A Fine Imitation (2 page)

The two-and-a-half-minute elevator ride from the penthouse to the lobby of the Angelus building was more than enough time for Vera Bellington to contemplate ways out of her weekly Wednesday lunch with her mother. What if she called to say she was ill? What if she got into the Packard waiting downstairs and directed the driver to a different restaurant? What if she got into the Packard, went to the usual restaurant, but sat at a different table and said nothing to her mother? She could pretend to be a stranger.
Terribly sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.

Well, they would lock her up, no question about that. Her mother and Arthur would conclude Vera had lost her mind at last, and would spare no expense in finding her the best facility in which to go insane. Going to another restaurant was no solution, either. Her mother would simply come to the penthouse of the Angelus looking for Vera, and then there would be hell to pay. Feigning illness would also mean an unwelcome visit. Her fanciful options exhausted, Vera went out to the curb to meet the car. She did not have to say a word to the driver. He knew where to go for Wednesday lunch.

Her mother was already seated in the Tea Room at the Plaza when Vera arrived, at their usual table. Lorna Longacre was a slender woman with steel-gray hair coiled in a knot at the back of her head and remarkably smooth skin for her age. This was, in part, because she refused to frown, citing the wrinkles such a disagreeable expression would cause. Of course, she did not smile much either, which probably had the same helpful effect.

Vera slid into the floral cushion of the chair with a quiet greeting, but her mother kept her gaze trained on a group of girls passing by the window. Something between disgust and satisfaction pulled on her face, as if insects had invaded and she looked forward to the pleasure of stamping them out one by one.

“What are you looking at?” Vera asked, as the waiter spread a napkin onto her lap for her.

“The clothing some of these—well, you can hardly call them ladies, can you? The skirts on them. Can't decently call them skirts, either. Up to their knees. More like bathing costumes.” Her mother sniffed and turned her attention to Vera. “If you had dressed with so little sense at that age, I'd have thrown you out.”

“Which is why I would never have done such a thing, Mother. Good gracious.” Vera peered at the menu, though she always ordered the crab cocktail with sliced tomatoes.

Her mother shot her a pointed look but did not comment. “And that short hair,” she continued. “Though it's not just silly girls doing that now. Do you know, the ladies at the club have convinced themselves it's appropriate for women of their age? Petunia Etherington came in the other day with it chopped straight off at her chin.” Vera's mother clicked her tongue. “Imagine.”

The two ladies ordered their meals, and Vera squeezed a lemon into her tea. They sat looking around the room for a moment in silence, before taking up the usual set of questions and answers that served as their script for these lunches.

“How is Daddy?” Vera asked.

Her mother picked an invisible thread from her jacket. “Forever with his horses. I'm always half surprised he doesn't offer me a sugar cube and try to brush me when he comes in.”

“When is the next race?”

“Not for ages. The next is Saratoga. I hope you'll come with us. I'll call your girl and have her put it on your calendar.”

Vera nodded. “Did you go to the opera this weekend?”

“It was
La Traviata
.”

“Mmm. Daddy hates that one.”

“I went with the Stanfords.” Her mother took a sip of tea. “She tried to hide it, but Eleanor wept like a baby at the end. Honestly, in public.”

“It is a lovely opera, though.” Vera inclined her head at the waiter as he set down their plates.

“Weeping in public is for infants and funerals, darling. And even then it should be done discreetly.” Her mother lifted her fork over her chicken salad. “How is Arthur?”

The question should have been a throwaway one, but Vera's throat tightened at the mention of her husband. Thirty years of conversation with her mother had taught her better, but her response was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Mother, when Daddy was working…away a lot…did you ever get lonely?”

Her mother set her fork down on her plate and glanced around. “I hope that's a unique way of telling me you're having a child.”

Vera looked at her hands in her lap, her face burning. She would have been better off confessing an urge to strip naked and dance around the restaurant than to admit something like loneliness to her mother. She struggled for the words to explain herself and settled on something close to the truth. “No, nothing like that. Nothing out of the ordinary. But Arthur has so many late nights, more trips away. It's been a bit difficult.”

Her mother snapped her fork back into the air. “What did you think marriage would be like? Besides, lonely people are people without anything to do. Don't you have your charities? Your friends? Good heavens, if we expected our husbands to provide us with our only company we'd all go mad.” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading those romances again? Those silly things will rot your brain.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. Forget I said it.”

“Yes, let's.” Her mother took a sip of water. “Oh, I have something to occupy you. There's a painting I'm thinking of buying, but I want you to take a look for me first. One of my friends from the club introduced me to a dealer, and he says he's got a Dutch master. He's selling at an amazing price. I'm afraid the price is a little too good.”

“Have you seen it yet?”

“I haven't.” Her mother pursed her lips. “How much did your father and I pay for you to go to Vassar? We may as well get some use out of your studies, don't you think?”

Vera knew not to take the bait on that line of inquiry. “When do you want me to go?”

“Are you free tomorrow? The dealer phoned this morning, I told him I didn't think you had anything pressing.”

Vera stifled a groan. She did have a luncheon with the ladies in her building, but her mother did not make requests. She mandated. “Who is he?”

“Fleming somebody. He's apparently a French dealer with an established gallery in Paris. He's just opened an offshoot in the city to better cater to his American clientele. I'll give you the address. He's a few blocks from here.”

Vera tried frantically to think of some way she could redirect her mother's interest. The idea of traipsing through the city for a Dutch master her mother would not even really appreciate was not Vera's idea of an afternoon well spent. “Surely his Paris gallery would have a better selection if he's just setting up here. Why not wait until you're there next?”

Her mother shook her head. “No way of knowing when that will be. Your father won't go with me, and I certainly won't travel alone. Unless you'd like to go with me?”

An hour in a local gallery seemed a less daunting prospect than a month in Europe with her mother, and Vera agreed to go see the painting. After they finished their meal, her mother wrote the gallery's address on a card. They walked out onto the sidewalk to wait for their drivers to bring their cars. Her mother's arrived first, and she waved a few fingers at Vera from the backseat. A hint of worry still lingered in her eyes, indicating she had not forgotten Vera's confession.

After their first lunch together on the day they met, Vera and Bea ate together nearly every afternoon. At first, Vera had alternated between her usual lunch crowd and Bea. Once, she invited Bea to eat with her group, but the blend had not been a harmonious one. All Ella Gregory and Lillie Huntsfield could do was stare, and Bea had pronounced them “dull as flour, but with less taste.” After that, Vera adjusted her schedule to come in late enough that she and Bea missed her other friends entirely. The dreariness of her more appropriate friends could not compete with her new, vibrant friend from the South. Unfortunately, her lively lunches made dinner with her old crowd seem even more tedious. No one in her right mind would choose polite small talk and inquiries about her academic progress over Bea's naughty asides.

Dinner seating was naturally trickier to navigate, since the evening lacked the casual atmosphere of lunch, and class schedules could not be blamed for interrupting the standing social appointment of the regular table. One night, emboldened by imagining what her new friend would do in her situation, Vera strolled through the dining room right past Ella and Lillie, nodding a greeting but saying nothing. The girls gave her stony looks but would never have dreamed of challenging Vera's choice. She wove her way around the square, white-clothed tables to take a seat beside Bea.

“Not sitting with the Opera Board tonight?” Bea asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Vera spread her napkin in her lap and scooted her wooden chair closer to the table. “They have each other. I thought you could use some company, too.”

“Maybe they do teach girls up here manners after all.” Bea leaned in and spoke under her breath. “You couldn't take it anymore?”

“Not for another minute.” Vera laughed. “Your parents may have sent you up here for the good influences of the North, but you've been a bad influence on me, Bea Stillman.”

“Impossible. Girls like you are incorruptible.” Bea poked at the sliver of roast beef on her plate.

“I don't know about that.”

“You'd rather be corruptible? I knew there was a sinner lurking inside you. Maybe now you'll tell me more about your summer romance.” A familiar gleam brightened Bea's eyes.

Vera wanted to reply that Arthur's pursuit was hardly a romance, but she stopped. Of course, technically, it was a romance. He wouldn't have visited her so often last summer if he hadn't had marriage on his mind in some way. So why did Bea's description seem so ill fitting? “Maybe I will,” Vera said at last. She had held off this discussion through weeks of lunches; it was probably time she gave her friend more than just a passing detail.

Bea turned, eyes shining. “Finally. What does Arthur look like? He must be handsome. Is he rich?”

“He is terribly handsome,” Vera admitted. She ignored Bea's last question, leaving a discussion of Arthur's financial situation for a more private conversation. A maid appeared at her elbow, and Vera nodded. As the maid spooned green beans onto their plates, Vera tried to keep her voice low until the woman stepped away. “Tall, with dark hair. Not too slender. He's about ten years older, and very sophisticated.”

Bea wrinkled her nose. “You sound like you're describing a building. What are his eyes like? His lips?” She drew out the last word with relish, and Vera's cheeks warmed.

“Goodness, does everyone in Atlanta talk like that in public?”

“Just me, as far as I know. Aren't you lucky I came your way?” Bea chewed thoughtfully on a green bean. “So, dark hair. Tall. Promising start.”

Vera fixed a hard gaze on her food. “His eyes are lovely. They're pale blue, like crystal.”

“Like forget-me-nots?”

“More silvery than that. I've never seen eyes like his.”

“Now, that sounds like something a lover might say. Much better.” Bea offered a quiet clap.

Vera glanced at the neighboring tables. “Do you have a beau?” she asked quickly.

Bea laughed. “You've seen the reaction I get from girls. Can you imagine what men think of me?”

“You're pretty, outgoing, smart…I'd think your beaus would be tripping over each other.”

“If I meet a man I like, I'll have you write me a letter of reference. My own mother wouldn't be so complimentary.”

“I don't know. It sounds like you get along well with her,” Vera said. Bea had described a soft-spoken, sweet woman with a wicked sense of humor that belied her poise.

“I do. Most of the time.” Bea shrugged. “But never mind her. What do you and Arthur do together? Hopefully more than sit in the parlor.”

“He took me to the soda fountain,” Vera said, with a hopeful lift in her voice.

Bea sighed. “I was hoping for something more interesting than the soda fountain.”

“Well…once we took a walk on the beach. He even took his shoes off.” Vera laughed at the memory, but the look on Bea's face suggested the thought of a barefoot Arthur was not as funny to someone who didn't know him personally. Her laugh died away.

Bea placed a hand on Vera's arm. “As long as you like him, that's the important thing. He sounds…he sounds very nice.”

“I do like him,” Vera said. She really did. There was something so solid about Arthur, like an anchor in rough waters. What better man to marry than one she could depend on? He might not be exciting, but Vera reassured herself there were qualities in a husband more important than being exciting. Anyway, as long as Vera stayed friends with Bea, she doubted she'd have to worry about a lack of excitement in her life.