A Fine Imitation (10 page)

Vera made her way to yet another afternoon tea, although she was thankful the group was limited to the ladies. A break from Hallan's attention was welcome. Then again, the artist might as well have been present, since he was all any of the other women wanted to talk about.

“He's simply the most interesting man,” Poppy said, her teacup rattling in its saucer as she gestured.

“He is,” Ida agreed. “Did you know he once did a painting of a landscape entirely in shades of blue, just to see if he could use the different hues that way? Fascinating.”

“It's not all that unusual for an artist to—” Vera began.

“Well, blue is his favorite,” Poppy said. “I asked him. He said no one ever asked him that before.”

“No one ever asked an artist about his favorite color before?” Bessie asked, widening her eyes a bit too much. Vera held a hand to her lips to hide a smile.

Poppy plumped her bobbed curls. “No one. Not a soul. He seemed very impressed.”

Vera waited for a pause in the conversation and chose the wording of her question carefully. “When do you think he works?”

Everyone turned to her, like hawks on prey.

“What do you mean?” Ida asked. “Why, he works all day. All day and all night. He must.”

“But he's always at parties and the like,” Vera said. “I've run into him coming into the building from being out all day.”

“He's probably buying supplies. Paint and…brushes,” Caroline said.

“But he never has any carrier bags with him,” Vera replied.

Ida sat up straight. “He must have them delivered. Anyway, he's working, I'm sure of it. At the party the other night he said he'd chosen his subject.”

Vera tried to ignore the dreamy look in Poppy's eye at that statement. “I did see him sketching once. I suppose I'm only curious because we know so little about him.”

Caroline laid a hand on Vera's. “You worry too much, my dear. And didn't we get a letter from Clarence's friend, the man from the museum? With photographs of his work?”

“Yes. Clarence showed them to me.” A prickle ran between Vera's shoulders at the memory of the photos.

“Well, then.” Caroline smiled triumphantly, as if that statement cleared everything up.

Vera stirred her tea. “I wonder if someone shouldn't peek into the pool room, that's all.”

“Nonsense,” Ida said. “As the head of the Mural Board, I say we ought to honor the conditions he set out.”

“There, the head of the Mural Board has spoken,” Bessie said. “Do you really need a higher authority than that?”

“Thank you, Bessie,” Ida continued, puffing out her chest. “If we go in there now, who knows how it might affect his work? Or worse, he may leave us with a half-finished product. You don't want that, do you?”

“No,” Vera said. She plastered on a smile. “Never mind me.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, it's getting late. I'd better dash.”

“But Bertha hasn't even brought the cakes out,” Ida said.

“I'm very sorry. Prior commitment. With my mother.” Vera stood.

“Quite all right. Marshall will see you out.” Ida rang the bell for the butler, but the other ladies remained seated. A strange silence settled over the room after a few abrupt good-byes, and Vera knew with absolute certainty that as soon as the door closed behind her, the artist would no longer be the most interesting subject of discussion. Her better judgment said that leaving so suddenly was a misstep, but even talking about Hallan was beginning to wear on her. The relief would be worth whatever temporary price she paid as the day's topic of gossip.

An advertisement in the paper reminded Vera that the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Italian Renaissance exhibition would close in a few weeks. She had already been twice since it opened in late spring, but she wanted to see everything one more time before the pieces were sent back to their home museums. Fortunately, she had nothing on her calendar that day. After she dressed, she had Evans call for the car.

She left the building so rarely. Apart from lunch with her mother and the occasional evening at the ballet or long weekend in Montauk, most of her engagements were on the floors below her penthouse. Rain drummed on the car window as they rolled through the city streets, and Vera peered up at the crowd of buildings that reached ever higher into the gray clouds.

The driver pulled up to the curb in front of the museum and ran around with an umbrella. He and Vera walked up the stairs together, and he kept her safe from the rain until she got to the main entryway.

“Thank you, George.” She swiped at the drops on her pale blue skirt.

“What time would you like me to return?”

Vera glanced at her watch. “Shall we say two o'clock?”

“I'm sorry, your husband has a lunch engagement. He'll need the car.”

“How about four?”
Better too much time than too little
, she thought.

“Yes, Mrs. Bellington.”

The driver left, and Vera stepped inside. The swooping ecru arches of the entryway soared above her, with an elegance befitting the treasures the building held. All museums seemed to have an undercurrent of the same smell, whether they held art or artifacts. That faint, dusty scent of history, of important things preserved with reverence. If Vera could have bottled it and sprayed it around her home, she would have.

As she made her way to the Italian exhibition, her short heels clicking against the stone floor, she dug the catalog describing the pieces from her purse. She had penciled notes about her favorite items in the margins, and she wanted to do the same for the paintings, which she had neglected in favor of the sculpture on her last visit.

When she entered the first room, a couple already stood in front of one of the paintings. She pretended to fuss in her purse for another moment, allowing them to move on. Vera wanted solitude with the art. She would have liked to be completely alone with the paintings, but so far fortune had never afforded her that luxury.

The exhibit began with the Florentine school, mostly portraits with a religious work or two thrown in. By the time she had viewed the first few paintings, the couple had moved on to the next room. Vera paused at the portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni, by Ghirlandaio, and squinted at the inscription on the cartel. She took out her pencil to note the Latin in her catalog and saw that it was already translated there.

As she debated with herself whether or not to write out the Latin anyway, someone stepped into the room. A little flare of annoyance tickled her chest, but she could not rightfully begrudge someone being in a public place. She concentrated her attention on the portrait once more, studying the vibrant gold tones of the lady's gown and the way they played with the deep red on the decorations on her sleeve. The reddish-brown twists of the elaborate hairstyle united the warm hues. She sat in a straight-backed pose Vera herself had held many times, and Vera felt a sympathetic twinge along her spine.

“She's beautiful, isn't she?”

Vera whirled around, holding in a gasp of surprise at the familiar voice. Hallan stood behind her, dressed in a light brown suit with a cheerful red bow tie. His grin climbed up one side of his angular face.

“Sorry, I didn't startle you, did I?” he asked, taking a few slow steps toward Vera.

“Not at all. I heard you come in, I just didn't realize it was you.” She held her chin in the air. “Taking a day off, are you?”

He looked at her appraisingly. “You do that a lot.”

“What, take the day off? I don't work.”

“No.” He lifted his nose in imitation of her stance. “Lift your nose up. Do you like looking down at me?”

Heat tingled in the back of her neck. “Really, Mr. Hallan, the things that come out of your mouth. Do you relish being impolite, or is it some accident of nature?”

He held up his hands. “Forgive me. I had no intention of being rude.”

“Intention or not, you have an awful way of saying the wrong thing.”

He nodded. “That's probably true.”

Vera turned back to the painting. “Anyway, you won't be paid if you spend all your time running around the city.”

Hallan stepped beside her to look at the portrait. “Not running around the city. And to answer your earlier question, not exactly taking the day off. I got a bit stuck, you see, so I decided to consult some of my betters.” He leaned in to the painting, and his voice took on a breathy, dreamy tone. “I love what he does with the colors here. So warm. Feels like she's alive, doesn't it?”

The sudden change of topic unsteadied Vera. “It's…it's lovely.”

“So rare for the time, that portrait in profile. Normally they're looking at us. What do you think she's looking at?”

Vera twisted one of her earrings. “I couldn't say.”

With one hand, Hallan traced the arc of the woman's back in the air. “Ah, but you see the light, the way it falls on her dress? And the shadows, here in the folds? I think she's looking out the window.”

“Oh.” Vera peered at the shadows he indicated, and saw immediately what he meant. “So she is.”

“Who wouldn't? She was in Florence, wasn't she? Have you been there?”

“No, I never have.”

Hallan did not take his eyes off the portrait. “Too bad. It's lovely. All pinks and oranges, and great shining domes. If I were stuck in the house, modeling for a painting, I'd be staring out the window, too. Look, the corner of her mouth, lifted…her eyes wide, alert. She looks hopeful.”

Vera stared at him, speechless. The prolonged silence as she watched him examine the painting must have caught his attention, because he straightened up and turned to her with a questioning look. She struggled for words.

“You let every single thought you have come out of your mouth, don't you?” she asked slowly. “You don't hold anything back.”

“And what's so wrong with that?” he said.