Five Brides (17 page)

“Hello, George,” Evelyn said as she approached the restaurant table. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“What took you so long?” He kissed her cheek as he always did when he greeted her.

And when he said good-bye. As long as they’d been going out, not once had he
really
kissed her. The way she imagined he might one day. The way she dreamed it.

“I got caught up in a project at work.” He held her chair out for her and she sat, tucking her full skirt under her. “I’m so sorry. I know you don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Well,” he said, returning to his seat, “you’re here now. I’ve ordered for us. Pork chops. Our meals should be here soon.”

Evelyn pushed her glasses up her nose. “Thank you. I’m sure whatever you ordered will be wonderful.”

“Evelyn,” George said, leaning his forearms against the edge of the table. “While we have a minute, I want to talk to you about your glasses.”

Evelyn blinked. “What about them?”

“There’s something new—relatively new. They’re called corneal lenses. They’re—” he brought his thumb and index finger together—“little. Not like old contact lenses. These you wear just on the cornea of your eye.” He circled his right eye with an index finger. “You know, instead of glasses.”

Evelyn blinked to keep from crying. She’d worn glasses since the age of thirteen, when her body had decided to turn against her, making her into a young woman, albeit a nearsighted one.
Men don’t make passes at girls in glasses,
she’d heard more times than she could count. And it hurt.

“What are they made of?” she asked, deciding that, in this case, to keep George happy meant having an intelligent conversation about something he found of interest.

“I’m not sure exactly, but I’ve done some reading up on them
and you can wear them, instead of those glasses of yours, for up to sixteen hours a day.”

Evelyn felt her brow furrow. “Do they hurt?”

“Does it matter, sweetheart? Think of how much better it will be for you.”

For her, she wondered, or for him? She reached for the water-filled crystal stemware at her place. “I—”

“You—”

They both chuckled. “You first,” she said.

“No, no,” he insisted, his eyes lighting up with merriment, which sent shivers down Evelyn’s arms. First he had called her sweetheart and now . . . gallantry. “Ladies first. I insist.”

“All right then. I—” But again Evelyn stopped when she saw their server approach with two plates of food. She looked at George. “Oh, my. This smells wonderful.”

He beamed across the table at her. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Quickly, before George could see her or comment on her custom, Evelyn closed her eyes and blessed her food. When she looked up, George’s eyes had followed the waiter to another table, then back to her. “Now,” he said, reaching for his fork, “tell me again what you were about to say.”

Evelyn shrugged as she, too, picked up her fork. “Only that the lenses must be very expensive.” She stabbed a snap bean with the fork.

George frowned. “This is no time to think of money, Evelyn.”

She brought the bean to her mouth and chewed, giving herself time to think. Then she frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“This snap bean tastes funny.” She peered at him. “Like wax.”

He shook his head ever so slightly. “What is a snap bean?”

She pointed to the pile of green “snaps” lying one atop another like a haystack. “These.”

“
Those
are green beans.”

She chuckled. “We’ve always called them snaps.”

“Well,” he said, reaching for his knife, “now you know better.”

Evelyn sighed. Yes, now she knew better. She laid her fork on her plate as he had shown her to do when still eating so that the waiter would not think her done with the meal. “George, Betty has been talking to me about getting my hair done differently.”

“Marvelous,” he said, not looking up from slicing into the pork chop on his plate.

“She says she knows a stylist and she’ll help me—”

His face shot up. “Help you what?”

“Help me. You know. If it’s too much to spare on my salary.”

George rested an elbow on the table—something Evelyn knew he’d chastise her for had she done so. His fork waggled as he pointed it toward her. “You know . . . That
is
marvelous. Betty knows all the best hairdressers.” He bounced a little in his chair. “Tell her . . . tell her for me to take you to David & DuRand.”

“Where Joan works?”

“Who?”

“Joanie.”
How could he have forgotten?

He waved the fork in the air again. “Oh, yes. Yes. Tell her to take you there. They have a counter where the women will help you with your cosmetics too. If you’re afraid of the lenses, the least you can do is find out how to wear your makeup to accent your eyes.”

Evelyn sat still, unable to move. The dichotomy of his words had both cut her and made her feel as though she might soar on eagle’s wings any moment. Perhaps he didn’t mean to be so cruel. Perhaps he didn’t understand that to speak to a woman about such
things was hurtful . . . Then again, that he seemed to care at all made her ecstatic. Hopeful.

She reached for the water glass.
Goblet.
“I will,” she said, her eyes meeting his. She took a sip. “I bet when Betty and I are done you won’t even recognize me.”

Magda and her sister made it to their uncle’s store just as a hand reached under the front door blind to flip the sign from Open to Closed. Magda hurried to knock on the glass, which rattled beneath her knuckles. The edge of the blind peeled away, exposing an eye and part of a woman’s cheek.

“Aunt Greta,” Magda said. “It’s us. We’re here.”

The lock flipped and the door opened. “You’re late,” she said. “Your poor
mor
and
far
have been worried you wouldn’t come.”

In spite of her testiness, Magda grabbed her aunt by the shoulders, squeezed, and kissed her cheek. “Sorry, Aunt Greta. I had to wait for Inga to get ready.”

Inga walked in behind her. “Inga just flew back from Los Angeles,” she said, announcing herself in third person.

Aunt Greta’s frown turned deeper as she closed the door behind them. “I don’t know why you insist on this way of life, Inga. A pretty girl like you . . .”

Magda waited, hoping to hear something similar, but the words didn’t come. She looked at Inga, who smiled at her sympathetically. She’d grown somewhat accustomed to the differences between them. Her hair, in spite of being technically blonde, looked more like dishwater in comparison to Inga’s, which sparkled in sunlight. Even their eyes—both blue—made them opposites in spite of their color. Magda’s had always been described as “clear blue,” while Inga’s were “sparkling blue.”

“Like the sea shimmers on a summer’s day,” their father had once said.

A voice came from the door between the store and the living quarters. “Where are they?”

Magda turned. “Mor,” she said, nearly running down the aisle between the canned vegetables and baking goods. She felt more than heard Inga’s careful footsteps behind her. Magda wrapped her mother in a hug. “I can’t believe you are here again.”

Mor, a lovely petite woman with hair the same shade as her own and eyes the color of Inga’s, kissed her daughter’s cheek multiple times before releasing her. “I missed my girls,” she said, reaching for Inga.

Inga hugged her mother dutifully. “Still,” she said, “it’s only been a few weeks.”

“Your father,” Mor said, lowering her voice. “He had business here.”

Inga gave a half grin. “The truth comes out.”

Mor playfully swatted Inga’s backside. “Now, now. None of that from you, little girl. I can still take you over my knee.” But she laughed at her own words, showing no real threat.

“If they were my daughters . . . ,” Aunt Greta said from behind them.

Before another word could be said, Mor interrupted her older sister. “But they are not, Greta.”

Childless Aunt Greta turned a deep shade of blush before moving on with, “Dinner will be ready soon. Let’s go into the back, shall we? I need to check on my potatoes.”

Mor slipped her arms around the waists of both daughters, turned her lips to Magda’s ear, and said, “I should not have said that.”

Magda kissed her mother’s cheek. “She had it coming.”

Mor squeezed her.

They stepped through the kitchen where the unmistakable and telltale aromas of dinner permeated the room: Meatballs with cream sauce. Boiling potatoes. And
ohhh!
Rose hip soup. Magda’s stomach danced in anticipation. While independence had its benefits, moments like this made her salivate for the benefits of her mother’s home.

“I’ll be back soon,” Mor said to Aunt Greta, who stood at the stove where several pots and pans gave off aromatic steam. Then, to her daughters, “Your father is with Uncle Casper, already talking politics.”

Inga laid her head on Mor’s shoulder. “Save me,” she said, her words dramatic.

They pushed through the swinging door leading to the small but bright living room/dining room combination of their aunt and uncle’s living quarters. Their father, dressed to the nines as always, sat relaxed on the low-backed sofa against the wall. He stood as soon as they entered. “There they are.” When he opened his arms to them, Mor released her hold before returning to the kitchen, and they walked ahead of her. He hugged them simultaneously as they kissed his cheeks. “You both look good enough to eat, and you both look hungry.”

Magda laughed, noting that Inga did not. Instead, she slipped out of their father’s embrace, walked over to their uncle, and gave him a quick peck. “Hello, Uncle.”

“Inga,” Uncle Casper said. “You look tired.”

She swung into the nearest chair and crossed her legs. “I am tired. I just flew back from Los Angeles. Even after a two-day layover, I’m exhausted.”

Magda frowned at her sister as she took a seat in another chair—a new one, she noted, rubbing her hands over the blond wood of the arms.

“Why you would want to spend half your life in the air flying back and forth, back and forth is anyone’s guess,” Uncle Casper said, sounding exactly like his wife. “Surely you don’t intend to do this forever.”

“Heavens no,” Inga balked. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, I promise you.” Her eyes held mischief.

“I would hope so,” their father said, returning to his place on the sofa.

Magda studied him—his full lips, the prominence of his nose, much like Harlan’s. He also wore glasses, although his were rimless spectacles. Far’s expressions, also like Harlan’s, were always studious. The look of intelligence beyond simply being smart.

“I’ve come to appreciate LA,” Inga continued, drawing Magda’s attention back to her sister. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if by this time next year I will have made my home there.”

“Inga!
You’ve never said.”

She smiled so brightly she reminded Magda of a movie star whose loveliness had been captured on an oversize poster for a Hollywood premiere. “I only just decided.” She looked back to their father. “What do you think, Far? Would you be proud of me if I—say—moved to California and became a famous actress?”

Controlled fury burned in their father’s eyes.

“What you need, Daughter, is to come back to Minnesota, enroll in school, and meet a fine young man so you can marry and settle down.”

Inga sobered. “Far, why would I need to go to college to meet a fine young man? Can’t I meet a man without walking the hallowed halls of education?”

“There’s a young man soon to graduate,” Far continued as if
Inga had not spoken. “He’s a seminary student and I have no doubt he’ll make a fine man of the cloth. He’ll also be a good husband and father one day.”

Magda held her breath—this couldn’t be happening. Surely their father had not come all the way to Chicago to tell Inga of a man he’d found suitable for her. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—to change the subject when Mor burst through the door. “Dinner is nearly ready,” she said. “I’m going to step upstairs for a moment.”

Magda dashed after her, offering her apologies to the others as she went up the stairs. “Mor?”

Her mother stood at the landing, surprise painted across her face. “Yes, Magda?”

Magda grabbed her mother’s hands and drew them up, close to her heart. “Can I ask you a question, between us?” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Of course. You know that.”

“Mor,” Magda said again, drawing in a breath, “how did you know?”

“Know what, darling?”

“How did you know that Far was the one for you?” Joy spread through her as she asked the question.

Her mother gasped as she placed her palms against her daughter’s cheeks. “You?”

“I’m not sure. Not yet, anyway.” She took her mother’s hands in hers again. “How did you know?”

Mor seemed to draw on a memory. “He was everything I wanted. Handsome, in his way.”

Magda nodded in understanding.

“So, so bright. So smart. What a mind.”

This time, Magda exhaled sharply, smiling.

“And a good Lutheran. He loved God more than he loved me, and that made me love him more.”

Magda’s eyes met her mother’s. She felt herself begging her mother for the right answer to her next question, even before she asked it. “Mor,” she barely whispered, “would you have felt the same had he not been?”