Five Brides (43 page)

Joan looked from Ruby to gaze the length of Jackson’s legs, bent at the knees and bouncing up and down in an effort to thaw out, his hands still shoved in his coat pockets. He removed one, wiped his still-red nose, and then returned it. “So I see,” Joan said.

“Six foot two,” Jackson supplied.

“Eyes of blue,” Ruby added, then blushed like she’d just spent the last ten minutes standing on the beaches of Hawaii instead of the frozen sidewalks of Munich.

Jackson looked at her. Smiled easily. Winked.

Ruby looked as if she might stop breathing.

The man of my dreams . . .
Joan heard the words of her old contest entry from somewhere deep down inside.
And it would be nice if he were six foot two, had blue eyes, and . . .

“Lots of dark hair,” she mumbled as the memory rolled back on her.

Jackson removed his hand again, this time to unbutton his coat and take it off. He pointed toward his temple. “Blond, I’m afraid.”

The room spun and she blinked. “What?”

“You said, ‘Lots of dark hair.’” He sniffled. “My hair is blond.”

Joan willed herself back to the conversation at hand. “I’m sorry.” She forced herself to laugh. “I was thinking about something else.” She slid to the end of the chair and angled herself to face him better. “You were saying something about the space?”

“I’m over six feet tall, Joan. I’m not so sure I can fit my legs in the car if I’m sitting behind the steering wheel.” He thought for a minute. “But I can probably sit in the passenger side and instruct you.”

“And I could ride in the back,” Ruby offered.

Jackson sighed so faintly Joan almost missed it. She could only hope Ruby did.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll learn
behind
the wheel.”

Jackson smiled. “When do you want to get started?” he asked.

“That’s easy,” she said, brightening. “Yesterday.”

Chicago

“You look exhausted,” Pat said to Betty from across the kitchen table where they, once again, went through the list of last-minute wedding details. A pot of coffee brewed on the stove, emitting its delicious scent across the room. Between them, two empty cups sat waiting to be filled, among a scattering of papers filled with lists and names.

Betty glanced up. “I
am
exhausted. I hate to disappoint you, but I may do nothing but sleep on our honeymoon.”

Pat frowned, then brightened. “We’ll have to remedy that,” he said, leaning over for a kiss.

“By the way,” she said as the coffee gurgled from the stove, “the mystery of where you’re taking me has me wondering if I’ve packed appropriately. Don’t you want to tell even
the bride
?”

Pat leaned his arms on the table. “Nope,” he taunted. “I told you, pack for warm weather. At least one formal gown, but otherwise, shorts, short-sleeved tops, and—for the love of pete—your bathing suit.”

Betty stood to get the coffee. “My mother is nearly beside herself,” she said. “You know she doesn’t like not knowing the details.” She picked up the pot and brought it to the table. “And I’m afraid the apple hasn’t fallen far from the maternal tree.”

Pat chuckled as she poured. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. I’m—ah—not 100 percent sure now is the best time.”

Betty returned to her chair at the table, concern squeezing her throat. “What is it?”

He must have read the concern on her face because he quickly added, “Oh. Nothing bad. I was just thinking the other day . . . I know you told Ferguson that you’d be gone two weeks for the honeymoon, but have you thought further about . . . you know . . . after that?”

Betty prepared Pat’s coffee and then her own, buying herself time to answer. She’d wondered when this might come up. He’d hinted several times about her not working after they married, but he’d never come right out and asked. “You’re talking about me quitting my job.” She slid his cup toward him with a push of her finger against the saucer.

“I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy, Betts. I’d like to think that I can provide well enough for us . . .”

Betty wrapped her fingers around her cup. “It’s not that.”
They’d already gone to the bank and opened an account in both their names, so she knew his financial status. For a young man fresh in business, it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was downright impressive. But still . . . “What would I do with myself all day?”

Pat grinned. “If I say ‘cook and clean,’ will you drop-kick me out of the apartment and onto the street?”

Betty answered by raising her brow.

He laughed. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Both of our mothers are involved in all sorts of social and civic activities. Clubs. That sort of thing. I want you to be able to do those things too.”

A lovely picture, but Betty wasn’t entirely sure
she
wanted to do those things. Did she really
want
to be a socialite, like her mother? Always looking down her nose at those who were not?

She reached across the table, over the pieces of paper with their dozens of details, and laid her hand on Pat’s. “Is this something we can decide after we return?”

His eyes locked with hers, unblinking and yet so full of love. No matter what she asked of him, she knew he would provide for her. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. She sighed, contented even in the wait. Finally, crow’s-feet crinkled near his temples and he said, “Of course. I only want you to be happy, Betts.”

She leaned across the table for a kiss. “I am, Pat Callahan. More than you can begin to imagine.”

He laid his hands flat against the table. “So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Betty shuffled a few pieces of paper together. “The girls and I have a late-afternoon appointment for the final fittings, and then we’re going out to dinner.”

“Sounds like fun,” he commented.

It would be,
Betty thought,
if only my mother weren’t coming along.

“Looks like someone has put on a pound or two,” the seamstress said to Inga in the privacy of the dressing room.

“What?” Panic rose inside her. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, turning her back toward it to see that the zipper to the emerald-green, cocktail-length, full-skirted dress had refused to travel past the middle of her back. “There must be . . . some mistake,” she said. “Maybe they ordered the size wrong.”

The seamstress—a woman who appeared to be in her fifties—stood straight and blinked behind her cat-eye glasses. “When are you due, dear?” she asked, keeping her voice whisper-soft.

Inga’s lips trembled. “What . . . what do you mean? I’m—”

“My dear,” she began gently, “I’ve had eight children of my own and five of them were girls. Three of those girls have blessed me with grandchildren. I know what a thick waist means, and it doesn’t mean you’ve been eating too many ice cream sodas down at the five-and-dime.” She smiled weakly. “If it’s any consolation, one of those daughters wasn’t married when she first conceived.” She glanced toward Inga’s left hand. “I noticed you aren’t wearing a wedding band.” Her brow shot up. “Or an engagement ring.”

Inga fought the tears forming in her eyes. If she cried, the girls would know. “No,” she whispered, bringing her fingertips to her lips. “I thought—I hoped—I’d have more time before . . .”

The seamstress patted her shoulder and brought a handkerchief out from the light-blue sewing smock she wore. “Here you go. Dab at those eyes before your mascara runs.”

Inga leaned toward the mirror, bringing the lavender-colored handkerchief to one eye and then the other. “What am I going to do?” she asked. “I mean, about the dress?”

The seamstress smiled. “That’s easy. I can let out the waistline
and no one will be the wiser.” She put both hands on Inga’s shoulders. “The bow in the waistline’s center will hide whatever may be trying to pop out up front, but . . . I’d say within a week, you’ll be rethinking nearly everything in your wardrobe.” Kind eyes met hers in the reflection. “Does the father know?”

Inga nodded.

“But he doesn’t take responsibility?”

Inga shook her head.

“Your parents? Do they know?”

“No. But my sister does.”

“All right. Step out of the dress and let me see how much material we have on both sides.”

Inga pulled the dress off, stepping out of it as the older woman continued. “Tell your mother first,” she said. “Mothers have a way of dealing with fathers, I’ve found.” She took the dress from Inga with a wink. “Your mother is a good woman?”

“Very much so.”

“Then trust me. What you’ve done will hardly separate you from her love. Oh, she may be disappointed, but she won’t stop loving you.”

Inga reached for her street clothes hanging nearby. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “Thank you.”

She waited until she was alone before collapsing in the frilly pink boudoir chair, clad only in her lingerie. Inga buried her head in the crook of her arm, weeping until she knew her face bore the telltale signs of her distress. She didn’t care; she needed to cry it out in order to think it through.

By the time she dressed again, she had a plan. She had two weeks off with pay, so at least she had a little money coming in. On Sunday—the same day Evelyn was scheduled to leave for Georgia—she’d leave for Minnesota. She’d take the kind
seamstress’s advice. She’d tell Mor first. Then, together, they’d tell Far, a man who always listened to the will of God.

And if she lived past Monday, she’d try to do whatever God had in mind for her.

March 21, 1953

Betty stared at herself in the oval-shaped, full-length mirror in the bride’s room.

She’d worn plenty of lavish gowns in the past, but in the Carson’s wedding gown—as the first of the five to wear it—she hardly recognized herself. She appeared . . .
delicate
. Like fine china.

Stunning. Like a bride.

Her bridesmaids and maid of honor—Colleen, her childhood friend—bustled about the room, practicing their march and how, exactly, to hold the tiny nosegays of magnolias she’d chosen for their bouquets. Betty glanced over her shoulder, watching.

“Up close to the bodice?” Evelyn asked. “Or down low near the hips?”

Betty turned back to the mirror, taking in a deep breath. In a little less than an hour, she would be Mrs. Betty Callahan.
Mrs. Pat Callahan,
her mother insisted. “We take the names of our husbands fully, Betty,” she had said. “Trust me when I tell you that your husband’s full name will come in handy one day.”

Betty closed her eyes. Could she do this? She loved Pat. Of course she did. More than she had ever thought she could love
anyone. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be marrying him so soon after meeting him. But all week the thought of becoming her mother had plagued her, creeping in between the final plans and festivities before the wedding.

Leaving Hertz had been the last thing on her mind when Pat had proposed. She and Joan were a lot alike in that way—they both enjoyed the nine-to-five. Not like the others who, she knew, were putting in their time until their perfect mister came along.

Well, not Magda. But Magda could write while her children napped . . .

She felt her mother behind her and opened her eyes to see her reflection. “Wedding-day jitters?”