The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove

by A. B. Michaels

  One deep breath. Two. “George, we’ve talked about this more than once. I consider art to be my profession. I go to work. You go to work. We both spend time with our son. We are both good parents.”

  “There is a difference,” he said. “My work supports this household and yours does not. That puts yours in another category entirely, of less importance than being a good mother to Little Georgie.”

  The tears began to form; she fought them back. “Just because I don’t spend every waking moment with our son doesn’t mean I’m not a good mother. In fact, I cannot be a good mother if I can’t work at something that fulfills me.” She began to pace with the baby.

  George got up from his desk and took the boy from her. “You’re making him nervous,” he said. He pulled a chord for the maid and after a few moments Polly appeared in the doorway.

  “You called, sir?”

  “Yes. Will you please take Georgie for a bit? Mrs. Powell and I have…some work to do together.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The maid took their son and George went back to the safety of his desk. “I see you have registered for another series of classes at the Art Institute.” He held up an invoice that had no doubt come in the mail.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I think it would be better if you took a break.”

  Lia’s head popped up. “What?”

  “You heard me. I said no more painting lessons. Not for a while. I…I think we should try for another child and—”

  Remain calm. “You are out of your mind if you think either of those things is going to happen.” She said it slowly, conviction dripping from every word.

  “Lia…”

  “George.”

  “You’re being unreasonable. If Em were here, she’d—”

  “But Em’s not here…and that’s the problem, isn’t?” Lia sat down next to George and put her hand on his. “My dear friend. My dear brother—because that is how I think of you—we can’t go on this way. For two and a half years we’ve played this game, and there’s no need to anymore. I gave you an heir, but there is no way in hell I’m going to replay the scenario that got us Little Georgie in the first place. I’m a good sport, but even I have my limits.”

  “As my wife, you’re under an obligation…”

  Lia caught his eyes and held them. “Are you going to force me, George? Really? It’s come to that?”

  George looked away. “I don’t know what to do, Lia. I want—”

  “I know what you want. And if I could give her to you, I would. Truly I would. But I won’t sacrifice everything that makes me me, just because of the decisions we made and the situation we find ourselves in. That’s not right. I’m sorry, but I’m not the martyr that Em was. Not by a long shot.”

  George closed his eyes and rubbed them again. He was holding back tears himself, his voice the very definition of bleak. “She’s seeing Jonathan Brenner.”

  “What? She hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

  “Nor to me. I heard about it at the club.” He laughed without mirth. “She’s become quite the catch, you know. Gorgeous, sweet, and rich as Croesus.”

  “Do you know how serious it is?”

  George shook his head. “But if I were Jonathan, I’d move as quickly as I possibly could.”

  A germ of an idea began to form. “Maybe you and I could just call it a day,” she quipped with a half-smile.

  “Honestly, I’ve thought about it.” He shrugged. “There’s no way we can legally divorce, and it would destroy you socially were we to separate. And even if we did, it wouldn’t get me any closer to my goal.”

  “The goal of being with Em.” It was surprising how saying those words aloud held no hurt or pain for her at all, only a wish, a desire on her part as well as his.

  George looked at Lia and squeezed her hand. “I am so sorry.”

  With a crooked smile, she squeezed back. “I am sorry too, not for what we don’t have, but for what you and Em should have.”

  George picked up the invoice from the Institute. “You. Me. This isn’t the way things were supposed to turn out.”

  “No,” she agreed. “And it’s killing us both.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Mark my words: Miss Withrow will return to London absolutely desolate she’s left behind an acolyte of such prodigious talent and explosive promise.” Sandy made his lighthearted pronouncement with a melodramatic sweep of the hand. Lia and he had stopped at Child’s Restaurant on Broadway, one of their favorite haunts in which to share a meal after art class. Usually they split an order of corned beef hash or creamed oysters on toast. And Lia rarely passed up the butter cakes, dripping with maple syrup.

  But today her food remained untouched and she didn’t respond to Sandy’s gentle teasing. He reached across the table and took her hand. “What’s wrong, love?”

  Was it disloyal to confide in someone outside the family? Lia wasn’t sure; she only knew she had to talk this out with someone who might understand what it’s like to be in an impossible situation. “When you left the other day, George announced that he was no longer going to pay for my classes at the Institute.”

  “What?! Surely he was joking.”

  “No, but that’s not the important part.” She took a deep breath. “Sandy, I need your advice.” She proceeded to tell him about the whole sordid mess: her father’s need for money; his and her father-in-law’s obsessive love for her dead mother; and the pain their selfish needs had inflicted on Lia, her husband, and her sister. “So, if you were me, what would you do?”

  Sandy took a long sip of coffee before responding. “The obvious answer is to leave the marriage,” he replied. “Although I can tell you in the state of New York that is much easier said than done.”

  Lia leaned forward. “George said as much. Why? It’s often crossed my mind, why not quietly divorce him?”

  “Sister, I could tell you stories. I have friends…of my persuasion, shall I say…who would love to be out from under their marital shackles, as would their spouses, in most cases. But the courts say only in the case of adultery, and it would ruin them and their families should their…proclivities…come to light. So they are doomed to suffer.”

  “I should never have agreed to the marriage,” she moaned.

  “And what would you have done, darling, when both your father and your brutish brother-in-law were held up to the glare of the spotlight for all to see? It would have been horrendous, not only for them, but for you and your sister. People keep secrets for a reason.”

  “You would know about that, wouldn’t you?” Lia said gently as she caressed his forearm. “How difficult it must be to be different from everybody else.”

  “The ‘being different’ part isn’t so bad, it’s the judgment of people who don’t know me from Adam,” he said. After a moment’s pause he added, “And it’s damn difficult on the rest of the family, which is why…” he caught Lia’s eyes, “I am seriously considering a move to the West Coast.”

  Lia shot back in her seat, her eyes wide with surprise. “Sandy, really?”

  “Yes, my darling girl. All the money in the world—and my family has plenty of it, believe me—doesn’t stop the rumors, the innuendo. ‘Did you hear, Colonel de Kalb’s son is a flaming sodomite,’” he mimicked. “‘Must be because the colonel married that Indian woman.’ Or how about, ‘Oh, I hear he likes little boys,’ and so on. It’s…hurtful, to say the least. And especially painful for my parents, who know much of what is said is true…although not the part about little boys, I assure you.” The young man who had kept Lia going with his cheery banter for the past three years was dead serious today.

  She came around to Sandy’s side of the table and hugged him fiercely. “You are a wonderful person,” she whispered in his ear. “You don’t deserve any of that.”

  “Nor do you,” he said, returning her embrace.

  At that precise moment Lia’s mother-in-law walked in the restaurant with one of her friends and sa
w them, shock etched on her prim face. Lia stood up slowly.

  “Good afternoon, Margaret, Elvira,” she said smoothly. “I think you know my friend from art school, Sander de Kalb.”

  Sandy stood, ran one hand nervously through his hair and held out his other to the older woman. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Powell.”

  Margaret Powell reluctantly shook his hand and introduced him to Elvira Longchamps of the Albany Longchamps. She gave both Lia and Sandy a dark look. “Elvira and I were shopping and I decided to pick up some oysters for your father-in-law,” she said. She glared pointedly at Lia. “George, your husband, is partial to them as well.”

  Lia raised her chin. “Why thank you for the suggestion, Margaret. Perhaps I’ll pick some up to take home.”

  After Margaret and Elvira left, Lia and Sandy looked at each other and burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. They gathered their belongings and set out to walk to the nearest streetcar stop. Sandy resumed talking about his move.

  “I picked San Francisco because of the art scene there. Bohemians and all that. I think I should make a good bohemian, don’t you?”

  “What do your parents think?” she asked.

  “They’ll be sad to see me go, of course. In all ways that truly matter I am a most wonderful son.” He winked at her. “But they think it’s best for all concerned that I cease giving their social circle fodder to gossip about.”

  How would she cope without this lovely man? “When do you leave?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’ll be awhile yet. I have both business and, um, social matters to clear up first. There’ll be plenty of time for weeping and wailing, don’t worry.”

  Lia playfully poked him in the ribs and put her arm through his. “You are incorrigible,” she said. They walked peacefully together until they reached the streetcar that would take her to her father’s house where she was due to meet George and Little Georgie for dinner. “Thank you for your friendship,” she said as she boarded the car.

  Sandy swept his arm down with gallant grace. “Always, my love.”

  Lia let herself into her father’s house with the key she had kept from before her marriage. She put her painting supplies by the door and heard quiet voices, so she walked toward her father’s drawing room. Through the half-opened doorway she saw Emma holding Little Georgie, who was sleeping peacefully in her arms. George was standing close to her, their heads together. It was such a lovely picture it made Lia want to cry with the perfection of it. She wished she had her sketch book so that she could capture the essence of the moment. They should be together, she thought with blinding clarity. They need to be together.

  As she was watching them her father came up from behind, startling her.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. He stood next to Lia watching George and Emma with the toddler. “They make a pretty picture,” he said dispassionately. “I’d hoped you’d be able to meet your husband’s needs. It’s a pity you can’t seem to step into Emma’s shoes, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He loves what he loves.”

  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

  “You 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.