A Fine Imitation (37 page)

Hallan left the elevator on the second floor to pack a suitcase. Vera rode the rest of the way to the penthouse, her insides roiling. Only this morning, she had been ready to let go of the girlish hope of leaving with the artist, despite the emptiness of the years before her if she stayed in the Angelus. She stood to lose too much. But he had been right. When she saw the painting, her resolve vanished, and her world tumbled into uncertainty once more.

Now she had to decide, and she had little time to deliberate. Before they left the pool room, Hallan told her he would leave within the hour. He still wanted her to come, but going with him would mean accompanying a fugitive. She knew what she wanted to do and what she should do, and could not find any parts of the two that intersected. They could not be reconciled. Happiness or security. But not both. And maybe neither.

Evans met her at the door of the penthouse. “Madam, I didn't know you had gone out.”

“Just downstairs. Did my husband tell you what time he's coming home this evening?”

“He has a dinner meeting. He won't be home until late, I believe.”

She checked her watch. “Thank you. Will you fetch my suitcase?”

If he felt any surprise at this request, he concealed it. “Should I bring it to your room?”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, and phone my mother, please. Tell her I won't be coming to lunch.”

He inclined his head. “Would you like me to give her a reason, madam?”

“Yes.” Vera paused. “Tell her I'm not hungry.”

Vera went to her dressing room. Her dresses hung in an orderly rainbow, her hats stacked in boxes, her shoes lined up like a little row of sentinels. The variety paralyzed her. What would she pack? She did not even know where in California he planned to go. And the weather grew cooler every day. Her furs were in storage, her coats in the coat closet downstairs.

A sound in the bedroom startled her. She peeked out of the dressing room to see Evans setting up the suitcase on its stand. When he left, she went and stood over it. The suitcase gaped at her, a jaw dropped in surprise at the extraordinary circumstance of its use. When she thought of how much she required—gloves, stockings, slips, dresses, hats, and shoes—she felt like gaping herself. The suitcase did not look like it could ever hold enough.

How could she think of leaving her life behind? Helping to carry this man's secrets as he lived the rest of his life in the shadow of possible arrest, of extradition? Running to places unknown, with no plan ahead of them? She might be in trouble herself if she helped him. More was on the line now than disgrace and her mother's disappointment.

And if he left her? Hallan might abandon her at the first train stop, or slip the rings from her fingers while she slept. Her mother had vowed Vera would not get a cent if she attempted to leave. She would truly be alone. But she had to choose, and she had to choose now: the Angelus or Emil Hallan. The husband who had never cared for her, or the stranger who did.

An object on the nightstand caught her eye. The book of poems had given her such comfort only a few nights earlier, though the feeling now seemed years in the past. Vera lifted the book and ran her thumb lightly over the leather cover. She thought back to the moment Hallan had given it to her, when she wept with confusion and shame over her reaction to the monster in the film and the vase on its narrow stand. She walked over to the window, book still in hand, and looked down at the city streets below. The view was not so different from the hunchback's vantage point atop the cathedral. Only where were the sneering, jeering crowds below?

A thought crept into her mind—at first a small spark, growing to a steady, focused beam that held her attention. In her mind, the vase she had smashed leapt from the floor, its shards reassembling themselves. The vase became whole again in her hand. The woman from that night, so heartsick and lost, had vanished. The woman she had become could stand in front of an open suitcase and not fear where it might take her.

She did not have to choose Hallan. The private detective's solemn voice rang in her head.

There is no Emil Hallan.

She wanted to go with the artist, yes. And she would. But more than that, she would just
go
. If at some later time their happiness together departed, she could still find happiness in the promise of not being Arthur's wife or Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Longacre's daughter. Even the idea of leaving her father behind forever was less daunting. Though he indulged her with gifts, he had never given her anything of substance. He had not even given her the warm advice that Stanton, a man who had known her only a few weeks, had been more than happy to offer. If he was truly weak enough to let her mother sever their bond, he may not be worth cherishing after all.

The thought of being alone, even at some small-town train station, did not frighten her anymore. She was smart, and she could make her way. Her whole life had been regimented, planned, and divided into squares on a calendar. She had observed the strict customs of the religion of propriety, and for what? What meaning did it give her life to know the exact colors that could be worn at a small dinner before six p.m., or the exact way to greet an ambassador's wife? What had she gained when she betrayed Bea years ago? What, truly, would be the purpose of continuing on inside the Angelus building?

But it was not too late. Vera had time to give her life meaning. She had time to become a woman of value. She could learn how to mend a stocking and wash linens and make her own tea. How to breathe. How to be someone of worth and merit outside of the building's walls. She had never been the woman her mother spent decades shaping her to be. She had been playing a role all her life, and being good at it was no excuse for giving in to it.

Leaving was not the answer. It was the question: Who could she become? What opportunities awaited her?

The artist did not have to free her.

She could free herself.

The day after Vera left, Arthur returned home to two letters and a paper-wrapped parcel. The first letter, attached to the parcel, was from Mr. Hallan, who asked that Arthur and the other gentlemen of the building review his work. The keys they had given him were enclosed in the parcel, still on the ring. Should they find the painting suitable, he continued, they could send the promised payment to a Mr. James Allen in London, who would look after it for Hallan. Given the circumstances of his departure, however, he would understand if they chose not to pay. He closed the letter with thanks for the opportunity and hospitality, and fondest wishes for Arthur's continued success. Vera's note to Arthur was rather terser than Hallan's. It said only:

Dear Arthur,

I did not want to leave you without a word of good-bye. You gave me a good life, even if it wasn't the life either of us wanted. I hope there are better days ahead for us both.

Arthur asked Marguerite to look through Vera's things, and the girl, her eyes full of tears, confirmed that some of the things in the closet were missing. When Arthur inspected the jewelry box, he noted with some approval that Vera had not taken any pieces he had given her, tactfully avoiding any question of theft. She had even left her wedding ring, placed carefully on his bedside table. Beside it, she had laid her thin silver watch. Only the pieces she had owned before their marriage, the ones that truly belonged to her, were missing. One of the rings and two brooches would later turn up at a Manhattan jeweler's shop. The shop's owner complained that he bought the pieces at rather a higher price than he thought fair. But, he insisted in his defense, the woman who sold them was a formidable negotiator, and they really were such exquisite pieces.

The men of the building took the elevator down to the pool level together that evening. Arthur opened the door to reveal Hallan's prized mural. He had painted the building's four golden angel statues against a pale blue background, with the city skyline below. Three of the statues stood as they did on the roof, wings folded in and arms over their chests, gazes locked on the building below. The statue closest to the viewer, however, perched on one foot on the corner. Her other leg was still in motion, as if she had been running toward the ledge and had been caught at the moment of takeoff. Her wings extended beside her, a few shining feathers fluttering loose. She stretched her long arms out, reaching for the horizon. And on her face, which everyone agreed looked vaguely familiar, was a radiant smile. If the men had thought to go to the other side of the pool to inspect the painting more closely, they might have noticed the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. But they did not think to do that, and so did not notice.

Below the painting was an inscription. Borrowed from the portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni by Ghirlandaio and translated from the Latin, it read:

Art, couldst thou but portray character and the mind, then there would be in all the world no picture more beautiful than this.

“What do you think?” asked Clarence Bloomer.

“What's it supposed to be?” said Andrew Keller.

“The women will love it, anyway,” said Kenneth Harper.

Arthur took a long drag on his cigar and stared at the painting. He turned to go, then tossed a final thought over his shoulder before he turned the corner into the hallway.

“Pay the man. And hire someone to paint over the damn thing.”

Mr. Stanton received a letter in his office a few days after Vera's disappearance.

Dear Mr. Stanton,

I'm sure by now you must have heard that I left the Angelus building to make a new home elsewhere. I would be remiss, however, if I left New York without expressing my gratitude to you for your invaluable advice. I took your words to heart, thought through my options, and made a choice.

In a few weeks or months, my husband and mother will likely come to you to investigate my whereabouts. They will want to be thorough and follow all the proper procedures to have me declared legally dead. I beg you, friend—allow them to come to the conclusion they prefer. Let them do what they must to record publicly what I myself have lately discovered: there is no Vera Bellington.

I'd like you to find a woman who used to go by the name Bea Stillman. She's originally from Atlanta and may still be in contact with her family there. If anyone can find her, I know you can. I've enclosed a sum that I hope will be sufficient to cover your time. When you find her, please give her the enclosed letter. It contains some long overdue words of apology. If she wishes to contact me, please give her the address below, care of Mr. James Allen.

Knowing you has been my pleasure, if only because I know of at least one more kindhearted man in the world. I wish you all the best in life.

After reading the letter, Stanton studied the envelope included with it. The outside had “Bea” printed on it and gave no clue as to its contents. The flap of the envelope was not sealed, only tucked under, but he did not look inside. Some words belonged only to the two people connected by them. They were not his to share. He placed both letters in the top drawer of his desk, then lifted the telephone to begin making inquiries about where to find Bea Stillman.

Around that time, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Emil Frye took a bungalow in the Hollywood Hills. Mr. Frye found employment painting set backdrops at a movie studio, although he did receive a nice little windfall shortly before arriving in California. The money allowed Mrs. Frye to keep house instead of seeking work. As a housewarming gift, he bought her a set of brushes and her own paints. She learned to cook slowly, after more than a few burned meals and ruined pans. Mr. Frye never seemed to mind.

About three months after they moved in, papers arrived via Mr. Allen in London. The documents established Mrs. Frye as a resident of California, and they matched her husband's perfectly. Enclosed with them was a letter expressing the sender's happiness that Mrs. Frye's life had, in fact, been saved. Below the unfamiliar name in the looping, swirling letters of the signature was an address that allowed the hope of new friendship.

Mr. Frye bought a car and taught Mrs. Frye how to drive it. On weekends they would take the little coupe into Los Angeles to visit galleries and museums. He joined the Painters' and Sculptors' Club of Los Angeles in the hope of someday exhibiting his own work. They visited with neighbors for the occasional dinner or cocktail, although they seemed to prefer each other's company more than anything. Most evenings, they sat on the porch together and watched the sun set.

Every so often she would take the car out on her own. She'd drive the twisting roads by the ocean with the car's top down and the salty breeze lifting the ends of her hair. She liked to get out of the car, to walk barefoot on the sand. No etiquette to follow. No schedules. No obligations, not even to him. Only the great golden sun and open sky.