Five Brides (32 page)

Evelyn sat up straighter. “Acceptance to what?”

“To work in Germany for the next two years. With the US Forces.”

Evelyn wilted. “What? You’re leaving?”

“If this is what I think it is, then . . . yes.” She sat on the bed beside Evelyn. “Don’t you see, Evelyn? It’ll get me closer to my family, even if only for two years.”

“But . . . but what about me? You’d leave me here?”

Joan patted her shoulder. “You’ll be in good hands.”

“You mean George’s?”

Joan coughed out laughter. “I mean Betty’s.”

They stared at each other for a moment until Evelyn said, “Open it, Joanie.” She watched, hardly blinking, as Joan tore into the envelope, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and read the top page. “Well?”

Joan looked up with a half smile. “Looks like come January I’m heading to Germany.”

Magda treasured every moment she spent with Barry Cole, especially the extra ones that came after hours. In spite of her resolve not to do so, she’d become quite fond of him, his ability to get her published notwithstanding.

At least twice a week he’d asked her to dinner to talk and he always managed to keep it on course. But occasionally—blessedly—he broke from their conversation about characters and plot to mention something about his family. Or to ask about hers.

This time, unlike with Harlan, she managed to keep her thoughts and opinions about Inga to herself, mentioning only that she had a sister and that her sister worked for an airline.

And then, with Thanksgiving only a few days away and as he walked her to the train station, he mentioned his daughter’s program at their church, asking if Magda would like to accompany the family to see it. “Sunday night. Seven o’clock.” He held his hat in his hand, not having bothered to put it on yet, and twirled it on its side as though he were anxious to get her answer.

“I’d love to come. Do you—” She stopped as they neared the platform, not wanting the evening to end. “Do you think they will be okay with it? Another woman, I mean—even your secretary—needling in on a family event?”

He placed the hat on his head, tugging at the brim. “I think,
Magda, that you know I’m beginning to feel that you are more than a secretary.”

Her heart skipped inside her chest, nearly keeping time with the clackety-clack of one of the trains as it sped by, then screeched to a stop. “As a writer, then . . . ,” she mumbled, hoping he could hear her over the noises around them—the train, the other travelers, the wind blowing in from Lake Michigan.

She pulled her coat tighter around her and he cupped her elbows with both gloved hands. “Magda,” he said. “Look at me.”

Magda raised her eyes slowly. Carefully. She didn’t want to overstep her bounds, but she wanted—more than anything, she wanted . . .

Barry tipped his head as one index finger reached up to push the hat away from his forehead. He moved close to her face, beautifully close. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and waited . . . for hours . . . days. When their lips finally touched, sparks ignited like those under the El cars. He wrapped his arms around her, deepening the kiss as her hands gripped the sleeves of his coat and held on.

When the kiss ended, he crooked his fingers and tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We’ll have to do something about this, I know. I don’t think company policy will allow us to work in the same office much longer. But until we can figure it all out—” he kissed her lightly again—“we’ll just have to make do.”

This time she nodded.

He looked toward the platform. “I’ve got to get you on your train,” he said. “And get myself home before the kids’ grandmother thinks I’ve abandoned them for good.”

Magda laughed. His children. His mother-in-law. These people would be in her life soon. And she would be in theirs.

“I’ll come get you Sunday afternoon. Say four o’clock. We’ll
go out to dinner—all of us—to give you a chance to get to know everyone, and everyone to know you.”

She smiled up at him. “Okay.”

The light from the streetlamps illuminated his face. She searched his dark eyes. His handsome face. Everything about Barry Cole was gentle. Kind. Genuine.

“Where . . . where do you go to church?” she asked, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, and she didn’t want to say nothing at all.

“Lutheran Church of the Trinity,” he said.

She grabbed his coat lapels. “You’re Lutheran?”

His hands cupped her face, chilled by the wind. The aroma of leather and aftershave reached her nostrils and she breathed in deep, savoring it.

“I am,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

Somehow—mostly with Henrietta’s help—Inga had managed to steer clear of Frank during their overnights in LA. And somehow—maybe by her earnest prayer or just a stroke of luck—she’d been booked to work Thanksgiving Day. Spending the holiday at Uncle Casper and Aunt Greta’s with Mor and Far and Magda hardly seemed . . .
festive
. Especially now, what with Magda beaming like a lighthouse and pirouetting from room to room, going completely gaga over her boss’s
love
of her literary work. The way she carried on, one would think she had suddenly become the next best publication great since Jane Austen.

Then again,
if
she found herself forced to go—even for only an hour during the weekend—at least Magda’s joy would divert their attention from her.
If
she had to go, with her sister beside her, they wouldn’t notice the look in her eyes. Or the puffiness
beneath them. And perhaps they wouldn’t notice her lack of appetite.

Or that she was officially five excruciating days late in her menstrual cycle. If such a thing were possible to notice.

“When are you going to tell him?” Retta asked her as they jetted toward Los Angeles early that Thursday morning. They stood in the back galley, preparing snack trays for the passengers.

“Not until I know for sure,” Inga answered. “And keep your voice down.”

“Trust me, sweetie,” Retta said with a smile, “no one can hear over these engines.”

When
would
she tell Frank? Well, certainly not until she knew for sure. She’d made an appointment with a doctor downtown—one sure not to know that her real name wasn’t Henrietta Swift—for the middle of December. A few days later, she’d know. And, within a few days after that, she’d have a plan. Something practical. Something doable. Something that involved wearing that white dress from Carson’s.

Inga shook her head as she set a filled coffee carafe on a tray. Was the dress really all that important at a time like this?

If what she feared was true, Frank would surely do the honorable thing and marry her. Quietly, of course, even with her in a three-hundred-dollar dress. And, with her realizing the state of things so soon, they could pass off the early pregnancy as a blessing from God. Far and Uncle Casper would pat Frank on the back the way men do, acting like he’d done something macho. “Attaboy,” they’d say, laughing.

She would blush appropriately. And she’d allow her mother and aunt to cluck about and send her maternity clothes and little baby booties sewn and knitted with love. She and Frank would live in California, of course, so when the baby came early—just a
tad early—they’d pretend concern over its health and declare God’s goodness again that the little tyke had managed to come into the world at a strong weight.

She gripped the tray and hoisted it to one arm.

What burdened her about the only scenario she’d been able to come up with as yet was the fact that she didn’t
want
to marry Frank Martindale. Not now. Not after his flamboyant and ungentlemanly behavior. Like Retta said after the whole sordid affair, “You obviously weren’t his first, sweetheart, and you won’t be his last. With or without the gold ring.”

Marriage to Frank would mean a lifetime of wondering. Watching. She’d question every appointment. Every phone call. Every late night at the office. It would be her penance, not only to her parents—whether they knew it or not—but to God. She’d acted like Ava Gardner, sultry and sexy, throwing herself at a playboy, when all she had ever really been was a simple girl from Minnesota. A girl who reached for the stars, and caught hold of nothing but a handful of sand.

Thanksgiving Day had never spun Betty into such a tizzy before. Then again, she’d always spent the holiday with her mother and father. And Adela. Spending the day with the family of the most amazing man in the world was completely foreign to her.

And Betty didn’t necessarily
like
“foreign.”

“Très agréable de vous rencontrer,”
Evelyn hammered out from across the hall.

Betty crossed the hall between the bedroom she shared with Inga and the one Evelyn shared with Joan, her heels click-clicking on the hardwood floor. “Oh for pity’s sake, Evelyn,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, twirling the back of a pearl earring into place.

Evelyn sat cross-legged in the chair between the bed and the dresser. She looked up and smiled. “That means ‘Very happy to meet you.’”

Betty shook her head. “Only if you’re in French class. Try this on for size—
enchantée
.”

“On-what?”

“That’s how you say, ‘Nice to meet you.’ It means . . .” She waved her hand in the air and smiled. “Enchanted.”

“Enchantée,”
Evelyn repeated, then pointed to the book in her lap. “But I
do
have to know how to say this for class.” She switched gears and smiled. “You look pretty.”

Betty turned once in the champagne-colored suit she’d somehow managed to save twelve dollars for. She tugged at the black velvet collar highlighted with rhinestones and imitation pearls with her thumbs and index fingers. “Sharp, no?”

“Magnifique.”

“Très bien.”
She looked down the hall. “Where’s Joan?”

Evelyn shrugged. “Bathroom, I think.”

Betty crossed her arms. “Are you sure she’ll be okay here alone today?”

Evelyn closed the book and tossed it to the sofa. “She says she will.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get ready myself. George will be here in an hour.”

Betty sighed. “So, how’s that going?” She pointed to the book. “Besides your French classes.”

Evelyn shoved her glasses up her nose. “He’s paying me more attention these days.”

“More attention than
what
?”

Evelyn frowned. “I know you don’t think I know what I’m doing—”

“I
know
you don’t know what you’re doing. Evelyn—”

“But if everything goes as planned, Betty, I
believe
George
will
propose on Christmas Day, which is practically our anniversary, so it’ll be perfect.”

“Propose
what
?” Betty asked.

Evelyn giggled. “Oh, Betty,” she said as Joan sidestepped Betty to enter the room.

“Oh, Betty, what?” Joan asked.

Betty shook her head with a groan. “Never mind. Hey, Joan, are you
sure
you’re going to be okay alone here today? Pat
insisted
I bring you along if not.”

Joan shook her head. “He did no such thing.” She paused long enough for Evelyn to excuse herself and leave the room. “Besides,” she continued, “you’re meeting Pat’s family for the first time. I’m not about to cut in on that.”