Five Brides (9 page)

“And no flirting,” she admonished before each show. “Not with your eyes. Not with your lips. And certainly not with the rest of you.”

Mrs. King had nothing to worry about from Joan. The last thing on her list of many things to do was find a man. Especially one considering which lovely or luxurious item to purchase for another woman.

“The man of my dreams has specifications I have yet to find in Chicago,” she told Evelyn on the first Saturday evening in December as they sat cross-legged on their bed, dressed in thick robes and warm pajamas and signing Christmas cards.

Evelyn licked a three-cent stamp and affixed it to the envelope. “Which are?” She pulled another card from the stack. “Do you think I should send Hank a card?” she asked, not waiting for Joan to answer.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Evelyn frowned. “I don’t want to lead him on.”

“It’s a Christmas card, Evelyn, not an invitation to come to Chicago.”

“I know, but . . . you don’t know Hank. He’ll think for certain that I’ve changed my mind about marrying him.”

“Then don’t send him one.
Really
, Evelyn.”

Evelyn bit her lip. “But if I don’t, he’ll think I don’t care at
all
.” She grabbed Joan’s hand as she reached for another card. “And I
do
care, Joan. Just not . . . in
that
way.”

Joan picked up a card from her stack with her free hand and waved it between them. “Then send him a card and sign it
Your friend, Evelyn
.”

Evelyn sighed as though the idea was beyond brilliant. “Excellent idea, Joanie.” She took the card and opened it. “So?”

“So?” Joan asked, signing her name to another card.

“The man of your dreams?”

Joan looked up. “Oh. Him. Six-two. Blue eyes. And lots of dark hair.”

Evelyn grinned, her pen ready to sign the card to Hank. “Oh, is
that
all?” She signed, then peered up. “Do you think you’ll find him anytime soon, Joan?” she asked, her voice whisper-soft.

“No. But I’m not looking either. There’s a lot to do before I
even think about settling down.” She chuckled at the thought. “So, what’s been going on around here at night while I’m away?”

Evelyn’s shoulders slouched. “I really wish you weren’t working two jobs, Joanie. It gets lonely around here without you.”

“Magda and Betty are here most nights though, right?”

“Well . . . yeah . . . but . . .”

Joan studied her friend. “But?”

Evelyn shook her head. “Magda is always in her room reading and Betty is so . . .”

Joan couldn’t imagine the end of Evelyn’s sentence. “Betty is so . . . what?”

Evelyn picked up another card. “She’s so sophisticated, Joan. She must think I’m a complete dunce.”

Joan started to laugh, then caught herself. “Betty’s not like that. She doesn’t think she’s better than anyone else.” Joan placed a hand over Evelyn’s. “Just talk to her sometime. And stop hiding out in here thinking you’re not worthy of Betty Estes.” She squeezed Evelyn’s hand. “Oh, Evelyn. You’re so much more than you realize.”

Betty looked up from the late-afternoon cup of coffee she had treated herself to as Evelyn meandered into the tiny kitchen of their shared apartment. She jumped, rattling the pages of the newspaper she skimmed. “You’re as quiet as a Christmas mouse, Evelyn. I didn’t hear you walking down the hall.”

Evelyn held up a slippered foot. “My old bedroom shoes,” she said. “They make for soft footsteps.”

Betty glanced at the foot and frowned. “Were they . . .
blue
. . . at one time?” Then she laughed to show Evelyn she meant no harm. “I made us some coffee.”

“Good,” Evelyn said. “I never knew I could be this cold.” She sauntered over to the counter where Betty had left out a cup and saucer for her. “I think my bones actually ache.”

“The cold is made colder because of Lake Michigan.”

“We have cold weather in Portal,” Evelyn said, sitting at one end of the table, “but nothing like this.”

Betty folded the newspaper and adjusted her posture for a better view of the timid woman-child she shared a home with. “Tell me something, Evelyn.” She reached over and touched Evelyn’s hair. “Have you ever thought of having your hair professionally styled?”

Evelyn blushed furiously as she swallowed her first sip of coffee. “My mama always cut my hair.”

“With
what
?” Betty locked eyes with Evelyn. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, but sweetheart, you’ve got such lovely hair color, it’s a shame not to . . .” She allowed the idea to trail off.

Evelyn shook her head. “You mean, I have practically
no
hair color.”

“I would call it the color of honey.” Betty turned her coffee cup 360 degrees before looping her index finger into the handle. “Do you know how many women pay the big bucks to have hair that color?” Her mother, for one . . .

Evelyn smiled in appreciation. “I don’t have the kind of money to do anything fancy. I’m barely making ends meet now.”

Betty sighed as she stood. “Stay right there.”

She walked into the living room, grabbed the latest copy of
Vogue
she’d purchased at the drugstore on Saturday, and returned to the kitchen, stopping at the Philco long enough to flip it on. “Fools Rush In” played tenderly from the big band station out of Indiana. The station came in clear only after five o’clock in the evenings, and became all the more clear after nine.

Betty dropped the magazine on the table. “Study this, Evelyn. I’ll bet we can figure out the best hairstyle for you, and I’d be willing to bet we can pull together the right look for you from the clothes you already have in your closet.”

But Evelyn shook her head, already in defeat. “No, I—”

The front door opened and Magda called, “Anyone here?”

“In the kitchen,” Betty sang out, sitting in her chair again.

Magda pulled a scarf from her rich auburn hair as she entered. “Do I smell coffee?”

Betty jutted her thumb in the direction of the counter. “Knock yourself out. I’ll get up in a little bit and see if I can’t rustle us up something to call dinner.”

Magda smiled as she reached into the cabinet and pulled out
a cup and saucer, one that matched the pattern Betty and Evelyn drank from. One of the eight-piece set Betty had talked her mother into buying her when she first moved into the apartment.

Betty couldn’t help but notice the expression; Magda rarely showed happiness. “Is that a smile I see on your face?”

Magda practically twirled as she turned and sat at the opposite end of the table from Evelyn. Her full skirt fanned out around her petite frame, and once her coffee had been placed on the table, she dropped her chin into the cup of her hand.

Betty looked at Evelyn. “She’s met someone. Dollars to doughnuts, she’s met someone.” Then, to Magda, “Dish it out, sister.”

“Maybe,” Magda said.

Evelyn slapped her hands down on the table, rattling the dishes and sloshing a little of the coffee into the saucers. “Tell us!”

“He’s a writer, but he hasn’t even remotely noticed
me
yet.”

“Name please,” Betty said.

Magda sighed. “Harlan.” She waved a hand in the air. “Harlan Procter. It’s an odd name, I know, but, girls . . . he has an absolutely
brilliant
way with words.”

Evelyn leaned over. “What’s he said?”

Magda rested her fingertips over the cup as though allowing it to warm her hands. “Well, nothing to
me
. Not really, anyway. What I mean to say is that he writes short stories for one of our magazines and I’ve always enjoyed them. And then
today
I met him face-to-face. He had a meeting with my boss.” Again, she sighed. “So, other than ‘Harlan Procter for Mr. Cole,’ he hasn’t said a peep to me. I doubt he could even tell you what I look like.”

Betty took a long swallow of coffee. “Well, then. Let’s not go out and buy a wedding dress
tomorrow
, shall we?”

The three looked at each other and giggled. A knock sounded from the door as Evelyn stood to pour another cup of coffee. “I’ll
get it,” she said, then disappeared into the shadows of the living room.

Betty patted Magda’s hand. “Seriously. If this Harlan is as big a writer as you are a reader, you may have met your match.”

Magda grinned as Evelyn reentered the kitchen. “Betty,” she whispered, approaching the table. “A man who looks an awful lot like a movie star is out there wanting to see you. He says it’s important.”

Betty frowned. Only one person she knew fit that description.

George.

If Inga Christenson had hoped to see the world by taking a job at Trans World Airlines, the most she’d managed so far was Chicago to Los Angeles. Not that it was a bad route. Quite the contrary. What could be better than those three-day layovers in Hollywood like the one she was currently enjoying, after all? Strolling along the Walk of Fame . . . taking in the sights on Hollywood Boulevard—such as Grauman’s Chinese Theatre—and dining at The Brown Derby on Wilshire.

But so far, she’d only managed to do this with some of the other stewardesses. And even then, not so often.

Where was the glamour the airline employment ads had promised? Where was the thrill of the flight? And where were the all the single, good-looking pilots she’d thought she’d have met by now?

She only needed one, for pity’s sake. One who’d say, “Fly with me, Inga. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Oh yeah? Where?” she asked her reflection in the gilded wall mirror in front of her. She stood in the center of her hotel bathroom and carefully removed her cap, making sure to fasten the bobby pins to the loop on the inside front.

“Hey, Inga.” Her coworker and friend, stewardess Henrietta Swift, tapped on the bathroom door. Henrietta was also her roommate for the night. “I could sure use five minutes in there.”

Inga opened the door. “Sorry.” They passed each other as Inga walked out, closing the door behind her. “I’m thinking of going out for a bite tonight,” she said. “Not to the hotel’s restaurant. I’m in the mood to walk around a little.”

The toilet flushed, and after a moment of water running, Henrietta, a willowy green-eyed redhead, opened the door. She dried her hands on one of the hotel’s towels, marked with a giant blue
HH
in the center, lest someone thought to steal one. “I know it’s only four o’clock, but I’m too tired to go out,” she said. “I think I may just order up a sandwich later.” Her brow wrinkled. “Do you mind finding one of the other girls?”

“Sure, or I’m good with going out alone. Especially considering how nice the weather is tonight.”

Henrietta tossed the towel back into the bathroom. “Sure beats Chicago, doesn’t it?”

Inga laughed easily. “That it does.”

She set about changing from her uniform into an emerald-green pencil-skirt dress, but slipped her feet back into the same shoes she wore in flight. She frowned at herself in the bedroom mirror.

“What’s wrong?” Henrietta asked. She’d changed into her pajamas and had stretched out on the bed, the pillows at her back and a book in her hand. Henrietta, like Magda, loved a good book.

“Last year’s dress,” Inga said. “I thought when I came to Chicago and went to work for my uncle, I’d have scads of money for clothes. Instead, I’m working to pay for an apartment I’m hardly ever at and have little money left over for a new dress, or
new shoes, or—” she turned to face Henrietta instead of speaking to her reflection—“even a new hat.”

Henrietta dropped the book, leaned forward, and crossed her legs in a single movement. “My dear, you could walk out in a gunnysack and you’d look like a million. Don’t you have any idea how the men turn and ogle you wherever you go? Why do you think all the others want to make sure that where
you
go, they go too?”

Inga pressed her hands into her tiny waist and stretched. “Really? Tell me something, Retta. Where are all the men then?”

Henrietta returned to her original position. “Look behind you in the storefront windows. They’re
behind
you, following the caboose, if you get my drift.”

Inga got it all right. “Okay. I’m out of here.”