Five Brides (10 page)

She rode the elevator to the expansive lobby, which boasted one of the largest Christmas trees she’d ever seen. After taking a moment to get her bearings, Inga walked to the concierge station, which stood empty. She started to tap the silver call bell, but a well-groomed man with dark hair and thick dark brows arching perfectly over clear blue eyes stepped behind the counter.

“Hallo,” he said, the brows rising.

“Hello.” She paused, startled by the man’s accent. “You’re English?”

“British,” he corrected her, his accent clipped and dreamy.

She pointed at him playfully and smiled. “Sorry . . . I have a roommate who is . . .
British
.”

“Do say.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the counter. “And where do you and this
British
roommate live?” He glanced around as though he were searching to see if ticker tape would fall from the garland-laced ceiling.

She looked up and around too. Then, turning back, she answered, “Chicago.”

“Chicago. The Windy City. I hear it’s cold there.”

“
Cold
doesn’t begin to describe it.”

His eyes searched hers and she held her own, matching him blink for blink. Finally, he whispered, “So, how can I help you this evening?”

“I wondered if you might suggest a place for dinner.”

He grinned, sending a deep dimple into his left cheek. “For you only?” He looked over her shoulder. “Or will your husband be joining you?”

Inga decided that the game had become fun and she wanted to continue playing. “No. Just me. All alone.” She pictured her father and mother frowning at her forwardness, then dismissed the notion.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m done with my shift in ten minutes.” He straightened. “You could wait right over there—” he pointed—“and I’ll show you personally one of my favorite spots.
Or
, I can hand you a map of Hollywood, which I conveniently have right here, and point out a few places.”

Maybe, just maybe, her heart told her, meeting and marrying a pilot wasn’t what God had in mind for her.
Maybe
she had come from Plymouth to Chicago and from Chicago to Los Angeles to meet this charming, dapper Brit standing before her. For sure there was only one way to find out. “I’ll wait,” she said, then turned gracefully, as the airline had taught her, and sashayed to the cluster of chairs nearby. Minutes passed before she realized the young man she’d just accepted a dinner date with had failed to give her his name or to inquire as to hers.

Somehow—and she wasn’t quite sure
how
—Evelyn found herself sitting across from the most handsome man she’d ever laid her eyes on. They were in a restaurant filled with string quartet music, linen-draped tablecloths, and flickering candles, the likes of which she’d never seen before.

Like Dorothy in Oz, Evelyn wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And certainly not in Portal, Georgia.

“Tell me again,” the man who’d introduced himself as George Volbrecht said over a sip of hot coffee. “
Exactly
what did she say?”

Evelyn swallowed hard as she pressed her palms against the plain skirt she’d donned earlier that morning. At least, she surmised, she’d managed to slip her feet back into her pair of cast-off shoes after Mr. Volbrecht surprised her by asking her to “have a bite with” him. “She said that she didn’t want to see you. Didn’t want to speak to you. And if you didn’t get out of her apartment, she would call the police.” Evelyn reached a shaky hand toward her cup of coffee, then placed it back into her lap. “Although I don’t know how. I mean, we don’t even have a . . . phone . . .” Her voice trailed. Maybe she’d said too much. She took a deep breath, and in her best effort to be as worldly and glamorous as Betty, she squared her shoulders. With one finger, she turned the coffee cup
all the way around as she’d seen Betty do earlier. But unlike Betty’s smooth move, she nearly knocked the delicate cup off its saucer. “How do you know Betty, Mr. Volbrecht?” she asked, hoping to keep the conversation flowing.

The man’s jaw flexed and his eyes flashed in the candlelight. “George.” He smiled so briefly, Evelyn wondered if she’d imagined it. “Please call me George.”

“Okay. George.” The name sounded strange on her lips, even though she had an uncle named George. Still . . .

Their waiter appeared then, carrying two plates of steaming food George had ordered, most of which Evelyn had never heard of and felt sure she’d never be able to pronounce. As soon as they were served, Evelyn bowed her head and said a silent prayer of gratitude, although whether it was for the food or the dinner companion, she wasn’t sure. When she opened her eyes, George stared at her from across the table.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No. Why?” She slid the folded powder-blue napkin into her lap, picked up the fork that had been beside it, and stabbed at what she thought might be some type of potato.

George was midway through a mouthful. He waved his fork over his plate and said, “I thought perhaps you’d gone to sleep.”

“Oh. I just said the bless—I was just thanking God for the food.” She took a small bite, chewing slowly. Yes. Most definitely a potato. “Um, how do you know Betty?”

“We’ve been friends all our lives.” He took a long drink of water from a goblet so delicate Evelyn was almost afraid to pick hers up. Even her mama’s wedding crystal didn’t come close to the intricacy. “Our fathers have known each other since
they
were in diapers, I believe. They both tell stories of rolling around on the carpets, wrestling over a toy. Today my father is the attorney for
her father’s company. We’re not sure who’s wrestling who anymore.” He smiled at his own wit.

Evelyn smiled with him, hoping the response would relax her. “I’ve only just met her.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. Not that they had slipped, but it gave her hand something to do, and her stomach had tightened to the point where she wasn’t sure she could eat. “Why did you—did you want me to tell her something for you, maybe?”

George sliced into his meat with his knife. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why did you ask me to come out with you? Did you want me to give her a message?”

He chuckled. “Yeah . . . yeah. Ah, no. I thought . . .” He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “I hoped to take my old friend out to dinner, and since she obviously wasn’t biting—pardon the pun—I thought perhaps you’d like to go. Out to dinner with me.” He pointed to her plate with the knife. “Eat up before it gets cold. Excellent filet mignon, by the way.”

She watched the way he held the knife and fork. The way he used them, together, to cut the meat. Not the way she’d always done, almost as if she were attacking it, hoping that if it were not already dead, she’d kill it. The way George did it held an air of such sophistication. Fork held in the left hand. Upside down . . .
then
slice . . . slice . . . slice.

She did it. Evelyn smiled, then looked up at George, who looked back at her. “What?” he asked.

She giggled, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “Nothing.”

George leaned over the table and she did the same. “There is something you can tell Betty for me, if you will.”

“Okay.” She hoped she didn’t sound too anxious.

“Tell her that I tried to warn her, but she didn’t . . . hear me.”

Evelyn dropped her silverware onto her plate, making an awful racket. “Warn her?”

“Her father,” George said, bringing his eyes from her plate back to her face. “He’s not happy, you tell her. He’s
going
to cut off her allowance. He means it this time.”

“Cut it off?” Evelyn wasn’t aware of an allowance. Well, sir. No wonder Betty had such beautiful clothes. And shoes and hats to match.

“That’s right. No more party dresses. No more extras for whatever it is she thinks she needs. Her fine perfumes and talcum powders. He’s going to give her an ultimatum and she’d better prepare herself. Tell her . . .” He made a show of cutting more meat. “Tell her I tried to warn her.” He looked up again. “Because we are, after all, such longtime friends. Got it?”

“Got it,” Evelyn whispered.

He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin before asking, “How about a little dessert? Tiramisu?”

“What brought you to America?” Inga asked the man she now knew as Frank Martindale. They were an hour into the most exciting dinner she’d ever eaten and the liveliest conversation she’d ever had.

“A plane,” he said.

She laughed heartily, not worried in the least if it sounded more like a guffaw than a bell ringing. Her grandmother would say there could be nothing worse than a woman laughing like a moose, but at that moment, Inga didn’t care. “My roommate, the one I told you about, came over on a ship. Then took the train to Chicago.”

Frank nodded as he twirled his fork into the tangle of spaghetti on his plate. “Seriously, I flew to New York, then took a train to Chicago, then a plane to LA.”

Inga raised her hands. “But why LA? Weren’t New York and Chicago exciting enough for you?”

They sat in a booth with plush semicircular seating, as close as they could while still facing each other. He smiled at her. “Hollywood. I can sing. I can dance.” He turned his face toward the dim overhead light. “On the whole, I think I’m pretty good-looking.”

She playfully patted the side of his face. “You’re adorable.”

“So, back in London, I see this movie with Gene Kelly—”

“Which one?”

“
Summer Stock
.”

“With Judy Garland.”

“You know it?”

“Know it? I went to the picture show three times to see it.”

“Only three?” he teased. “I went four.”

“You know,” she said, leaning back, pretending to take him in. “You sort of look like Gene Kelly.”

“Nothing doing. Besides, my real friends tell me I look more like Montgomery Clift.”

She made a game of studying his face. “Mmm . . . no. They’re obviously not your real friends.”

He leaned over and stole a kiss so quickly Inga hadn’t a moment to prepare for it. “Are you, then?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Absolutely the best.”

“Then what do you say? Honestly. Who do I really remind you of?”

She had to think, if she could. She had to be clever. “I think . . . you look like a man from London destined to be a star.”

The hour hand on her watch had passed nine when Joan finally returned to the apartment. As always, a small table lamp burned
dimly in the living room while the rest of the place stood dark and quiet. She kicked out of her shoes and dropped her house key into the purse dangling from her arm. And, as always, Joan slipped into the kitchen, turned on the light, and padded over to the fridge where she pulled out a bottle of milk. Just enough for half a glass rested near the bottom. She poured herself all that was left, drank it, rinsed the glass and the bottle, and set the glass in the sink. She then returned to the living room, placed the empty bottle next to the door, picked up her shoes, and walked wearily to her bedroom.

A sliver of light peeked out from beneath the closed door. Joan paused at the unusualness. She opened the door slowly and peered in to find Evelyn propped up in bed, her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her glasses lay cross-armed on the bedside table, and her face appeared streaked with tears.