Promises

“BELVA PLAIN WRITES WITH AUTHORITY AND INTEGRITY.”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

“A BRILLIANT PORTRAYAL … the author takes us once again into the soul of an American family.”

—Leader
(Lovington, N. Mex.)

“A superb storyteller … a talent worth remembering … Mrs. Plain’s novels are good stories well told.”

—
The Star-Ledger
(Newark, N.J.)

“A CONSUMMATE STORYTELLER whose skill at bringing likable characters, turbulent events and moving emotional drama together in a fabulous story has never been better.”    —
Rave Reviews

“AN ENJOYABLE BOOK!”

—Wahpeton News
(N. Dak.)

“Belva Plain is a bestselling author for a reason; she presents a cast of characters that are both believable and likable. The reader automatically becomes engrossed in the plot because there is a genuine concern about what will happen to the individuals involved.”    —
Punch In

“[Plain] offers … compelling stories about women coping with life’s crises.”    —
People

LEGACY OF SILENCE

HOMECOMING

SECRECY

PROMISES

THE CAROUSEL

DAYBREAK

WHISPERS

TREASURES

HARVEST

BLESSINGS

TAPESTRY

THE GOLDEN CUP

CRESCENT CITY

EDEN BURNING

RANDOM WINDS

EVERGREEN

“T
urn,” said Isabella, with pins between her lips. In the pier glass, looking down, Margaret could watch careful fingers working over a cascade of white silk. Looking up, she saw her own disheveled, curly red head and her shoulders rising in unfamiliar nakedness over an intricately tucked and pleated frill.

Margaret’s mother sighed. “I don’t know how you do it, Isabella.”

“Sewing is recreation for me, Jean. And to make a wedding dress for my own daughter-in-law, whom I knew before she was born—how many people can have a pleasure like that?”

Affection shone from Isabella’s eyes. They were opalescent and wide set, like her son’s. Like Adam she was erect and dignified. But where she was talkative, he was silent. His intelligent face with its even, symmetrical features Was somber, a somber, romantic face. Mysterious. Heroic. Margaret had fallen in love with it when she was fifteen years old.

If Adam ever leaves me, she thought suddenly, I shall die.

He had last telephoned on Monday, just after she had come home for spring break. Before that he had not called since the previous Thursday. But they had always talked to each other every evening after eight. They would talk just under three minutes, yet it seemed, although two states lay between his university and her college, as if he had his arms around her.

When had it begun to change? Or had it really changed? After all, he was on the final stretch of the hard road toward his degree. So perhaps she was only imagining things. A word unspoken, a glance evaded, a telephone call missed—if you were looking for signs, you could find them, couldn’t you? You could always force something out of nothing, merely because you were too sensitive. Yes, that was it. She was too sensitive.

And she looked around at the familiar room as if its very familiarity might reassure her. An extraordinary warmth was here. It came from the house itself, this solid Victorian, built by her great-grandfather and meant to last, complete with front porch and wooden gingerbread, on this broad midwestern street. It came from the two women, both plain, kind, and unexceptional, who had known widowhood since the Korean War, had each worked and reared a child alone. It came from the cheerful shrills of children playing in the yard below.

From where she was standing, Margaret could see the group playing some ancient circle-game, with Nina in the center, taking charge. At six she was the neighborhood
leader. Such a delightful, demanding person she was, Jean’s little orphaned niece!

Adam used to joke: “After we’re married, people who don’t know us well will think that she’s really ours, that we’d had her hidden away.”

“Are they all right down there?” Jean asked. “I always worry when she’s out of my sight.”

“You worry too much, Mom. Nina’s going to make her way in the world. With that pert little face and all that energy, she’s going to be a charmer and a winner. Anyway, you know very well that when she’s in my charge, I keep her safe.” And Margaret had to laugh. “I don’t let her get away with too much, you can be sure.”

“You’ll be a fine mother,” Isabella said as she got up from her knees.

“ ‘Fine mother’!” Jean laughed. “Oh, yes, of course, but she’s got quite a few things to do first. Graduate from college in May, then Adam will graduate, and then the wedding June twentieth—you know, I’ve forgotten to give the date to the photographer! Good Lord, I’ll go phone right now!”

“Wait,” said Margaret. “I—we’re not exactly sure about the date.”

Two startled, high-pitched voices chimed. “What do you mean?”

Struggling out of the confining silk, Margaret felt suddenly exposed and very vulnerable.

“We thought—Adam said—he thought maybe we have too many things all crowded together. All these dates. Maybe he should have a little time to buy stuff for himself—”

Isabella interrupted. “Buy stuff! All he needs to get
ready is a new suit. And knowing how little he cares about clothes, I’ll have to argue him into buying that.”

As thoughts that had been forced down now rose to the surface, all the good warmth ebbed from the room.

“Well, it’s not only that. Maybe, when you think about it, maybe he really should have some more time, a couple of weeks to get used to the new job. A little time.”

“And you had to wait until April to think about all that?” Jean said, with some exasperation.

The two older women were properly alarmed. Without looking Margaret knew they were questioning, glancing toward each other. How they
wanted
this marriage! It was safe. Each was to get a dependable in-law. There were no dangerous unknown quantities. She understood.

“Why, he never said anything like that to me!” exclaimed Isabella.

“Well, we weren’t sure. It just crossed our minds. Just a thought. Anyway, we’ll have to decide this week one way or the other.” They were examining her. It felt as though cold air were blowing on her body. She slid into her jeans and buttoned her shirt, saying lightly, hurriedly, “Goodness, it’s no problem! There’s no big difference between June and July, is there? But we’ll let you know. Definitely. This week. Positively.”

Isabella, the more easily appeased, hung the wedding dress into a plastic bag. “Okay, as long as you do. It won’t take long for me to finish this skirt,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll have to come back once more to get the hem right, that’s all.”

As soon as they were alone, Jean asked the expected question. “What is it, Margaret? Is there any trouble?”

“No. What could there be?”

“Because if there is, I can’t go off and leave you.”

“Because of this little business of changing the date?”

“If that’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is.”

A pair of her familiar vertical worry lines appeared between Jean’s eyes. “I sometimes think I shouldn’t be going, anyway. India. It’s crazy.”

“Since that’s where the consular service is sending Henry, it’s where you have to go. What’s the fuss?”

“Maybe it’s crazy for me to think of marriage anyway, after all this time being a widow.”

“All the more reason, Mom.”

Jean looked weary. It was as if her years of work in the library had worn her as it wore books, graying the once-bright surface. She had had so little time to love her husband and be loved. Day after day there had been only the routine of work and the care of a child. Sadness and pity touched Margaret. Sometimes it almost seemed to her that their positions were reversed, that Jean was the daughter and she the mother.