Five Brides (6 page)

“No. Magda works as a secretary for Olson Publishing.” Joan threw up a hand. “At least I think that’s the name. Honestly, Evelyn, we don’t make a lot of small talk. I can tell you she works for a magazine and I
think
it’s at Olson. But Inga is a stewardess. She’s not home too often.” She pressed her hand on Evelyn’s arm. “Betty and Inga share a room, and you and I will share a room. We have a small kitchen—barely big enough to turn around in—but a fairly nice-sized living room with comfortable furniture, which is ideal for those times when friends or coworkers might want to come by.” Not that it happened too often. At least, not since she’d moved in.

They stopped at the end of a city block and waited for traffic to clear. Around them, the sounds of the city swirled—a symphony Joan had grown deliciously accustomed to. She looked at Evelyn, who appeared almost frightened. “Are you okay?”

A burst of air escaped her lungs. “I’ve tried to imagine what this would be like, you know. From the movies I’ve seen and all.” Her eyes climbed the height of the buildings as they continued onward. “But the noise. Is it always like this?”

Joan laughed. “Welcome to Chicago!”

They squeezed each other’s arms, walking in time until they came to the train station. “Joanie,” Evelyn said after she’d been helped with getting a ticket. “I should call Daddy when we get there. Will that be okay?”

“Of course. But you’ll have to use the phone in the hallway because there’s not one in the flat.”

“Oh?”

“Not to worry, though, Evelyn. We stay so busy. I promise you . . . there’s hardly time for phone calls.”

Evelyn shook hands briefly with Betty, nearly rattled by just how elegant she really was. “Thank you so much,” she said, “for allowing me to stay here. To
live
here, I guess.” She laughed lightly, her laughter sounding—even to her own ears—like tiny bells chiming as one walks through a door. “I simply can’t believe I’m
in
Chicago.” She glanced up at the two narrow windows that peered out to Greenleaf. “Look at that,” she commented after a short pause. “Feet, walking by.”

Betty crossed her arms. “That’s what you get when you live in a basement apartment.” She swung around, a whiff of her cologne lingering in the air. “At least we aren’t like the poor gals who live in the apartment behind us. I don’t think they have a window in the entire place.”

Evelyn frowned. “I wouldn’t like that so much. Especially since I come from a house with multiple windows in every room.”

“Come on,” Joan said with a tap on her elbow. “Let me show you our room.”

“Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you,” Evelyn said to Betty. “Are the others here?” she asked Joan.

Joan looked at Betty, who’d picked up a magazine from the coffee table.

“I haven’t seen Magda since earlier this morning. Inga hasn’t been here in two days, so . . . I expect she’ll be back today at some point. Tomorrow at the latest, what with this being Saturday.” Betty dropped the magazine as though nothing about it interested her.

Joan picked up Evelyn’s suitcase. “Inga’s the stewardess,” she said.

Evelyn nodded as she mouthed, “Oh.”

Together they started toward the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms and bath. “Like I told you before, we really don’t spend a lot of time together. Well, Betty and I . . . and
you
, now . . . because we work in the same building. Take the same train to the Loop. Walk the same sidewalks, so to speak.” Joan stopped talking as she opened the door. “This is it, Evelyn. This is our room.”

Evelyn stepped in slowly. She held her breath. The sleeping quarters weren’t much to write home about, but the room offered everything she needed for the little bit of time she’d spend here.

Joan dropped the suitcase near the foot of the double bed. “It’s not much, but at least
this
mattress doesn’t cave in the middle like the one I used to share with one of my sisters back home.”

Evelyn smiled, although she knew that once she found herself alone, tears would spill down her cheeks. The bedroom walls, as those in every room of the apartment, had been painted hospital white; boring, but in a windowless room, white walls made for a happier existence. The floors were hardwood and, even through her shoes, Evelyn could feel the chill coming off them. The only artwork in the room was a cheap painting of a lake with mountains rising behind it, all painted in various shades of green. When her eyes froze on it, Joan pointed to it. “If you want to add anything—paintings, wall hangings—by all means, be my guest.”

Evelyn swallowed. “Is that . . . yours?”

“That awful thing?” Joan asked with a smile. “No. Betty said it came with the place.”

Evelyn reached for her suitcase and laid it on the bed. “I should unpack.” Weariness hung on every word. If her daddy asked, she wondered, would she tell him her new room was half the size of the one she’d left back home? That she’d traded white lace and eyelet for quilts that looked like they’d come from a five-and-dime?

Joan reached for her coat and said, “Let me hang this in the front closet for you.”

Evelyn swiped at tears that pooled behind her glasses.

“Oh, Evelyn,” Joan said, patting her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“I know.”

She held up the coat. “While I take care of this,
you
are going to go right to bed. As my mum always says, everything will look better after a good nap.”

Evelyn nodded, speechless, as Joan closed the door behind her.

Joan’s heart ached for the things she’d hadn’t yet considered when it came to Evelyn. While Joan’s mum had been heartsick at Joan’s denouncing the king, she’d also understood that Joan had come to the States to better her life and to help the family. Evelyn had come to Chicago in
defiance
of her mother. Suddenly, her arrival felt different.

With a quiet breath, Joan tiptoed back up the hallway.

Betty met her in the living room, holding up an envelope Joan immediately recognized as being from England. “Mail call,” Betty said.

“Let me hang Evelyn’s coat up first.” Joan opened the closet door and found a wooden hanger with
Pick-Congress Hotel
printed across it. She draped Evelyn’s wrap over the words and hung it
on the rod. “Don’t you wonder how it is that when you moved here so many wooden hangers with hotel advertisements were left behind?”

Betty laughed. “No. And I don’t want to know. They’re sturdy and that’s all that matters to me.” She handed Joan her letter before looking down the hallway. “Your friend all right in there?”

Joan nodded. “She’s just tired.” She walked to the unadorned six-cushioned sofa and sat with her back against a tufted pillow. “Can we turn the radiator up a little?” she asked while ripping the side of the envelope. She puffed it open with a sharp breath and pulled out a letter written in her mother’s hand, caped in the smell of home.

Betty walked to the ornate cast-iron radiator near the windows and turned a knob. “I read somewhere that these old beauts are soon to be replaced by a newer version made of steel.”

Joan looked up from her letter. “Really?”

“Paint it and hide it, the article said.” Betty crossed her arms, tilted her head back, and peered out the window as though the feet and calves passing by were of the utmost interest. “If you ask me, with every change we make in this country, we lose something special along the way.” She tossed her curls as though clearing her head, looked at Joan, and blinked. “Everything fine back home?”

Joan glanced at the unlined paper in her hand. “I haven’t really gotten into it yet.” She read a few lines. “It’s tough back there. The war . . . trying to rebuild . . .” She fought tears that rode a wave of remembrances of a different England, the England of her childhood.

Betty walked a few steps toward the kitchen. “I think we could both use a cup of coffee.” She smiled weakly. “Finish your letter and I’ll perk us up a pot.”

Joan nodded, waiting until after Betty had left the room to
go back to her mum’s updates about her brothers and sisters, her father, and the townspeople of Leigh. By the time Betty returned, she’d folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She curled her feet under her backside, sitting sideways to better watch the frost gather on the outside window. “Thank you,” she said, reaching for the matching rose-and-ivy cup and saucer Betty extended.

“Want to talk about it?” Betty sat in a nearby squooshy chair. She crossed her legs before delicately swinging the one on top.

“Talk about what?” Joan asked, taking a sip.

“Whatever was in that letter that has gloom and doom all over your sweet face.”

Joan held the cup to her lips but didn’t drink. Instead, she took a moment to just breathe in the comforting aroma of the fresh-brewed beans, her focus on Betty’s shoe—a fur-lined moccasin-style house slipper—as it bounced up and down . . . up and down. Even in house shoes, she managed to look like a magazine cover. “Betty?” Betty brought her eyes to Joan’s. “Do you know of anyone who’s hiring?”

The bobbing of her foot stopped. “As in a job?”

Joan nodded.

“For who? You?”

She nodded again. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Is something wrong with your job at Hertz? Something I need to know about?”

Joan eased the cup and saucer to the low coffee table. “Gracious no. But as you know, I’ve been sending some money to my family. To help out. And . . .” She held the letter up. “Mum says it’s been a help, but I can tell by the tone of her words that more would be appreciated. Plus, with Christmas right around the corner . . .”

Betty stood and placed her cup and saucer next to Joan’s. “Hold that thought,” she said before disappearing down the hall. Within
a minute, she returned, her handbag dangling from her fingers. She flipped the clasp, reached into the brown satin-lined interior, and brought out a card. “A friend of mine—her name is Delores—is the private-showing manager at David & DuRand.”

Joan took the card, read the name and the address.

“On Michigan Avenue,” she said.

“Not too far from the office. So, if you get some evening hours, you won’t have far to walk.” Betty returned to her seat with her cup of coffee.

Joan waved the card. “And you just happened to have a business card?”

Betty swallowed the sip of coffee she’d just taken, the sound of it echoing in the room. “I went in yesterday to pick up a dress for Mother. Ran into Delores and she gave me her card.” Betty smiled. “She told me she was hiring and that if I knew of someone at Hertz who might need some extra cash . . . Consider it serendipity.” She cocked a penciled brow. “It’s part-time, mind you.”

“I only need part-time.” Joan stared at the card again. “A
fine apparel
department store. I don’t believe I’ve ever
been
in a
fine apparel
department store.” A sudden thought pressed a frown to her face. “Or
own
anything appropriate for an interview, I’m afraid.”

Betty placed her coffee on the butler’s tray next to her chair. “Not to worry. Between your closet and mine, we’ll pull something together.” Her eyes widened and sparkled with an idea. “Why don’t I give her a call and let her know you’ll come by Monday on your lunch break.”

Joan pondered the possibility for a moment. Working behind a desk was one thing, but in a fine apparel store? Sure, Betty had something she could borrow for the interview, but what would she wear all the other days—or evenings—she worked there? Certainly
not the same dress over and over. And Betty’s offer to raid her closet wouldn’t mean—or
shouldn’t
mean—helping herself every other day, even though some of the prettiest clothes she’d ever seen hung there.

Then again, she held the card of a woman who could give her part-time work without her having to put her feet on the pavements of Chicago in the frigid cold.

“Okay,” Joan finally said. “Call her and let her know.” She sighed in both contentment and apprehension. “Thanks, Betts.”

“More coffee?” Betty asked, standing and reaching for her cup and saucer.

Just like Betty. When she did something nice for you, she didn’t expect anything in return. She didn’t gloat over what she’d just done—or might possibly
be doing
for you. This was simply her nature. She was a giver and as much of a friend as Joan could have asked for in such a short time in the States.