Cate Campbell (4 page)

Frank stood up, bumping his leg against the table, his napkin dangling awkwardly from his only hand. “Dr. Benedict.” As he reached to shake her hand, his napkin fell to the floor, and he felt his neck burn when Blake hurried forward to retrieve it and bring him a fresh one.

The doctor’s hand was cool and firm. Her eyes assessed him, measuring the emptiness of his sleeve, coming back to his face without a hint of embarrassment.

Relieved by this, Frank found himself smiling. “I saw you,” he said. “On—what’s it called?—Post Street, I think.”

“I must have been on the way to my clinic. I often walk down from the hospital. It’s awfully nice you’ve found your way here, Major.”

“Yes,” he said, and for the first time he felt it might be true. “Thank you.”

Dinner began. Two freckled, redheaded maids in frilly aprons appeared with the first course. They distributed bowls around the table, and ladled out a clear soup, peppered with croutons. It was too salty, but Frank drank it all anyway, to offset the buzz of whisky. He was careful with his spoon, hoping for no more embarrassing incidents. While he ate, he watched the Benedict family.

The elder son and daughter looked like their father, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and tall. Preston resembled his mother. Even now, when she must be nearing fifty, Edith Benedict’s upswept hair was a soft blond, only lightly touched with gray. Her skin was smooth, her eyes the same blue as Preston’s. The resemblance ended there, though. She was soft-spoken, gentle, even diffident. Preston spoke loudly. His laugh rattled the crystal, and his grin flashed at everyone and everything in the dining room, including the twin maids, who blushed and curtsied whenever he addressed them.

When a plump black woman in a long apron came in, bearing a platter of meat and roast potatoes, Preston jumped up to hold the door open as she passed through. She gave him a huge smile, showing uneven teeth like yellowing ivory in her round, perspiring face. “Mr. Preston, y’all get yourself right back to your chair. Old Hattie can manage a platter of roast beef!”

“It smells wonderful, Hattie,” he said as he sat down again.

“I bin savin’ this good roast just for you!”

She set the platter in front of Dickson Benedict, and brought an enormous carving knife and fork from a sideboard. Dickson stood to carve the joint. Frank saw the thick slices fall away from the roast, black at the edges and brown all the way through, and thought how his father would complain to see a good loin of beef ruined that way.

The maids set fresh plates, and Hattie dished up potatoes on each one while Dickson laid on slabs of the beef. When everyone had a plate, Hattie stood smiling at Preston. He took a bite of the dry meat, and bowed to her. “You’ve done it again, Hattie! You’re a genius!”

Satisfied, the cook bustled out of the dining room, the little maids in tow.

Dick cut into a slice of beef, and scowled over it. “It’s practically charcoal,” he muttered. “Mother, can’t you talk to her?”

“I have tried, dear,” Edith said faintly. “Poor Hattie. She does her best.”

“Overdoes it,” Dickson said. “Sorry, Major. Old retainers, you know.”

Frank said, “It’s delicious, sir.”

Preston laughed. “Beats that boiled leather they served in Allenby’s army, right, old chap?”

Frank chewed the bite of meat in his mouth. When he could swallow, he said, “A great deal better than hospital food.”

At that, Margot Benedict leaned forward. “Where were you, Major?”

“Hampton, Virginia.”

“Oh, yes. The Soldiers’ Home. Were you there long?”

“Felt like it.”

“I’m sure it did.” She mashed a roasted potato with her fork. “I saw a lot of combat veterans in my residency. Such a sad business. Smashed to bits, some of them.”

“Please, Margot, dear,” Edith said.

The younger Mrs. Benedict leaned forward. “The thing is,” Ramona said brightly, “it’s over now, isn’t it? It’s all finished, and Preston is home safe and sound.”

An awkward silence followed this statement, and Ramona Benedict turned as pink as the georgette of her frock. “Oh. Major Parrish, you, too, of course. Safe and—”

He wanted to say something to put her at her ease, but he couldn’t think of what it might be. He set his fork down, and cleared his throat.

Margot Benedict said in an even, unhurried way, “Don’t worry, Ramona. I’m sure the major is glad to be home, injured or not.”

Frank managed to say, “Right,” and cursed himself for being tongue-tied.

Preston said cheerfully, “You’ll have noticed Cowboy’s not much of a chatterbox.”

Dick said, “Cowboy. You’ll have to tell us about your nickname, Major.”

Frank said, “I’m from Montana, Mr. Benedict. Ranch country. Someone started calling me Cowboy, out in the East, and it stuck.”

Edith Benedict rang the bell, and the two maids returned. They jostled each other, each vying to be the one to take Preston’s plate. The winner was too hasty, and spilled gravy on the tablecloth. She fussed, making little curtsies even as she dabbed at the mess with a napkin. Margot Benedict said, “For heaven’s sake, Leona! Leave it.” The girl jumped, and fled, the gravy-stained napkin in her hand and the other maid close at her heels.

When they were gone, Edith said, “Margot, really. You terrify the poor girls.”

“I do?”

“You scowl at them so!”

“And that was Loena,” Preston added, chuckling. “Not that it matters which is which.”

“Now, now,” Edith said. “What will the major think of us?” She turned to Frank with a polite smile. “Tell us about your family, Major Parrish. Where is your ranch?”

Frank managed a few words about Missoula, about the beauty of the Montana landscape, and in response to a question from Dick Benedict, the price of beef on the hoof. To his relief, dessert was soon served by an abashed Loena—or Leona—and for a few minutes there was no need to talk. From beneath his brows, Frank watched the doctor push with her spoon at the unfortunate rubbery skin covering the pudding, then give it up. He managed to scoop out a bite or two from the cut-glass dish before he also put down his spoon. She winked at him, and he smiled back.

They all trooped back to the small parlor for their coffee. Someone had built up the fire, and it blazed merrily in the fireplace. Dickson Benedict sat near it in a chintz armchair. With a pair of tiny silver scissors, he snipped the end off a thick cigar. He put a match to it, and drew until the end glowed cherry red. With a satisfied grunt, he blew a gout of smoke, then leaned back with one hand resting on his modest paunch, the other holding the cigar between thumb and forefinger.

Preston stood by the fire, one elbow on the mantelpiece, smiling down at everyone. Dick and his wife settled on a short divan, and Frank, feeling long-legged and awkward, found a chair opposite them. The doctor pulled a chair close to the circle for her mother, then perched on the arm of the divan.

Dick looked up at her. “So, Margot. How’s the doctor business today?”

Her expression was rueful. “A little slow, I’m afraid.”

Preston said, “See any actual patients, doc? Or did you spend your day dusting the furniture?”

She turned to face her younger brother. “Actually, Preston,” she said in a deliberate way, “I saw a nice case of alcohol poisoning today. It was classic—cyanotic, blurred vision, impaired motor skills.”

Preston gave a mock shiver. “Nasty! So what did you do for him?”

She sighed, and let her gaze drop to the flames. “Nothing, I’m afraid. He was not eager—in his own words—to have me ‘look inside his drawers.’ ”

Ramona Benedict burst out, “Margot, for heaven’s sake!” Frank’s startled glance found her glaring up at her sister-in-law, her rouged lips pouting. “Spare us the details!”

“Oh, sorry, Ramona,” the doctor said lightly.

Preston said, “Did you need to look inside his drawers?”

At this, Ramona gave a musical laugh. Her husband snapped, “Preston can say it, but Margot can’t, Ramona?”

Ramona gave a delicate shiver. “It’s just so—so unladylike.”

Preston chuckled. “What do you expect from a suffragette? Cowboy, you’ll soon learn my sister doesn’t concern herself with femininity.”

Frank, managing a cup and saucer on his knee, glanced up at Margot Benedict. Her eyes met his, and there was a challenge in them. “Do you object to women’s suffrage, Major?” she said with asperity.

“No.” He shifted the cup and saucer to the little piecrust table in front of the divan. Every eye turned to him, and feeling self-conscious, he smoothed his pant leg over his thigh. They were waiting for him to say more. In the silence, filled only by the crackling of the fire, he searched for words. “My mother,” he began. “The other ranch women—they work hard. Physical work.”

Ramona said, “Really? Do they—what do you call it—punch cows, and everything?”

Dick Benedict said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Ramona.”

“Sodbusters,” Preston said.

Margot put down her own coffee cup and fixed Frank with her dark gaze. “You’re saying they’ve earned the right to vote, aren’t you, Major? Did they march?”

“Didn’t need to, Dr. Benedict. Montana gave women the vote in 1914.”

“That’s right! I’d forgotten. You have that congresswoman—Jeannette Rankin, isn’t it? That must have been an exciting election.”

“I don’t really know. I shipped out in ’15.”

“Ah. You were gone a long time,” Dickson Benedict said. He puffed on his cigar, and a wreath of blue smoke circled his head. “Different world you came back to, isn’t it, Major?”

Frank nodded.

“You see the headline in the paper today?” Dickson said. “Six thousand men out of work in Seattle. It’s a shame.”

Margot said crisply, “How many women, Father?”

It had the feeling of an old argument. Considering himself safely out of it, Frank picked up his coffee cup again, leaving the saucer on the table. Dickson Benedict growled, “It’s our service boys who can’t find work, Margot. It’s a disgrace.”

“Come now, Father. It’s been more than two years. Some servicemen are working, and some aren’t, just as in the rest of the population. It’s a depression.”

Dickson began a response, but Edith forestalled him, saying, “And you, Major? Where are you going to work now that you’re out of the service?”

He didn’t look like the sort of man Preston would befriend. Or perhaps, Margot thought, as she finished her coffee, it was the other way around, and Preston was not the sort of man this Frank Parrish would normally associate with. The major was painfully lean, and she guessed he had not been out of the hospital very long. She wondered if his war experiences were what had begun the premature graying of his black hair. His eyes were a startling clear blue, with sooty lashes, the coloring some people called Black Irish. The Irishmen she knew, though, were talkative to a fault. Frank Parrish was nearly wordless.

In answer to her mother’s question, he said, “I came out for a job with the Alaska Steamship Company.”

Her father arched a thick eyebrow. “I heard they weren’t hiring.”

“So I found out, sir. When I arrived.”

“Damn shame,” Dickson said.

“That’s terrible,” Edith said in her soft voice. “I’m so sorry, Major.”

Dickson gestured with the cigar. “What sort of work are you planning to do?”

“Hoping to do some engineering, sir.”

“The strike hit us all hard.”

“Not you, Father,” Preston said. “You were way ahead of those unionists, weren’t you?”

“He paid them a living wage,” Margot snapped. “And promised them their jobs would be safe if they felt they had to walk out in sympathy.”

Preston said, “Is that what you did?”

“I look ahead, son,” Dickson said. He stubbed his cigar out in a wide cut-glass ashtray. “Best advice I can give you—any of you—is to look ahead five years.”

“I don’t know if we can, Father,” Margot said. “You have that sort of vision. It’s your special gift, I suspect. I’m not sure I can see to the end of 1920, much less all the way to 1925.”

Their guest’s eyes turned to her. Blue lights flickered in them, reflections from the fire. He gave a measured nod of agreement.

“I’ll put in a word for you, Major Parrish,” her father said. “I know pretty much everyone here. Allen’s the highway designer. Bill Boeing’s little company is building seaplanes, and he might need an engineer. I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you, sir. Kind of you.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Dickson said. He patted his rounded stomach in a complacent gesture. “Servicemen are a special concern of mine. I let three women go last month so our veterans could get back to work.”

“Father!” Margot exclaimed. “You didn’t!”

Dickson grinned, and leaned back, crossing his legs. “No, daughter, I didn’t. But I knew I’d get a rise out of you.”

Dick said, “It happens, though, Margot. You know that.”

“It’s appalling.”