A Fine Imitation Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Amber Leah Brock Player

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9781101905111

  eBook ISBN 9781101905128

  Cover design by Elena Giavaldi

  Cover photography: (woman) Condé Nast Archives/Corbis; (skyline) E.O. Hoppé/Corbis

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  For my mother.

  For my husband.

  For the girls.

  Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, one by one.

  —Charles Mackay

  If she had to guess, Vera Longacre would say that most of the girls at Vassar College knew her name and could pick her out of a crowd, even if she could not do the same for them. Her peculiar brand of celebrity came without any effort on her part, much like the money, the houses, and appearances on the society page. Very few of her fellow students could claim to know her personally, and a still smaller group would be able to identify her favorite foods or pastimes or which room in the dormitory was hers. But almost everyone knew Vera’s face well enough to whisper and nod discreetly in her direction as she glided past them on the quad. She sometimes felt like a walking magazine cover, with her name above her head in place of a title.

  Not that she didn’t have a social group. In her first two years, she had selected a couple of girls of adequate means and manners, with whom she ate dinner and studied from time to time. The classroom, however, was a sacred space for her. When the instructor lectured, she preferred to be out of danger of distraction. She found the third row of the classroom the perfect compromise. Freshman year she had made the mistake of choosing a seat too close to the professor’s podium, and sophomore year had taught her the back of the room made it difficult to hear over the whispers of less inspired classmates. Now, as a senior, she had found the perfect balance. Close enough to hear well, not so close that the professor would expect her to answer every question.

  Vera liked to arrive a few minutes early. On that morning, she walked into the classroom in the Main Building to find only three other girls giggling in the back row. The auditorium-style seating sloped down to a lectern and desk at the front of the room, and three large windows at the back provided far more light than the new electric bulbs overhead. Once she had chosen her third-row seat, she opened her textbook to the assigned reading. She skimmed back over the paragraphs, then found her attention drifting to the plates, which showed richly colored prints of a set of neoclassical paintings. Who could read endless pages of dry description when the paintings were right there to be devoured?

  A satchel thunked down beside Vera, but she did not bother to look up. Her two closest friends did not share any of her classes, and she didn’t care for small talk. She flipped the page to a new painting as the girl in the neighboring seat let out a huff.

  “If you ask me, the problem with the neoclassicists is all the lounging,” the girl said.

  Vera looked up to find a pretty girl with hair as black as her own, though her eyes were blue instead of Vera’s brown. A playful smile lit up the girl’s round face.

  “I mean, look,” the girl continued, gesturing at the plate on the page. “Every single figure here is draped against a marble wall or slumped against a column. Surely one of those painters must have known the ancient Romans or Greeks could stand and sit like normal people, don’t you think? Just look at how this woman is flopping around.”

  “I…suppose.” Vera could not think of a better answer to such an absurd observation. “It is part of the style, though.”

  The girl tapped the paper. “Oh, it’s always part of the style. Anytime they’re doing something silly-looking it’s part of the style.”

  “How would you have done it, then?”

  The girl pulled the book from Vera’s desk and inspected it. She waved her hand again, dismissing the painting in front of her. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be much nicer if it looked like real life? If it had real detail?”

  “Like a photograph?”

  A grin spread on the girl’s pink-cheeked face. “Exactly. See? You understand. With their eyes all rolled to the gods like that, it looks like they’re having fits. The worst thing is how lazy it is on the artist’s part. Making a person look real is far more of a challenge.”

  Vera stared at the girl. At least she wasn’t talking about the weather. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so, why?”

  Before she could prepare a more polite answer, Vera said, “Because most people introduce themselves before barging up to complain about women in neoclassical paintings having fits.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. Vera thought for a moment she would get up and leave, but instead she laughed. “Then I’d better introduce myself. I’m Bea Stillman. Please, never, ever call me Beatrice.”

  Vera’s brows shot up. “Stillman? I’m surprised we haven’t met before now. I didn’t know there were any Stillmans here.”

  Bea shook her head. “Not those Stillmans. Related, though. He’s my father’s cousin. We left for Georgia before he left Texas.” She sat up straighter. “We’re the Atlanta Stillmans.”

  The mention of Georgia explained Bea’s breathy cadence and drawn-out vowels. “I must say I’m surprised,” Vera said. “Why come so far north?”

  The girl toyed with her bracelet. “I was at Agnes Scott, in Decatur, but my parents decided the New York set would be a good influence for me. Fewer pearls, more diamonds. Though I don’t know how good your manners are after all.” At Vera’s frown, Bea leaned forward. “You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”

  “Oh.” Her stern look relaxed. “Right. I’m Vera Longacre.”

  “Of course I knew there was a Longacre among us,” Bea said with a wry tone.

  Vera turned to fuss in her bag. “Yes, that’s me.”

  Bea paused at Vera’s tightened expression. “Oh, now, don’t be that way. That’s not the first time you’ve gotten that reaction, is it, Rockefeller?” Her softened pronunciation of the final r made it sound closer to “fella.” />
  Vera’s features loosened into a smile. She adopted the tone her mother and her friends used to speak to the wait staff at the club. “We are not the Rockefellers, goodness.”

  Bea played along, lifting her nose into the air. “Don’t like the comparison?”

  “Certainly not, darling.” Vera leaned in, lowering her voice to a hush. “New money.”

  The girls laughed. The room had filled as they were talking, and now most of the rows were occupied. The instructor walked in, set her briefcase on the desk, and turned on the slide projector. The slight, gray-haired woman’s voice bounced around the oak-paneled room for about five minutes before Bea started scribbling on a scrap of paper. She passed the note to Vera.

  Are you a senior?

  Vera wrote yes and passed it back. After further scratching on Bea’s part, the scrap returned.

  I’m a junior. I live in Josselyn. You?

  Ignoring the note for a moment, Vera put on a firm listening-to-the-teacher face. When she felt her point was made, she wrote Strong Building.

  Bea didn’t write back for a good while. At last, the paper returned to Vera, with a new line.

  You ought to get moved to Josselyn. We have showers.

  Vera wrote back, Josselyn wasn’t built when I started here.

  Bad luck. Do you have a beau?

  This question took Vera by surprise, and she missed most of the discussion about the sculptor Canova as she chose an answer. Finally, she put yes on the paper and slid it back down the long desk.

  Bea glanced at the paper and pursed her lips dramatically.

  That took a while to write.

  I didn’t want to miss any more of the lecture.

  But you sure didn’t look like you were listening. Who is he? Is it forbidden? I simply love forbidden romance.

  It’s not forbidden.

  You can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.

  Not now.

  Vera thought for a moment after this and added: It’s not a secret.

  When the professor dismissed the class, Bea stood and exhaled hard. “I must say, you have me in suspense, Vera Longacre. Why don’t you come with me and tell me all about your scandalous love affair?”

  Vera laughed. “It’s not a scandal. It’s the exact opposite of a scandal, as a matter of fact.”

  Bea scooped up her books, papers, and pen in one messy jumble with one hand and hooked her elbow through Vera’s. “Well, come with me and tell me your deadly dull story anyway.” She shot a look out of the corner of her eye. “I may as well say it. I wasn’t planning to like you.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “That’s why I started talking to you.” Bea led Vera down the stairs to the exit.

  “You started talking to me because you thought you wouldn’t like me?” Vera asked.

  “That’s right. I like to pick a serious-looking girl and say a few shocking things, to see how fast she moves to another desk.”

  Vera nudged Bea with her shoulder. “That’s horrible.”

  “It is, but I’m starved for entertainment.” She rolled her eyes and drawled out the word starved. “Anyway, you didn’t move desks. You sat right there and said something clever.” Bea released Vera’s arm as they entered the hallway. “I’m afraid this means we have no choice. We simply must be friends.”

  Vera studied the odd, lively girl beaming in front of her. Papers dripped from the clumsy stack in her arms. Bea’s careless stance sent a shot of affection through her. Perhaps it was that carelessness that drew her to Bea. There was none of the social posturing Vera was so accustomed to. The girls she typically socialized with were so afraid of saying the wrong thing, they hardly spoke at all. Bea wasn’t a breath of fresh air, she was a balmy gust.

  “If we must be friends, then I guess we ought to go to lunch together,” Vera said. “Would you like to?”

  Bea nodded, and the two headed off, trailing paper all the way.

  The two-and-a-half-minute elevator ride from the penthouse to the lobby of the Angelus building was more than enough time for Vera Bellington to contemplate ways out of her weekly Wednesday lunch with her mother. What if she called to say she was ill? What if she got into the Packard waiting downstairs and directed the driver to a different restaurant? What if she got into the Packard, went to the usual restaurant, but sat at a different table and said nothing to her mother? She could pretend to be a stranger. Terribly sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.

  Well, they would lock her up, no question about that. Her mother and Arthur would conclude Vera had lost her mind at last, and would spare no expense in finding her the best facility in which to go insane. Going to another restaurant was no solution, either. Her mother would simply come to the penthouse of the Angelus looking for Vera, and then there would be hell to pay. Feigning illness would also mean an unwelcome visit. Her fanciful options exhausted, Vera went out to the curb to meet the car. She did not have to say a word to the driver. He knew where to go for Wednesday lunch.

  Her mother was already seated in the Tea Room at the Plaza when Vera arrived, at their usual table. Lorna Longacre was a slender woman with steel-gray hair coiled in a knot at the back of her head and remarkably smooth skin for her age. This was, in part, because she refused to frown, citing the wrinkles such a disagreeable expression would cause. Of course, she did not smile much either, which probably had the same helpful effect.

  Vera slid into the floral cushion of the chair with a quiet greeting, but her mother kept her gaze trained on a group of girls passing by the window. Something between disgust and satisfaction pulled on her face, as if insects had invaded and she looked forward to the pleasure of stamping them out one by one.

  “What are you looking at?” Vera asked, as the waiter spread a napkin onto her lap for her.

  “The clothing some of these—well, you can hardly call them ladies, can you? The skirts on them. Can’t decently call them skirts, either. Up to their knees. More like bathing costumes.” Her mother sniffed and turned her attention to Vera. “If you had dressed with so little sense at that age, I’d have thrown you out.”

  “Which is why I would never have done such a thing, Mother. Good gracious.” Vera peered at the menu, though she always ordered the crab cocktail with sliced tomatoes.

  Her mother shot her a pointed look but did not comment. “And that short hair,” she continued. “Though it’s not just silly girls doing that now. Do you know, the ladies at the club have convinced themselves it’s appropriate for women of their age? Petunia Etherington came in the other day with it chopped straight off at her chin.” Vera’s mother clicked her tongue. “Imagine.”

  The two ladies ordered their meals, and Vera squeezed a lemon into her tea. They sat looking around the room for a moment in silence, before taking up the usual set of questions and answers that served as their script for these lunches.

  “How is Daddy?” Vera asked.

  Her mother picked an invisible thread from her jacket. “Forever with his horses. I’m always half surprised he doesn’t offer me a sugar cube and try to brush me when he comes in.”

  “When is the next race?”

  “Not for ages. The next is Saratoga. I hope you’ll come with us. I’ll call your girl and have her put it on your calendar.”

  Vera nodded. “Did you go to the opera this weekend?”

  “It was La Traviata.”

  “Mmm. Daddy hates that one.”

  “I went with the Stanfords.” Her mother took a sip of tea. “She tried to hide it, but Eleanor wept like a baby at the end. Honestly, in public.”

  “It is a lovely opera, though.” Vera inclined her head at the waiter as he set down their plates.

  “Weeping in public is for infants and funerals, darling. And even then it should be done discreetly.” Her mother lifted her fork over her chicken salad. “How is Arthur?”

  The question should have been a throwaway one, but Vera’s throat tightened at the mention of her husband. Thirty years of
conversation with her mother had taught her better, but her response was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Mother, when Daddy was working…away a lot…did you ever get lonely?”

  Her mother set her fork down on her plate and glanced around. “I hope that’s a unique way of telling me you’re having a child.”

  Vera looked at her hands in her lap, her face burning. She would have been better off confessing an urge to strip naked and dance around the restaurant than to admit something like loneliness to her mother. She struggled for the words to explain herself and settled on something close to the truth. “No, nothing like that. Nothing out of the ordinary. But Arthur has so many late nights, more trips away. It’s been a bit difficult.”

  Her mother snapped her fork back into the air. “What did you think marriage would be like? Besides, lonely people are people without anything to do. Don’t you have your charities? Your friends? Good heavens, if we expected our husbands to provide us with our only company we’d all go mad.” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading those romances again? Those silly things will rot your brain.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. Forget I said it.”

  “Yes, let’s.” Her mother took a sip of water. “Oh, I have something to occupy you. There’s a painting I’m thinking of buying, but I want you to take a look for me first. One of my friends from the club introduced me to a dealer, and he says he’s got a Dutch master. He’s selling at an amazing price. I’m afraid the price is a little too good.”