Francie Comes Home (20 page)

“She's a managing woman,” said Bruce. “I'm not a manageable man. At least I hope I'm not.”

“I see,” said Francie again, in lower tones.

Lucky was back at his tablecloth drawing. “Then, of course, there's another thing,” he said. “When I
do
decide to marry, I've got other ideas. I've got my eye on somebody else. Want to know her name?”

“It's none of my business,” said Francie.

“You look funny being shy,” Bruce remarked. “Okay, so I won't talk any more about it just yet, kid. I'll have to get out of this situation first, and believe me, it's going to take delicate handling. If Lottie gets sore and kicks me out, how can I stick around Jefferson? I can't. But I don't want to go away just now; we won't go into the reason. The way I figure it, if I stay nice and polite but don't go any further than that, she's liable to drop the whole idea—forget it and drop it. She's changeable, you know. What do you say?”

“It's none of my—”

“Don't give me
that
again,” said Lucky. “Come on, what
do
you say? What's your advice? Shall I play it this way and just string along and see what gives? You're the doctor.”

Francie tried hard to be wise and cautious, but Lucky had really given her several shocks, and it was going to take time to assimilate them. She agreed at last that he was doing as well as possible, given the peculiar circumstances. Then she caught sight of the time, and was more shocked than ever: she almost ran when they were in the street on their way to the car.

“I certainly hope Mrs. Ryan's asleep when I come in,” she said fervently.

“Oh, never mind her.”

Bruce drove fast through the deserted streets. Then, as if a new thought had just struck him, he stepped on the brake and drew up to the curb. He took Francie by the arms and turned her around slowly, staring into her eyes by the light of the street lamp.

“You
know what I was getting at back there,” he said.
“You
know why I don't want to pull out of Jefferson. You do like me, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Francie.

They kissed. They kissed again. “Oh, darling,” said Bruce.

“Bruce, I've just
got
to get back,” said Francie at last. Her cheeks were glowing and she felt terribly mixed up and wonderful, but it
was
awfully late; she expected to see the sun rise any moment.

“Must you? Yes, I guess you're right,” he said. He started the car again and drove very, very slowly, keeping her hand captive. “I feel a lot better,” he said. “Thanks, sweet.”

“But I can't help being worried for you,” said Francie.

“Oh, I'll manage. Don't you worry; old Lucky's used to looking after himself,” said Bruce. “There's only one thing that irks me. I won't be able to act the way I want to around you—not in Jefferson. That old girl's got an eagle eye, and we'll have to play it careful for a while. You'll understand, won't you?”

Yes, she said that she'd understand. It all seemed unimportant just then. They kissed good night out in the dark street, and at his suggestion she went ahead to pick up her key and take the elevator while he put his car away. She looked carefully at her reflection in the elevator glass. What now? Whatever would Jefferson say if they knew? What would Glenn think? Oh, why wouldn't Glenn stay out of her thoughts?

And that was why, on their last morning in the hotel, Francie asked Mrs. Ryan her opinion of Lottie Fredericks.

CHAPTER 14

“Thank goodness you're back!” said Chadbourne, blowing into the Birthday Box like a breeze next morning. “It made an awful hole in the rehearsals with you and Lucky both gone. Well, tell me about it; was it marvelous? Did you go out and have a wonderful time?”

“Oh, I had a good time,” admitted Francie, “but of course it was mostly work. I bought some cute clothes, though.”

“I do wish I'd come along. It was dull here except for the rehearsals, and Mummy's been irritable,” said Chadbourne.

Francie looked at her searchingly, but was reassured; there seemed to be no hidden meaning in those words. It occurred to her in the midst of her self-centered thoughts that Chadbourne was actually getting pretty. It was partly a matter of expression; she looked gayer and more sure of herself, less like a poor little girl somehow lost in her clothes, as if such fine raiment couldn't possibly belong to her. But she was better in herself, too—happier. Her cheeks were rounder, her eyes bright, her hair soft: what was happening to her that she looked so much like a lit lamp? She was chattering on about the play and her plans. Bruce had told her about the desk—anyway he had told her part of it. She knew he had bought it and intended to take it over for his own use when the play was finished.

“It's a good idea. Saves us buying or renting that bit of furniture at any rate,” she said, and Francie noticed she didn't mention that Lucky had used her own name and the Birthday Box's in the transaction. She was just wondering if she should say something in order to assure herself that it was all right when Chadbourne changed to a subject that interested her more.

“That friend of your father's, Francie, that nice Mrs. Clark, has been perfectly fabulous. She came to our last rehearsal with a lot of old magazines of the period that she says she found in her attic when she moved into the cottage. They're just exactly the sort of thing we want. If you get a chance today, come on over to the shop and I'll show you some I picked out for making. One is going to be for you. It's exactly what an orphan millionairess would have worn, long and tight-fitting, and all pink and ruffly.”

“Good gracious,” said Francie. “I can't imagine me in pink ruffles.”

“You'll wear 'em and like 'em,” said Chadbourne placidly. “And she helped us figure out some of the other costumes too. Our maid is already knitting black lace things like mitts for Charley's Aunt and we're looking all over town for his bonnet. Mrs. Clark's charming, isn't she? A real lady.” For a brief instant her eyes flickered shrewdly at Francie's face, but it was only an instant. “Oh, and young Marty joined the society, did you know she was going to? I thought it was probably your influence.”

No, Francie said, she had had nothing to do with it and she was surprised at Marty, who had always been scornful of the J.D.S.

“I expect you civilized her without knowing—” said Chadbourne, “didn't know your own strength. Well, I'd better run along so you can catch up on your work. Don't forget to come in and look at the fashion books. Lucky's seen them and he's crazy about them.”

Francie was glad to be left alone; she had some thinking to do. There had been no time last night, she realized, for Pop to break the news to her because she and Mrs. Ryan had got home so late there was no chance for anything but a glass of milk and a cookie in the kitchen while Aunt Norah and Pop listened to her stories of Chicago. But this morning, she felt, he ought to have said something. She got up early on purpose so that they might drink their coffee at leisure, alone together, but Pop hadn't said a word—just sat there with the paper as if things were the same as ever. Francie couldn't help but be hurt about it. As far as she could make out, she was the only person in Jefferson who hadn't been told of Fred Nelson's future. His daughter, his only child, his only near relative if it came to that, and there he sat reading the morning paper, deliberately concealing his plans to desert her. It was thoughtless at the very best. What was she supposed to do, what was she to say, if everybody mentioned it to her? Already she had been humiliated by Glenn's knowledge when she wasn't aware that anything was afoot: how many other people were in on the secret, she wondered. It wasn't fair.

Of course, there might have been a good reason for Pop's silence. He would naturally feel awkward about breaking the news.

They greeted her like the prodigal daughter when she went back to the next rehearsal of
Charley's Aunt
. At least twenty minutes were taken up with a discussion of her adventures, Lucky's donation of furniture, and the new idea, introduced by Mrs. Clark, of period costumes. But at last everybody settled down to rehearsing, and Francie was glad to see how well the play seemed to be going. She had so few lines of her own that she spent most of the evening sitting down in front, watching the performance of the others. She was there when Marty appeared. The younger girl came in quietly with her usual slouching gait, hands thrust into blue-jean pockets, and an expression that might have been sullen on her pert little face, though Francie recognized it for what it was—shyness and defiance. Marty sat down silently next to Francie.

“Hello,” said Francie in low tones. “I only just heard you'd joined us.”

“Yes,” said Marty.

“Too bad you didn't come in earlier. You'd have had a part in this play.”

Marty grimaced. “I'm not too interested in acting. I just joined up for something to do. Jinx is getting to be such a pain in the neck.”

Francie felt touched. Pop might be fighting shy of her, Glenn may have deserted her by falling in love with an outsider, but Marty, anyway, was loyal. Dear little Marty. There couldn't be any doubt that her falling out with her crony Jinx had started in that row over Francie's private affairs, and though it was only kid stuff, it was nice to think that somebody cared that much for her good name. She noticed with amusement that Marty watched Bruce with close attention while the rehearsal was going on. The girl was evidently determined to make up for her rudeness and to approve Francie's decision no matter what her own opinion.

It had to be admitted that Bruce himself gave no encouragement to gossip. Coming past Francie's chair at the beginning of the act he had merely said, “Hello, beautiful,” and patted her shoulder; since then he hadn't even looked her in the eye. Nobody would have dreamed that they had ever kissed and clung together, as they had such a short time ago: she was beginning to wonder herself if she had dreamed it. Then she noticed Mrs. Fredericks at the back of the room, watching the rehearsal as she sometimes did, and she thought she understood. Nevertheless she felt piqued. It is not nice to feel that you are being neglected by your sweetheart out of policy. She hoped it would not be necessary for very much longer. It was hard not to give things away by watching Lucky; it was hard not to feel twinges of jealousy when he put his arm around his girl in the play, or when he and Chadbourne studied the script, their heads very close together. I'm getting morbid, she thought, and was ashamed of herself.

“Well, well, Frances Beatrice. You've heard the news, no doubt,” said Biddy. She had walked into the Birthday Box with slow inevitability, talking as she came. It was just bad luck for Francie that Mrs. Ryan was out—or was it careful management on Cousin Biddy's part? One never knew.

Francie tried not to stare at her like a hypnotized rabbit. “I hear lots of news,” she said. “Which did you mean? We're using your idea about the play, of course.”

“Oh, I knew
that
. I knew that a long time ago. No, this is a more private piece of information.” Biddy smiled, and if Francie had really been a rabbit, the smile would have been enough to send her scuttling. As it was, she wished she knew where to scuttle to. There was no doubt in her mind that Biddy was about to humiliate her unforgivably by springing the word about Pop—a matter on which, alas, she was still completely ignorant. Stoutly she gave battle until the last minute.

“I haven't any idea what you mean,” she said.

“That's funny. I understand you were one of the first to know.” Biddy sounded puzzled.

“Well, honestly, Cousin Biddy, unless you give me some idea what you're talking about—”

Biddy wagged an admonishing finger at her. “Frances Beatrice, you needn't think you have to be careful with me. I was on the telephone just now with Mrs. Stevens, and I'm sure she said that you know about it.”

Francie flared up. “I must say, Mrs. Stevens might find something better to do than gossip so much. I did hear that she's been talking around, but—”

“Gossip? Is that what you call it? Well, Frances Beatrice, all I can say is, you just wait until
you're
a mother and
your
only son gets engaged, and then you won't be so quick to condemn poor Mrs. Stevens.”

Francie stared, her jaw hanging. All her ideas somersaulted. Glenn, of course! She'd been so worried about Pop that the fact of Glenn's engagement hadn't entered her head in this connection, and yet of course he'd told his mother during the visit. Nothing could have been more natural; in fact, now that she thought of it, he had said it was his reason for going home so suddenly. It was unlikely that the Stevens family had taken the time to talk about anything else, even Pop's affairs. What an egocentric she was becoming!

“Oh yes, Cousin Biddy. Sorry, I forgot about that,” she said.

Biddy peered at her with her familiar henlike gaze so that Francie almost expected her to turn her head and look out of one eye. She took her time about it. At last, when Francie was nervous enough to scream, she broke the tension with a sniff and said, “I do believe you're telling the truth. Well, it's beyond me.”

“What's beyond you?”

“You,” said Biddy. “I always thought there was something between you two. I still think there was, whatever's happened since. And yet you stand there cool as a cucumber and forget to mention that he's got himself engaged to somebody else.”

“We were high-school friends,” said Francie said defensively. “That doesn't mean anything now.”

“Girls who are too high-and-mighty sometimes find themselves on the shelf before they know it,” said Cousin Biddy. “One of these days you may be sorry you were so choosy. Don't forget, a girl gets more particular and less attractive every year.”