Five Brides (38 page)

“Pat?” Betty blinked in confusion.

“Well,” Pat said, shoving his hands into his suit-coat pockets. “As I was telling your father, I know you and I haven’t known each other long, Betty.”

“You’re right about that.”

“But,” Pat continued, “I’m over thirty and you’re getting close.”

Betty pointed up at him. “Watch it.” Even as the words left her mouth, a sense of understanding fell over her and she knew—she
knew
—where Pat’s speech was headed. “Oh, goodness,” she breathed.

“I told your father a minute ago that I’ve waited a long time to find someone like you, Betty Estes . . .”

“Pat . . .” She brought a hand to her lips where it lingered, trembling.

“Long enough to know what’s what. I’ve got a good job—like your father said, I’m going places—and I believe that, in time, I’ll be able to offer you the best life has to give.”

Something like a whimper came from deep inside Betty. Time suspended and while she clearly saw his mouth moving, she could hear absolutely nothing. Not a word. Not even a syllable. Then, just as her ears began to clear, he pulled a small ring box from his right coat pocket and knelt down in front of her. “So, right here, right now . . . in front of the two people who brought you into the world, and of course Miss Adela over there.” He glanced beyond her father. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Estes, of becoming my wife?”

Betty stared at the ring, a single round-cut diamond set high between six smaller diamonds, three along each side. It caught the light from overhead, sending prisms of color. “Oh, Pat,” she said through her fingertips. “I don’t know what to say . . .”

“Here’s an idea,” he whispered. “Say yes.”

She looked into his eyes, so beautifully green, so filled with love. “Yes,” she answered, extending her left hand.

“Oh, praise Jesus,” Adela said from behind Betty’s father. Betty looked over in time to see the woman’s hands fly up into the air. “Baby girl has finally done it. She’s found the right man.”

“Adela, please,” Chloe Estes admonished as she reached over to take her daughter’s hand. She inspected the ring thoroughly before turning to her husband. “You knew about this, I presume?”

“Your future son-in-law asked permission while we were in the study.”

Betty looked down at Pat, who still knelt in front of her. “You are a sneak, Mr. Callahan.” She placed her hands on both his cheeks and kissed him sweetly. “And I love you.”

Her forehead rested against his as he said, “I love you too.”

“I suppose,” her mother said, drawing her attention away from Pat, “that we’ll need to talk dates. I’ll want to meet with your mother, Mr. Callahan—”

“Please, call me Pat.”

“And, Betty, we’ll want to start thinking about your dress. Your trousseau.”

Betty turned fully to her mother. “Actually, Mother . . . you don’t have to worry about a dress. I’ve already purchased one.”

Chloe Estes blanched. “What? Why would you already—?”

“The girls and I. We went in together and bought a wedding dress from Carson’s.”

Her mother sucked in her breath and her eyes grew large and rolled upward. “Please tell me you’re kidding, Betty.”

Pat stood, but not before taking Betty’s left hand in his and holding it protectively. “The girls? You mean, your roommates?”

Betty nodded as she looked up at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’d be beautiful in a gunnysack.”

Harrison Estes laughed heartily. “What’d you do, Betty? Each put money in?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what we did.”

Adela hummed a little appreciation as Chloe shook her head. “Betty, this simply isn’t done. I don’t care if the dress
is
from Carson’s.”

“Leave her alone, Chloe,” her father boomed. Then, to Pat, “Well, son, one thing I guess I can say is this: When we stopped paying her an allowance, she became thrifty. That’ll work in your favor one day.”

Pat smiled at her father, but his eyes turned serious when they returned to hers. “Don’t worry, Mr. Estes. I’m going to see to it that Betty never has to count a penny.” He squeezed her hand. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

Though not her idea of a romantic New Year’s Eve with the man she hoped to spend her life with, Magda nevertheless agreed to
celebrate the holiday with Barry and his family: Douglas, Deanne, and—of course—Nana. Her only time alone with him would be during the late-afternoon drive from the little apartment on Greenleaf to his home in Evanston, and then back home again sometime after midnight.

“Are you nervous about being in the house?” he asked as they pulled into what she assumed was his neighborhood.

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “You’re awfully quiet and I figured . . . this being your first time in my home . . . you know . . .”

When his words faded and failed to return, she finished for him. “You mean because this was the home you lived in with Barbara?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

In all honesty, she hadn’t even thought of it until that moment. When she entered, she wondered now, would she hear the ghostly vestiges of footsteps from a woman who had made the house a home for so long? Would the scent of her perfume linger in the rooms? Would her hand rustle the drapes as if a gentle breeze had passed through the room, only to leave behind an unexplained chill?

“Not really,” Magda finally said.

Barry smiled, relief passing across his handsome face. “That’s good. I almost couldn’t sleep last night thinking about it.” He turned the steering wheel to make a sharp right, then straightened it and continued forward. “What’s got your mind so far away then? Thinking about your next plot?”

Magda laughed lightly. “Maybe a little.” She looked out at the street, past the bare limbs of trees that would, within a few months, sprout new leaves—green and glossy. Snow laid a six-inch blanket over the sloping lawns, pockmarked occasionally by the
boot prints of children and paw prints of their best friends tagging behind. Magda smiled, remembering the way she and Inga had played in the snow, building “snowladies” instead of snowmen. Even then, Inga had exhibited a rebellious streak against the norm. “Mostly,” she admitted, “I’m thinking about Inga.”
And the mess she’s gotten herself into.

“Your sister?”

Magda nodded, keeping her face turned toward the frosty window.

“Is she working today?”

Magda turned her head ever so slightly. “Mmm-hmm.”
She says she won’t quit until she absolutely has to. Until she begins to show . . . or Frank comes to his senses.

“Are you feeling bad because she has to work on the holiday?”

“No. That’s not it.” She slid closer. “How much farther?”

Barry pointed to the left of the car. “See that house there? The American Foursquare?”

Magda laughed. “They’re
all
American Foursquare, Barry.”

He laughed with her. “Okay. The gray-brick American Foursquare.”

“You mean the one you’re pulling into the driveway of?” she teased.

He stopped the car, shifting the Buick Special four-door into Park. He looked out the windshield. “This is it. Rambling in places. Plagued by pipes that rattle and rooms I can’t seem to get warm enough in the winter or cool enough in the summer. But we like it.”

“It’s home,” she spoke gently.

Barry looked at the house with its wide front porch and short columns. “It is.” He took her hand in his. “Magda . . . one day . . . if you don’t like it . . . we can move, you know.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and, not knowing what else to say or do, she placed her hand on his and replied, “Let’s just get through tonight, shall we, Mr. Cole?”

The house invited her in whether the female inhabitants would or not. Garland strung up the narrow staircase leading from the foyer to the first floor gave an instant reminder of the season. Framed photos of the children from birth to present traveled upward along its wall. Inside the living room, to the right of the foyer, a large tree—heavy with ornaments but devoid of gifts—dominated an entire corner of the dark-paneled room. Comfortable yet elegant furniture gave the place a homey feel, one that eased the tension from Magda’s shoulders. On the coffee table, arrangements of serving dishes filled with appetizers greeted her, followed by the aroma of dinner cooking in the kitchen. She closed her eyes and breathed in, trying to imagine that this was, indeed, her home. That she was its mistress and these were her things.

“Nana!” Barry hollered, jolting Magda out of her reverie. She almost wished he wouldn’t call the others in. That he would allow them to enter at their own pace. In their own time. But as she opened her eyes, Douglas ran in from the back room—the dining room—where a long lace-draped table already set with fine china stretched across its center.

“Hey, Miss Christenson,” he said, throwing a hand up. He was dressed exactly as he was the night she first met him—as if he were headed to church—and she wondered if the child ever wore dungarees and play shirts.

Barry discreetly cleared his throat, followed by the boy extending the same hand to her and saying, “Welcome to our home.”

Magda shook his hand and smiled. “Please, Douglas. Call me Magda.”

“Only if you call me Rock.”

“Rock?”

“My son wants to be the next Rock Hudson,” Barry told her, his voice low and confidential.

Magda raised her brow. “Oh, I see.”

“I saw him five times in
Bend of the River
at the movies. Did you see it, Miss—Magda?”

“Why, yes, Rock,” Magda answered, raising her chin. “As a matter of fact I did. And I thought he was quite handsome.”

“Handsome, nothing. Did you see the way he carried his gun?”

“Oh, here we go again,” Deanne declared as she stepped into the room with her grandmother behind her carrying a large meat-topped platter.

“I hope you like ham, Miss Christenson,” Harriet Nielson called toward her. “Because we have plenty of it.”

“I love it,” Magda answered. “Is there anything I can do to help?” But the woman had already left the room and returned to the kitchen. She looked down at Deanne, who had also dressed up for the occasion, leaving Magda to wonder if her choice of a simple skirt and sweater set—even with the rhinestone buttons—had been appropriate. “You look very pretty this evening,” she said.

Deanne neither frowned nor smiled. “I’m to be on my best behavior or I’m on house arrest for a month. I won’t even be allowed to watch television.” She harrumphed and glared at her father, which forced Magda to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She placed her hand on Deanne’s back, felt it flinch, and then removed it. “I’m sure your father was kidding.”

“No, her father was not,” Barry said, sliding out of his coat. “Let me take your coat, sweetheart,” he offered, which called forth a sigh from Deanne. “Young lady, go help your grandmother.”

Magda handed her coat to Barry, who handed them both to
Douglas. “Here, Rock,” he said with a lilt in his voice. “Hang these up for the old sheriff in town, will ya?”

“Hang ’em up and hang ’em high,” Douglas called out as he walked into the foyer.

Magda giggled. “He’s something else,” she said. Then, lowering her voice, “And I think he likes me.”

Barry kissed her cheek before whispering into her ear. “Not nearly as much as the old sheriff.”

In spite of her surroundings, Magda kissed him back. “Yee-haw.”

January 1953

Amsterdam

After seven days on a ship, Joan docked in Amsterdam midmorning on a Tuesday. The nearly twenty civilians on board with the US Forces had been notified the night before as to where to meet after disembarking. What papers to have in hand. Whom they should and should not interact with.

Joan made it her business to arrive early to the area of the platform where a uniformed soldier with a clipboard stood waiting. “Hallo,” she greeted him. Like the young man in the office back in Chicago, Joan reckoned this chap couldn’t be more than eighteen. Nineteen, tops.

“Name, ma’am,” he said.

“Joan Shirley Hunt,” she supplied. She leaned over to observe the forms on the clipboard. “Looks like I’m first.”

The soldier checked the tiny box next to Joan’s name just as another civilian scurried toward them, breathing heavily. “Is this where the civilians coming to work for the US Forces are to meet?” she asked, her voice barely audible.