Five Brides (26 page)

Perhaps that had only been a facade. Now, after an afternoon of contemplation, she knew what she had to do.

She looked up in time to see George’s beautiful secretary walk across the lobby floor toward the front door. No, she didn’t walk. She sashayed, like that actress . . . that blonde one . . . What was her name?

Marilyn.
Yes.

Evelyn stood, straightened her skirt, and walked toward the elevators, attempting to do the same.
Heel in front of toes . . . heel in front of toes . . . wiggle, wiggle, wiggle like Marilyn Monroe.

She felt ridiculous, but it seemed such a proper way for a lady to walk.

A minute later, she repeated the action from the fifth-floor elevator to George’s office. She opened the outer door without making a sound, pausing long enough to hear George’s voice from the other side of another closed door. He laughed. So heartily, so easily. She wondered what it must be like to be so carefree in the face of such a day as this one had been.

Evelyn crossed the outer office, breathing in the lingering scent of his secretary’s perfume. She paused, drawing it deep within her lungs, then continued forward, stopping at George’s office door.

“. . . at ten o’clock in the morning,” he stated, then remained quiet for a moment. “I can schedule the depositions then or I can wait a week, whichever works best for you . . . All right then. We’ll wait.” George laughed again and Evelyn turned the doorknob slowly, opening the door with such ease, she wondered if George would even hear her.

When she peeked her head in, she saw that he had his back to her. He leaned in his chair, feet up on the desk and crossed at
the ankles. He wore only his suit pants and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves cuffed halfway to the elbow. His coat hung from the small brass hook on the bookcase. Even from this angle, and only half put together, he looked so handsome, so perfectly at ease, Evelyn wondered if she could go through with what she’d decided to do.

She stepped all the way in, her footsteps muffled on the carpet. She waited just inside until he said good-bye and dropped his feet to the floor, swinging around to replace the handset.

“Hi,” she breathed out.

“Evelyn—what on earth are you—?”

She raised a hand. “I need to talk with you.”

George stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked down. “I know I must be the—”

“Stop,” she said, and he did. “I get to talk first.”

He looked up—with his eyes only at first, followed by the lift of his chin and the tilt of his head. She tried to read his expression; George Volbrecht didn’t like to be interrupted and he surely didn’t like to be ordered about. But for once, she had something on him.

Even if only for a moment.

She turned to the sofa and said, “Can we sit?”

“Of course,” he said, as if all his gallantry training came back in a whoosh. He extended a hand. “Please.” He pushed the sleeves of his shirt down and grabbed for his coat.

Evelyn swallowed hard as she sat, then watched him until he sat next to her.

She spied it then, Betty’s purse, perched on George’s desk . . . waiting.

“Betty left without her purse,” she commented.

He glanced over his shoulder, then back to her. “Do you blame her? She went running after you, you know.”

Evelyn folded her hands in her lap and looked at them, waiting
for the courage to continue. “She never found me, I’m afraid.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I took the rest of the afternoon off . . . to think.”

“Look, Evelyn, I—”

She placed her hand on his. “Wait. I told you. I go first. After today, you can go first, but right now, it’s my turn.” She swallowed again, never wanting her eyes to leave his and settling finally on the cleft in his chin. She would speak to it, she decided. That would be easier.

“My father is a farmer,” she began. “So was his father and his father before him. I come from a long line of men who work the land—sometimes. Mostly, the land works them. It works them until they have nothing left to give . . . until they’re old before their time. I also come from a line of strong Southern women.” She laughed lightly. “I know how the movies often portray us . . . swooning and fanning ourselves out on verandas with a hundred acres of oak trees in the background and a black mammy standing close by with a glass of lemonade.” George smiled and she did, too. “Truth is we’re more like Scarlett in the middle of
Gone with the Wind
than at the beginning
or
the end.” She paused. Licked her lips. “But my mother and her mother, well they married for love, George. When they said, ‘for richer, for poorer,’ what they really meant was ‘for poorer.’ Not every Southern farmer is a plantation owner. Not all of them have fields white with cotton as far as the eye can behold, either.

“I made my mind up a long time ago that I wanted something more. Now Mama had her mind set that I would marry a boy named Hank Shute. And Hank’s not a bad fella, but his father is a farmer, and he’s already working his daddy’s land and I’m sure—one day when Hank has a son of his own—his boy will farm too.” Evelyn raised her eyes to George’s, to gauge what he might
be thinking. But his eyes were unreadable, like those of her daddy when they used to play a hand of cards.

“Hank wanted to marry me as much as my mama wanted me to marry him. But like I said . . .”

“You wanted more.”

“Yes. Now, I’ve had all day to study this thing and I know I’m not Betty Estes. I know I don’t have her sophistication or her clothes, and I know I wear these awful glasses and that I don’t know half of what you order at these restaurants you take me to. And . . .” She took another deep breath, allowing her gaze to drop back to the cleft. “I know you are in love with her.”

“Evelyn—”

Evelyn brought her hand up to his lips, touching them lightly with her fingertips, shushing him. “I also know she is
not
in love with you, George Volbrecht.”

Her hand returned to her lap, slowly, the way she’d imagined it would as she’d rehearsed these words earlier in the afternoon. She tried not to look at George too closely for fear of his radiant light sidetracking her, confusing her thoughts.

“But I am,” she continued. “In love with you, that is. And I don’t care that you don’t love me, George. What I
do
care about is becoming everything you want me to be. I want to know what you know. I want you to teach me what only you can teach me. And, more than anything in this whole wide world, I want to be the kind of girl you are not ashamed of anymore. So, then.” She squeezed her hands together. “If you’re willing to be my teacher, I’m willing to be your student.” Again her eyes found his, and she nearly drowned in the sea of blue. She gulped a bubble of air. “No strings. No conditions.”

He studied her, she felt sure to ascertain whether or not she was kidding. “A sort of
Pygmalion
,” he finally said.

“Yes.”

His eyes twinkled. “You know what I mean when I say
Pygmalion
?”

“Of course, George. I’m from the country, but it’s still
this
country. I went to high school.” She crossed her eyes. “I even graduated.”

He laughed, taking her hand in his. “Look at me,” he said when he sobered. “Do you know what these last few months have been about? You and me?”

“Yes. You’ve been working very hard at making Betty jealous. You thought she’d come running back to you when she saw that you’d moved on.” Evelyn raised her brow. “You see? I’m not so dumb.”

“No,” George said. “But that makes me a very not-so-nice person.”

“Indeed it does.”

He chuckled, and this time she laughed with him. “Evelyn,” he said with a toss of his sandy-blond waves. “The door is right behind me.” His voice was low. Somber. “I warn you now. Run. Run and don’t look back.”

“Would you say the same to Betty? If she were sitting here instead of me?”

“If I weren’t such a cad, yes. Truth is, I’m no good for her
or you
.”

Evelyn pulled her glasses from her face before placing her hands on both sides of his. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

The deep blue sea of his gaze turned to cloudy gray smoke. “You’re bound to get hurt.”

She didn’t care. She didn’t. If Evelyn had come to understand one thing that afternoon, it was that she had no desire to go backward. Only forward.

Wherever that took her.

She kissed him. Soundly. And he kissed her back, the same way she’d seen him kissing Betty earlier in the day. When their
lips parted, she smiled at him and he smiled in return. “I think—” she whispered—“excuse me, I
know
it’s time for you to take me to dinner. I didn’t have lunch and I’m about to starve to death.”

George stood, taking her hand to help her up. “You’re hungry.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Then learn to say it correctly. ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘I’m famished.’ A true lady is never ‘about to starve to death.’” He threw in an overexaggerated Southern accent.

Evelyn raised her chin. “George,” she said, trying her best to sound like Betty. “I’m famished.”

He winked. “Good girl.” He walked to his desk and picked up Betty’s purse. “I expect you’ll want to return this for me, then?”

She took it from him as gently as her emotions would allow. “I shall be happy to.”

George chuckled once more. “Good girl,” he said. “Very good girl.”

Joan stood at the doorway of Betty and Inga’s bedroom. “I’ve got a problem,” she told Betty, who stood at her dresser, methodically removing her pearl earrings and dropping them into a heart-shaped glass bowl.

Betty turned only her face. “What’s that?”

“I’ve got an interview with the Callahan Agency tomorrow during my lunch hour.”

Betty gasped, turning fully. “You’re kidding.”

Joan shook her head. “With a man named Pat Callahan.”

“With
Pat
?”

Joan nodded.

“Pat Callahan.” She spoke the name not as a question but more as if she didn’t believe Joan had said the name correctly.

“Is that good?” Her stomach turned as queasy as it had been the day of her hospital stay. Only this time, she’d eaten. “Do you know him?”

Betty shook her head. “Only
of
him. He’s a vice president at the agency, I believe. His father being president.”

Joan ran a hand over her hair, which needed a trim and a perm. “How do you know?”

“He knows Mr. Ferguson. They had lunch a few weeks back.”

Joan leaned against the doorjamb. “Did you meet him? Is he nice?”

Betty went to the bed and sat on the edge, hiking up her dress to unhook her nylons. “Oh, no. I didn’t actually meet him. Mr. Ferguson met him out somewhere.” She pulled one stocking from her leg and went to work on the other. “I can’t believe you want to leave Hertz.”

Joan sighed. “Time to move up in the world, Betts. I need to make more money and work fewer hours.”

Betty stood, turning her back. “Unzip me, will you?”

Joan complied.

“So, what’s the problem?” she asked, turning again. “You said you had a problem.”

“Would you have
anything
I could borrow for the interview? To wear, I mean?”

Betty’s lips turned up at the corners. “Again you need to snag an outfit from my closet.”

“Mmm . . .”

“I have the perfect thing,” she said, rushing toward the closet. “Simple. Creamy white. Very professional look.” She carefully opened the door and fumbled around until she pulled a coat hanger from the wooden rod. “Here ya go.” She extended the suit. “Need the shoes to match?”

Shoes. Of course.
Fortunately, they wore the same size. “Do you mind?”

Betty pulled a pair from the shoe rack stretched along the closet floor. “If you get the job, I’ll miss you,” she said, extending the pumps. “But I’ll celebrate every second with you.”

Joan held the treasures close to her chest. “If I get the job,” she told her, “I promise that, one day, I’ll do something wonderful for you.”

“For me?”

Joan held the suit and shoes up a little. “For this . . .”

“Think nothing of it.” Betty blinked a few times. “Joan . . . how’s Evelyn? I mean, really? Other than an offhanded remark about moving out, she’s hardly said two words to me in two days.”

Joan shook her head. “Evelyn is convinced she knows what she’s doing. I told her I don’t think George is good for her, but she begs to differ.”

Betty sighed. “She loves him, then.”

“Absolutely. And she knows he doesn’t love her, but says she’s willing to continue onward.” Joan waved a hand. “She even said something about
Pygmalion
.”

“
Pygmalion
?”

“Mmm.”

“Good heavens.”

Joan shrugged. “She’s a big girl, Betty. We have to let her have her way with this.”

Betty looked at the floor, planted her hands on her hips, and shook her head. “Poor Evelyn. She thinks she knows how to fight the bull, but this is a ring unlike any she’s ever seen before.” She crossed her arms and looked up. “Speaking of the bull’s ring, I’m going to see my parents for the first time in a while this weekend. Care to go with me?”