The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (20 page)

“I'll admit that it's similar to yours,” he said finally through pinched lips. “But our ideas are different.” I couldn't draw a full breath and felt light-headed, my vision fuzzy. Suddenly, his hand clasped the nape of my neck and pulled my face to his. “I find
your anger . . . amusing,” he whispered. “Accuse me of anything you wish, Virginia. Tell everyone. It won't matter, you know. No one will believe you.” His breath, rank with liquor, hovered in my nostrils. I jerked away from him. He was right. I'd shared the story with him before anyone else. There was no reason for anyone to believe me. No one else had ever read it. “You're a woman . . . with no husband and no name. Why would I plagiarize
your
work?”

“You may have made it into
The Century
, but you'll never really amount to anything,” I said. “Charlatans never do.” Whirling on my heels, I threw the door open, making a beeline for Alevia who'd returned to the damask ottoman.

“Tell Franklin, wherever he is, that I've gone to Mae's. I'll see you there.” My breath was still coming and going in short spurts and Alevia's eyes went wide. I had to get out of there. I had to come up with a plan. Tom wouldn't get away with passing my work off as his own.

“What happened?” she asked. “I'll come with you.”

“Tom has . . . he's stolen my story. The article in
The Century
is mine,” I sputtered. As angry as I was, I couldn't bear to rehash it, not now. I just needed to leave. “And I plan to make him answer for it.”

A
s furious as I'd been at Tom for stealing my idea, I hadn't mentioned it to anyone other than Alevia until my copy of the magazine arrived the following day—primarily because I wanted to believe that I'd been wrong. The idea that Tom, a man who supposedly loved my sister, would do such a thing was despicable—a desperate attempt to gain acclaim because he couldn't come up with anything good on his own. But as much as I'd hoped to be mistaken, I'd read the magazine again, and the words were mine. I'd wanted to speak to Frank about it, hoping that he could reason with Tom, but Frank had been called out of the city for work. Instead, I'd gone to Mother and Alevia. Both agreed that the story was my work, both had been appalled, but neither had been able to come up with a way to trap Tom in his lie. I hadn't intended to tell Bess right away—at least not until I'd worked out a plan myself—but Alevia had been so outraged upon reading the story that she'd immediately marched up the stairs and told Bess she would have to part ways with Tom. In a matter of moments, Bess was shouting at Alevia saying that the writ
ing wasn't mine, that I was lying because I was jealous. The words stung, though I'd expected them, and when Bess came to tell me that she would believe Tom over me, I wasn't surprised.

My anger was consuming. I was furious that I couldn't do anything to remedy his plagiarism. Even Mae, who'd responded to my hysterical letter with a visit, hadn't been able to think of anything smart. Tom had stolen my only copy.

Mother had been the one to finally drag me from my overriding need for vengeance. She'd said that Tom's dishonesty may have worked once, but it wouldn't always. Eventually, even the most carefully crafted deceptions were exposed by the light of truth.

So instead of moping about my misfortune, I'd taken matters into my own hands and sent a copy of
The Web
directly to George Putnam with an accompanying letter detailing my admiration of him, his father, and Irving. Feeling quite brave, I also sent the story to another publisher, Arthur Scribner, as well. I knew it was a bold gesture and that women writers weren't often considered by publishing houses unless they had a connection, but I didn't care. I thought it wouldn't hurt to be assertive since my book was already in the hands of one of the country's top editors.

I wiped my forehead. It was one of those rare sweltering days in the city. Even at ten in the morning, sweat prickled my upper lip and I could feel the dampness under my arms as my hand drifted across the notepad. Bess and Mother were arguing downstairs about Bess's refusing to apologize to me—white noise on top of Alevia playing Chopin's Piano Concerto No. 2. A draft filtered in from the open window in front of me and I held the page down to read.

“To begin with, the Society was an anomaly, something I never could have imagined—artists being social.
”
I shook my head, scratching the sentence out. My brain wasn't working today other than to obsess about whether George Putnam had received my package yet
or if Frederick Harvey was ever going to get back to me about my book. I couldn't seem to move past the world I'd built in
The Web
to start building another. I'd tried everything, even painting the Hoppers' ballroom as Franklin had suggested. It hadn't worked. The only inspiration it had given me was the urge to finish writing and get out of the room and away from the fumes as soon as possible. Even though my windows were open, the piney turpentine radiating from the paints stung my nostrils and left me dizzy.

“He might be lying.” I turned to find Bess in my doorway. She looked uncharacteristically plain in a white shirtwaist and pink skirt, though her hat was quite elaborate—made of gray felt, pluming feathers, and two layers of tightly curled white-and-pink-striped ribbon lining the wide brim. I was thankful she'd at least had the decency to admit the possibility of what the rest of us knew.

“I know how difficult it must be to realize,” I started gently. “I know that you love him and want to think he's a noble man, but—” Bess pressed her lips together and shook her head, cutting me off. Her eyes dipped and she scuffed her leather boot along the floor. When she finally looked up, her lids were pooling with tears and the tip of her nose was tinged pink.

“Even if he's a fraud, even if he's done something terrible to you, I can't . . . I can't let him slip through my fingers.” She sniffed and straightened. My eyes narrowed at her.

“A man like that won't make you happy,” I said. “Surely you don't want to risk the chance that he'll continue to do things like this.”

“Perhaps you're stronger than I am. I love him, and he's my way out of this life, just as John is yours.” I bit back the retort on my tongue. I had never shared her desires—the glitz, the exorbitant wealth—and certainly didn't view my relationship with John as a way to escape. I wasn't even sure I'd marry him if he asked, despite the fact that by societal standards, he was the most advantageous
match I could ever hope for. “Our family is doing well now, but I'm still working so very hard. We'll never be the Vanderbilts. I'm tired. Aren't you? Don't you want the leisure you're due?” She stared at me, waiting for a response I didn't give. I didn't want to argue with her. The only opulence I dreamed about was the acknowledgment that my writing was worth publishing. “And I don't believe that he's made a habit of lying—if he has at all. He's been discouraged with his writing. Perhaps this story has given him the acclaim he needs to finally break through.”

“Of course it has!” I rose to my feet, cheeks flaming. “And what of my struggle? Of my need for recognition? Are you suggesting I stand by and let Tom bask in the praise of
my
writing?” Bess's teeth clenched, the traces of her earlier softness now vanished.

“I'm suggesting that you leave him alone . . . for my happiness.” She whirled on her heel and slammed my door behind her.

I stared out the window, past the fluttering linen curtains to the white clapboard homes across the street. I couldn't do anything about Bessie or Tom. Thinking of them was a waste of time.

I heard a hawk caw once and then again, watched finches fluttering to and fro between the oak trees that had graced this land long before Mott Haven existed. I inhaled the humidity and the sweet honeysuckle growing on our fence. Something moved to my left and I glanced down at the Aldridges' walk, finding Mrs. Aldridge standing on the edge of her porch, fingering the last yellow blooms of her Lady Banks rose. Even though I blamed her for Charlie and my unhappiness, I pitied her. I could tell she was lonely.

I closed my eyes, remembering last summer. Mrs. Aldridge held a picnic on the lawn for Charlie's birthday with Mother's lemonade and chicken salad sandwiches and petit fours. All of the neighbors had come and the lawn was packed with blankets. Laughter filled the August air late into the evening. I could still see Mrs. Aldridge's
face in my mind as it was then, her wide dimpled smile exactly like Charlie's as he hugged her after they'd lost a game of charades to Franklin and Mother. Charlie had come over to me right after, smashing into me as he flopped down on my blanket, nearly toppling the torch behind me.

“If I'd had you on my team, Ginny, my dear,” he'd said, eyes inches from mine, “I know we would've beaten your blasted brother.” I'd desperately wanted to kiss him then. I could still feel it in my stomach. The memory of his lips on mine just weeks ago forced its way into my thoughts. I opened my eyes to stop the sensation and thought of John, of the way he'd reached for me after saving Lydia. I could still feel his arms around my body, the intensity of his slow kiss. I'd wanted him to keep kissing me. It hadn't only been my body calling for him in that moment, something in my heart had responded, too. The hawk cawed again, from some tree branch nearby, remained, even though everything around it had changed. The thought comforted me. I realized that like the hawk, I could learn to live, to love, in the presence of Charlie's memory, as he remained a part of me.

“Ginny! Stop daydreaming and come down!” I jolted at the sound of Frank's voice and looked down in time to see him run up the walk, hat falling back on his head. Lydia laughed behind him and straightened it. I hadn't planned on Frank arriving back home until the end of the week. I set my pencil down, nerves tumbling in my stomach. I couldn't avoid thinking of what Tom had done. I'd have to tell them, both of them. It wouldn't be welcome news, especially for Lydia—if she believed me.

“Yes, do!” Lydia echoed Franklin. I was relieved to see her in a merry mood. “We have some wonderful news to share.” She winked and pulled at her black ribbon–trimmed collar as she ran behind Franklin, no doubt roasting in the heat. Thinking Frank had finally
proposed, I catapulted off my window seat, smoothed my cotton shirtwaist, and barreled down the steps with Bess on my heels.

“If my younger brother gets engaged before Tom finally finds the courage to propose, I'll scream,” Bessie whispered.

“Thank you for the warning. I'll be sure to cover my ears,” I said. Franklin and Lydia stood in the corner of the drawing room grinning, as if they were about to burst at the seams with their secret.

“Well, what is it?” Bessie asked, as Mother appeared behind us.

“What's all the commotion about?” Mother's eyes were wide, doubtless thinking there had been another row about Tom, before she realized that Franklin and Lydia were smiling.

“Where's Alevia?” Frank asked.

“We can't say a thing until she's here,” Lydia said. They looked at each other and started laughing while the rest of us stared.

“'Levia!” Bessie yelled and rolled her eyes as though she was irritated with the delay. I heard Alevia's footsteps start down the hallway and then she appeared in the doorway, wiping at a pencil smudge across her cheek.

“Here I am.” She seemed annoyed, before realizing Frank and Lydia were standing awkwardly in the corner of the room smiling at us. “Oh.”

“Now that you're all here,” Lydia said. She held her hand out to Franklin who dug in his pinstriped vest. He pulled a letter out and handed it to her.

“It's for you, Alevia,” Frank said. Alevia's forehead scrunched. She stepped forward, taking the letter from Lydia's hand. I watched her face pale as she read the return address.

“I'm not sure that I want to open this here,” she said softly. I looked over her shoulder. It was from Walter Damrosch. Alevia started to walk away, to retreat to the sanctuary of her room.

“I think you might,” Lydia said reassuringly, catching her arm.
Alevia didn't seem to register what was happening. It wasn't another rejection.

“Open it,” I urged. Alevia tore the envelope slowly, running her finger along the edge. None of us spoke or moved as she withdrew the letter. Her eyes scanned the page, face still so pale I hovered behind her in case she fainted. Lydia squealed and clapped at my sister who continued to stare at the letter as though she were having trouble reading it.

“Did you make it in?” Mother's eyes glittered. Alevia blinked, turned to us, and nodded.

“I . . . I think so,” she said. Unable to help myself, I threw my arms around her, clutching the indigo-and-gold-striped fabric across her back.

“He was absolutely enthralled with your playing,” Lydia exclaimed, when we finally broke apart. “We had a family dinner right after the auditions and he couldn't stop talking about the Brahms concerto.” I knew the wait had been as agonizing for Alevia as it had been for me. For the first couple of months she would run to the mailbox every day, but the last few without a reply had seemed hopeless, even though she understood that that's how it went between Symphony seasons: she wouldn't find out until she was needed.

“I can't thank you enough,” Alevia said softly, beaming at Lydia. “I wouldn't have had a chance without you.”

“Of course you would've. He admitted that he should've accepted you long ago. Following the Brahms piece he said that he would gladly undergo any complaints from the men because none of them could hold a candle to your playing.”

“What about you?” Alevia asked. “Did you make it in?”

“Afraid not,” Lydia said, shrugging. “Honestly, I don't really care.”

“Frank, do we have any champagne?” Mother asked, teary-eyed. “This is cause for celebration. We have a world-class concert pianist in our midst.” I squeezed Alevia's hand. I'd have to wait until later to speak with Franklin and Lydia about Tom. I couldn't spoil the joy of Alevia's news with the unpleasantness of my own.

“We do,” Frank said. “But I have one more letter.” He reached into his vest, pulled out an envelope, and shoved it into my hand. “Here. It's from John. He had it delivered to my office inside a letter to me. He wanted me to tell you two things before you opened it: first, that he knew it, and second, that he really wants you to think on it.” I ran my thumb across the rough paper, feeling a small tear on the corner as I began to rip the seal. I wished they'd stop staring at me and start talking amongst themselves. The silent anticipation was making me nervous.

               
Dearest Virginia,

               
I can't wait to be home and see your face. I suppose right now you're thinking that I shouldn't have got Franklin involved just to tell you that. You'd
be right if that were the case, but it isn't. You're all I've thought of while I've been away, so I couldn't help but say it first. There's something I'
ve got to ask you, and I will, though first, something more important. I received a telegram from Fred Harvey last week asking for your address. It seems that he's read
The Web
and is keen to make you an offer of publication.