The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (17 page)

“It's lovely,” Mae whispered. “I'll cherish it.” She clutched the bag to her chest.

“I'm glad to hear it.” John laid a hand on top of Mae's, then crossed to me and sat down. I reached for him and his fingers laced through mine. He knew how much Mae meant to me. All of the lovely sentiments in the world could not equal the depth of feeling for me that his gift had shown. As touched as I was, my stomach tumbled with nerves. We'd only been courting for five months. Surely he hadn't thought of marriage. But the possibility wasn't entirely unlikely. It wasn't uncommon for couples to become engaged quickly.

“That was kind of you,” I said softly, forcing the thought of our future from my mind. I was likely overthinking things. John squeezed my hand.

“It was nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing at all. The friendship your family has given me, the lo—”

“We've run out of ice, and I know the weather's blistering, but would anyone care for tea? The kettle's still warm,” Mother interrupted.

“I'd love a cup,” Frank said. He'd folded himself on the Donegal Irish rug beside Lydia. Mother started to turn in to the hall, but I stopped her.

“I'll fetch it,” I said. She'd been catering to our guests all day.

“Miss Virginia, would you mind waiting a moment? I'd like to share some good fortune with the room,” Mr. Blaine said. I stopped in my tracks. Surely Bessie hadn't become engaged without mentioning it. She would've been too excited to keep it secret. Mr. Blaine cleared his throat. “My story has been selected for
The Century
.” My heart sank to my stomach. I knew the feeling was unfair, but I couldn't help it in the wake of my rejection. Lydia clapped ex
citedly, while Alevia began a string of congratulations. Mr. Blaine reached into his pocket, withdrawing a letter and a small brown bottle. Surely he hadn't been drinking in the middle of the day. He shoved the bottle back into his linen jacket and extracted the letter from the envelope. “Mr. Gilder says here that the prose is smart and that the story is an important tale of Americana . . . of course I already knew those things, but it was nice to hear them anyway.” I felt my face pale and immediately forced a smile in hopes that my family and John wouldn't notice. Mr. Blaine turned to me. As jovial as his expression was, his eyes seemed weary.

“I'm thrilled for you, Mr. Blaine,” I said. “Absolutely delighted.” In truth, I was. He wasn't my rival or my competitor. It was only disappointment that clouded my elation.

“Tom, please,” he said. “And it's all because of you, Miss Virginia. Had you not challenged me to submit a story, this opportunity wouldn't have come.”

“I'm so glad for it.” I started to retreat into the hallway.

“You'll surely receive word of your own acceptance in a day or two,” he called after me. “The post is faster in the city.” I nodded and turned into the kitchen. I braced myself on the cool cast-iron rim of the stove and breathed, forcing myself calm. Had Mr. Gilder rejected my work because I was a woman? Many women had been turned away on account of their gender, but I'd thought a publication such as
The Century
was progressive enough to appraise my work honestly. I shook my head. That wasn't the reason. Mr. Gilder published female writers. Just this month, stories by Virginia Frazer Boyle, Sophie Bledsoe Herrick, Dorothy Prescott, and Amelia Gere Mason had been included. I had to remember that this story wasn't my only chance. There would be other opportunities. I thought of the possible novel premises listed in my notebook. None of them inspired me yet, but at some point something
would. I was sure of it. Not to mention that Mr. Harvey was going to read
The Web
. I wouldn't let the sting of failure stifle my voice. I was stronger than that. Perhaps Tom's work had simply been better than mine. I reached up to open the wooden cabinets, withdrawing Mother's Foley tea service.

“You mustn't worry about it.” Alevia's voice startled me and I nearly dropped the creamer. “I know how it feels—to hear someone's good news before you've received anything positive at all. It's difficult.” I didn't want to acknowledge my dejected, pointless feelings. “Your work is superb. Art is so subjective.”

“She's right, you know.” John appeared behind Alevia. “Your writing is eloquent, honest, unique.” He stepped around my sister, his gaze steady on mine. “Your words are a pleasure to read. I'm certain Mr. Gilder—and Mr. Harvey—will feel the same.”

“Thank you, John, but I'm afraid I've already been denied by
The Century
.” John's eyebrows creased.

“Gilder's judgment is clearly flawed. I'll have a word with him the next time our paths cross.” John's lips pinched. “Perhaps this is a sign, Ginny, that you are to be a novelist, not a story writer.” His face was resolute. “I know that Mr. Harvey will love your book. Trust me, your time is coming.” John's words, his irritation at my rejection, reminded me of Charlie. The first time I'd been turned away from the
Review
, Charlie had been over for lunch. We'd had rabbit stew. I still couldn't stand the taste of it. Mother had brought the letters in and I'd read my dismissal at the table in front of everyone—a mistake I couldn't believe I'd repeated. My eyes had immediately blurred with tears and Charlie had punched the table so hard he'd nearly overturned it.

John reached out to take my hand. I clutched his, suddenly wishing he could kiss me. His touch might soothe the sting of rejection. Instead, I let him go and turned back to the tea.

“I appreciate it. Both of you. But don't worry about me. My moment will come. Today Tom's news is cause for celebration.”

“I suppose you're right,” Alevia said.

“Your writing will be celebrated soon enough.” John reached above me and extracted the teapot from the cabinet. He lifted the kettle from the stove, removed the pot's lid decorated with pale blue and white lilies of the valley, and poured the boiling water in. Then he arranged the sugar and creamer in front of the teapot on Mother's silver tray. I watched him work, amused. When he'd finished setting the cups on the saucers, he turned to me, a grin touching his lips.

“What is it?”

“How'd you learn to do that?” I asked. Arranging a tea service was a basic task, but even the simplest of chores was a baffling one for a man who'd employed servants his whole life.

“Learn to do what?” His forehead creased. “Pour water into a pot? Surely you don't think me that daft.” Alevia laughed.

“Not quite. Though I did wonder how you'd learned to arrange the service.” He shook his head.

“Some secrets I must never divulge.” He chuckled and lifted the tray too hastily, clanging the cups. “Come along now, before I break the set.”

S
he's making a fool of herself,” I whispered to John who didn't bother to look, but held me tighter instead. Lydia stumbled over the silver-beaded hem of her ciel blue silk gown. She leaned against Franklin as they danced, as though she'd lost all strength in her backbone.

“I assume you're referring to Lydia.” John's hand drifted a little too low, settling on the ruched yellow silk at the small of my back as we swayed to Alevia's solo introduction to Johann Strauss's “The Blue Danube” at the other end of the ballroom. I inched away. “Have you seen Tom? He's not much better. I suppose they've both got low tolerances for sparkling wine.” I spun around him in time to see Bessie crane her neck away from Tom's attempt at a kiss. His eyes narrowed at Bessie's rejection and guests began to stare. Luckily, she whispered something to him that seemed to calm him for the moment and interest slowly started to drift away from them and back toward Mae and Henry dancing in their wedding finery in the middle of the ballroom.

Bess and Alevia had insisted that Mae abandon her typically plain fashion for the wedding and she'd agreed, selecting an ornate silk dress with scalloped satin stripes and a bodice embroidered with pearls, pastes, and gathered silk lisse. It had been a lovely wedding. They had been married at Rye Presbyterian, the church Henry's family attended during the summer while they were living in the country. An old Gothic building with soaring ceilings held up by Corinthian pillars, the lancet windows were Tiffany's stained glass etched with fleur-de-lis designs trimmed in blues and reds. The sanctuary had been filled with hundreds of white hydrangeas and the sound of the Society's best musicians playing Handel's
Water Music
. The same musicians—all recruited by Alevia in the course of several meetings—were playing now after a filling supper of stewed oysters, galantines, and glasses of wine. Besides Lydia and Tom, however, the rest of us were able to remain upright.

John's hand squeezed mine. I could feel his eyes on my face, but ignored him, fixing my attention toward Mae and Henry instead. John had been by my side all night, stroking my hands and holding me to him. As much as I adored him, I needed a bit of space, just for a moment. When I'd pulled away to greet our family and friends at dinner, he'd followed, hand pressed to my back. In truth, there was nothing wrong with the way he was conducting himself. He'd been gentlemanly and considerate all evening. My irritation wasn't his fault. It was mine. From the moment we'd entered Westchester County, I'd thought of Charlie and hadn't stopped. I knew it was just because we were less than ten miles from his home with Rachel. Charlie didn't deserve my attention, still, it seemed odd that he wasn't here, celebrating with friends that had once been as intimate as family. Breaking from my view of Mae and Henry, I met John's eyes and smiled, trying to stay present.

“Hello there.” Mother danced up to us, arm in arm with Franklin who winked and twirled her. I wondered where he'd deposited Lydia. “Isn't it a marvelous evening?”

“Just lovely,” John said.

“The seating at dinner was unfortunate. I hope the two of you weren't bored,” Mother said. I snorted.

“On the contrary. George Hoffmann talked the entire time about his new chicken coop, mainly about the eggs. He might as well have hatched them himself.” Franklin laughed.

“Well, the benefit of having your own wedding is that you can choose where you sit,” she said, winking at John. Franklin grinned at the prospect of my marriage to his best friend and I suddenly felt as though the walls were closing in around me. I forced a smile at my mother and brother.

“Excuse me. I'm going to get some fresh air,” I said. Leaving John on the dance floor, I walked quickly toward the terrace, toward the rows of orderly English boxwoods standing sentry at the base of each pillar along the colonnade. I pushed past clusters of talking couples—men dressed in black tuxedos and white bow ties, women adorned with flint diamonds, lace, and ribbons atop an array of bright summer hues. I flung the French door open and it closed mercifully behind me, silencing the orchestra and the deafening sound of guests. I reveled in the warm summer air, glad to be alone.

On one hand, it had been one of the best nights of my life. My loved ones were all in one place, I was overjoyed that my sister had married her match, and I was in the company of a man that I was beginning to care deeply for. On the other hand, it had been awful. John's affection had encouraged nearly all of my friends and family members, including Cherie and Mother, to hint at an impending marriage. My insides numbed with each mention, but John had
only encouraged their hopes, leaning over to kiss my cheek or hand each time. It wasn't that I didn't want him. I did. It was the thought of marriage that frightened me. It would change things, certainly, but there was no way to predict how. We were perfect as we were. Our writing wove us together, our passion for our art driving our passion for each other. Social obligations could consume us as a married couple—eating away at our writing as they already ate away at John's. And when we lost the time to sit and think, to create, we would blame each other. We could grow to resent each other. Even so, I couldn't blame John for thinking of marriage. That was the point of courtships, after all, but I realized at Mae's wedding that I had ignored the thought of that end, hoping instead that we could go on as we were in perpetuity. I felt hollow and scared thinking of what was to come. With Charlie, I'd had eighteen years to think about what he meant to me, to know that I loved him, to imagine what marriage would be like. I wouldn't have that luxury with John. Sooner rather than later I would have to come to terms with my feelings for him, to define the strength of my attraction, the magnetism that drew me to him, and the strange recoiling at the hint of marriage. In spite of it all, one thing was certain: I didn't want to lose him. I needed him, but I also needed to be honest with myself.

I descended the stairs and walked along a dirt path following a serpentine stone wall that separated the Trents' formal garden and the lily pads floating along the bank of the acre-wide pond. The crickets' droning chirp rose in crescendo and the light musk of antique roses wafted over me with the summer wind, tousling my fleur-de-lis coiffure and unsettling my skirt.

“Virginia!” Someone barked my name behind me and I whirled around. I blinked, wondering if I'd gone mad.
Charlie.
He ran down the terrace steps and through the garden to where I
stood. He always appeared when I least expected him. He looked disturbed. His hair had grown much too long and he'd gathered the strands behind his ears. Feet from me, he tugged at the bottom of his untucked white shirt. His eyes didn't break from mine, and I saw that they were swollen, lids swathed in gray.

“Charlie,” I started to ask what he was doing here, but he snatched my elbows and started shaking me.

“John Hopper?” He snarled into my face. “You can't possibly be with him. You . . . you can't.” I could feel the heat of Charlie's glare on my face. That heat quickly turned to anger as I recalled the last time we'd stood this close.

“I'll do what I want,” I said quietly, meeting his eyes. He'd lost any say in my life when he'd chosen someone else. He nodded once, as if to say that he already knew.

“Do you love him?”

I stared back, unwilling to answer.

“Ginny, answer me,” he said softly, though his voice sliced through the peaceful summer air like a blade to my wrist. He straightened to face me. I knew I should walk away. I didn't owe him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, I nodded once.

“You do?” Eyes going wide, he clutched the stiff fabric across his chest.

“Why do you care?” I'd meant the question to come out softly, but I spat it, and Charlie paused, fingers hovering in front of him.

“What do you mean by that?” he barked. He stepped toward me until I could feel him against my chest. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore what he was doing to me—a tingling warmth blooming—and prayed he wouldn't touch me.

“I meant what I said,” I whispered. “Why would you care? You don't love me anymore; you have no claim to me. Why are you here? Where's your wife?”

I felt him step away from me and opened my eyes. As wrong as it was, as much as I knew he wasn't mine, I wanted him to want me, to love me instead of her.

“Not here. What do you mean I don't love you? You . . . you don't even know what it's like to see me in love with someone else.” He stumbled over the last word and I blinked at him. I'd been standing right in front of him when he'd spoken of his love for Rachel the last time and beside him when he'd proposed to her.

“You said that she consumed you, that she was your every thought.”

His brows furrowed. “No. No, Gin. That's not what I meant. She wants me around her all the time. I can't escape her love. It's like a cage around my heart,” he said. “But you . . . I've been forced to watch you with him. I heard the wedding was today and thought to stay away as I wasn't invited, but changed my mind. I just got here. I've been sitting in the damn corner watching John touch you and you letting him. I couldn't . . . I can't stand it, Gin.”

“I had to watch you and her,” I said.

“That was different. I've never loved her.” Charlie swallowed hard. “I wish I did. She's kind, a good wife. She deserves better, she deserves my heart, and I've tried, but the last time I saw you, I knew it was a worthless endeavor. I wanted to tell you that I loved you so badly. I was a coward. Ginny, you can't imagine the torture of pretending to love someone while the woman you love is still out there, reminding you of what you could have had.” I opened my mouth to say that he'd chosen, but he clapped his hand over my lips. “And before you open your mouth to tell me it's my fault, I know. I know I've gotten myself into this hell.”

He removed his hand and stepped forward, pushing against me. I stumbled into the wall, feeling the edges of the granite boulders dig into my back. Charlie's hands circled around my hips.
He'd never been so forward. I knew I should push him away, but couldn't move. He reached for my hand, his fingers trembling around mine, and slowly placed my palm where our bodies separated on his chest.

“My heart has always been yours,” he said. “And you're mine. You have no idea the number of times I've woken with your memory on my mind.” I couldn't breathe and didn't try, but ran my fingers up his back to the nape of his neck. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, leaned down, and kissed me, vanilla wedding cake on his tongue. My eyes closed and I could feel my mouth open as his teeth bit down on my earlobe. One of his hands drifted up to my bodice, fingertips parting the thin organza. He reached under my shift, stroking my breasts and then I felt the warmth of his mouth replace his fingers. Desire pooled in my stomach and I pulled his shirt up, running my hands along his chest. His eyes closed and his head tilted back for a moment as I touched him and then he lifted my skirt from the ground, fingertips grazing my stockings. The summer air hit my legs as he paused at my thigh and leaned in to kiss me again.

“Charlie,” I said, barely conscious of anything beyond his hands on my body. I wanted him badly, but he wasn't mine. “Charlie, stop,” I said, against every bodily instinct. It wasn't right. His lips lifted from my skin and he dropped my skirt.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, still pressed against me. “I didn't mean . . . I couldn't help it. Please. I love you, Ginny.” His eyes were warm and pleading, fingers gripped to my arm plastered against the stone.

“I know. But you promised you would love Rachel whether you do or not. She loves you. And this is wrong.” He turned his eyes to the ground.

“I'd rather be dead,” he said quietly.

“Ginny, Charlie.” Franklin appeared from nowhere. His face was pale as the clouds against the night sky, eyes wild. “Have you seen Lydia?” His voice trembled and he glanced over my shoulder.

“No. What's happened?” I asked, smoothing my skirt. Frank stared at me for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it.

“Marcus Carter, Lydia's ex-fiancé. He's dead. We just received a telegram with the news and she ran off.” I remembered noticing Mr. Carter at the Society, his hand flying over the pages, and the story Frank told me about the way Mr. Carter and Lydia ended. I wondered how he'd died.

“Will's brother, Marcus?” Charlie asked and Franklin bobbed his head at him, barely allowing the kindness of a glance his way. “Damn. Mr. and Mrs. Carter have lost both of their sons.”

“What happened?” I asked. Franklin was pacing back and forth, looking over the wall at the garden and then at the pond.

“I don't know. The butler found him at four this morning on his bedroom floor next to the fire. They don't know the particulars yet.” Franklin hiked the leg of his tuxedo up and started to climb over the fence to the bank of the pond. “I've got to find her. John's looking through the woods around the front lawn.” The mention of John struck me through. I'd betrayed him. Frank paused halfway up the wall to glance at Charlie standing next to me. “I've told you once, but I'll tell you again and I mean it. Stay the hell away from my sister. She's been getting on quite well without you.” I felt Charlie's eyes, but didn't look, watching Franklin disappear over the fence instead. Franklin was right. I'd been happy without Charlie. But
he
showed up tonight.
He
kissed me. It'd be easy to let the memory of this night confuse everything I'd grown to love without him, but I wouldn't let it. Charlie had chosen his future and it wasn't with me. It could never be with me. As much as I despised Rachel for coming between us,
she was his wife and she loved him. She couldn't ever find out that he loved me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I'd healed my heartache by causing hers. I lifted my hand to my lips to remember the feel of him one last time. Then, I turned to face him. Charlie looked worse than he had before, tall frame slumped in defeat.