The Bridegrooms (3 page)

“Oh, I have the feeling you’re more than a secretary—”

“Nevertheless, if you want a preview of the ‘Harmonic,’ you’ll need to conduct an interview with Herr Johann himself.”

“Come on, Miss Allenhouse.” He leaned closer, the deep bass of his voice underscoring the sounds of the street. “It is
Miss
Allenhouse, isn’t it?”

Vada flashed her best smile, the one she knew would bring out the dimple just above her chin.

“Don’t try your flattery on me, Mr. Voyant. I really can be of no help. Now, if you would like to speak to Herr Johann—”

“I’ve tried.” He effectively blocked her exit with one side step. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think that guy thinks I’m an idiot.”

She wanted to say it wasn’t his imagination at all, that Bertram Johann considered just about everybody to be an idiot, but she didn’t want to hurl an insult into his sincere green eyes. Instead she said, “I’m sorry. Mr. Johann is intent on revealing as little information as possible.”

“I’m begging you, Miss Allenhouse. Anything you tell me would be helpful.” He held up his little notebook again, clearly revealing the time on his wristwatch.

“Oh no!” Vada stamped her foot, and the envelope dropped to her side. “Now you’ve made me late for the printer’s, and we’ll never get the program on time.”

“So that
is
your precious cargo.” Dave’s eyes traveled the length of her, stopping short of being downright insulting. “What’s on the list for the evening’s entertainment? A little Bach? A little Beethoven?”

As he spoke, he moved aside to hold the bakery door open, allowing a woman and her two children to pass through. He tipped his cap and wished her a good afternoon, at which time the woman turned and sent an approving smile over her shoulder.

Vada squared herself in response, preparing to get out of this conversation. Now. After all, Mrs. Moravek, the baker’s wife, had been serving Garrison and her their Sunday morning pastries for nearly a year. What would she think seeing Vada locked in conversation with another man? It was only a matter of time before she would come to the window and see—

“Maybe a touch of Mozart?”

“Honestly, Mr. Voyant. Why do I get the impression that your ability to rattle off a list of composers exhausts your vat of musical knowledge?”

He chuckled and threw his hands up in surrender. “You’ve caught me. I just got into town a couple of months ago, and the first assignment I get is the arts beat. So can you help a fellow out?”

“I don’t think—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Dave snatched the envelope from her hand.

“Give that back to me!”

“Were you headed for Franklin’s Dream Printing just around the corner?”

“Yes, until you—”

“I’ll take it in for you.”

“They’re closed.”

“They’ll open for me, Miss Allenhouse. Answer one question, and I promise you’ll have them in a week.”

“We need them by Thursday.”

“Answer two, and you’ll have them Wednesday.”

She studied his face. The smile was still there, but it was void of any flirtation and artifice. How much harm could one question be? Or two? Keeping her nose in the air as high as safety would allow, she walked away from the bakery window, knowing he was following close behind.

Once she was safely in front of an anonymous tailor’s, she turned, planted her feet, and folded her arms in front of her. “Two questions, then.”

“Great.” He tucked the envelope under one arm and licked the tip of his pencil. “First, how does this orchestra compare with the philharmonic that disbanded in ’95?”

Vada’s mind flashed back to the missed beat at the top of the third measure. “It doesn’t.”

“How so?”

“Is that your second question?”

“My darling Miss Allenhouse. Perhaps you should consider a career in politics.”

“Hardly likely, seeing as I don’t even have the right to vote.”

Dave tilted his head back, squinted one eye, and gave a studied perusal. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a suffragette.”

“Oh, I’m not, really. I leave that to my sister Hazel.”

“Sister? So there are more of you at home?” The leer was back. “Tell me, are any of your sisters as beautiful as you are?”

“Is
that
your second question?”

He had the good grace to look defeated. “Yes. I’m dying to know.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s no way for me to answer without seeming immodest, so what a shame that you wasted it. And that, Mr. Voyant, is your cautionary tale for the day.” Invigorated by the exchange, she punctuated her statement with a victorious chuckle.

Without another word he flipped the cover, closed his little notebook, and returned it to his pocket as he looked at her with new, unabashed admiration. “Will you at least allow me to see you home?”

Vada wagged a chastising finger in his face. “That would be a third question. Not part of our agreement. But I’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday with the programs.”

She walked away, replaying the entire conversation in her mind. Each time, her retorts were saucier, his banter more intense. Left to herself, she giggled in a way she hadn’t dared before. What would Garrison think if he had heard this verbal battle with Dave Voyant? For that matter, what was
she
thinking?

Little by little, her nose descended from its perch high in the air, and her head bowed to where she could only see the tips of her shoes peeking out from beneath her skirt with each step.

Forgive me, Lord, for my inconstancy
.

Feeling chastised, Vada tried to make amends by replaying her last conversation with Garrison. But it was another full block before she could recall a single word.

“Rotten old cow.” Hazel stood on the porch, hands planted on her hips, directing her comment at the last bit of a stiff brown silk skirt disappearing behind their front door. “Some nerve showing up this late in the afternoon. She’d keep Doc down there until seven o’clock. Her and her fainting.”

“Oh, Hazel, stop it.” Vada paused at the foot of the concrete steps that spilled down the front of the house. As always, the conflicting tug of relief and resignation accompanied her arrival home, and she wished she’d hidden in the alcove under the stairs long enough to avoid this confrontation. “You know Mrs. Thomas doesn’t like to walk down the basement stairs.”

Hazel made a face. “The
widow
Thomas, if you please. Seems she makes a point of mentioning that little fact every time she shows up, lest we forget how very marriageable she is.”

“Well, the widow Thomas is one of the few people who pays Doc with actual money, so we’d better be a little grateful every time she graces the door.”

“Honestly, Vada. You can steal the fun out of just about anything.” Hazel’s glare lasted just a few seconds before turning into a mischievous grin that produced a dimple identical to Vada’s own.

As young girls, they’d often been mistaken for twins, but Hazel
remained two inches shorter, and at least that much rounder, until only their dark chocolate hair and that dimple remained as a shared feature.

“So, do you want to see what came in the mail today?” Hazel asked.

“Not another one?”

Hazel held up two fingers—the nails bitten to the quick.

“Unbelievable.”

“Quick. Come inside.” Hazel opened the front door and, after a quick scan of the entryway to be sure the distasteful Mrs. Thomas was out of sight, grabbed Vada’s hand. The two ran giggling up the stairs to the second-floor landing.

“Hurry.” Hazel propelled them toward her bedroom door. “I want to show you before the others get home.”

“That’s right.” Vada crossed the threshold on her sister’s heels. “Where are they? It’s late.”

Hazel closed the door behind them. “Althea’s still at work, of course. I guess more people send telegrams on Saturdays.”

“And Lisette?”

“Who knows with that one.” Distracted, Hazel sorted through piles of paper on the writing desk beneath the white lace curtain-covered window. “Now how could I have lost… They just came today…ah, here!” She picked up two envelopes and studied them closely before handing one over to Vada. “Look at this one first.”

Vada peered inside. “A picture and a letter.”

Hazel nodded. “This is the fourth letter I’ve received from him. But the first picture. What do you think?”

Vada took a deep breath, bracing herself. She pulled out the postcard-sized photograph and studied the image of a man seated on a straight-backed chair. His dark hair, shining with some sort of oil, was combed, as if against its will, straight back from his forehead. Thick, dark brows
formed little nests above pale eyes. There was also a nose and, she assumed, lips, although the detail of either feature was left a mystery behind the massive, thick beard. He wore an ill-fitting, rumpled suit and thick-soled boots. Something that had once been a critter or varmint had been converted to a hat that perched on one knee, as if ready to hop up and skitter away.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Hazel’s voice was little more than a sigh.

“Is this the one who can only write three-letter words?”

“No, meanie. This is Barth, the one who writes the beautiful passages about the mountain pools like smooth silver coins and the thundering of the elk across the plains.”

“Ah, the poet.” Vada looked deeper into the pale, vacant eyes.

“But not like Althea. He doesn’t write in verse or anything. He just makes the land come alive.”

Vada looked up at her sister. She’d never seen her looking as beautiful as she did that moment. Hazel had always carried a certain hardness to her. Coarse hair, chapped skin. Her lips formed the same natural bow shape as Vada’s own, but it seemed they’d been made with thinner ribbon. Now Hazel’s face was relaxed, with just enough of a smile to bring out the Allenhouse dimple.

“You look like you’re ready to hop on a train right now,” Vada said, feeling like an intruder.

“Not quite. But he’s a definite contender.”

Hazel crossed the room to the large oak armoire and opened the door wide. The backside of it was covered in cork, and a dozen slips of paper fluttered in response to the movement. They were handwritten notes—some little more than painful scrawls—and photos. All men, all with the hard-bitten features of frontier life. Some stiff in photographer’s studio chairs, a couple standing grimly next to newly killed game.

Hazel stepped back to observe the display. “Hmm. I think it’s definitely time to send regrets to this one, and this one.” She plucked the two pictures of the victorious hunters. “And probably this one. He looks short.”

The image of the poetic, stoic Barth was pinned prominently, as scrap after scrap of hopeful correspondence was snatched off the cork.

“You know,” Vada said, preparing herself for the argument to come, “you don’t have to do any of this. If you want to move to Wyoming, just go. You’re twenty-one. You don’t need a husband to be able to vote.”

“Easy for you to say.” Hazel gave a pitying look to the bearded man with a bowler hat and one suspender. “You have a man. I don’t want to give up my chance at marriage and security just because I want the rights this country owes me. I shouldn’t have to go out there and be somebody’s laundress just so I can vote.”

“Who says you—”

“If I move out there alone, I’ll be desperate. I’ll latch on to the first man I find. I want to be wooed. I want to be courted. I want romance, like you have with Garrison.”

“Yes, well.” Vada remembered his familiar, dry kiss. “If that’s your aim, there’s no reason you can’t have that here. The city’s full of men—”

“Who aren’t exactly piling up on our front porch. And once they’ve seen Lisette, what chance does an old maid like me have?”

“Watch it, sister. You’re younger than me, you know.”

“And you’re engaged. Practically, anyway. I want a man who wants me.”

“So it’s not just your constitutional aspirations?”

The glint was back in Hazel’s eyes. “That is the icing on the wedding cake.”

The sisters stood side by side, staring at the narrow field of matrimonial possibility pinned to the armoire door. The pensive Barth stood out, untouched on all sides by an inch of reverent cork.

“Look at him,” Hazel whispered. “Looks like he could walk right out of that picture.”

“And you sound like you’re ready to walk right down the aisle. But I thought you said you got two letters today.”

“Oh! How could I forget?” Hazel ran back to her desk and rifled through the pile of envelopes again. The one she selected was cream colored and obviously a heavier weight than the others. There had been a thin wax seal at its closure, and the paper itself made a rich brushing sound against the roughness of Hazel’s hands.

“Listen to this: ‘My Dear Miss Allenhouse: Having seen your letter, I feel it is the sign I have been looking for, and I am compelled to meet you. I will be in Cleveland on business the week of the sixth. I will be staying at the Hollenden Hotel and would be most honored if you would join me for luncheon there on Monday afternoon. Given the circumstances, I will quite understand if you choose not to accompany me. However, it is my earnest prayer that you will grant me this chance to make your acquaintance, knowing full well I cannot expect any more than that. Warmest Regards, Alex Triplehorn.”

Hazel topped off the reading with an uncharacteristic squeal. “Doesn’t he sound mysterious?”

“He sounds…”—Vada searched for the word—“…forward.”

“And dinner at the Hollenden?” She flung open the other side of the armoire. “What can I wear?”

“You aren’t seriously considering going?”

“Of course I am.”

“You cannot simply meet a man at a hotel for lunch. Not unchaperoned.”

“So I’ll get a chaperone.”

Vada laughed. “Doc doesn’t even know about
this
.” She ran her hand along the collection of clippings. “You can’t break it to him with an invitation to lunch.”

“I wasn’t thinking about our father.” Hazel’s intense stare belied her true intention.

“Oh no.” Vada held up her hands. “Two ladies at luncheon aren’t any more proper than one.”

“Ah, but if one is accompanied by her fiancé…”