Cate Campbell (31 page)

“Henderson concurs?” Dickson rumbled.

Margot nodded to her father. “He does. With good care and a lot of rest, we expect Blake to improve significantly. He may even, one day, make a full recovery.”

There were murmurs of relief around the room. Margot fixed Preston once again with a hard gaze, and he met her look with a challenging one of his own. Any pretense of fraternal affection between them was at an end. The battle between them was joined, even if they were the only two who knew it.

Preston said, with a nonchalant air, “Is he talking?”

Margot let a beat pass, watching her brother’s face, before she said, “Why do you ask that particular question, Preston?”

His lips curled in a cherubic smile, and his eyes didn’t flicker. “Well, of course, I’m not a medical man—like you—” The subtle insult didn’t escape Margot. She felt her father tense beside her on the sofa, but she let it pass. “But you know—a fellow hears the word
stroke
and he thinks speech problems. What’s that word? A—a—”

“Aphasia?”

“That’s the one.”

Margot turned slightly on the sofa so she was facing her father. “Blake hasn’t been able to speak,” she told him. “But he’s moving his hands and his feet, and he’s been able to eat and drink. It’s hard to predict how much movement he’ll recover.”

Dickson said, “We’ll bring him here. We can hire a nurse, and—”

“I don’t think that’s best, Father. He needs more care than one person can provide.”

“What will we do, then?”

Margot let her eyes flick over Preston, as if by chance. “I’ve moved him to a convalescent home,” she said. “He was transported there by ambulance this afternoon.”

“Where?” Preston asked, and Margot thought his tone was a bit sharper than he intended.

She said mildly, and untruthfully, “Oh, it’s a private home out of the city. There was no place in Seattle for a colored man to go.”

Preston was about to press her, she could see, but Dickson said, “They’ll send me the bills, of course.”

Margot nodded. “Of course, Father. I knew I didn’t have to ask you.”

“Can he have visitors?” Dickson asked.

“For now, it’s better he has complete rest. I’ve left orders to that effect, and arranged a special nurse. He’ll have the best of care, Father.”

Edith said, “That’s very good news, Margot. Isn’t it, dear?”

Dickson nodded, and in a rare display, turned his hand over to grip Margot’s. “Thank you, daughter. I know you’re doing all you can for him.”

She squeezed his hand just as Leona appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.

 

When dinner was over, Dickson went out onto the wide front porch to smoke his cigar. Margot followed, taking a seat next to him on one of the white wicker chairs. The summer twilight glowed over the city, and in the distance the waters of Puget Sound glistened with faint starlight. The heat of high summer had given way to a cooling evening breeze, scented by the roses Blake had nurtured all around Benedict Hall. Margot shivered a little in her short-sleeved frock, but she didn’t want to go in for a wrap. It wasn’t easy to find a moment alone with her father.

He leaned back in his chair, cigar clamped between his teeth. He stared across at the park, where the brick water tower rose into the darkness. “What was it between you and Preston tonight?” he asked in a low tone.

She said, just as quietly, “I think perhaps you already know.”

He heaved a smoke-filled sigh. “Blake came to see me,” he said.

“He told me he was going to do that.”

“He said Preston told the hospital you had performed Loena’s abortion.”

“Yes. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about my meeting with the board.”

Her father turned his head to her, and his heavily lidded eyes were sharp and sad. “You didn’t do it, did you, daughter?”

“I did not.”

He looked away again, out into the gathering darkness. A mosquito whined past, but didn’t alight. “I couldn’t believe,” Dickson said slowly, “that Preston would do something like that. I knew Blake would never lie about a member of the family, but—I thought he was confused somehow. That he had misunderstood.”

Margot waited in silence. Her father, she thought, had to come to understand about Preston in his own way, and in his own time. Dickson was a canny and insightful man. It was one of the reasons he had been successful in his business and financial affairs. He knew and understood people—except for his youngest son.

“It seems very strange,” Dickson said, his voice dropping even lower, “that this terrible thing happened on the same day. Blake looked fine when he was in my office. Troubled, of course. Sad, I believe. But not ill.”

“No.”

The cigar had gone out, but Dickson still chewed on it, rolling it across his teeth as he ruminated. “I suppose a heart attack can happen like that, out of the blue?”

“Usually there are some warning signs. Not always.”

“I guess I have to accept that Preston tried to hurt you.” A pause. “Do you think he caused the accident?”

“I don’t know any more about that than you do, I’m afraid,” Margot said. She went on gently, knowing her words would wound him. “What I do know is that Preston went to Blake’s room at the hospital at four o’clock this morning. That’s what was between us this evening. Frank was there. He spent the night watching over Blake because he knew I was worried. Frank woke up just in time, and Preston bolted.”

Dickson took the cigar from his mouth and turned it this way and that in his fingers, gazing at it as if its dark wrapper might be hiding an answer. He blew out a breath, and shook his head. “No one visits a hospital at four in the morning. Not in any reasonable way.”

“No.”

“That’s why you’re not telling the family where Blake is.”

“I feel that’s best, Father.”

He turned his face to her, and even in the darkness she could see how his features sagged, dragged down by sadness and shame. “Be sure the bill comes to my office, Margot. Not here. Not Benedict Hall.”

She nodded.

“Can we avoid telling your mother about this?”

It was Margot’s turn to look out into the darkness. Gooseflesh prickled at her bare arms, and she hugged herself against the cold. “I know Preston is special to Mother,” she said. “But there’s bound to be more trouble with him. I’m afraid you can’t protect her forever.”

“I’ll have a word with him, of course.”

“I hope it helps, Father. I really do hope so.”

The brief season of high summer faded quickly in the Pacific Northwest, and Frank’s hopes of a new position disappeared with it. Carter and Preston had made a thorough job of ruining his reputation in Seattle. He made the rounds, asked questions, presented his credentials, but without any luck. His months at the Boeing Airplane Company opened doors to him at first, but when he gave his name, interviews were canceled without explanation, telephone messages not returned. He had sold his British Army greatcoat, but even that money was gone now. It was time to move on.

He had to find a way to explain this to Margot, and that was bad. Even worse, it meant that Preston Benedict had won, and Frank hated that even more than the coming separation. He could hardly ask Margot to leave her clinic and come with him. He had no home to offer her, no income, and for the moment, no future.

On a rainy September afternoon, he retrieved his valise from the wardrobe where he had stowed it when he first moved into Mrs. Volger’s and, with a heavy heart, began to pack his things. He indulged himself, this once, in a good shot of whisky in the afternoon, something to soothe the unrelenting pain of his arm and to cushion the despair that made his eyes burn and his feet drag.

He gave a guilty start at the knock on his door, and he quickly capped his flask and thrust it into his trouser pocket. He crossed to the door, and opened it to find Mrs. Volger in the corridor. “It’s the mail, Major,” she said brightly. She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her housedress and showed it to him, a thick beige square bearing his name and address in an elegant copperplate hand he didn’t recognize. “It looked important, so I brought it right up.”

He hadn’t opened the door very wide, and she leaned to one side in a not-very-subtle attempt to see what he was doing. He was tempted to take the letter and close the door, to postpone the inevitable and uncomfortable conversation they would soon have. Instead, he stepped back, and pulled the door as far open as it would go.

She stared at the pile of clothes lying on the bed beside the half-packed valise. “Taking a trip, Major Parrish?”

He said, “No. I wish I were. Please come in, Mrs. Volger.”

She took a tentative step inside, something she never did when he was home. She was careful to clean and change linens when her tenants were properly away at their work. “What’s all this, then?”

The letter was still in her hand, and he wanted to see what it was, but he knew he owed her an explanation. “Mrs. Volger, I’m—I’m sorry to say I’ve lost my job.” It was hard to speak the words, embarrassing. Shaming. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and it encountered the hard, slim silhouette of the flask. He pulled it back out again and stood awkwardly, looking down into his landlady’s wrinkled face.

She said, with sincerity, “Oh, no! That’s terrible news. You can find another, though, I’m just sure, a nice young man like you.”

“I’ve been trying,” he said. “I think I’ve tried every place there is. The employment picture in Seattle is . . . well, I don’t need to tell you how hard times are.”

“But you—an engineer. An officer. A—” She waved his letter in the air as she searched for other ways to describe his good qualities.

“I sure wish things were different. I was going to give you my notice today.”

She stood shaking her head, gazing at the modest pile of his possessions heaped on the coverlet. “You’re my very best tenant, Major Parrish,” she said sadly.

He didn’t know why that should be, but he let it go. Perhaps it was the flowers that made her say that. Perhaps being a landlady could be as lonely as being a one-armed, unemployed engineer. He said only, “Kind of you, Mrs. Volger. I’m sorry to leave.”

She looked up at him suddenly, her faded eyes brightening. “I can give you a month,” she said. She tapped her chin with the corner of the beige envelope. “While you try to find work. You can make it up to me later.”

Again, he said, “Kind of you, but I think I’m going to have to try a different city. Maybe San Francisco.”

Her face fell. “Oh. Too bad. That’s so far away.”

“I know.”

“Well, a young man has to have work, I suppose.”

“Yes. I’ll be on my way by the end of the month, if you want to rent the room.”

She sighed, and turned toward the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “You remember. I can give you a month on account, if you change your mind.”

“Thanks.” She stepped through into the hall, and it seemed she had forgotten her original errand. “Er—Mrs. Volger?”

She turned back to him, eyebrows raised, then remembered the letter in her hand. “Oh! Oh! Yes, your letter. I do hope it’s good news, Major Parrish. I expect you could use some.”

He took the letter from her. She watched him for a moment, as if hoping he might read it while she was there, share its contents. That was too much for him. He nodded to her, thanked her again for coming up the stairs, and closed the door.

He sat down by the window, first pulling the flask out of his pocket. He uncapped it, something he had become deft at doing with one hand, and took a healthy swig before he set it on the round table beside the letter. There was no return address, but it was clearly his name, in full, written above the address of the boardinghouse. He turned it over and worked his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It was only lightly glued. It popped free easily, and he shook out the card inside.

It was one of those engraved things, an invitation, the typeface all curlicues and sweeping capital letters, deep burgundy ink on heavy beige card stock.

Frank stared helplessly at this incomprehensible missive. Why on earth would Edith Benedict invite
him,
of all people, to an event honoring someone he had never heard of, much less met? He was about to reach for his flask, to soothe this new irritation, when he heard the telephone shrill in the downstairs hall. Moments later, Mrs. Volger’s heavy step sounded again on the stair, followed by a knock on his door.

With an exasperated laugh, Frank tucked the flask underneath the day’s newspaper, and went to answer.

“Major Parrish, you have a telephone call,” Mrs. Volger panted. “She says it’s—Doctor something. Dr. Benedict? Does that sound right?”

With a rush of relief, Frank said, “Yes, Mrs. Volger. It sure does!” He hurried out, pulling the door to his room closed behind him. “Thanks!” he said over his shoulder as he pattered down the stairs to the hall table. It was a bit tricky for him, holding the earpiece of the telephone in his hand, leaning down so he could speak into the receiver. “Hello? Margot, I hope that’s you!”

Her deep chuckle reassured him. “Hello, Frank. I tried to catch you before it came, but I suppose you already have it.”

“If you mean this invitation, yes. What have you got me into?”

She laughed. It was good to hear, after the stress of the past weeks, and it made him smile even as he bent nearly double over the little table. “I’ve got you into some silly party, Frank. I hope you won’t mind too much. It’s my cousin—my mother’s niece. Allison. It’s her debutante year, and they wanted to have her first public party at Benedict Hall.”

“But, Margot—why me?”

“Oh! Mother insisted I have an escort. She says it’s improper for me to attend on my own, and she insists I be there.” There was a brief moment of silence, filled only by the faint clicking of the telephone line. Or someone listening in. Margot said, “You can say no if you want to.”

In fact, Frank’s first thought had been to refuse. Of course he would feel out of place and awkward, but it was the perfect excuse to postpone his departure a few days. Perhaps he could find the right moment to explain to Margot why he had to leave Seattle. He said, hastily now, “I’ll come, if you want me to. Can’t have Dr. Benedict going to a party unescorted.”

“It’s so silly, isn’t it? All the things I do in the clinic, in the hospital—but I can’t go to a garden party without a man holding my elbow!”

“You’d better explain what Mrs. Benedict means by cocktail attire,” he said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No one has,” she answered in a wry tone. “That was Preston’s idea. He says they’re holding ‘cocktail parties’ in New York, and if Mother wants to be a fashion leader in Seattle, she should, too.”

“Does she want that?”

“What she wants—as always—is to make Preston happy. He’s going to write up the party in ‘Seattle Razz,’ so everyone has to look modish and up-to-date.”

“I don’t have a dinner jacket, Margot. All I have is my dress uniform.”

“Oh, Frank,” Margot said, and she laughed again, a deep sound that filled him with pleasure. “Please do wear that. Mother will
love
it!”

 

Margot, wary of another disaster like the photograph of her in the
Times
at the hospital benefit, turned to her sister-in-law for assistance in the matter of her dress for the garden party. Ramona looked wise when she approached her. “We must go shopping, Margot.”

“Do we have to? We couldn’t just order something . . . ?”

Ramona’s laugh dismissed that idea without even a discussion. They were at breakfast, and Ramona rose from the table with a determined look.

“Absolutely not, Margot,” she said, with an air of authority. “There’s no time for you to be properly fitted, of course. We’ll have to get something
prêt-à-porter
down at Frederick’s, and there’s really no time to lose. Why not go this morning?”

Meekly, Margot put down her coffee cup and stood up, pushing back her chair. The men were already gone. Edith had disappeared with the debutante and her mother to choose flowers and ribbons for the event. Loena and Leona stood together just inside the door, waiting for the last of the family to finish their breakfast. As Margot and Ramona approached the door, both maids curtsied. Margot rolled her eyes, and Loena giggled, making Ramona cast her a sharp glance.

“That girl is getting above herself,” Ramona said when they were in the hall gathering their things.

“She’s not, really, Ramona,” Margot said. She made an effort to keep her tone mild. “I saw her yesterday at the clinic for a follow-up exam. She’s just a bit giddy, happy with life in general. She knows how close she came to dying.”

Ramona sniffed, but said nothing more. She made a brief telephone call to order a taxi, and it was soon waiting for them at the foot of the walk. They went out, side by side, and the taxi driver jumped out of his automobile to hold the door for them.

Ramona, it seemed, knew the proper taxi company to call. This driver was neatly dressed, and his vehicle was spotless. Margot found herself, in a very short while, stepping out on Pine Street. The Frederick’s doorman, a well-spoken Negro in a billed cap and black leather gloves, opened the door of the taxi, then scurried ahead to hold the door of the store for the ladies. Ramona, without giving him so much as a glance, swept past. Margot followed, smiling at the man as she passed him. He bowed, and she thought, with a pang, of Blake.

She had gone to see Blake the night before, after her clinic hours. It required a streetcar ride and a walk of a half dozen blocks, but she had been rewarded by seeing him sitting up, listening to Sarah Church read from the
Times
. His eyes had brightened when he saw Margot. He managed to mumble a hello, and to take her hand in both of his and squeeze it.

The East Madison Convalescent Home was modest, even shabby, but it was clean and the staff was friendly. Sarah saw to it that Blake had everything he needed, but still Margot went to check on him every evening she could. His whereabouts were still a secret, even to Dr. Henderson.

“Margot?”

Margot blinked, startling out of her reverie. She had followed Ramona automatically, up in the elevator to the third floor, and now a saleswoman in a tidy coatdress, with a tape measure draped around her neck, was looking her up and down as if she were a mannequin to be adorned. The saleswoman said, in a cool voice, “Madame has a lovely figure.”

Margot bit her lip to keep from laughing at this, but her sister-in-law clearly didn’t find it amusing. She nodded sagely, one finger to her lips, and said, “Yes, she does. She won’t need a corset, that’s certain. Her legs are terribly long, though.”

“Your message said cocktail attire?”

“Yes.”

“So very chic,” the woman murmured.

“It’s to be a garden party at Benedict Hall. My cousin’s debutante year, you know.”

“How lovely,” the saleswoman said smoothly. “Well. Most frocks are above the ankle this season, so I’m certain we can fit Madame. If Madame will permit?” She whipped off the tape measure with a practiced gesture, and began to measure Margot’s shoulders, her hips, her waist. She conferred with Ramona over colors and fabrics before she disappeared into a back room. Margot stood, bemused, while Ramona toured the racks around them, fingering dresses, eyeing displays.

“This will be excellent for Madame, I think,” the saleswoman said. She had returned with a gown draped over one arm, a silk slip and a long gauzy scarf over the other.

“Oh, good,” Ramona said. Margot found herself a moment later in a dressing room. The two other women helped her out of her simple day frock and into the slip and the proposed evening gown. The saleswoman led her back out into the showroom, and pirouetted her before a long mirror while Ramona watched with a professional air. Margot had never seen her sister-in-law so confident. Ramona, clearly, was in her element.

She had to admit that Ramona and the Frederick’s saleswoman knew what they were doing. The gown was long and narrow, a silk georgette crepe in a warm peach color. It sparkled with crystal beads, flowing easily over Margot’s narrow hips. Its scalloped hem fell just to her ankles. The saleswoman stood to one side, her hands clasped to her cheeks in admiration. “Oh, Madame! So elegant. It’s perfect.”