Five Brides (41 page)

“I warned her,” George said, his eyes now locked with Betty’s. “I told Evelyn more than once that she should run from me. What she chooses, she
chooses
. For herself.” He leaned over and kissed the woman’s cheek, murmuring something in her ear before returning attention to Betty. “As for the French, I’m sure it will come in handy at some point in her life.” He shook his head and put on a snarl. “Amazing, isn’t it, that she didn’t learn another language down there in Podunk.”

“Portal, George,” Betty said, leaning over. She cocked a brow as
she supported herself with her fingertips on the table. “A fine town full of good people. As for language, get this:
Vous me dégoûtez.
”

“What does
that
mean?” the woman asked, sounding more like a harlot than a socialite.

Betty straightened, smiling. Apparently George’s date, the woman she suspected shared his bed, didn’t know French either. Meaning, of course, that Evelyn—poor, sweet Evelyn—was one up on her.

“It means,” Betty said, “that he has a long way to go to reach the qualities of Evelyn Alexander.” She started to step away, then looked back to the pretty but startled face. “As for you—whoever you are—if you’re planning on a future with this cad, I sincerely hope you’ve had your shots.”

“Ginger ale over ice, please,” Inga said to the waitress when asked for her drink order.

Frank stared at her without blinking, then turned to the petite woman who stood beside their table balancing a round tray against her hip. “I’ll have my usual.”

The woman gave him a sweet smile before saying, “You got it, Mr. Martindale.”

She walked away, Frank watching her every wiggle to the bar.

“Does she know?” Inga asked, startling him back to her.

“Know what?”

“That you’re going to be a father come July.”

Frank leaned over, resting his arm on the table. “That hasn’t exactly been proven, now has it? My being the father, I mean.”

Inga pinched her arm as a reminder that her plan was to be nice. To speak reasonably. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. We’ve already established that I can’t prove that.” She took a deep breath,
preparing herself for the speech she’d rehearsed a dozen times that day alone. “Frank,” she began, but stopped when the waitress returned with her ginger ale and Frank’s Tom Collins glass filled with something pale amber in color, small cubes of ice swimming in it.

He took a sip, then looked up at the waitress, who had yet to leave. “Perfect,” he said, then winked.

She smiled back before turning and leaving the two of them alone again.

“Friend of yours?” Inga asked, then pinched herself again.

“I’d like to think all women are my friends.” He placed the glass on the table. “Just as you are my friend, Inga.” He breathed out of his nostrils. “Look. Tell me what you have to say so I can say what I have to say and we can be on about our lives, okay?”

Inga pinched harder, then released. “Frank . . . as you said, I cannot prove that this baby is yours. I can only tell you, without hesitation, that it is. I’m looking you dead in the eye and I’m telling you. I’ve been with one man—
you
. That night . . . that night was my first . . .”

Frank took another sip of his drink. “That’s just it, Inga. Yes, I know I was the first. But I have no way of knowing if I was the last.”

Inga reached for the purse she’d kept in her lap, opened it, and removed a piece of folded paper. She straightened it, then slid it across the table.

“What’s this?”

“My medical report. I’m due exactly nine months from our night together last October. I’m twenty-five years old and you were my first. How likely do you think it is that I suddenly went out and slept with some other man immediately after our night together?” She leaned over as tears burned her eyes. “You knew how much I loved you. I still—”

She stopped herself. Truth was, she didn’t love Frank anymore. Her only reason for sitting here now was that marrying him was the right thing to do. To save her child from growing up without a father. Without a name. To save herself from the guilt her own father would lay on her shoulders, day after day. Year after year. “I’m only asking you to do the right thing. By
your
child.”

Frank studied the report as if memorizing every detail. Inga could imagine him calculating the dates, adding together the weeks, thinking back to that night. That
one
night. That one time. Then he folded it, sighing. “Look, Inga,” he said, bringing his eyes to hers. His voice held a tenderness she hadn’t heard since October. One she’d hoped for. Dreamed of . . . “Look.” He blinked, then looked down as he slid the paper back across the table, his eyelashes dark against the typical pallor of his skin. “I have big plans. You know that.”

She left the paper where it lay. “I know. And I can be a part of those plans . . .”

“No. Not
my
plans.”

“Think of it.” She reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “Think of it,” she continued. “We’ll get a little place. A charming little place. And you’ll come home every night to a home-cooked meal and a wife and child who love you. Adore you. Whatever star you reach for, we’ll help you get it. I promise.” She took a breath. “Just . . .
please
. . . Do the right thing by me. That’s all I’m asking.”

Frank stared at the paper. “Tell you what,” he finally said. “We’ll get the charming little place—” his eyes found hers as she sighed in relief—“and you’ll cook the meals and take care of the baby.
But
. . . no marriage. At least not right away. Not until I can see . . . and know for sure.” His jaw flexed. “And that may be a long time from now, just so you understand. No commitments beyond what I just said.” He took a final, draining sip of his drink. “If you want
to tell your family that we’re married, fine.” He looked around the room. “But no one here. Not in this town, understood?”

Inga released the breath she’d held since he began with
tell you what
. “You mean . . . no wedding?”

“No marriage. No mister and missus. No ‘till death do us part.’ Those are my terms.” He brought the glass to his lips again, then realized it was empty of all but a few cubes of ice. He returned it to the table and checked his watch. “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. After that, the deal is off. I’ll be at my station by nine.”

Inga didn’t watch him leave. She couldn’t. Her focus was on a curlicue pattern on the carpet. Round and round. Round and round, but never quite making it back to the beginning. She closed her eyes, reminded herself to breathe, then opened them just as quickly.

Somehow, within the darkness of that one moment, she imagined a striking wedding gown from Carson’s. An indescribable dress. White and pure. One she had so desperately wanted to wear.

It had to be true. Betty would never make up anything like this. A cruel thing like this.

George. With another woman. A woman he had clearly been more than just friends with.

George must have called the woman as soon as he heard that Evelyn was too sick to go out. The woman, whoever she was, was the fill-in. The substitute. Yes, yes . . . That was it. Why, he didn’t want to lose his reservations. That’s all it was. Surely.

But then . . . Betty had said . . . the way he held her hand. The way he nuzzled her neck and nibbled on her ear.
Oh, George!

Evelyn rolled over in bed, burying her face in the pillow that had once been Joan’s. She drew it close to her, holding it tightly, wishing Joan were there right then to tell her what to do. To help her reason things out.

But Joanie had left her. Left for Europe. For Germany. For something new and different. Maybe even better.

Evelyn pushed herself up in bed, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. She pulled two, then two more, and blew her nose. This stupid cold. Stupid, stupid cold. If only she hadn’t gotten sick. Too sick to go to church that morning. Too sick to go out on a date the night before.

She buried her face in her hands and cried until her head ached beyond measure. She rolled over again, laying her face against the cool fabric of Joan’s pillowcase. She drew in a shaky breath, then blew it out. “Dear Jesus,” she prayed, sounding for all the world like a little girl, “please tell me what to do. I thought you brought George into my life. I thought he was the one, but . . .”

What was it Betty had said that morning before leaving for Mass? Something she said a nun had told her a few weeks back—that they could make their plans, but God determined their steps.

What did that mean, exactly? Didn’t that mean that God had brought George to her? Couldn’t anyone else have answered the door that night when he came looking for Betty? But God had seen to it that
she
had. That she had relayed the message from Betty. He could have asked anyone else out, but he’d asked her. So, didn’t that mean . . . ?

Maybe, though . . . maybe
she
had made her plans
and
determined her steps. Maybe she had taken the reins in her hands and decided to guide the horse without fully praying it through. What was it Aunt Dovalou used to say to her when she visited the old family home in Savannah? That we often pray to God, asking him to control our lives, but we never really hand the responsibility over to him.

Had she done that?

Aunt Dovalou. Her beautiful yet single aunt. Her mother’s sister who had shunned love. Or had love shunned her? Evelyn wasn’t sure. The story of her aunt’s singleness was one of those things her mother never talked about, Mama being so private and all.

Evelyn pulled Joan’s pillow over her head, blessed by the darkness it brought. If she could just sleep . . . if she could rest awhile longer . . .
Jesus,
she prayed again,
just tell me what to do.

Magda sat over her typewriter, painstakingly pecking out character descriptions for a story that had come to her only the night before as she watched an older couple who sat at a table near hers and Barry’s. Something about the way they looked at each other. Talked to each other. Magda imagined that they had been childhood sweethearts, torn apart by some unforeseen circumstance as they neared adulthood. They’d married others and had good marriages, but they’d both known there was something else. Something better. Some
one
better. And then, when their respective spouses had died, they had found each other again. At long last . . . love at its fullest.

She stopped typing when she heard the front door open, then close quietly. She knew by the footsteps that her sister had returned from LA, and she stood, pushing away from the tiny desk.

“Inga?” she called as she stepped into the kitchen. “Is that you?”

A moment later, Inga came through the opposite door, leaning her back against the frame.

“You look terrible.” Magda moved toward her, reaching for her. “Come. Sit at the table. Let me get you a glass of milk.”

Inga complied like a dutiful child, and Magda set about getting the milk from the Frigidaire, pulling a glass off the shelf, and filling it nearly to the top with the rich white liquid. “Here,” she said, setting it in front of her sister, who, until then, kept her eyes closed.