Free The Fifth Avenue Artists Society by Joy Callaway Page B

lip—boating accident.”
    â€œMiss Blaine, how long have you and Franklin been, uh . . .” Unable to define what I didn’t know, I shook my head. “I mean, how long have you known each other?”
    â€œLydia, please,” she said, squeezing my hand. “And just a month or so.” She pulled at the elaborate ivory silk gauze puff at her shoulder and then looked at me, blue eyes locked on mine. “We met at the last Society meeting and have rendezvoused a few times to visit the picture gallery at the Metropolitan Museum and to play a few games of whist with John, though Frank’s traveling doesn’t seem to allow him much time.” She paused and leaned into me. No wonder Franklin had been so scarce at home. “Miss Loftin, it was one of those things . . . well, I don’t quite know how to explain it, but the moment I met him I felt like I’d known him my whole life.” I knew exactly what she meant, and my chest throbbed. “Oh, there he is.” Lydia’s words jolted me back. She took my wrist, cold fingers digging into my skin. “Tom always hides when he’s writing.” Wondering why this Tom fellow was so important, I looked over my shoulder toward the towering archedwindows where I’d last seen Franklin and nearly stepped on a girl sewing some sort of shawl.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, sidestepping her. I followed Lydia to an alcove adjacent to the drawing room. No larger than a closet, a circle of pink and white stained glass rained tinted starlight on a blond-headed man. His back was to us, pencil scratching furiously against the paper. Lydia cleared her throat. “Tom?” He didn’t turn around but held up his hand instead. “I apologize. He’s so rude,” she whispered.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I said, understanding the annoyance that came with being forced to stop midsentence. Suddenly, Tom tossed his pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk, causing a tiny brown glass bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot to tip over and roll into his lap. He snatched it, shoved it into his green windowpane plaid jacket, and spun around. Expecting to be greeted with irritation, I was stunned to find him beaming at me, perfect white teeth gleaming against the dim of the room.
    â€œHi. I’m Thomas Blaine . . . Tom,” he said. He smoothed the front of his jacket. The sleeve of his right arm was rolled up to his elbow—likely to avoid smudge marks on his cuff—exposing an angry welt on his forearm.
    â€œNice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine,” I said. “I’m Virginia Loftin.” He rubbed his thumb across the side of his forefinger and I noticed his fingers were rough across his knuckles—calluses from holding the pencil, just like I had.
    â€œTom’s my brother,” Lydia said. “And Tom, Miss Loftin is Franklin’s sister. She’s a writer, too.”
    â€œYou can call me Virginia—or Ginny—please,” I said. Lydia already felt like an old friend.
    â€œAh, yes. I think I remember Frank mentioning you,” Mr. Blaine said. He dropped his hand to his side and seemed to stumble a bit,though he hadn’t taken a step. I thought of the small glass bottle and wondered if he’d been drinking. It wasn’t uncommon to have a drink or two in a social setting, but it was entirely unseemly to have too much. I’d only seen two people intoxicated in my life—my uncle Richard after my father’s funeral and an old neighbor, Mr. Spivey, who’d consumed so much he’d fallen down his front steps. “I believe I met one of your sisters the other week. She was coming out of the Astors’ place as I was going in.” Mr. Blaine seemed to steady, his blue eyes, identical to Lydia’s, met mine. His cheeks flushed. Apparently something besides simply meeting had occurred.
    â€œBess?” I asked, knowing without a doubt