Read Online The Fifth Avenue Artists Society by Joy Callaway - Free Book Online

I’d insisted on attending anyway. I’d been desperate for the camaraderie of other serious writers. When we arrived, the host, a pock-faced man named Wayland, had immediately asked me to leave, stating that a woman’s attendance was improper. Charlie had defended me, prompting a heated exchange that ended abruptly when Charlie said that Wayland was too simpleminded to appreciate the complexity of my prose. Charlie had held my hand the whole train ride home. That was one of the occasions that made me realize I’d always loved Charlie, that he was my match.
    The strings began to sing behind me, disturbing the memory. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hopper.”
    â€œLikewise, Miss Loftin. I’ll see you and Franklin next Friday,” he said. “And if you don’t show, I’ll come fetch you. I know where you live.” He winked at me and I stared at him, wondering how in the world he knew. He held my gaze, and I looked away, before realizing he was referring to our earlier exchange. I sat down and leaned over Mr. Trent and Doctor Hopper.
    â€œAs you should, judging by the number of times your carriage has visited my lawn. I’ve noticed several tire depressions in the grass. If you wouldn’t mind telling your footman to keep to the drive, that’d be magnificent.”
    â€œOh, the atrocity,” he whispered. Dramatically placing a hand on his heart, he winked at me again and turned his attention to the players.

Chapter Six
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
    Y ou don’t remember where it is?”
    Franklin and I were walking down yet another unfamiliar cobblestone street in Manhattan. Passing mansion after mansion, the flicker of gas lamps flung shadows of elaborate gables and openmouthed gargoyles onto the street. I knew we were somewhere near Fifth Avenue. Nowhere else—possibly in the world—was there such an abundance of wealth encapsulated in such a small area. Franklin’s black evening jacket disappeared, then reappeared, in front of me as he stepped back into the light. He stopped for a moment, neck craning toward the door of a brick home that looked minuscule in comparison to the castle-like monstrosity beside it. Taking a few steps toward the door, he squinted at the number, shook his head, and kept walking.
    â€œNo. I do. It’s just that I’ve always taken the New York and Harlem to Eighty-Sixth Street. I’ve never taken the elevated line in. We’re farther south, so . . .” Franklin shrugged and stopped to wait for me to catch up. I walked faster. The black lace lining the white taffeta dress I’d borrowed from Bess was too long, catching on the edges of the cobblestones with each step. Bess didn’t know I’d borrowed it. She’d been in the city all day, selecting materialsat O’Neill’s for a hat Alva Vanderbilt had asked her to redo for her fourteen-year-old daughter, Consuelo. She’d be livid when she realized I’d worn the dress, but Mother had insisted I look presentable, and I’d barely noticed which dress she was helping me into. Instead, I’d been lost in thought. I hadn’t seen Charlie in two weeks—not even so much as a glimpse from my window—and though I knew my heart couldn’t bear his presence, it ached in his absence. Every morning, I woke wondering if he’d come for me, if today was the day he’d come to tell me that he’d called off his engagement to marry me instead. But with each passing week my hope was fading. Even if he loved me, he didn’t love me enough.
    â€œI recognize that one,” Frank said, gesturing toward an Italian Renaissance–style mansion with scrolled ornamentation edging the rectangular frame. I wondered how Doctor Hopper had the means to settle among the Fricks and Vanderbilts.
    â€œI thought Hopper was a doctor,” I said, breathlessly, finally catching Franklin.
    â€œHe is. This way.” We turned down a narrow alley,