“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—”
Lia put her finger on Emma’s lips. “No. No need.” She broke away before embarrassing herself with a flood of tears, waving to George down the platform before boardin
g the car. Sandy came up behind her and helped her up.
“All aboard!” the stationmaster called.
They found their seats and Lia watched through the window as Emma, George, and Little Georgie grew smaller and smaller, until finally they dropped out of sight altogether. She opened the envelope and found five thousand dollars in crisp new bills. Smiling sadly, she tucked the money safely inside her purse.
A new century was days away. The world was changing and Lia was changing with it. A new home, a new name, a new life awaited. She was happy to be sharing the adventure with Sandy, but knew they could never be all that each other needed. The question was, could she find someone to love her for who she was? She hoped so, and held onto that wish with all the strength she had, bracing herself for what was to come, even if it meant facing her destiny with no one to share her heart.
PART THREE
The Art of Love
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 1902
San Francisco
August Wolff finished buttoning his shirt and watched indifferently as his lover, Angel Lindemann, sat on the edge of the bed rubbing lilac butter on her arms and legs. She glanced up to see him regarding her, straightened her shoulders, and made a show of slowly rubbing the flowery emollient on her generous, pale breasts. His cock wasn’t paying any attention, which was a good sign he’d made the right decision.
“Only twice last night. I must be losing my touch,” she demurred with a sly smile. She’d draped her long blonde hair over one shoulder, the curls begging to be touched. He waited for her to give him one of her trademark smoldering looks. Ah, there it was.
“Or maybe I am,” he said.
She rose and languidly put on the scarlet silk dressing gown he’d given her. “You? I beg to differ, darling. I’ve never had better and I never will.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Angel.” He put on his coat and reached into an inner pocket, bringing out a small, slender white box. He put it on her dressing table along with an envelope.
Angel frowned and looked up at him. “I don’t want that.”
He smiled slightly. “You don’t know what it is.”
“I know it’s a ‘you’re a beautiful woman but I’ve lost interest in you and this bauble should keep you happy until you meet a new protector’ kind of gift.”
“You’re half right. It’s also the deed to this house.”
Angel put her hands on his chest, her pretty lips forming a pout. “I’m not ready to let you go yet,” she said. “I’d like to talk some more about it.”
Gus reached out and took her chin gently in one hand. “Talking has never been high on our list, has it?” He took his hat and scarf from the bedpost and turned to leave. “It’ll go well for you to say you’ve thrown me over for your next conquest. Men like that, and I don’t give a damn how it plays in the press, so use it to find someone worthy of you.”
“What shall I do?” she cried.
“You’ll do what you always do. Sing opera beautifully and make love brilliantly. You were born to it.”
She started to yell something, but he’d closed the door, so he didn’t catch the words she’d flung at him. Probably just as well.
Last night after her performance, he’d escorted Angel home by hired carriage instead of his new Winton. She’d not been happy; she’d wanted to spend the night at his home on the hill. But experience had taught him that after ending an affair, it was better, always better, to be the one to leave. Besides, he knew he’d need to walk off the malaise.
Three years in San Francisco and twice that many liaisons, none of which satisfied for long. He could relate to the restless energy jolting through the place someone had called the “Insane Asylum of the World.” The city itself was like a newfound lover: gorgeous, fascinating, open to anything, like a pair of shapely thighs spread wide. Easy to take advantage of and milk for maximum pleasure. But hell, there had to be something else. Something that lasts.
Like his business partnership, for instance. After several blocks he caught a trolley down to his Montgomery Street office and his meeting with Will and the money boys. He checked his pocket watch. Right about now his partner would be softening up the old goats, reminding them in that classy way of his that sure they were doing business with a newly rich, social-climbing upstart like Gus, but they were also hitchin’ their wagon to an old-money family with social bona fides stretchin’ way, way back. Will was eleven years younger than Gus, but brilliant when it came to business and already richer than Midas at the age of twenty-seven. But even if he’d been a slouch he would have made it because his last name was Firestone—of the “San Francisco Firestones.” As far as Gus was concerned, the fact that Will didn’t sit on his butt and ride on his name made him golden.
As he walked into the conference room, he caught Will’s eye. His partner nodded slightly and straightened his spectacles, a signal that all was well. At least this part of Gus’s life—making money—was on the right track.
“I’ll have final documents sent round to your offices for signatures, gentlemen. In the meantime, I think this meeting is cause for celebration.” Will had an assistant bring in a tray filled with glasses of champagne and pass them around. He raised his own glass. “To the official launch of Pacific Global Shipping,” he announced.
“To Pacific Global,” the group echoed.
After handshakes all around, the investors filed out, leaving Gus and Will alone in the office. Gus went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. It was a mite early for it, but what the hell. He offered one to Will, but his partner declined.
“I’ll finish the bubbly,” Will said, hefting the flute. “Congratulations. You’re now a shipping baron.”
“As are you. I’ll say one thing. You’re a hell of a sweet talker. Those gents were eatin’ it up.”
Will waved his hand dismissively. “Eh, I’ve been around men like them all my life. I just happen to speak their language.”
“Well, given that I’m the new kid on the block, I appreciate you running interference.”
“Look, I know a good investment when I see one, that’s what it’s all about.” He took a sip of his drink and began gathering up his papers. Without looking up, he added, “So…how did it go with Angel?”
Gus put down his glass and glared at Will. “How the blazes did you know about that?”
Will looked up and grinned. “Gus, I’ve been your partner for, what, almost three years? And I’m telling you, you’re like a finely tuned watch. You get involved with someone and tick tock, tick tock, tick—tock, a half year later, you’ve wound down. When our efficient Mr. Hansen mentioned he’d drawn up papers to sign the deed over to Miss Lindemann, I figured you were ready to reset your timepiece.”
“That comparison is a bunch of bull,” Gus said, pouring himself another two fingers of liquor. “But I can’t argue with your conclusion.”
“Tell you what,” Will said. “Meet me at William Keith’s studio on Friday night. It’s on Clay Street. Eight to ten p.m. He’s showing some of his recent work—much more emotive than his earlier pieces. Some critics don’t think it’s quite up to snuff, but I rather like it. I’m thinking for the right price he might part with one or two of them and you can start to warm up that drafty old mausoleum of yours.”
Gus snorted. “Standing around looking at pretty pictures sounds about as exciting as scratching yourself while you watch grass grow. That’s your crowd, not mine.”
Will downed his second glass of champagne. “Suit yourself. The crème de la crème of the bohemian crowd will be there—that means the ones with money. And I can guarantee there’ll be shoulders you wouldn’t mind rubbing with—” he winked at Gus “—some of them even female.” He shrugged and reached for his perfectly tailored jacket. “But if you’re really not up to it…”
“God almighty, you’re an ass. No, I’m not up to it…but nice try.”
“It’s all self-serving, you know.” Will heaved a melodramatic sigh
. “You’re a hell of a lot easier to get along with when you’ve got a woman routinely in your bed.”
“There is that,” Gus muttered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Professor, I think your Bridal Veil Falls would look better higher and to the right of Bullfrog Lake. What do you think, Mary?” Lia Starling stood on a small ladder, ready to make the change.
Mary paused to scrutinize the arrangement of her husband’s paintings on the far wall of their Clay Street studio. “I think Lia’s right, William.”
One of San Francisco’s most famous and successful landscape artists waved his hands in surrender. “As always, my hanging committee of two overrules me.”
Mary and Lia grinned at each other. “You may not know the best placement for your work, but you have excellent taste in wives, not to mention assistants,” his wife said.
“Truer words were never spoken, my dear.” Smiling, William Keith went back to his easel while Lia put the finishing touches on the exhibit to be held that evening.
Lia had followed through on her pronouncement to her dear friend and roommate Sander de Kalb three years earlier. As soon as they’d settled into their apartment in San Francisco, she’d gone straight to Mr. Keith and offered to work for him in exchange for painting lessons. As an art student in New York City, she had felt no qualms about corresponding with the famous painter about the nature of art. William Keith must have enjoyed their long-distance debate because he’d readily agreed to take her on.
Since then she’d grown close to the aging artist and his dedicated, suffragette wife. Under his direction, Lia had followed the “bold instincts” one of her art teachers in New York had praised her for. Like Keith, she came to favor a more emotive style of landscape painting rather than a strictly naturalistic approach. She absorbed all he could teach her and hungered for more.
The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove Page 10
