A Fireproof Home for the Bride (21 page)

“I sort of feel like I have,” she replied, laying her hand open on the seat between them and closing her eyes at his melting touch. “I don’t see how heaven could be any sweeter.”

*   *   *

Cruising Broadway this time was much different than the night she had gone with Bev and Howie. Then she’d been trapped in the middle in the backseat of the car; here she was riding high up on the thick red upholstery, deliriously happy to be out with Bobby and far away from any single person who knew her as Emmaline Nelson. You couldn’t help looking twice at the Sweptside, its cherry red and vanilla paint swanning from the headlights to the taillights, where the truck bed widened instead of narrowed.

“She’s the only truck made with fins,” Bobby said. “Bought her with my own money, just this year. All that work for my dad finally added up to something.”

Emmy gazed at the other, older cars that most teens drove. “It’s something, all right. Like an ocean liner, almost.”

Bobby slapped his thigh. “That wasn’t what I was going for, but now that you mention it, yeah, I guess it kind of is.”

The Fargo Armory loomed up ahead at the corner of Broadway and First Avenue South, its somber façade adorned with a few fanciful crenellations that did nothing to subdue the forbidding nature of the architecture.

They parked across from the entrance, a small white colonnade that was attached to the side of the building, and over which was a brightly lit sign. As Emmy watched smartly dressed young people hurry through the glass doors, she suddenly didn’t feel as bold about her ability to fit in. Her spring coat seemed shamefully old and threadbare in the light of the cab as Bobby opened her door.

“Ready to have some fun?” he asked. Emmy nodded, letting his evident glee overcome her doubts, and walked up the path on his arm.

Inside, the band was in full swing, playing “Satin Doll.” People were everywhere, on the dance floor, by the concession stand, sitting along the side tables. There were a few kids her age, but mostly it seemed to be a slightly older crowd, with some patrons older than Emmy’s parents populating a nondancing section near the band. From a distance she noticed a gray-haired couple who looked as though they were dressed for church, sitting with a man in a dark suit, and it dawned on her that people could be here for the music as much as for the dance. Bobby took her things to the coat check as she watched the explosion of colorful dresses spinning and crinolines flashing out on the floor. There were many full-circle skirts, propped by acres of tulle, but there was also the occasional sack-shaped dress, and even a few fashions that were considerably out-of-date. Emmy looked down at her own gray wool pleated skirt and Birdie’s fitted short-sleeved pink sweater. Pretty enough, but decidedly humble—the skirt had been advertised as reversible, which had seemed clever at the time of ordering it from the Sears, but felt a good deal less so in this grand room. Apart from the skirt, it was her slope-heeled Sunday shoes that she knew would expose her for what she was—a girl from the wrong side of the river, north of the tracks. Her eyes stung as she gazed up at the sparkling ball hanging from the middle of the room, but before she could give in to the rising fear of not belonging, Bobby came up beside her, put his arm around her waist, and escorted her out onto the floor. She had no idea how to dance to this music, so she looked deep into Bobby’s eyes and let him lead her into an effortless swirl of movement.

“Emmy,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment my whole life. Feeling like this, with someone like you.” His smooth cheek brushed against hers as he swung her in a circle and held her eyes with his own.

“You know, don’t you?” she replied in wonder. “You just know.” The slight smile slipped from his face, revealing all the vulnerability that lay open, ready for her to claim, beneath his effortless charm. He tightened his grip on her and she managed to avoid stepping on his feet too much, closing her eyes against joyful tears. He smelled of Ivory soap—clean and perfect and male. She let go of all her thoughts and wrapped her senses in the moment, the throb of the standing bass, the salty taste in her mouth, the scent of Bobby, the softness of his hand in hers. She opened her eyes and knew that she could live here, right here, under the light-splitting scales of the rotating crystal ball, even if it meant never again knowing anything or anyone familiar or safe.

“Hey, Doyle!” Pete Chaklis appeared out of nowhere with a petite woman nestled under his arm. Bobby let go of Emmy, turning back into his easygoing self. Pete looked at Emmy, smirked, and drew Bobby slightly away.

“Hey, Pete!” Bobby shook his friend’s hand. “When’d you get home?” Bobby grabbed the woman to him in a huge hug. “Sally, I’m so sorry about your mom. You okay?” Emmy stood aside, unnerved by Pete’s disregard, as though she were nothing more than a floor lamp waiting to be turned on. She retreated a couple of steps, contemplating a run to the bathroom or perhaps right out the door. This was not the place for her at all. Sally’s dress was beautifully cut, covered in black lace and trimmed at the collar with just a bit of fur. It wasn’t a spring look exactly, but it was stunning and the shoes were tiny, perfect patent pumps that even though they must have been four inches high didn’t lift Sally up to Emmy’s chin. The band finished its tune and announced a ten-minute break. When the silence momentarily fell before the rush of conversation, Emmy stepped forward and tugged on Bobby’s sleeve.

“Oh, gosh, baby. I’m so sorry.” Bobby put his hand at the small of her back. “Sally, this is Emmy Nelson. My best girl.”

“Well, Bob,” Sally said, poking him in the ribs, “you found a beauty, didn’t you? Pete didn’t mention any Emmy.” They all turned to Pete and he shrugged. Emmy saw a look of some sort pass between Bobby and Pete, a moment broken by Sally wanting a drink.

“There’s no alcohol here,” Pete said. “Where do you wanna go?”

“I haven’t been to the Bismarck since we got back from the funeral,” she said. “I could easily murder a sloe gin fizz. Leave the coats, boys. We’ll be back in fifteen.”

As she followed the three friends to the door, Emmy thought she heard her name. At first she ignored the trill of a woman’s voice, certain she’d been mistaken, but then Emmy felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Svenja’s bright face.

“Emmy! I didn’t think it could possibly be you, but it
is,
” the girl exclaimed, hugging Emmy awkwardly. Emmy couldn’t help seeing Svenja take in her waiting companions in one swift glance. “Is Ambrose here, too?”

“No,” Emmy said, considering what being out on the town in strange company might do to her reputation, and seizing on the opportunity to fray the leash. “I’m here with friends.”

“So I see,” Svenja replied, tilting her head to get a better view of Emmy’s company. “You know Mr. Davidson, of course.”

The older man turned from the coat check behind Svenja and put his hand on the middle of her back. Emmy recognized him in an instant—the well-tailored suit, the large ring, the curdled color of his skin—and felt the hair on her arms stand in alarm.

“Hello,” she said, taking a step backward. He closed the space as effortlessly as if they were dancing a waltz.

His small eyes drew slightly wider as they shifted from surprise to amusement to hooded judgment. “Hello, Emmaline. Having a night out?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to gauge the level of his scrutiny. “I’m here with friends.”

Mr. Davidson took Emmy by the elbow, pinching lightly at her skin. “As are we. We’re meeting the Hansens to hear some music and celebrate Svenja’s betrothal to their son.”

“Yes,” Svenja said without enthusiasm.

“Congratulations,” Emmy said, suddenly placing the trio she’d seen near the bandstand. “Aren’t you pleased?”

“He’s a good man, one of the council’s hardest workers,” Mr. Davidson admonished Svenja.

“I’ll be a June bride after all,” Svenja said lightly. “See you on Sunday.” She kissed Emmy’s cheek and headed into the ballroom.

“Watch yourself,” Mr. Davidson said to Emmy in a much harsher tone. “Coming here to listen to music is one thing; dancing with a Catholic boy when you’re spoken for, quite another. But, of course, Ambrose knows of your whereabouts.”

Emmy shook her head slightly, as much a yes as a no. Viewed from the outside, her actions were decadent, unconscionable, no matter how justified she had felt entering the hall. The smirk on Mr. Davidson’s face clawed at her. “He will soon,” she said, her voice stronger than she felt.

Mr. Davidson watched Svenja cross the room. “Pity he chose you,” he said, licking at his moist lower lip. “She’s much better suited for breeding.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Emmy said slowly, her temper barely controlled. “She’s not a farm animal.”

“Of course not.” Mr. Davidson laughed, the sound deep in the barrel of his chest. “I was just going after your goat, which was far easier to get than I imagined.” He touched his fingertips to his brow in salute. “Until next time,” he said, and turned to find the Hansens.

Emmy watched as he made his way across the floor as though he had cut the wood planks and laid them himself. She rubbed her arms and jumped at Bobby’s hand landing on her shoulder.

“You ready?” he asked, turning her around.

“I need to go home,” she said, bringing to a sudden end her experiment in dangerous living. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Bobby motioned to Pete and Sally to wait another minute by the door. “What’s the matter, baby?”

“I’m engaged to Ambrose,” she said quietly, pinching her eyelids shut. “Until I break it off, this can’t be.” Emmy bowed her head, relief winning out over her confusion. He lifted her chin and she met his understanding gaze.

“When you break it off,” he said, glancing at Pete and whispering, “I’ll be right here.”

*   *   *

Emmy waited for the news of her debauchery to swing through the community and turn up in her own house. But the closer Easter Sunday crept without so much as a whisper, the more likely it seemed that her secret had gone unshared. She could only surmise that Mr. Davidson preferred her marrying Ambrose to not, and that Svenja wanted Emmy’s track to remain twinned to her own. Palm Sunday came and went in an uneventful blur as she slipped out of church untested, driving the family car directly back to Moorhead without stopping for dinner at the Branns’, using the excuse of science exam studying as her shield. No mention was made by either of her parents of her night out dancing. The burden of ending the betrothal remained squarely on Emmy like a chafing yoke.

By the time the two families were once again gathered at Grandmother Nelson’s meticulously set Easter dinner table—the company china, the polished silver, the slick ham, and the buttered mashed potatoes—Emmy was determined she’d get the refusal out immediately after, when she planned to ask Ambrose to drive her into Moorhead for her Sunday shift at the theater. But as she sat in the yellow full-skirted cotton jumper she’d made in home economics, and watched Mr. Brann cut the honey-glazed ham into thick slices, and endured her sister’s incessant twittering, and abided the endless political diatribe of her erstwhile childhood companion, each sweep of the second hand moved her closer to having to sit in that truck cab and suppress the anger of what he had done to her that night; stomaching how able he had proven himself to lunge past it all in his boorish way. She knew that without a witness, any proclamation she might make to him would rest unheard, providing him with ample opportunity to restake his claim.

“Emmaline,” her mother barked, snapping Emmy’s ponderous stupor. “You haven’t plated or passed.”

Emmy looked at the empty white circle in front of her and suddenly stood. All sound stopped, and she could finally hear in her head what she then said aloud. “Ambrose, I am sorry, but I can’t marry you.” She sat, resettled her napkin, and waited for the storm.

Everyone turned to Ambrose, except for Christian, who cleared his throat with a grunt, a noise that bolstered Emmy’s resolve.

“You can and you will,” Ambrose said. For once it was his face that purpled with embarrassed constriction.

“I can’t and I won’t,” Emmy said as slowly and gently as she would to an infant. “You understand.”

Mr. Brann stood over his son. “Do not just sit there,” he said, taking Ambrose by the collar and yanking him up by the neck like a limp puppy. “I’ve heard enough.” They moved in a huddled mess toward the door, followed swiftly by Birdie, who was just as immediately restrained by Karin, and turned to the staircase, where the girl broke free and ran upstairs in a clatter of tears. Karin stopped.

“You will make this right,” she said, addressing the floor before following after Birdie.

Perhaps, Emmy thought as she looked at the uneaten food around her—the usual assortment of vegetables that had hibernated in the basement all winter in either jars or burlap bags, the giant muscle of a once beloved animal, slicked with honey and spice. Perhaps not. The uplift of an unplanned action lent itself to a banquet of new possibility, and she picked up a fork, speared a pale green bean as though it were as important as what had just happened, folded it into her mouth, and chewed. Her left hand lay calmly in her lap as her father eased up out of his chair and helped Lida away from the table and into the parlor, her grandmother murmuring a dismissive “She’ll come around; they always do.” The rest of their conversation was lost to Emmy, and she felt strangely cleansed by the sound of frantic pacing and door slamming that was coming from the women upstairs. It made what had happened real in a way that eased her conscience for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. She glanced at the ceiling, wondering how long it would take Karin to regroup and come downstairs to level whatever judgment she was contemplating.

Emmy watched as Christian tuned the radio to Easter-appropriate music to soothe his mother, and then walked past Emmy before going to consult with his wife. He patted Emmy on the head, but she was unable to tell if it was out of pity or pride.

“That’s one way to do it,” he said, a small hint of approval in his voice. He sighed as he climbed the stairs.