Five Brides (53 page)

Savannah, Georgia

Less than a month after she’d first conceived the idea, Evelyn had managed to write a business plan and syllabus for The Victory Drive School of Etiquette, which would begin classes in March.

“I already have the first five boys and the first five girls registered,” she told Ed one day after work, which was when they often took time to discuss her progress. “And I have nearly that many—three girls and two boys—signed up for the second six-week program.”

Ed sat behind his office desk, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers laced at his chest. He smiled broadly. “Did you get the business license taken care of?”

Evelyn pretended to check off a box in midair. “Done. And I’m nearly done with the first draft of the notebooks for the girls.” She pointed at him. “I still need your notes for the boys so I can type them up and—” she felt her cheeks grow warm— “add whatever might need to be added.”

Ed chuckled. “I’ll have that for you before Friday.” He stood. “I think we’ve made excellent progress.”

Evelyn stood as well, smiling. “We really have.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself as he walked around the desk toward her.

“Is Miss Dovalou excited?” He directed her toward the open door, grabbing his coat from the nearby brass coat tree.

“She is,” she answered, walking toward her outer office. “But not nearly as excited as some of the young teens are.”

“You should hear the mothers going on and on to me about it on Sunday mornings.” He smiled down at her, then took in a deep breath and released it. “I’m real glad you came up with this idea, Evelyn.”

Evelyn picked up her purse and coat from where she’d left them on her desk earlier. “Me too.”

They started for the door leading outside. “Hey,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “This Saturday’s weather is supposed to be right nice for February. I was thinking about going fishing.”

Evelyn stared up at him as he helped her into her coat. “Will they be biting with the weather this cool?”

“Perfect time,” he said, sounding more than a little sure of himself. He slid his arms into the casual all-weather coat he wore every day except, he’d told her, on Sundays.

“Oh. Okay. Well . . . sounds like a fun thing for you to do.”

They stepped outside. The temperature had dipped considerably since lunch and, with the moisture from the Atlantic, Evelyn felt the effects in her bones. She peered up at her boss. “Are you sure the weather is going to warm up?” she asked with a chuckle.

Ed concentrated on locking the office door, but answered her with, “Yes ma’am, I’m sure.” He turned and his eyes found hers. “When was the last time you went fishing, Evelyn?”

“Me?” They resumed walking to the parking lot where their
cars, parked side by side, were the lone automobiles. “Gosh. I guess probably a year or more before I left for Chicago.”

“With your father?”

“With Daddy, yes.” She peered down at her shoes, noting for the first time in a long while the way she walked.
Heel in front of toes . . . heel in front of toes . . . wiggle, wiggle, wiggle like Marilyn . . .

“Ever miss it?” he asked, interrupting her recitation.

They arrived at her car and she fumbled around inside her purse for the key before opening the door. She shrugged a little. Did she miss it?
Did she?
Sitting out in the middle of a big lake with her father, sandwiches and soft drinks in the cooler between them, watching in silence for the cork to bob off a cane pole.

Did she?

“Yes,” she finally answered with a laugh. “I believe I do.”

His hand clasped her elbow, sending shivers up her spine. She gasped lightly. What had Daddy said?
“When the right one comes along, you’ll feel your skin turn to gooseflesh.”

“Then go with me,” Edwin said, startling her even further. “We’ll make a day of it. It’ll be fun.”

“It might at that,” she replied. “But, Ed? As friends, okay? I’m not . . . I’m not looking for anything more.”

She thought his face registered a flicker of disappointment, but he appeared to recover well. “We’ll be fishing buddies,” he said, extending his hand so they could shake on it.

“Fishing buddies,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.

Chicago

“Are you
absolutely
sure that’s what you heard?” Barry asked from across the small, round table shoved in the corner of an
overcrowded restaurant—a new one for them. One Barry said had been suggested to him.

Cigarette smoke formed thin clouds around them, and conversation created a cacophony of sound, so much so that the sultry voice of the tight-dressed singer sitting on top of the upright piano and singing “La Vie en rose” could barely be heard.

Magda leaned forward, her arms crossed in her lap where her stomach sat heavy inside her and she wished she had not eaten so much. “I’m positive.
She
is the one who told Mr. VanMichaels.”

Barry’s jaw flexed and his eyes—already dark—became darker still. He swallowed hard, then sat back in a chair nearly too small for him. “Well, then.” His arms flopped to the sides. “I guess I’ll have to have a talk with her. I’ll—” He reached for the demitasse coffee that had come with their dessert of crème brûlée, a delicacy they’d both declared the best they’d ever eaten. “I’ve already found another place for her to live, but I’ll need to find a new sitter for the children—in the interim.”

Magda reached across the table, past the tiny candle flickering between them. “Wait. No.”

Barry placed the cup back into its saucer. “What?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure if he’d asked
why
she wanted to wait or
what
she’d just said. “I said wait,” she repeated, her voice now elevated. She looked around. “Honestly, Barry, did you think we could have a conversation about the wedding—much less anything else—in this place?”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t know. Harlan just said he thought you’d like this place.” He looked around. “Although I don’t know why. You don’t strike me as the dark and moody kind.”

Harlan . . .
Magda pushed the thought of her first love away. “Once upon a time, I think I may have been,” she said.

“What? Dark and moody?”

She looked into her coffee cup, drained of everything but a tiny ring at the bottom, then back up suddenly, as unsure of her next words as she’d ever been. “Did you know I dated Harlan Procter for a while?”

Barry’s face, typically full of color, drained, leaving him looking like a leading man in an old black-and-white film. “When was that?” Then he ran a hand down the thigh of one leg and said, “Well, isn’t this just a night for surprises?”

Magda shook her head. “Harlan gave me some pointers on how to be a better writer. It was more mentor and student than boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“What was?”

Magda had to think, to try to decipher his question. “The relationship.” She took a sip of the tepid water in the short glass near her empty coffee cup. “Harlan used to say that I dwelled so much on my inferiority to my sister that I couldn’t write good characters. I could only write . . . well, dark and moody. And, I have to admit, that was true.” She forced a smile. “But when Inga—when she told me her news—something inside of me . . . changed. Suddenly, I saw
her
as needing
me
. The one who had always placed me in a shadow would now live in the shadows of life.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Which is why I don’t want you to confront Harriet.”

“I’m not following you,” he said, crossing one leg over the other.

“A year or so ago, I would have sulked and felt sorry for myself. Now, I just feel sorry for
her
. For Nana. Her husband is dead, her daughter died entirely too young, and all she has left is you and the children. She’s
scared
, Barry.” She blinked, her eyes burning from the smoke.
Of course Harlan had suggested this place.
“I thought about it on the train all the way to the city. Let
me
handle her. Please. After all, she and I have to come to some middle ground sooner or later, don’t we?”

Barry stared at her for what felt like an eternity. “La Vie en rose” had shifted seamlessly to “God Bless the Child” and then to “Till the End of Time.” As the singer crooned the first measures of the song, Barry’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them back, moistened his lips with his tongue, and said, “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes.”

They walked to the coat check girl without a word between them, then made themselves busy with putting on their hats, gloves, and coats. The silence remained until they got onto the train, Magda well aware of the number of times the man she was to marry in only a few days swallowed. Swallowed hard.

When they’d pulled away from the station, she slipped her arm into his and squeezed. Barry looked over at her, his eyes sad and lonely beneath the brim of his hat. Magda reached up, kissed the place where his jaw and ear met, and whispered, “That was your song, wasn’t it? Yours and Barbara’s?”

He nodded once, then squeezed his eyes shut and wept openly.

“I know you were the one who called Mr. VanMichaels.” Magda stood in the middle of Barry’s living room—her own soon enough—and raised her chin toward the woman who stood facing her near the hearth. In it, a fire roared to life, sparking at times and sending blasts of heat into the room.

Harriet Nielson crossed her arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, but the red creeping up her throat told another story.

Magda took a few steps so that she stood behind one of the wingback chairs. She laid her hands along the curved, velvety top. “Please don’t,” she said, keeping her eyes locked with the older woman’s. “Don’t bother to deny it.”

“Did Jessie tell you this?”

“No,” Magda answered quietly. “I hadn’t left the house yesterday when you were talking. I had to come back in to get my notepad.”

“So you were eavesdropping?”

Magda nearly choked. “
No.
I live in that home, Mrs.—Harriet.”

“Mrs. Nielson will do just fine,” she said, walking to the sofa and sitting in such a way as to let Magda know that, as far as she was concerned,
this
would always be her daughter’s home.

Magda took a breath. “I want us to be friends.”

“Never. You
can
not and
will
not take the place of Barbara.”

Magda walked around the chair and sat, crossing her legs and keeping her hands in her lap. She’d prayed all morning before this meeting, which had left her with a great sense that, no matter what, she
had
to stay calm.

“Of course not.”

She glanced at the ornate buffet table standing near the dining room door. An elaborately hand-stitched runner lay across the center. Tall and slender brass lamps with fringed shades stood on both ends. Between them, a number of framed photos—including the one of Barbara—stared back at her.

Magda stood again, walked to the photo, and gingerly picked it up. “She was beautiful,” she said without turning to look at Harriet.

“You could never begin to match her.”

Magda replaced the photo and turned. “Nor do I want to.” She leaned against the buffet, crossing her arms. “She is and always will be Deanne and Douglas’s mother, and she will always be your daughter. But her . . .
passing
. . . ended her marriage to Barry. And as sorry as I am to say that, and as painful as it is to hear it, the fact of the matter is, Harriet—” she took a deep breath— “it’s true.”

Harriet stood suddenly, jolting Magda. “How
dare
you!”

“I’m not trying to be mean.”

The woman’s face turned such a deep shade of red, Magda thought her head might explode. “You are
vicious
,” she said. “You have managed to kick me out of my home, but you will
not
remove me or my influence from my grandchildren.”

Magda noted the fists at her side and wondered if Harriet might cross the room and sock her. But when thirty seconds had
passed and neither of them had moved, Magda discreetly cleared her throat and took a step.