A Fine Imitation by Amber Brock Page A

could not abide coldness or indifference. A man who would not toy, who would say things honestly, and without reservation.
    An uneasy tremble went through her as she remembered the photo of the mural. But then, she chided herself, a mural was a different medium altogether, and one she knew little about. Perhaps an artist’s style had to be adapted for work on such a large scale. She supposed that her recent brush with forgery had left her on the alert. The postmark attested that the letter and photos had indeed come from France. Besides, she could not bring herself to care whether the pool room twenty floors below had a mural or not. The only interest she had in hiring the artist was that it might mean the arrival of someone with whom she could possibly have a real conversation.

    Since bringing the artist in was Ida’s idea, the other ladies named her head of a newly created “Mural Board,” and she threw herself into plans for the big arrival. She roped Vera into helping her furnish 2A and make travel arrangements for Mr. Hallan, since Arthur would be the one writing the checks. The Mural Board agreed that $10,000 plus the cost of travel would be a fair price for what might take several months to paint. Vera suggested the room and board serve as a sort of deposit, with the money paid upon completion of the project. The artist would have comfortable accommodations within arm’s reach of his work, and deferring the payment would ease the concerns of anyone wary about hiring an unknown. If they did not like his creation, they would not have to pay.
    The maintenance staff and the chauffeur’s lounge occupied most of the second floor, so 2A was a modest two-bedroom apartment. From what she had seen of his work, Vera determined that Hallan would appreciate clean lines and delicate touches of color, and she furnished his rooms accordingly. She and Ida bought a six-person dining table, since he would hardly be expected to entertain much, and hired a housekeeper to cook and clean for him. The two women debated about whether or not he would need a valet. Vera thought not, since the girl would be perfectly capable of keeping up with one man’s calendar and wardrobe, but Ida thought he should have at least two servants. Weary of arguing the point, Vera allowed Ida to have her way. They booked a second-class passage on the SS
Leviathan
. Vera assumed that since she did not recognize his name, he would not necessarily be accustomed to first-class travel. With the apartment furnished, servants hired, and the ticket purchased, there was nothing to do but wait.
    Mr. Hallan sent Arthur a letter of introduction and thanks for the post, but Arthur handed the unopened envelope off to Vera. She studied the gliding letters, as thin and delicate as spider webs. Hallan explained that he had attended the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris and included a letter from one of his instructors there, who gushed about Hallan’s talent. That much, however, had been obvious to Vera from the photographs.
    Two weeks before the artist was scheduled to arrive, the Mural Board met in Vera’s library to discuss who ought to go pick him up. She thought one of the men should go, but as Hallan was scheduled to arrive in the middle of a weekday, the other women quickly voted that down. They were certain none of the men would be willing to interrupt their workday to go down to the docks.
    “As head of the Mural Board, I feel I should certainly be there to welcome Mr. Hallan,” Ida said, her hand fluttering to her chest.
    “I ought to go,” Caroline Litchfield cut in. “I’m the head of the Welcoming Committee, and he could be considered a new resident.”
    “I want to go,” Poppy Hastings said.
    “Why should you go?” Vera asked.
    Poppy’s cheeks colored. “I speak French.”
    Vera pressed her lips together for a moment, summoning all her patience. “He speaks English perfectly. Or at least he writes it. If we crowd the car with a delegation, there will