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

Charlie’s friendship, his love, had always convinced me that I was both of those things. But now, suddenly without him, I was unsure. I held on to the freezing metal railing and started up the scrolled concrete steps, hearing the muted sounds of laughter and voices behind the glass doors set in gilded wrought-iron frames.
    â€œYou’ll never be forced to read anything aloud, though I’ve heard it can prove to be helpful,” Franklin said, opening the door and pulling me inside before I could reply.
    We started down a dark hallway and then turned into a drawing room. At first glance, it looked just like Charlie’s friend Wayland’s gathering—smoke so thick we could have been floating down a southern river with Mark Twain’s Huck and Jim, everyone clutching a pencil or paintbrush—but the setting was different. The sweeping gold curtains, the fresco of flying cherubim alongthe ceiling, and the shiny Weber grand piano in the front corner of the room all pointed to the splendor reserved for the mansions industrialists built—a stark contrast to Wayland’s plain home.
    â€œCome on. Let’s find Lydia,” Franklin said beside me. Having no idea who he was talking about, I squinted into the smoke and dim, and his cold hand found mine. The room was packed. We passed by a few painters working on projects next to easels displaying finished pieces. I watched as groups of people shifted from one painting to the next, gesturing to their peers beside them, leaning into each work as if they were scrutinizing it. We skirted around the fireplace and nearly ran into an assembly of men and women laughing and talking in the middle of the room, as if this sort of intellectual mingling between sexes were common.
    â€œThat line about love was magnificent,” I heard one of the women say to a bulky man sitting on a stool, “but the ending could’ve been written by a child.” I waited for the man to respond with a retort about her juvenile scrawling, but only heard a deep chuckle. I dug my fingers into the swathe of black taffeta along my arm and pinched, stunned to find I wasn’t dreaming. Somehow, it seemed John Hopper had located dozens of men who considered women’s artistic endeavors profound. As if my thought conjured him, there he was, reclining in a corner a few feet from the fire in a yellow upholstered armchair, surrounded by a group of at least ten women. Mr. Hopper’s notebook was open on his lap, and as he dipped his head to continue reading, a lady standing beside his chair casually brushed her hand across his shoulder. The gesture was innocent enough, but at once, I recalled Charlie’s comment about Mr. Hopper’s reputation. I recalled the ease of our conversation at the Symphony, the way his focus had given me the impression that he was fully interested in every word I said. Was that how he drew women in?
    Frank’s hand jerked me forward, away from Mr. Hopper and his admirers. I inhaled, choking on a particularly pungent cloud of burning tobacco. I heard the hollow wail of a cello beneath the noise and the higher trill of a violin suddenly stop mid-note.
    â€œFrank! You’re here.” The smoke seemed to subside around us and I blinked to clear it from my eyes as a petite blonde shoved her violin into the cellists’ occupied hands and lunged for my brother. Her arms circled his neck and he pulled her close, hands resting on the gray satin wrapping her tiny waist. The embrace was so intimate, so familiar. I stared at him, shocked that he’d clearly fallen in love without mentioning it—just like he’d failed to mention the Society. It was unlike him to withhold things from me.
    â€œMiss Lydia Blaine, this is my dear sister, Miss Virginia Loftin,” Frank said. I tipped my head to Miss Blaine who leaned in and hugged me.
    â€œOh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said. “Franklin has been