicago, she knew what she was talking about. The school wouldn’t let us use nude models, but she mentioned that someday I’d have to work with nudes if I wanted a full art education. You know me—I couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to wait until I was in Paris or somewhere, surrounded by more experienced artists. I didn’t want to look like a fool who didn’t know anything. I dogged Professor Lewis until she gave me the contact information of a model I could practice with. A male model.
I arranged to meet with him after hours in one of the studios. I don’t know why I didn’t go off campus, that would have been the smart thing to do. I thought my roommate was asleep, but when she saw me leave so late, she went to the dorm matron. Sure enough, when she walked in, there I was alone in a classroom with a naked man. You can imagine what everyone thought, and I couldn’t bring Professor Lewis into it. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, too. I tried to explain, but I know how fake it must have sounded. The school agreed to keep it quiet if my parents took me out. I’m sure there was money involved, too.
I wanted to tell you everything. Now that I’ve come clean, I hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you sooner. It wasn’t what they thought it was, but it was enough to make my family send me here. I don’t know what they’ll do if I get expelled from Vassar, too. My father might throw me out when he finds out I’m in trouble again.
Maybe if you say something on my behalf, make it look better than it is, the school might reconsider. After all, you always follow the rules, and you’re a model student. And your family is so respected—they’d listen to you. It’s the only thing I can think of, and I’m desperate. This was supposed to be a fresh start for me, and now I’ve spoiled it.
Please help me any way you can think of. You’re my dear and loving friend, and always will be, no matter what.
Love,
B.
If Vera didn’t have a headache before reading the letter, she had a fierce one after. If she did what her mother asked, Bea would be expelled, which would cast an indelible shadow over her entire future. Even though Vera was frustrated Bea hadn’t trusted her with the real reason for her transfer to Vassar, Vera knew Bea well enough to believe her version of the story. She didn’t deserve to be punished for simply wanting to learn more about art, even if she had foolishly decided to involve a nude male model in her efforts. It was a youthful mistake, not a serious transgression. But if Vera did what Bea wanted, Vera’s own prospects would be damaged, and not just with Arthur. The gossips of high society would never stop passing around the story about the Longacres’ only daughter traipsing around unchaperoned with boys overnight. The tale would only grow worse as it reached the ears of any potential suitor, and Cliff, the one man who wouldn’t hold it against her, wo
uld never be an acceptable choice now. He had only ever been a childish dream anyway.
What could she even say that would make things better for Bea? The facts told the complete story. They snuck out. They spent the night away and went out with boys without chaperones. Bea alone had faked the letters. She was a cheater who had once been caught alone in a room with a nude man. Vera could not dress any of it up to make what happened look less like the truth. Still, Vera couldn’t stand the idea of saving herself while letting her friend suffer. Bea loved her, really loved her, without wanting anything more from her than her friendship. That was clear now.
The impossible choice tore at her. She could not satisfy both her mother and her conscience. She only had an hour to decide before her meeting with the dean.
Vera and Hallan continued to meet in the mornings, and he left his apartment after she did each time. He said he was working, and wanted to complete the job as soon as possible, given the increasingly hostile environment in the building. She had to admit that he was right about that. Every tea, luncheon, card game, and dinner she went to was consumed with talk of who Hallan might really be. Vera gave up defending him, not wishing to draw suspicions to herself. She hoped the men had forgotten their drunken decision to hire an investigator, but as she left one Wednesday to meet her mother for lunch, she discovered they had not forgotten a thing.
She got off the elevator on the ground floor, and her shoes clicked across the marble tiles as she made her way to the glass doors. Before she reached the entrance, the doorman let Clarence Bloomer in, along with a man Vera did not recognize.
“Vera,” Clarence called across the lobby. “Do you have a moment? I’d like you to meet Mr. Stanton.”
Mr. Stanton removed his bowler hat and nodded at her. He had a sturdy frame and wide, sad-dog eyes that made Vera feel she ought to rub his back and say soothing things.
“Mr. Stanton, is it? How do you do?” she said, with a discreet glance at her watch to be sure she was not running late for lunch.
“This is Mrs. Arthur Bellington, the wife of the building’s owner and designer,” Clarence said.
“Ah. So nice to meet you.” Stanton took in the high ceilings of the lobby. “It’s a grand building, just grand.”
Clarence lowered his voice. “Mr. Stanton is the investigator I’ve hired to look into our little mystery.”
Heat rose in Vera’s face. “You’re honestly going through with that? Forgive me, Mr. Stanton, I’m sure you do wonderful work. But really, Clarence. This is ludicrous.”
“Well. Humph. We’ll see about that, won’t we? Come on, Stanton. We ought to get upstairs so we can talk more in private.” Clarence strode toward the elevator.
“Yes. Right away.” Stanton turned to Vera and spoke in a low tone. “If you’re worrying about a scandal in your building, I wouldn’t, Mrs. Bellington. In my line of work, I find most people prefer to see ghosts where there are none.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, thank you.”
He inclined his head again and followed Clarence to the elevator.
“Mrs. Bellington?”
Vera turned. The doorman stood holding the door open.
“Your car’s here,” he continued.
She hesitated, then left the building.
All through lunch with her mother and the evening that followed, Vera feared her nerves might jitter right out of her head. The investigator was here; he was right in the building, and he was on the hunt. What might he find out? And how quickly? If Hallan was not the man he said, would she want to know who he really was?
Alone in her bed that night, she sat up in the darkness, hugging her knees to her chest and trying not to think of what awful things she might learn. At last, she threw on a simple dress and went down the stairs to his apartment. She knew she should not wake him in the middle of the night. Worse still to wake his servants and have them talking. But she had to see him. Nothing else would suffice.
She had to knock twice before she got an answer, and even then it took five full minutes. The valet came to the door, bleary-eyed and blinking.
“And who should I tell him is calling?” the man asked.
“Just tell him someone’s at the door, please. I believe he’ll understand.” Vera had to credit Ida’s choice in servants. The man was a professional who asked the right thing, even at three o’clock in the morning.
At last Hallan appeared. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He rushed to Vera, leading her in.
“Thank you, Michael, that will be all.” Hallan waited for the valet to leave. “Good Lord, Vera, what’s the matter?”
Panic made her words tremble. “He’s here. The private investigator. I’ve met him.”
Hallan slumped against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is that all? I told you, there’s nothing to find.”
Vera shook all over, her nervous energy getting the better of her at last. “Who are you? You must tell me everything. You must. I’ll find out anyway.”
Hallan grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down. Please. Come on, let’s go talk.” He took her hand and started for the bedroom, but she tore her hand away. “We can’t talk in the living room,” he said. “It’s too close to the servants’ rooms. Come with me.”
She followed him to the bedroom, where he closed the door. He pulled a chair from the corner, and Vera sat. If she touched him, she might lose her resolve.
“Who are you, really? Why won’t you tell me anything?” she asked in a whisper.
He sighed. “I can’t.”
“Are you a crook? Did you come here for money?”
“I came here for money for the work I’m doing. I would never steal.”
“Then you’re really working?”
“I am. Of course I am.” He held up a hand, paint around the edges of his nails.
She sat silent, less terrified of the question she was about to ask than of its answer. “It’s not just some painful memory, is it? You do have a secret.”
He stared straight ahead. “Yes.”
Vera felt as if someone had made a tiny hole in her, and everything inside was draining slowly away.
“Tell me. Tell me who you are,” she said.
“I told you, I can’t.”
“You ought to leave. Get out of the city. When they find out, if it’s bad enough, they’ll throw you in prison. And that’s not the worst of it. These are powerful men with enough money, friends, and time to make sure you regret coming here.”
He shook his head. “I have to finish the job first.”
“Why don’t you have any work in the apartment?”
He looked at her askance. “Why would I have work in the apartment? I’m not painting a mural in here.”
“You have to show it to me. If you’re really painting, I want to see it.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to show it to anyone until it’s done. But you’ll be the first, all right? Is that enough?”
“Enough?” She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “Emil, you lied to me. Whatever the truth is, it must be terrible. Am I wrong?”
“It’s not bad in the way you think. You won’t hate me, I swear it. I will tell you everything when the work is done. And it will all make sense. Please. Believe me.”
She dropped her eyes to the floor. “You know we can’t see each other anymore.”
He stood and crossed to her, laying a hand on her arm. “Vera, darling, nothing has changed, has it? I’m still the man I was. You know now there’s something I haven’t told you about myself, but that’s true of everyone you know, I’d wager. Arthur…even your mother. Everyone has secrets. And I will tell you. Later.”
Her shoulders drooped. He was right. She had withheld her secrets from him, for fear of what he would think. But she could not carry on with this man and whatever he was hiding. To do so would be too reckless. Even if Arthur would not be jealous, he would certainly make her sorry she embarrassed him. The other women would drop her from society. And her mother�
��no telling what her mother would do. But worst of all would be letting Hallan play her for a fool. She balled her hands into fists and gritted her teeth.
“No,” she said. “I can’t continue what we shouldn’t have started in the first place.”
He took her hand, easing the fingers from their clench. “I told you before, you’ve seen my art. That’s the most important thing. All you need to know about me is in those paintings, my whole soul, everything I am. And I will tell you all those details you seem to feel are so important. I will. But I want you to see what I’m working on first. When you see that, it won’t matter what I tell you.”
“How can you say that? How can you be sure?”
“I just know it.” A sad smile crossed his lips. “You love something about me, don’t you? I know you do. Trust me now. You don’t have to come here anymore, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But allow me to show you the painting when it’s done. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
She thought of the pang she felt when she first saw the photos of his paintings. Of the irresistible pull deep within her since then. She took a step back. “I’d better go. I don’t want your servants telling everyone there was a woman here all night.”
He nodded. “If that’s what you want.”
Despite all the objections of her rational mind, it was not what she wanted. She tried to force her feet to carry her to the door, but instead she threw herself into his arms. He kissed her, as though his lips could erase all her fears and doubts. There was something, some part of him she had glimpsed, that insisted he was who she knew him to be. He gave her something she needed, something she had not had for a long time. But he was also pulling her closer to a choice she had been faced with once before, between the demands of her heart and the obligations of her life. She did not want to be tempted by the same mistake again, but she could no longer see clearly which choice was right.