The Bridegrooms (6 page)

Garrison was the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t take you to the game.”

“I don’t care about that.” Vada looped her hand through his arm.

“If I thought you really wanted to go—”

“I don’t.” Vada tucked herself closer. “But I do need to ask a favor of you.”

The church was just a block away, every step of the journey a familiar one. As they passed the neighborhood sights, Vada told him the whole story of Hazel’s letter-exchanging exploits, and if he was shocked at her behavior, he had the good grace to hide it.

“So I need you to accompany us to lunch tomorrow,” Vada said, summarizing the tale.

“At the Hollenden Hotel?”

“I know it’s expensive. And I’ve told Hazel she would need to contribute to the bill because it certainly wouldn’t be proper to let a total stranger—”

They’d arrived at the church steps, and she stopped to return one morning greeting after another as friends and fellow church members passed them on their way to the ornate double doors at the top. Vada kept her face a smiling mask, hiding just how much she hated having this conversation. Hated needing him so much for such a small thing.

“I just need you to be there,” she said, fighting for control. “For my sister. And for me.”

“Darling, of course if it means that much to you. I’ll gladly miss an afternoon at the ballpark to be your luncheon escort.” Without a hint of hesitation, he took her in his arms—right there on the church steps.

She waited for the warmth that had nearly taken over her body at the bakery to fill her, but she remained stiff in his embrace, the brim of her hat keeping her distanced from his shoulder.

After a moment he placed his hands on her shoulders and stooped to maneuver under that brim to place a warm, lingering kiss on her cheek. When he stood back, she lifted her face.

“Thank you, Garrison.”

“I’ll call for you at noon tomorrow. Now, shall we go inside?”

And like that, it was settled. The unknown made staunchly familiar, as common as the feel of Garrison’s guiding hand at the center of her back.

OH, WHAT A DIFFERENCE A LUNCH MAKES

The maître d’ barricaded the doors of the Hollenden Hotel dining room with the help of an impressive wood podium that stood a good two feet shorter than he but not quite as wide. His dark hair was plastered into two wings on either side of his round face, and his cheeks fluttered with every garbled breath.

He paid no attention to Vada, Hazel, and Garrison as they approached through the lobby. Indeed, the gaze he fixed just above their heads seemed to move higher and higher with each step, until the first feature Vada saw close up was the depth of his cavernous nostrils.

“Do you have a luncheon reservation?” he asked when it was clear they weren’t going away.

Hazel looked as if she were about to be sick at any moment, so Vada took her hand, ready to turn and flee if her sister desired.

“Actually,” Garrison said, posturing himself to command the snobbish man’s gaze, “we are due to have lunch with one of your guests.”

“And which guest would that be?” He opened the enormous leather-bound book on the impressive podium.

“Alex Triplehorn.” Hazel’s voice was little more than a breath.

“Mr. Alex Triplehorn,” Garrison said authoritatively, as if he hadn’t heard Hazel at all.

“Ah yes.” The man produced a smile that involved only one lip. “Allow me to show you to his table. I see, sir, that you have already checked your hat.”

Garrison’s hand went up to smooth the soft blond tufts. “I, uh, don’t have a hat.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved, then, isn’t it?” He slammed the book shut. “I’ll take you myself.”

Vada pinched her sister’s arm in retaliation for the barely contained snicker before sending Garrison an apologetic smile. The little party followed the broad dark suit through a second set of double doors into the main dining room.

She’d seen pictures of the Hollenden Hotel before, of course. Every Monday morning the society page ran photographs of Cleveland’s elite gathered to do political and charitable things. But to actually walk in and see the intricate chandeliers glistening in crystal and pearls, the ornate gold-leaf wallpaper playing host to masterful works of art, the sea of tables draped in pure white linen—she had to stop, just for a moment, poised on the threshold to take it all in.

The conversation was little more than a ripple as heads throughout the room bent low over their tables. The occasional trill of laughter escaped but soon seemed to be swallowed up in the muffled bubble created by so many ladies’ feathered hats.

More distinct was the sound of silver against china—tiny
clinks
of forks and knives. Through all of this, waiters dressed in crisp white coats wove their way around, arms draped with clean white towels, carrying glass pitchers of clear water or expertly balancing trays on up-turned hands.

Beside her, Hazel took a deep breath. “Smells delicious, doesn’t it?”

Vada hadn’t even thought about the food.

Garrison gave her sleeve a tiny, almost imperceptible tug, prompting her to follow, and soon they too were making their way through the sea of tables. For a man of such girth, the maître d’ navigated the dining room with surprising agility while Vada, slim as she was, walked with her arms tight to her sides lest she send somebody’s wine glass crashing to the glossy wood floor.

They came to a stop near the back of the room, three tables away from the swinging kitchen door. “Mr. Triplehorn?” The maître d’ spoke with an accent he hadn’t bothered affecting earlier. “Your luncheon party has arrived.”

He stood at such an angle that the man seated at the table was blocked from view, and it wasn’t until a set of broad shoulders rose above their host that Vada got a good look at the man they’d come to meet.

He was tall, yes, but his height alone couldn’t begin to comprise his stature. His broad chest and long arms perfectly filled the expensive-looking suit jacket that might have been tailored for a giant.

He brought up massive hands to straighten his blue silk tie, drawing Vada’s gaze to his face. Deeply tanned skin contrasted the stark white collar of his shirt, and his hair was the blackest she’d ever seen. It was short and brushed forward in tiny dry fans across the breadth of his smooth forehead.

Beneath it, dark brown eyes studied her face, then Hazel’s, then back to her. One black brow lifted in curiosity.

“Mr. Triplehorn?” Garrison thrust out his hand in introduction. Mr. Triplehorn’s grip swallowed it down to one pale, struggling thumb. His bemused expression remained.

“I am Garrison Walker. This is Miss Vada Allenhouse and, of course, Miss Hazel Allenhouse.” Garrison said Hazel’s name with a meaningful nod that seemed only to increase Mr. Triplehorn’s confusion.

“I believe there’s been some kind of mistake.” His voice was low, his words clipped.

“I do realize that Miss Vada’s and my presence might come as a surprise”—Garrison successfully regained his hand after a brief tug—“but under the circumstances, it hardly seemed proper to send Miss Hazel here without a proper chaperone.”

“Miss…Hazel?” He spoke, as if mastering the English language.

With each passing second, another diner dropped his fork and turned to stare at the scene unfolding at Alex Triplehorn’s table. If, indeed, this was the right table. Vada felt a flush rise to her cheeks. They were at the wrong table, talking to the wrong man. It had all been a hoax, a mistake. She was just about to grab her sister’s hand and run back through the heavy double doors when Hazel spoke.

“Your confusion is understandable, sir.” Her voice rose an unnatural octave, making her sound like one of the actresses in the touring companies that played at the Dresden Street Theater. “You see,” she looked directly at Vada, “I thought it wiser not to use my Christian name in my correspondence.”

This seemed to put all but the still-bemused Mr. Triplehorn at ease. Nonetheless, moving with considerable grace for a man his size, he stepped away from his place and pulled out a chair for Hazel. Garrison promptly followed suit for Vada, and soon the four were seated, each staring at the little bowl of pansies in the middle of the table.

“You must understand,” Mr. Triplehorn said after what seemed an eternity of silence, “how difficult this is for me. I know I have no right—”

“Nonsense.” The trill in Hazel’s voice made Vada wince. “After all, it was I who placed the advertisement.”

“Perhaps it was unscrupulous to take advantage. But I saw it as a sign.” Mr. Triplehorn spoke slowly, almost a full pause after every two or
three words, and listening to him gave Vada the chance to study him more closely.

His eyes almost had an almond shape, and though his hair was raven black, the series of tiny lines at the corners of those eyes meant he had to be forty—at least. Possibly older. What in the world could Hazel be thinking?

“A sign?” Vada said. Certainly such a statement deserved to be scrutinized.

Before Mr. Triplehorn could answer, a waiter in a crisp white jacket appeared with a cut-glass pitcher of water and proceeded to fill each glass. He’d no sooner left the table when a second waiter in a white shirt and black vest came bearing crisp, gilt-edged menus. He delivered a well-rehearsed speech about the chef’s lamb stew and ambrosia salad, to which Vada only half listened.

Instead, she looked about the table—openly—as nobody was bothering to look at her. Hazel kept her head down, staring at her hands. It was an unfortunate posture, as it brought forth a rather jowly appearance and caused a furrow between her brows.

Mr. Triplehorn seemed equally uncomfortable as he spent the entire time trying to find a place to land his gaze, ultimately turning his head to the side, watching the party at the next table.

All in all it was hardly what Vada expected, given the passionate tone of Mr. Triplehorn’s letter and Hazel’s eagerness to meet the man behind it. But from the moment they approached the table, there had been such an obvious air of disappointment emanating from the man, Vada couldn’t help but join her sister in what she was sure was a desire for the floor to open up and swallow them whole.

She turned to Garrison, hoping his sweet, gentle nature would be able to find some way to bring ease to this moment, but he was lost in the
menu, his eyes growing wider and wider as he took in the prices. Vada bored her gaze into him, willing him to look up at her, and when he did, he merely held up his menu to block his face from the view of Mr. Triplehorn and mouthed, “Just get the soup.”

As the waiter came to the end of his speech, he brought forth a little notepad on which he poised a short, elegant pencil. “Are we ready to make our luncheon order?”

“We are not,” Mr. Triplehorn said with such an air of finality, Vada began to think Garrison could put his mind at ease about the soup.

Their waiter gave an offended sniff at his dismissal, and his mustache barely moved when he announced his imminent return.

Left alone, an uncomfortable silence returned to the table. Vada cleared her throat. “You were saying,” she reached for her water glass, “that you took Hazel’s post as some sort of a sign?”

“I must have been mistaken.” His voice was low, his words measured.

“Mistaken?” She allowed her fingers to rest on the elegant stem of the glass, too afraid to lift it lest her intense grip cause it to snap in her hand.

“Vada, darling, please.” Garrison’s gentle touch on her arm invited her to relinquish her grip, and she wanted so badly to entwine her fingers in his, grab her wounded sister, and leave.

“I was working in Cheyenne when I saw the advertisement and read the name Allenhouse. It is such an unusual name, I thought certainly…” He seemed to finally have the good grace to feel uncomfortable. “You are not—” He spoke toward Hazel, who still refused to look up, before switching his gaze directly to Vada. “She is not the young woman I expected to meet.”

Vada bristled at the implication. “The
young
woman?”

“The woman in the advertisement clearly said that she was eighteen.”