The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (16 page)

Lia continued to look at George. After a moment she inclined her head and saw George echo her, ever so slightly. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, smiling through her tears.

“I will send you the address where your attorney can reach me,” she said. “Polly and Mrs. Rudd will be back tomorrow. If Little…Little Georgie wakes up—”

“I know,” he assured her gently. “Sing him the lullaby.”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice breaking. “Good night, George, and…and bless you.”

Lia turned and took Sandy by the arm. They stepped into the cool of the evening and began walking down the street.

Sandy patted her hand. “How did it go?”

She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. Her voice hitched. “I think I know what it feels like to stab oneself in the heart.”

“You are quite a woman, Amelia. If I were someone else I think I’d do anything to make you mine.”

“You are just who I need you to be, dear friend. Let’s see how it all plays out.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said as they continued on their way.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
he ripe tomato hit Lia’s shoulder just as she reached the steps of the apartment she and Sandy now shared. It oozed down her arm, leaving a pink stain on the pale woolen coat she wore. She looked around to see who had thrown the offending fruit and saw a gaggle of stern-looking protesters collected across the street. Both men and women formed the group, dressed in somber-looking clothes and carrying homemade placards that espoused such slogans as “Lust is the Straightest Path to Hell,” “Fidelity Forever,” and “Temperance in All Things is Godly.”

“Harlot!” One of the women cried.

“Home wrecker!” a man shouted.

Gritting her teeth, Lia ignored the taunts and let herself into the building. Thank goodness Sandy had rented a lovely flat which provided a respite from the furor created by her “adulterous” act.

What was it about the state of people’s lives that they should worry so much about her mistakes and so little about their own? Her mother-in-law, for instance, was no doubt behind the campaign to publically annihilate both Lia and Sandy’s reputations. Hadn’t the elder Mrs. Powell and her cohort seen Lia embracing her so-called lover right there in Child’s Restaurant? Of course in Sandy’s case, the gossip was all working to the good. The rumors about his “unnatural” tendencies had been replaced by conjecture about how his mysterious, Byronic beauty must have turned the head of a naive young mother—still further evidence of how destructive it was for women to venture outside the home for anything other than a trip to the dressmaker or a charitable visit to the local Children’s Home.

Sandy was painting in the sun room at the rear of the apartment. He must have heard her come in. “Back here,” he called.

“Oh, I like it,” Lia said, coming into the makeshift studio and looking over his shoulder. Sandy’s painting in progress depicted a young girl and boy warming their hands over a sewer grate on a cold wintry morning. Since leaving his parents’ home, her friend had abandoned traditional landscapes and still life in favor of grittier subjects, like the daily lives of Mulberry Street’s immigrant children. He and Lia had gone to that part of Manhattan several times and sketched the inhabitants as they went about their daily toil; they’d invariably found a warmer welcome there than they’d found since the story of Lia’s supposed infidelity had become public knowledge.

“Do you?” he said, smiling. “I’m rather pleased with the way it’s turning out myself. Are you hungry? I was thinking of stopping for lunch.” At Lia’s nod he wiped off his paintbrush and put it in the cleaning jar. Drying his hands with a towel, he walked over to a small stack of letters and sifted through them, handing two to Lia.

“Were you greeted by our latest neighborhood welcoming committee?” he asked with a smirk. “You’re going to hell, you know.”

“So they tell me.” She opened a letter from her attorney, Mr. Nicholson, who informed her that her husband, George Powell II, had completed and filed the necessary papers to obtain a divorce decree in the state of New York based on the charge of adultery. Given the circumstances, Mr. Nicholson was surprised that Mr. Powell was being so even tempered in the matter. In fact, Mr. Nicholson had received word that certain measures were being taken to expedite the matter, with the result that Mrs. Powell should find herself a free woman sooner rather than later. Mr. Nicholson conjectured that the entire Powell family simply wanted the unpleasantness behind them as soon as possible. He would be in touch with Lia when it was time for her to sign formal documents.
It can’t be too soon for me,
she thought.

The other letter was from Emma. She and Aunt Pris had moved into George’s townhome to take care of Little Georgie. Lia’s son was doing fine, although he did call out “Mama” to whomever picked him up. Emma was giving him extra loving in the hope that he would make the transition without lasting scars; she was confident it would be better soon. Lia worked past the lump in her throat, praying that the time would come, someday, when her emotions regarding Little Georgie weren’t quite so raw. Despite those feelings, she had no regrets for what she’d done.

Em didn’t dare put on paper how she and George were faring; Lia could only hope they’d weather the public storm and even use it to draw closer together. She had no doubt that a year from now all would be well with them, but she hoped peace would come more quickly than that.

Every day it became more clear that life would never be the same for Lia, not if she stayed in New York. She would always be “that woman,” forever scarred with the invisible but no less damming scarlet “A” of adultery. In the world she grew up in, divorced women were one step removed from the courtesans of old, and every wife feared that someone like Lia would set her fiendish sights on their husband next.

“I’m looking forward to the move,” she remarked later over lunch. She and Sandy had been ostracized in so many restaurants over the past several weeks that they’d decided it was time to learn to cook on their own. Today they ate the leftovers of a stew that Sandy had attempted the night before.

“I’ll tell you what I’m looking forward to,” Sandy remarked between bites. “Hiring a cook.”

Lia grinned. “It’s not so bad. Look, I even found a piece of something that looks more like meat than mush.” She playfully held up a fork.

“Very funny.” He pointed his own fork back at her. “Let’s see what you can do for tonight’s banquet.”

Because they were from prominent families, Lia and Sandy’s notoriety had reached the papers along with their photographs. At first they’d tried to make light of it by reading the latest gossip columns aloud to one another.

“A certain Mrs. P. was seen last Thursday at Buckingham’s Fine Restaurant on Fifth Avenue hanging all over the wickedly handsome S de K. Once her divorce comes through, will the newly single temptress walk down the aisle again, this time with her enigmatic artist lover?” (Sandy had particularly liked that one, even though neither one of them had ever been to Buckingham’s.)

Eventually the novelty wore off, however, and only the painful lies remained, along with the stress of being recognized in public. Strangers, like the throng outside, dared to insult them to their face, but so-called friends were even worse. Alice Mendenhall, who’d taken classes with Lia and Sandy, virtually ignored her when they met by chance in R.H. Macy’s. When Lia politely called her on it, the woman blushed and stammered, finally mumbling, “Well, you know how it is,” before scuttling out of the store. Lia knew all too well how it was.

So, while they waited for the divorce to work its way through the legal system, they filled their time sketching and painting, drinking wine and reading, and trying their hands at living a life that was strictly their own. It was lonely, it was heady. And not knowing what awaited them on the other end of the continent colored their last days in New York with a wash of poignant melancholy.

Lia and Sandy celebrated Thanksgiving with his parents. Colonel de Kalb and his wife, Padma, preferred not to know the details of their son’s misadventures; they simply accepted Lia as someone he cared about and welcomed her into their home. Sandy was indeed the good son he’d bragged about being, and Lia could see why. It was all about unconditional love. She could tell they would miss him terribly when he left, but they knew it was the right thing for him to do, for all their sakes.

Christmas was much more difficult to get through. Lia worked on a series of small paintings of Little Georgie that she almost kept for herself before thinking better of it and having them sent over to the Powell residence. In return, Emma sent her a small plaster mold in which she had gently cast Little Georgie’s hand and foot prints. Lia wept when she opened it.

In due time, all the forms were signed, the paperwork was filed with the proper authorities, and Lia could rest assured that when the waiting period was over, she would no longer be Mrs. George Powell II. She instructed Mr. Nicholson to handle one more matter, the legal change of her name to “Amelia Starling.” Starling had been her mother’s maiden name, and one that held much more love and affection for her than the names Bennett or Powell ever had.

Lia and Sandy decided to leave New York for the West Coast at the end of December. Sandy had handled the details related to closing the apartment and shipping most of their luggage and art supplies to their new home in San Francisco. They would be taking the train across country, arriving in San Francisco just after the new year.

They chose an early departure time to avoid any unpleasantness with those still eager, after all this time, to pass judgment on them. The sun had just begun its rise in the gray, overcast sky when the first announcement was made to board their coach. Lia waited for Sandy to complete his good byes with his parents, who had braved the cold to bid their son farewell. She was therefore surprised when Emma hurried up to meet her on the platform.

“Ruthie!” Emma cried.

Lia’s eyes welled up at the silly nickname only her sister had ever used. Dear Emma had come to see her off. Lia looked beyond her to see George in the distance, holding their son and pointing out the train to the toddler, who was wrapped securely in a blanket.

“Em. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t stay away. I had to see you. I had to tell you—”

“You didn’t have to come, Em. Really.”

“Yes. Yes I did. Lia, I want to show you something.” She motioned for Lia to come with her to a protected part of the platform where she could have a modicum of privacy. She stood next to Lia and opened her coat, where a beautiful engagement ring hung from a delicate chain around her neck. She held it out for Lia to see.

Lia looked at it and then up at Emma, who smiled tentatively at her. Emma’s eyes were transcendent with love. It was what this whole horrible exercise had been about. “When?” she asked.

“As soon as possible without causing another scandal in the press. Oh, Lia, I would be the happiest woman in the world, if my happiness hadn’t been bought at such a price.”

Lia took Em’s gloved hands in her own. “Please, don’t worry about me. I have my own path to follow, and you’re making that possible for me. I wish you and George every joy, and I know…I
know
that Little Georgie will be fine. It’s what keeps me going.” She put her arms around Emma and hugged her sister tightly. “You take good care of those two darling men,” she whispered.

They reluctantly parted and Emma said, “Wait. I almost forgot.” She pulled an envelope out of her reticule and handed it to Lia. “It’s from George,” she explained. “It’s so little compared to—”