Five Brides (31 page)

Joan decided to take a long walk around the Loop during her lunch hour, nibbling on a sandwich and sipping a soft drink from
the Automat. She glanced into shop windows, taking in the displays. Around her, Chicago hummed its usual lunchtime tune. Traffic, both pedestrian and automotive, buzzed by, the noise of it rising around the buildings, rattling the windows, and knocking on the doors.

She stopped in front of one and then another until nearly time to turn around and return to the Callahan Agency. She crossed the street with a parade of others, turned left, and started back down the sidewalk in front of a different set of windows. She merely glanced at these—her time now short—until one in particular caught her eye. The placard posted in the far-bottom corner read:

Do You Want to Work in Europe?

Tests to qualify for overseas positions

with the U.S. government

will be held at 9:00 a.m. this Saturday.

Come inside to register.

An unexpected wave of nostalgia and longing for England washed over her. For her mother’s cooking, her father’s laughter, and the constant “picking at” between her siblings and herself. She missed being close enough to visit them whenever she wanted. She missed their voices. And this sign, Joan realized, could be a ticket. A way not necessarily to Leigh, but closer to England.

Joan stepped to an outside trash can wrapped in fluted wrought-iron bars, depositing the wax paper that had covered her sandwich and the now-empty Dixie cup decorated with funny-looking leaves. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the storefront door, opened it with purpose, and entered.

The room was plainer than that of the first floor at the Hertz building, something she would have found hard to imagine without
actually seeing it firsthand. Government-issue desks and filing cabinets, bulky phones, and gray-metal Royal typewriters were the only items visible by way of office decor. If one could call it “decor.”

A young, uniformed man—baby-faced and scrubbed clean—sat behind the desk just inside. “May I help you?” he asked, looking up.

Joan pointed to the sign. “I’m here to register.”

His eyes followed the path of her finger. “You’re interested in going overseas? To Europe?” He opened the top-right drawer and removed a form, then slid it across the uncluttered desk toward Joan.

“I am.” She looked at the form, then back to the young man.

“You’re from . . .”

“Chicago. I live on Greenleaf out in the . . .”
Oh.
“You mean originally?”

He smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Leigh, Lancashire, England.”

An easy wince crossed his face, then fled. “And you’re sure you want to go to Germany?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re British, ma’am. You’d be considered . . .” His voice trailed.

“More of an enemy than the Americans?” Joan finished for him.

“Well, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pressed her lips together and looked back at the sign.

Even reversed, the words stirred something inside, like a God whisper in her ear.

Joan returned her gaze to the young uniformed officer and picked up the form. “Do I just fill this out?”

“Yes, ma’am. But you can take it with you. Bring it back on Saturday.”

Joan started for the door, but not before getting the final word. “And just so you know . . .” She focused her eyes on his. “I’m an American.”

What would have been Magda’s lunch hour had nearly come and gone, and so far, Barry Cole hadn’t bothered to even call the number on her résumé. The one that corresponded to the phone in the hallway.

She’d listened for the ring since returning home, hardly moving from the living room chair nearest the door. But the phone never rang.

“You’re crazy,” Inga said before huffing down the hall to her room.

“What’s wrong with
you
?” Magda hollered back, just as a knock came at the front door.

She whirled out of the chair, stumbling over her slippered feet, then grabbed the handle and jerked the door open. Barry Cole stood there facing her, framed by the door and draped in his overcoat.

“Mr. Cole,” she breathed out.

“Magda—Miss Christenson.”

“What are you doing here?” She took a step forward, forcing him to take one back, then another until they stood in the center of the narrow hallway.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

She pointed to the outside door. “Let’s go stand on the sidewalk,” she said.

“Can you tell me,” he began when they were halfway up the
steps, then paused until they reached the open sidewalk. “Can you tell me
why
you left? Did I say something to offend you?”

She crossed her arms against the chill in the air. He immediately removed his coat and draped it around her. “Mr. Cole,” she said, shivering in spite of the warmth from his body within the fabric. “You’re a married man. Why would you ask me to dinner? Even to discuss my manuscript, which is something I dearly want to see published, but not . . . not with
that
price tag.”

His eyes widened as he looked around, as though an answer to their dilemma might come dashing down the street and leap into his arms. “Married? Is that what you think? You think I was asking you out for ulterior motives?”

“Well, you
are
married.”

“No—I—” He looked down at his hand, to the band of gold gleaming in the post-noonday sunlight, filtered by the cold. “This,” he said, flashing it at her. “I never . . . I never told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Miss Christenson, my wife . . . my wife has been . . . my wife
died
some years back. She contracted meningitis when Deanne was seven and Douglas was nine. She died within a week.”

Magda’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Mr. Cole. I’m so—I didn’t know. I—” She thought over the things he’d said about his wife several months ago. That she sang like an angel. That the photo of them and the children had been taken years previous. “When I asked you about the photo . . . Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I suppose I thought you knew,” he said. He placed his hat back on his head. “Miss Christenson, please forgive me for not telling you. It’s not a conversation that comes easily, as you can imagine. I’ve not ever taken my ring off because . . . well, partly because I’m trying not to rush things with the children and partly because
I don’t want any wrong ideas in the office. Most of the people at Olson know, but I
do
have to meet with women from time to time—even at dinner parties and the like—and I try to keep everything aboveboard.”

“Of course you do.” Regret for questioning him welled up inside her. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Then you’ll come back to work? Today?”

Magda darted down the steps, then back up again, removing his coat as she did. “Here, Mr. Cole. Um—Barry. I’ll go grab my coat and purse and . . . we’ll take the train back into the city together.” She placed her hands on his arm. “Again, I’m so sorry.” She started back down the stairs, turning halfway. “And, Barry? I’d love to have dinner with you tonight.”

Evelyn counted the minutes until Joan came home from her work at David & DuRand. The official-looking letter propped against her roommate’s pillow mocked her, tempting her to rip it open. To see what lay inside the large manila envelope, packed thick and mysterious.

She was alone that evening, and as such, the torture had become nearly too great. If Betty had been there instead of off on another date with Pat Callahan, they could stare at it together. Then, when the temptation became too great, Betty would place her hand on Evelyn’s and say, “Now, now. A lady never reads another lady’s correspondence.”

Or perhaps if Magda had been home instead of working
again
with Mr. Cole on her manuscript . . . No. Lately, Magda’s nights were spent holed up in her room, typing on the portable typewriter he’d sent her home with. She would be no help at all.

Inga, of course, had become less agreeable over the past few weeks than anyone Evelyn had ever known. Even if Inga
were
at the apartment, Evelyn wasn’t sure she’d want to share the agony of not knowing the contents of the envelope. Or share anything else with her, really.

That left only her, then, to bring in the mail that afternoon and to occasionally glance up from her French lesson book to eyeball it.

She sat up straight on the bed, legs crisscrossed, and wore thick pajamas and wool socks in an effort to ward off the cold. Her book lay open on the bed in front of her and she bent over it. “
Un
,
deux
,
trois
,
quatre
—” The front door opened before she could get to
cinq
, and she scrambled off the bed. “Joanie?”

“Yes?” Joan called back.

Evelyn met her in the entryway. “Oh, good.” She helped Joan out of her coat.

“Where is everyone?” Joan asked, opening the closet door and pulling out a wooden hanger. She took the coat from Evelyn and hung it up, then draped her purse on one of the hooks inside the door.

“Betty is out with Pat.”

Joan raised a finger as she closed the closet door. “
That
I knew.”

“And Magda is with her boss.”

Joan linked her arm with Evelyn’s and proceeded to walk down toward their room. “I think a budding romance may be in the works, Evelyn.”

“Do you?”

Joan nodded. “I think her excitement is becoming more about Barry Cole than whatever short story they are working on together.”

Evelyn squeezed her arm as they entered their bedroom. “You have a letter on the bed there,” she said, nodding toward it. “Very official looking. Something from the US government.”

She tried to act nonchalant about it but knew she had failed by the look on Joan’s face.

“Oh.” Joan stared across the room to the letter.

“What is it, Joanie?” She returned to the bed, closing her French book.

“Are you done for the night?” Joan asked her, moving slowly to the dresser to remove her hat and gloves.

Evelyn shook her head. “No. Before class tomorrow night I’m supposed to be able to count to twenty. I’ve only gotten as far as fifteen.”

Joan shrugged. “That’s only five more numbers. You’ll get it.” She sat in the chair to work her nylons from her legs. “Evelyn, are you
sure
about this? I mean, taking French just to please George.”

“Oui, oui,”
she answered, giggling. “George’s mother says I’ll never learn—I can tell she doesn’t like me anyway—but I’m determined,” she said, holding up a finger, “that, by Christmas, I’ll be able to carry on a conversation with their cousin who is coming all the way from Paris for the holiday.”

“Well,” Joan said with a wink, “at least you’ll be able to count with her.”

Evelyn grabbed the envelope. “Ha-ha, Joan.” She waved it in the air. “Come on. I’m dying to know what’s in here.”

Joan stood to take it, staring at it as if it held top-secret information. She tapped her other hand with it a couple of times before sighing. “It’s either a letter of acceptance or a letter of rejection,” she said. “From the weight of it, I’d say it’s a letter of acceptance.”