A Fine Imitation (27 page)

“Is your favorite the bed? Now I am glad to see it.”

“Not the bed. In here.” She went into the black and white bathroom and gestured to the claw-foot tub. “I found it in France on my honeymoon. I don't know why, but I love it. There are some paintings that would overtake it if I owned them, but…” She sighed. “I think it's the most beautiful thing, honestly.”

He ran a hand along the glossy white surface. “Porcelain?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at her. “May I try it?”

She pulled back. The request was not unpleasant, only unexpected. “I don't see why not.”

He handed her his glass and turned on the tap. As he made adjustments to the temperature, Vera brought a chair in from the vanity for herself. She could not help but giggle at him as he undressed and climbed into the tub. He ducked under the water, then came up and smoothed his dripping hair.

“I can see why you like this so much,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh.

She balanced her elbow on her knee and cupped her chin in her hand. “I do like this. Very much.”

He laughed and closed his eyes. “So this is Mrs. Bellington's life. Warm baths and wine.”

“That's part of it. But then when you get out of the bath, you have to go up and down that elevator, a different floor every hour.” She swallowed hard and tried to keep her tone light. “This one for tea, that one for dinner…ah, and don't forget lunch with Mother.”

“If I'm having lunch with Mother, I'm going to need more wine.”

“Fortunately, you'll have as much of that as you want.” She twisted an earring between her fingers. “May I ask you something? How old are you?”

He looked up at her. “Twenty-eight. Why, how old are you?”

“You shouldn't ask a lady that. It's rude.” She dipped her fingers in the water and splashed a few drops on him. “And I'm thirty-one.”

“You wear it well.” He grinned. “Wouldn't you like to get in with me?”

“I've had a bath already, thank you.”

“That wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”

She smiled. “Why don't you get out, then?”

He stood, and she handed him a towel. Vera located one of Arthur's robes, and he slid into it. He followed her back into the bedroom and unzipped her dress before lying on the bed. She pulled the dress over her head and stretched out beside him. They lay together in peaceful silence for a while. She put a hand on the warm skin of his chest, felt the muscles expand and contract as he breathed. A lump rose in her throat, and she looked up at him.

“I want things to go back to the way they were.” She brushed a damp lock of hair from his temple. “Before you came.”

“Why? Were you happy then?” He ran a hand up and down her arm.

“No. But at least I wasn't sure I wanted something else.” She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “What happens after? Will you disappear?”

He frowned. “There is no after. Why does there have to be an after?”

“Because you'll go, won't you, when the painting is finished? To California, like you said.”

“I may.” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her back down to his side. “But for now, we're both here. Isn't that worth wanting, too?”

She placed a hand on his jaw and kissed him. The feel of someone's arms around her in her own bed was almost more joy than she could bear. She lay awake for hours that night, unwilling to surrender a moment to sleep.

Vera hunched over a cold cup of tea in the café. Her mother sat across from her, the steering-wheel-sized table putting insufficient distance between them. The only other people in the café were two elderly women shouting their conversation at each other. Even the waitress had disappeared to the back after bringing Vera and her mother their drinks. At least Vera's humiliation wouldn't have witnesses.

In the car, her mother had taken advantage of Vera's stunned silence to explain that the dean's office had telephoned to ask the name of Vera's chaperone for their records. The deception had unraveled quickly from there.

“I won't bother to ask what you thought you were doing,” her mother said. “It's clear you weren't thinking.”

“It was all very innocent, Mother, I promise you. We went to the football game at Yale with Bea's cousin and his friends. Nothing happened for you to be ashamed of.”

“Then I shouldn't be ashamed that my daughter would lie? Or sneak out overnight with young men of who knows what character? Or forge my signature?”

“I didn't forge your signature.” The words came out of Vera's mouth before she considered the ammunition the information would give her mother.

“Then who did?”

Vera sat on her hand to keep from chewing her fingernail. She ran her thumb back and forth under her thigh. “Mother, please, I'm very sorry about the whole thing—”

“I should hope you're sorry. If you aren't by now, you soon will be. Now tell me at once who used my name.”

Vera searched for a plausible lie, a person who could have created the letters instead of her or Bea, but nothing came. Her mind might have been weakened by exhaustion. More likely her mother had trained her so well that even her own thoughts conspired against her. There was no point to a lie, however good. Her mother would get the truth from her eventually.

“Bea.” Vera concentrated on the tablecloth. “Bea made the letters.”

Her mother inhaled deeply. “I can't say I'm surprised. I knew what sort of girl she was the moment I saw her. Has she told you why she ended up at Vassar? Why she left Agnes Scott?”

Vera, her mouth agape, jerked her gaze up to meet her mother's. How had her mother known where Bea went to school in Georgia?

“I did a little digging into her history. I won't be ignorant about who my daughter associates with.” Her mother shook her head, jaw clenched. “I should have intervened. But then I never thought you'd go along with one of her schemes. And I thought she'd stay out of trouble here. I'm sure her family thought so, too.”

An icy sensation feathered across Vera's scalp. “What did Bea do?”

“So, she didn't tell you? That makes sense. Probably hoping to hitch her wagon to your star and find a good husband before word got out.” Her mother's eyes narrowed. “I don't know the details, just that the administration at Agnes Scott asked her to leave. I do know her family made a sizable donation to Vassar to get them to look the other way about her record. She didn't tell you any of this?”

“I knew she left Agnes Scott to come here.”

“And that didn't seem odd to you, Vera?”

Vera couldn't say any more. The miserable, sick feeling she'd had since her mother arrived now shared space with a spark of anger. How could she have ignored the blatant warning signs? The donation to Vassar explained Harry's crack about how Bea had spent her family's money. Vera had been so delighted to have an exciting, lively friend, she had not thought to be more cautious. Why? When she knew Bea had no qualms about courting trouble? She'd been cheating, forging letters, who knew what else? Vera had been so sure Bea liked her for who she was. Now it seemed clear Bea had been as attracted to Vera's name and connections as everyone else.

Maybe her mother was wrong, though. She didn't know the details of Bea's disgrace at Agnes Scott. There were plenty of reasons an incoming family might make a donation. And no matter how neatly the idea that Bea needed Vera's friendship to establish herself fit the narrative her mother laid out, it still didn't make sense in Vera's mind. She needed the whole story. She wanted to talk to Bea. For the moment, however, she had to appease her mother, who clearly had a solution to the current problem in mind.

“What should I do?” Vera asked.

Her mother puffed out her chest, resolute. “If she was the one who actually created the letters, then she's the one who should take the blame. You'll simply need to make it clear to the administration that she coerced you into doing this. If you do, you might be able to escape with minimal scandal.”

“She didn't coerce me,” Vera said, sinking to a new low of misery. “It was our plan together. I can't lie.”

Her mother's voice lowered to a hiss. “And then what? If the school formally sanctions you, your father will find out. Would you like that—hmm? And you can forget Arthur ever proposing if he learns you've spent the night with some boy.”

Vera shut her eyes tightly against the memory of Cliff's warm hand entwined with hers in the cold evening air. “Not spending the night, nothing like that.” Her hope of waiting for Cliff dissolved into nothing. She would have to accept Arthur now, her mother would insist on it.

“And who's to say?” Her mother cocked her head as her voice took on a mocking tone. “You? This girl? Forgive me if I don't find your version of events the most trustworthy at the moment.”

“What should I say? Bea made the letters, it's true, but she never forced me to do anything.” She didn't want to point out to her mother that Bea didn't have to work that hard to convince her. “How could she have? I had to have permission. They'll know I could see the letter wasn't really from you.”

Her mother thought for a moment, then placed a hand on the table. “I'll tell you exactly what to do. You tell them you didn't know I hadn't given permission. You thought she wrote me secretly to surprise you. As far as they know, she lied to you, and this was all her doing. Well, she did lie to you, in a way. She's caused trouble before. Even if she gets out of it this time, which she won't, she'll find a way to ruin herself. She will come to no good. Let them deal with her as they may.”

Vera decided to concede a smaller battle to her mother in the hope of winning the larger war. She couldn't lose everything in one blow. She never really had Cliff to begin with, she could see that now. Her last semester at Vassar was an easy sacrifice if it meant a chance at keeping what might be her one true friendship intact. “But you said I'm not coming back to school after Christmas. I've never been in trouble before. If I take the blame, they'd only give me probation. What difference does that make if I'm leaving anyway?”

“The difference is that you are my daughter, and I won't have your name dragged through this girl's mud. She's going down a bad path no matter what. You still have a chance to save your reputation. And you're leaving now, after this matter is settled. No question of that.”

Tears stung the corners of Vera's eyes. “I can't do that. I have to do the right thing. I have to tell the truth.”

“The right thing is protecting your reputation.”

“She's my friend,” Vera said, swallowing hard against the last word.

“Anyone who convinces you to take a risk like this is not your friend. If she's not your mother, your father, or your fiancé, then she's nothing to you. Your responsibility lies with us, and you will do as I say. Arguing with me will not change my mind. There is only one way out of this without ruining yourself, and it's my way. You cannot protect this girl. She doesn't care enough to protect herself. You must let her suffer the consequences. Her alone. Am I being clear?”

Vera stared at the thin piece of lemon on the bottom of her cup. A dark pit opened in her chest, sucked in what energy she had, and spread all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. If she could get to Bea, they could sort it out. She could find out the whole story, make up her own mind. There might still be some way to save their friendship. She just had to think of it. And she had to talk to Bea.

Reluctant as she was for him to go, Vera was glad she had Hallan leave the penthouse before the sun came up. She climbed back into the bed, her head on the pillow he had slept on, and reveled in the warm scent he left behind. The dull sound of a door closing announced the return of the servants, and she stirred from her reverie. She pulled the sheets up to the pillows and plumped one so that the presence of two people in the bed would not be immediately obvious.

Their night together was well timed, as she had lunch with her mother that morning and could not visit his apartment. Vera told him she could come in the afternoon, but he said he planned to paint most of the day. They agreed to meet again Thursday morning. After their conversation in her bed, she almost wanted to tell him to put off the work or delay it by a few hours. Once the painting was finished, he would have no more reason to stay at the Angelus. She knew when the affair began that it would only be temporary, but the thought of him leaving pressed so hard on her chest it took her breath away. She resolved not to dwell on what was to come. Vera had lived thirty years without Hallan. She could do well enough without him when he departed.

Before she went to meet her mother, she and Marguerite reviewed her social calendar for the week. She groaned at a reminder that she and Arthur had been invited to a small dinner party at the Hastings' that evening. Since Julius had been ill, Vera thought Poppy might cancel. But however indisposed Julius was, his condition would apparently not keep Poppy from her plans.

Vera sat through lunch with her mother with a distracted, fuzzy mind. Fortunately, Vera's father had purchased two new racehorses, which meant her mother was in the mood to give a speech about “that man's ridiculous obsession.” She went on so long that Vera did not notice right away when the topic changed.

“Vera? Are you listening?” Her mother clinked a spoon down on the tea saucer.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. I agree completely.” Agreeing was always the wisest course of action with her mother.

“I thought you might. You certainly spent enough time in your room. Well, I can hardly blame you. Insufferable company does nothing for my digestion either.”

Her room? Vera realized her mother was talking about the trip to Montauk and struggled to refocus her attention. She managed a nod and an “mmm.”

“That Hastings woman was beyond belief. But I suppose you must tolerate her because she lives in your building.”

Vera pondered a chunk of tomato at the end of her fork. “Poppy is certainly an interesting person.”

“Well said.” Her mother sniffed. “But that artist character. I hope you know he's set his sights on you.”

Vera fumbled with the fork, and gripped it hard to keep from dropping it. “Mother. I can't believe you'd say such a thing.”

“Well, darling, I've seen it before. Slick boy like that, in some romantic profession, wends his way into good society and targets a well-to-do woman. Up to no good. He's after money, mark my words.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?”

“I know it. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. And he had the indecency to stare at you every time you came into the room, hoping you'd catch that moony expression on his face.” Her mother took a sip of tea. “You were right to avoid him. If you ignore him, he'll find some other woman. He'd do better off going after the Hastings woman. My daughter is no fool.”

“Well, thank you, Mother.” Vera's voice came out a little more hoarse than she would have preferred, but her mother paid no mind.

“You had to know from that accent. It takes a good ear, like mine, but I know he's putting it on. If he's from Westminster, I'm the Queen of Araby. Even if he is from a low family, it simply would not sound like whatever that is meant to be. He could be Irish, though it sounds like something else entirely to me.”

“Yes.” Vera stared at her plate, what little appetite she had gone. Was Hallan really after her money? She sat up straighter, taking a deep breath. If he was, he would be disappointed. She would never give him a cent.

Her mother's words echoed in her head the whole drive home, as Vera wrestled with the possibility that he was a swindler. The little sound behind his accent, that odd scraping in the back of his throat, had bothered her, too. What if he was not really from London? What if all of his sweetness and declarations of love were some kind of trick to con her out of her money? Her mother had been right about Bea's hidden past. What if she could see through Hallan in the same way?

But his behavior could not be a trick. Her mother was right; if money was his aim, there were easier targets in the building. And he had paid the cab fare the night they had gone out, as well as the bill at the bar. He had never asked her for anything but her companionship. He had been in her home, among all her most precious treasures, and behaved as if she were the greatest of all of them.

Still, she hated that each day brought new doubts about him, new fears. She would demand to know about his life, or she would end the affair for her own good. Even if it hurt her to lose him, to risk her own name and reputation for a lie would be far worse. The affair would have to end sometime, anyway. Why not be the one to take control?

Vera and Arthur arrived at Poppy's fifth-floor apartment at eight o'clock, as Poppy had not noted any time for cocktails on the invitation. A rather harried young man, in an ill-fitting suit rented for the occasion, answered the door and led them toward the drawing room.

“Excuse me,” Vera said, “but shouldn't we go to the dining room?”

He shrugged. “Everyone's in here. Uh, ma'am.”

The crowd threatened to overwhelm the tiny drawing room, as people shoved into corners or stood shoulder to shoulder to fit themselves in. The air was warm and sticky with the heat of bodies and mingling of perfumes and colognes. Poppy stood by the door, a bit wild-eyed. “Vera, Arthur! Welcome. Everyone, Vera and Arthur are here.”

“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.