The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (21 page)

I read the sentence again and started sobbing.

“What is it?” Mother asked, but I couldn't speak. Someone liked my book enough to publish it. I ran my fingers over the sentence, barely able to read through the moisture pooling in my eyes.
Tom's efforts hadn't ruined my chances. Alevia started toward me, but I stopped her, needing to read the rest before I shared the news.

            
I expect he'll be in touch in the next few days if he hasn't already, but I wanted to tell you first if I could, because you have no idea the joy I felt when he told me. It was better than when it happened to me, my darling. In that moment I realized something I think I
've known since I saw you that night at the opera—that I love you and I can't live without you. You're in my mind all of the time and this time away from you has been a terrible torture. To touch you and kiss your lips again . . .

My face burned beneath the tears.

            
I wanted to wait until I got back to do this properly, but I can't. Every moment that this
is left unsaid makes my heart ache. I'm writing you now in part because I know you'll need time to think this through. I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife. You make me the happiest man in the world and I love you entirely.

I'd stopped breathing. My heart began to soar, but my mind weighed it down. I couldn't tell him the same, that I loved him entirely. I didn't know. Though my feelings were deepening, my heart wasn't sure. Charlie's face flashed in my mind as though my soul thought to ask—what of him? And yet, despite his absence, despite the fact that I couldn't choose him, considering John's proposal felt like I was betraying him.

Alevia's hand found my elbow, and at once I recalled her words at the last Society meeting,
“What if I was a better performer than
he? What if I was more successful? I'm afraid that that sort of reality would mutilate the pride of a man. My dreams could sour a marriage, and I wouldn't forfeit my aspirations to save it.”
I wouldn't either. Cherie's agony flashed in my mind, the way Edith spoke about her marriage as though it was a hindrance to her writing. John's question and my indecision had tainted the news of my publication. Franklin was staring at me; I could feel his eyes on my face and knew then that he knew, that he wanted me to marry John. I needed to be alone. I forced myself to read the rest of the letter.

               
I'll be back in two weeks and will ask you properly then. Please consider it, Virginia. We
're kindred spirits you and I.

All my love,
           

John.
                      

I folded the paper slowly, wishing he would have waited. Everyone was looking at me. I couldn't stand their hopeful stares. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I looked at Franklin. His eyebrows were lifted in question, a wide, goofy grin plastered on his face, no doubt expecting me to rejoice at the news of my publication and the prospect of a husband. Instead, I forced my eyes to the floor so I wouldn't meet anyone's gaze, and started to walk wordlessly out of the room. I passed Bessie and Alevia without issue, but Mother caught me by the wrist.

“What does it say?” she whispered, and I gently pulled my arm from her grip.

“My book will be published,” I said matter-of-factly, “and John wants to marry me.” I turned from her and walked into the quiet sanctuary of the hallway, relieved to be alone.

N
o, that's not what I meant. It's rare, but not unheard of.” Frederick Harvey's wire-framed glasses, the same kind my father had worn, had fallen to the tip of his nose. He stared at me over the top of them, thick gray mustache shifting up and down as he chewed. “You
are
on the young side, but I'm smart enough to know that by your age most people have figured out what it is they want to do with their lives,” he continued. Shrugging at my silence, Harvey cut another sliver off of his Chicken a La Keene—a Delmonico's specialty. My mouth was dry but I forced a bleak smile. It was good that he assumed I had my life together. In reality, outside of writing, I was a disaster.

“I didn't mean to offend you. If I did, I apologize,” he said. I forced myself back to the conversation, realizing I'd been staring over his shoulder at a stone pillar behind him. He'd just finished telling me that he only had two other authors my age—John and a girl who'd claimed to be a relative of Henry Wadsworth Longfel
low, but who later admitted she wasn't. In response, I asked if he'd been reluctant to take me on because of it, if he was worried that I wouldn't produce to the quality of his older clients.

“You didn't offend me at all,” I said politely. I caught a glimpse of my dress in the mirror beside me, lifting a hand to the gold beading at my bodice. Bess had talked me into ordering the costume for the fall season, saying that the mulberry satin cowl neck drew the eye to my face.

I cut a bite of English muffin topped with Lobster Newburg, inhaling the buttery steam as I lifted it to my mouth. “I suppose I only wanted you to know that I'm serious about my career, Mr. Harvey, and I promise that if you take a chance on me, I'll be your hardest-working author.” He laughed, belly jiggling under the blue pinstriped suit hugging his stomach.

“That was never a concern. I knew that before I met you,” he mumbled between bites. “Your reputation precedes you.” I was slightly annoyed that he already knew so much about me from John. I wanted the opportunity to prove my character on my own. Then again, I also knew that John's reference and the influence of him and his artists' society were the exact reasons I was sitting across from one of the most well-respected editors in the world in the finest restaurant in Manhattan.

“Is that a good thing?” I grinned, and Harvey nodded.

“Quite. Everything, in fact, that Mr. Hopper has said about you has been glowing and I have to say, upon meeting you, that I agree with him.” He lifted his napkin from his lap to dab at his mouth.

“Thank you. I'm fond of him as well.” Harvey's eyes lifted at that and he smiled at me. I wondered how many people John had told about his proposing. Probably as many as he'd come across since he decided to do it, I thought, knowing he couldn't contain
himself when he was excited. It was one of the things I loved about him, but in this case, I wished he would've kept his proposal to himself. Harvey cleared his throat.

“Well, before we get into personal matters, I suppose I should tell you the specifics of the deal I'm offering. As I said, I want your book and because I do, I'm willing to give you eight hundred dollars for the rights to publish it. If it's a hit and sales go over eight hundred, we'll be talking royalties. You'd get ten cents for each copy sold.” I coughed, nearly choking on a bite of English muffin. Eight hundred dollars was more than I earned in a year writing for the
Review
. Harvey grabbed my water glass and thrust it toward me. I swallowed a few sips, and set it down. My eyes were still watering from my coughing fit and I wiped tears.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes . . . well, I suppose I will be once I recover from shock.”

“There is one condition though, and I hope you'll agree to it.” Harvey shifted in his chair and I braced myself, trying not to breathe so that the tickling sensation shooting down my throat wouldn't make me cough again. “You're going to have to revise it. She can't accept Carlisle so soon after he proposes to Sarah, the other girl. It makes her seem weak and she's not. They can be friends their whole lives, but she cannot concede to him so quickly after he broke her heart. It's not natural and it won't make her likable to the reader.” I blinked at him, feeling the euphoria of his offer disappear. I didn't know if I could change that plot point. Theoretically, I knew that I could, but I wasn't sure if I could bear it. The last draft had been poured straight from my heart.

“Would it seem weak if she took him back much later in life? If she put him off for years and then finally in her older age accepted him? It doesn't seem right that he'd have to live in misery if
he's proven that he loves her.” A knotty sensation had developed in my throat and I tried to swallow it away. I stared over his shoulder beyond the ornate fringed curtains out the window, to the procession of top hats and deep jewel-toned satin dresses promenading along South William Street. Harvey grunted, eyes squinting in consideration, and then he looked at me through his glasses.

“I suppose that would be all right. Just give it a go and I'll let you know my thoughts after I see the revision.” The tension in my neck gave, and I relaxed against the back of the wooden chair.

“All right,” I said. The thought that I was agreeing to publication with Henry Holt instead of G. P. Putnam's Sons, my dream, flitted across my mind, but I forced it away. The notion that I would decline a chance at publication with a reputable publisher in hopes that George Putnam—a man I only
thought
would be perfect for my career, but had never met—would offer me a deal was ludicrous.

“So, you're happy with my proposal?” he asked. I held out my hand in answer and he shook it.

“I'm so glad,” he said, exhaling loudly as though there was a chance I'd say no. Even if he told me to destroy my manuscript and start over, I would have accepted knowing I'd eventually find a way to see through my personal reservations to his suggestions. He lifted his hand to the waiter and said something about champagne, but I barely heard him. I'd just accepted an offer from a publisher who loved my book, a publisher who was going to pay me eight hundred dollars to publish it.

When we'd first been seated, Harvey had told me that
The Web
stuck with him because of its true-to-life honesty and its vivid characters. For that reason, he thought people would go mad for it—for that and the romantic tension that I suppose would come through even more now that Eleanor, my main character, wouldn't
accept Carlisle as early on as I'd written it, or at all. Like all successful businessmen confident in their decisions, he said that he knew everyone would be dying to get their hands on it and that he had no doubt it would grace the coffee tables of all of the fine homes in America from the White House to the mansions along Fifth Avenue. That vision had been in my wildest dreams, but now I could hear the society women I knew whispering about it at the dinner table and my peers back in Mott Haven wondering who the characters really were.

“Miss Loftin?” Harvey was staring at me as though I'd lost my mind. I had, but he should be used to erratic behavior. He brought dreams to life, after all.

“I'm sorry. What did you say? I'm so excited I'm afraid I drifted off.”

“Ah, the sign of a true artist.” He grinned. “I was just asking you if you'd heard from Mr. Hopper since he's been away? If he's written you?” Harvey leaned back against his chair, fiddling with the napkin in his lap. My excitement disappeared, replaced by annoyance. The question was inappropriate. I was his business client and didn't owe him a conversation about my personal life. John may as well have been here with me throughout the whole meal. I twisted my hands in my lap, cotton napkin threading through my fingers. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell him that I had because then he would ask me what it said and I certainly wasn't prepared to talk to him about the proposal—especially since my answer was still so unclear.

“I'm afraid I haven't.” My voice sounded far away, and meek.

“Oh. Well, good.” I was taken aback by his response, thinking he'd been hinting at John's proposal. “I didn't want him to ruin the surprise. I know how taken he is with you so I was afraid he'd tell you I was interested before I had a chance to do so myself. I've
told him before that being able to write an acceptance letter to an author whose work I love is truly my greatest joy, so I'm glad he decided to humor me in that regard.”

“I was astonished, honestly,” I said, neither conceding to his assumptions nor giving John away. The waiter returned with two flutes of champagne. Mr. Harvey held his up in invitation and I did the same.

“To the start of a profitable friendship,” he said. Our glasses clinked, a bright bell-like tone amid the hum of voices and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen far away. I took a sip, feeling the bubbles slide down my throat.

“One more thing.” Harvey held up his hand and downed the rest of the champagne in a gulp. “You and Mr. Hopper. I know you're . . . involved.” My cheeks began to burn and he noticed, waving his hand at me. “No need to be embarrassed. I'm simply asking if you would be able to separate the personal from professional if . . . if something were to happen, either to further your relationship or end it.” I nodded, though he had just articulated part of my reluctance in accepting John.

“Of course.” I forced the words from my mouth, truly not sure. Even if John had the capability to put rejection behind him if I turned him down, I didn't know if I could. The prospect of facing him, knowing I'd hurt him, would mutilate me. But I hadn't made a decision yet, and even if I said yes, I didn't know if we'd continue to be a perfect team professionally. The countless possibilities of how marriage could change our dynamic whirled in my head. I wanted to believe that he would encourage me and I him for the rest of our lives, but it wasn't so simple.

“I'm sorry that I had to bring it up, Miss Loftin. I know it isn't pleasant to speak of such things, especially endings, but I'm glad for your honest response. I encourage my authors to work together,
to read each other's work, and as you've already developed a working relationship with Mr. Hopper, one that I think has profited you both quite well, I would hate to see it go by the wayside.”

“I agree,” I said mechanically. My heart once again felt as though it had been torn nearly in two, seeming only to be held together by a tiny shred of hope that I'd get hold of myself and choose the path society and my family would have me choose: John.

I
'd headed for the station, toward the train that would carry me across the Harlem River home, but turned back at the corner and instead started to Mae's. I walked thirty-three blocks barely aware of how long I'd been walking or of anything going on around me. As monumental as the day had been, my mind always tended to focus on the unsettled, and so I'd said goodbye to Frederick Harvey with my conflicting emotions toward marrying John still at the forefront of my thoughts. I hadn't seen Mae in nearly two weeks—she and Mr. Trent had begged off our weekly Sunday dinner to attend a birthday celebration at the orphanage—and needed to talk to her. I craved her level head and her clarity.

The streets were crowded today. Scruffy panhandlers gathered in clusters against the buildings, pleas rising as the next group of immaculately dressed businessmen in fitted suits hustled past. I wove through the masses, muttering a continuous strain of “excuse me.” It was a beautiful day, the leftover summer humidity broken in steady intervals by the relief of an early fall breeze. Even so, I was sweating badly. Trails of moisture ran from my hairline down my neck and I wiped them away with the back of my hand, lifting my hat from my head. Crossing the street without looking, I followed the path of a bright purple umbrella—the only color I'd seen in blocks—heard a horse whinny, and jumped out of the way as a
carriage thundered past. I coughed, noticing everyone around me was doing the same, most burying their nose in the crook of their arm as they walked to ignore the city's stench. I hurried toward the riverfront.

Two streets over, the walks were unoccupied and clear. I glanced at the East River and then back at the last of the purple clematis blooms creeping across the Trents' white picket fence on the corner ahead. I snaked through the grass between their enormous brick home and a limestone monstrosity next door. Mae and Henry's windows were open, sunshine baking the little white guesthouse. I knocked. Mae huffed followed by a cheery, “Coming!” She flung the door open, and laughed.

“Thank god. I thought you were Lucille. She seems to pop by every few hours and stays until the next meal. She has a cook. I don't know why she insists on taking every meal with us.” Lucille was Henry's mother, an ex-socialite busybody who'd rather talk to a brick wall than keep silent. Mae couldn't wait to move away from her.

“She likes you,” I said, grinning.

“I'm glad. Truly I am, but I wish she'd find someone else to visit.” I followed Mae into the house, past the study to the tiny dining room in the back. Her third-grade teaching books were stacked on one end of the table and two were open.

“Sorry to call so suddenly. I didn't tell you I was coming because I'd planned to have lunch with Mr. Harvey and go back home, but . . .” Mae whirled on me, her plain gray skirt wrapping around the legs of a dining chair.

“You had lunch with Frederick Harvey? What did he say? Is there any way he can help you with Tom or Mr. Gilder? You didn't write to tell me!” Mae's lips pursed and I knew then that I'd left her out—accidentally, of course, but I had. It was easy to remember to
tell the others, but Mae wasn't home, and at times I simply forgot to write. “And if I ever hear that you've been in Manhattan and didn't stop by I swear I'll beat you senseless.” She glared at me and sat down at the table.