The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (14 page)

The familiar cold that accompanied her dealings with her father for so many years returned, but this time Lia was able to look beyond her long-held yearning to please him. She didn’t despise the man, but no longer did she feel a need to placate him. She would never measure up enough to satisfy him. She knew that now. It made the idea that had begun to swirl around in her head all the more possible, and less unbelievable. She would work on it, nurture it, beginning tomorrow. For now, she just had to get through another evening full of discontent and disconnect.

“Oh, Em, how wonderful to see you,” Lia announced loudly as she moved into the room. It was telling that Georgie, who had awakened, was perfectly content to remain in his aunt’s arms. He didn’t struggle to go to Lia. That was comforting.

George and Emma moved apart, leaving a trace of guilt in their wake. “I…I was surprised to see George and Georgie here when I came,” Em explained with a slight intake of breath. “I thought it was going to be just Father and me.” She offered to hand Georgie over to Lia, but Lia shook her head. George smiled at Em and took the boy, who had blissfully fallen back asleep.

“I’ll put him down in the library,” he said in a quiet voice. “He’s had a busy day. I think I tuckered him out.”

Lia watched Emma’s eyes follow George as he left the room. She traded small talk with her sister and by the time George returned, Lia was already nursing a cocktail as well as a slight headache.

“Ah, George, I poured your usual,” her father said, handing George a whiskey. “It’s such a delight to have my family under one roof again.” Because of the long history between Emma and George, her father was at least sensitive enough not to invite them over at the same time except during the obligatory holidays when other relatives were present. Having characters like Great Aunt Pris and Cousin Frank around to dissipate the tension helped a lot. Her father must have a very good reason for gathering only Em, George, and Lia together tonight.

The reason became clear during dinner.

“I’ve come upon a most intriguing investment opportunity that I think you both should consider,” he said, focusing his attention on George and Emma, since they were the ones with money. “I’ve been in discussion with Jonathan Brenner…”

Lia’s and George’s eyes met across the table. This was not good news.

Later that night, Lia asked George if she might put their son to bed on her own. She sat with Little Georgie, reading him his favorite story about how the stars in the sky learned to twinkle, and he pointed to the pictures and said “tar, tar” until his eyelids grew heavy. She sang his favorite lullaby to him, and he eased into the sleep of children who have no fear, who lack for nothing, who know without question that they are loved. She sat for a long while stroking his petal-soft cheek, watching his sturdy little body breathe confidently in and out. She knew that if she left George, she would have to leave her son as well. George would never let her go otherwise. Could she do that? Was she strong enough? She didn’t know. The only clear thought she had was that George and Emma loved each other, always had, and no doubt always would. And even though it didn’t show on the outside, on the inside they were crumbling a little bit, day by day, because they couldn’t be together. And was there anything to say it would get any better? No. George would never rock the social boat; instead he’d resent Lia more and more because she wouldn’t expand the family and the farce. Em, perhaps out of loneliness, would make a connection that Lia could already guess was a bad one. Her father would never change; he’d forever put himself first.

If something was going to change, it had to start with her. Could she do it? How could she not? Tomorrow she’d figure out what her options truly were.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“
Y
ou are correct, Madam; the only legal grounds for the granting of a divorce in the state of New York at this time is adultery and, I may add, those grounds have to be proven.”

Lia had made an appointment, paid for with pin money, to see Henry Nicholson of Brewster, Stenfeld, and Nicholson. She’d noticed the law office just up the street from the Art Institute, so it had been easy to explain an extra trip to that part of the city. She sat across the desk from Mr. Nicholson, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and kind eyes. She huffed. “What do you mean, ‘proven’? Do they have to be caught in the act?”

Mr. Nicholson smiled. “Not quite, although that does tend to make for a very tight case.” He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked. “It means a third party has to be named, and the victim, that is, the person being cheated upon, cannot have foreknowledge, or in essence, give consent, to the act.”

The room was warm and Lia took a handkerchief out of her reticule to dab her cheeks. Her hands fluttered in her lap and she took a moment to still them.

“You do know that anything said between us is confidential,” Mr. Nicholson assured her in a gentle tone.

“Is there no other possible way to grant a divorce?” she asked.

“I wish there were. Oh, you’ll see the occasional special bill passed through the state legislature, but those are becoming more and more rare as the courts have taken over the task of dissolving marriages. I daresay our state is far behind the curve on this matter. And I will tell you, it needs to be loosened up. I have seen clients desperate to extricate themselves from unhealthy and even unsafe unions, yet they are hamstrung by the law.”

“Then how do they get around it?”

Mr. Nicholson leaned forward. “Some defy convention, put up with the social stigma attached to their decision, and live apart.”

That didn’t seem workable. “But then the parties can’t legally remarry.”

“That’s right. Others who aren’t willing to flout societal rules must accept their fate and live unhappily ever after…and some go to such extremes that a civil matter becomes a criminal one.”

Lia frowned. “Criminal? How so?”

“I mean, Mrs. Powell, that we would see far fewer suicides and cases of domestic violence, even murder, if the law were changed.”

Lia sat silently, prompting the attorney to ask, “May I help you in any other way, madam?”

“No,” she answered, rising to go. “You’ve answered my questions, thank you.”

The idea came to her as she passed Child’s Restaurant. It was extreme and it was terrifying, and she wasn’t sure if she could do it. But when she returned home she called Sandy and arranged to meet him the next day.

The Art Institute of Manhattan was officially closed between course sessions, but it remained open to registered students. To Lia it provided a refuge. She’d attended classes here since she was seventeen, and in many ways it felt more like home than her father’s mansion on Forty-Fourth Street or her husband’s townhome had ever been.

As she waited for Sandy, she wandered through the top floor studios, each brightened by soaring windows and broad skylights. Here she had learned about shape and proportion, light and shadow, angles and perspective. Here she had copied the masters, learned their secrets, and found her own path of expression. She took in the paint-splattered floor, breathed the familiar smell of turpentine and color. She would miss this humbling, inspiring place and all the people in it. Desperately. But she would always have her chalk, her pencil, her brush. She would continue to create no matter where life took her.

“There you are,” Sandy said from the doorway. He’d brought his supplies, no doubt assuming she wanted to work together. And she did, but in a way he couldn’t even imagine.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “I have a proposition for you.”

Sandy waggled his eyebrows in that silly way he had. “I’m all yours,” he joked.

“I’m glad,” she replied, “because I need you to be.” She gestured to the couch often used by the models in the life drawing class. “Come, have a seat.”

Puzzled, Sandy joined her. “What do you need, dear one?”

It was time. “How would you like some company when you move to San Francisco?”

Sandy’s expression was about what she’d expected it to be: incredulous. “What?”

“I’m asking if I could come along with you to San Francisco.”

Sandy moved closer and took her hand in his. “Darling, what is this all about?”

Now for the difficult part. “Sandy, you know the situation I’m in. And you’re right, the only way I can secure a divorce to free George and me from this predicament is by proving adultery. I’m not about to find some stranger and cheat on my husband. But I could cheat on him with you, and help you out at the same time.”

Sandy laughed sharply, but stopped when he saw she wasn’t joking. “Lia, what you’re asking is…is insane. No one will believe it.”

Lia took his hands in hers and looked him straight in the eye. “No it isn’t insane, and people will believe it, if you will just hear me out.”

Sandy took a deep breath. “All right.”

“Your parents have lived with the whispers concerning your sexuality for long enough. You’re even moving away to spare them further hurt. I’m giving you a chance to squelch those rumors by pretending to be my lover. We’ll figure out how to make it happen so that no one would dare
not
to believe it. I will be able to get a divorce from George, freeing him to marry Em, and you will help your parents save face. We both win.”

“But how do
you
win? Not George, but you? You’ll be a pariah. You…you’ll probably have to give up your son…”

Lia fought hard against the lump in her throat and the tears that beckoned. “My son has a chance to be part of a family in which his mother and father adore each other, and him. What more could any mother want for her child? As for me, well, I’ll be able to start fresh, just like you. And it will finally be on my terms. Not my father’s, not George’s, but mine.”