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

past a wrought-iron fence protecting someone’s garden. The light scent of English boxwoods drifted over the pungent wood smoke billowing from surrounding chimneys and I inhaled the November air, huddling into my grandmother’s mink coat—a pelisse that Grandfather had given her on their wedding day.
    â€œNot to discount physicians, but unless he’s invented some new contraption, I don’t understand how he lives here,” I said as I tried to keep up. Franklin strained to see the numbers on another brick house.
    â€œThey’re related to the Carnegies somehow,” he said. Stunned at the comment, I watched as Franklin reached into his pocket, flipped his watch open, and glared at the time. “But I don’t know the particulars.” I thought of Mr. Hopper’s comment at the Symphony, his joking—or so I’d believed—about living on Fifth Avenue, and smiled, finding my first impression, and the irony of the whole thing, hilarious.
    â€œFrank, maybe we should knock and ask someone. Surely one of the housekeepers would know where they live.” Franklin’s nose wrinkled.
    â€œIt’s nearly eight at night, Gin. I’m not going to go traipsing up to some stranger’s door.” He exhaled in frustration and the cloud of his breath drifted past me, disappearing into the night. I thought of Mother, who was likely already tucked in bed reading the new Ladies’ Home Journal, and knew he was right. “Oh. There it is. Right there.” Franklin tipped his head forward, toward a stream of light coming from a house at the end of the block. My fingers curled around the hard edges of the leather notebook in my pocket. I hadn’t asked Franklin much about this gathering, mostly because I was afraid that if I heard the answer I wouldn’t go. At once, the editorial rejections my writing had accumulated in the past crept to the forefront of my mind— these characters are one-dimensional, the pace of this story is too tedious, the subject is dull. I didn’t want to stand in the middle of a circle reading a manuscript that I knew was far from perfect, reciting words that conjured Charlie. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to hold my tongue if a man like Wayland questioned my being there or insulted my work, as most male artists were wont to do—a diplomatic way of reminding me that I should be at home needlepointing or cooking. Even so, I knew what I wanted and that was to shape this manuscript into something worth reading. To that end, I would need to embrace critique and seek opinions—honest ones.
    Franklin was nearly to the door by the time I realized I was still in the road staring at the towering brick chimneys and limestone-edged turrets. He turned around when he didn’t find me beside him and started back down the stairs.
    â€œCome on, Gin,” he said. His cheeks were pink and the front of his hair stood on end. I reached up and smoothed it back down in an attempt to forget the sudden flash of Mother’s face in my mind, her smile when she’d seen me in Bess’s dress. I’d been so occupied with wondering about Charlie’s absence and how my writing would be received at the Society that I hadn’t given her satisfaction much thought. But now, standing outside of the Hopper mansion, the realization dawned on me: Frank’s friends, other men, wouldn’t only be appraising my writing. They’d be considering my appearance, my wit, my suitability as well.
    â€œI’m nervous,” I said. He threw his arm across my shoulders.
    â€œFor god’s sake, why?”
    â€œI’ve had plenty of things published for the Review , but I’ve never read anything meaningful out loud . . . especially to strangers or to men . . . well, other than to you or Charlie,” I lied. I’d never considered how other men perceived me, if they found me attractive or interesting. I’d never had to;