Five Brides (54 page)

“Harriet,” she said as calmly as her nerves would allow, “I am going to marry Barry on the thirteenth. And after our honeymoon, I am going to come to this house and make it my home. If you and I cannot meet in the middle between now and then, I can only pray we will at some point in the lives we
will
share together.” She crossed to where she had left her purse, coat, and gloves. Her hands shook as she pushed her fingers into them. She wanted to stomp her feet, but instead focused on the task.

Magda didn’t look up again until she had wrapped the coat around herself, methodically sliding one arm in and then the other. “I guess that’s all I have to say.” She started for the door, stopping only when she heard Harriet call her name.

She turned without reply.

“Marry my son-in-law and I’ll make your life miserable.”

The force of the words struck Magda like a jackhammer coming to life without warning in her heart. She swallowed. Nodded. And when she could finally catch her breath, she said, “I suppose I’ll just have to take my chances.”

That night, Magda dreamed she was an old woman, struggling to take her last breath. Her children and grandchildren stood around her deathbed. Deanne and Douglas were there as well. They were older—much older—but she recognized them immediately. They all told her how much they loved her and that she would soon be with Barry again.

And then, as dreams so often jump from one place to another, Magda found herself approaching the gates of heaven. She was young again, and when she realized the road she was on, she ran toward the gates. They opened slowly, revealing thick white fog as the song from a chorus of angels became louder, and louder still.

Magda wanted only two things—to see Jesus for the first time and to see Barry again. Then a form appeared. Kindness and loveliness radiated from it, drawing Magda closer. And when she could finally see—when all had become clear—she realized Barbara stood before her.

“I wanted to be the one,” she said, though her lips didn’t move. “Before anyone else. I wanted to thank you.” And then she smiled. Slowly at first, until the smile became broad and infectious.

Magda woke with a start.

And new hope.

February 13, 1954

Plymouth, Minnesota

“How do I look?” Magda stood in front of her mother in the same room where she’d helped Inga dress almost a year earlier.

Mor placed a hand against her ample breast. “You are a vision.”

Magda smiled. “Tell me the truth, Mor. Is Far excited to walk the bride down the aisle? He’s so accustomed to officiating.”

“I believe, yes.” Her blush became fuller, more pronounced. “But your father hasn’t fully . . .” Her words trailed and she shook her head.

How foolish she’d been in her question. “Gotten over Inga? Not yet, Mor?”

Mor sighed. “Let’s not talk about it on this special day.” It seemed to Magda that her mother’s accent had become more pronounced with the occasion. Mor took her daughter’s hands and pulled them to the sides so that Magda stood like a kite in a March wind. “How interesting that the very same dress looks different than when your sister wore it.”

Magda laughed nervously. “I thought we weren’t going to talk
about Inga today.” Although she missed her. Missed her terribly. More than she could have imagined she ever would.

She’d so wanted Inga to come, to be her only attendant, but Axel had been unable to get away from his duties at the church and Inga—for whatever reason—hadn’t wanted to travel alone, with a baby. With that in mind, Magda made a decision that, other than her father, no one would walk the aisle with her. “Maybe,” she added now to lighten the moment, “it’s because I’m not wearing a pink sash.”

“And no veil and no flowers.” Mor waved both hands like windshield wipers in the middle of a thunderstorm. “I don’t understand your decisions, but . . .” She walked across the room to the round Samsonite hatbox she’d brought in earlier. She opened it carefully, then reverently brought out a clump of white tissue paper. She pulled the tissue away to display an elegant hat that seemed to be nothing more than a skull-shaped cap made of net with clusters of red-and-pink silk flowers on top. “I wore this the day I married your father,” she whispered to it.

Magda joined her mother, now bathed in a shaft of light from a nearby window. “Mor,” she said, her voice soft. “This is beautiful.” The light shimmered on the flowers—azaleas, she now realized.

“It’s a Schiaparelli.” She touched it lightly. “The most elegant thing . . .” She extended it. “I know you said you didn’t want to wear a veil, but I thought . . .”

“I would
adore
wearing this.” Magda smiled. “‘Something old . . . ,’ and it will be like carrying flowers after all.” She bent her knees to allow her mother to properly position the hat. When her mother was done, Magda turned to look in the beveled wall mirror. Seeing herself for the first time as a bride, her stomach clenched as a vision of what Barbara might have looked like on her wedding day swam in the reflection next to hers. “Mor,” she said. “I’m in a predicament.”

Her mother stood behind her. She placed her hands on Magda’s shoulders and said, “The children’s grandmother.”

Magda’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“I put myself in her place—I am a grandmother now, you know—and I have thought how I might feel if . . . if Inga died and then another woman came in to raise little Emma.”

Magda reached for her mother’s hands and squeezed. “Am I—do you think I’m—making a mistake marrying Barry so soon, Mor? I love him and I want to be a good wife and I want to be a good mother to the children, but—maybe I’m being selfish not waiting a little longer.”

Mor shook her head. “Love cannot be selfish, Magda. Love is about giving and giving until you think you cannot give any more. And, just when that happens,
boom
. You are giving some more.”

Magda couldn’t help but giggle.

“But my dearest,” her mother added, “every marriage—no matter how complicated or simple—requires much patience. Much prayer. Much
love
.”

Magda nodded. “So, I
should
go through with this? Forget the fears and march down the aisle?”

Mor shook her head. “No. If you have any doubt whatsoever that your love is enough, then, no.”

Magda gasped, surprised by her mother’s answer.

“But,” she continued, “if you believe your love will weather any storm, then yes. Meet your Mr. Cole at the altar and begin your life together
now
. Not to say that Mrs. Nielson will ever see the light. She may not. And that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The love.”

“Oh, Mor.” Magda turned, throwing her arms around the older woman. She breathed in her scent, the hint of flowers she’d
always drawn comfort from when this close to her mother. “I love him so much.”

A tap at the door caused them to separate. “Who knocks?” Mor called out.

“It’s time,” Far’s voice carried into the room. “I’m here to get my wife and daughter.”

Magda winked at her mother. “I think I know why you married that man,” she said. “In spite of the crusty exterior, he can be quite cute when he wants to be.”

Mor winked back. “And one day if God blesses you so, your daughter will say the same to you.”

Magda took a final look in the mirror before clasping her mother’s hand. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “So I can become Mrs. Barry Cole.”

April 1954

Nuremberg, Germany

Dear, dear Joan,

I am enclosing a photograph of the most amazing son a mother has ever brought into the world.

Look at me, Joanie! I am a mother. Pat is a father. We are a family. Because of you.

We love and miss you. Hurry back to the States, will you?

Fondly,

Sean Patrick Callahan Jr.’s doting mother

Being a member of General Partridge’s staff meant organizing a USO show for the troops stationed in Germany, which brought
Joan information about Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a resort town in southern Germany near the Austrian border.

“It’s near the Zugspitze,” she told Robert one evening as he walked her to the Austin.

“The mountain?”

“Mmm-hmm.” As they reached the car, Joan placed a hand on his coat sleeve to keep him from opening the door. She wanted to talk a few minutes longer, in spite of the unrelenting cold in the evening air. “There’s a lake nearby called Eibsee. It looks beautiful in the pictures I saw today, not too far outside of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and there’s a hotel right on the lake.”

“Eibsee Hotel?”

“How did you know?”

“The one commandeered as an officers’ club for the Army?”

“Yes,” she said, excited he already knew about the place.

“I don’t know why you’re so excited. It’s for officers. I’m not an officer.”

Joan gripped the lapels of her coat. “But as a civilian employee, I have officer’s rank. And I can take guests.”

He leaned against the car and she did the same, her shoulder resting next to Robert’s upper arm. “That’s right,” he said, drawing out the last word, his mind obviously fluttering with ideas.

“I thought we could get a group of us—small, my car will only hold four—and head over this weekend. Take in some skiing.”

He crossed his arms. “I warn you: I’m not a good skier.”

“I ski about as well as I drive,” Joan laughed. “But that’s the fun of it, don’t you think?”

He chewed on his lips, pondering. Then he clapped his hands and pushed away from the car. “Let’s do it. See if Lucy wants to go. I’ll see if maybe Bob or Leo wants to join us. We can get a couple of rooms . . .” He opened the car door and Joan slid behind the wheel.

“I’ll talk to Lucy this evening,” she said.

He leaned in and, as he always did, kissed her cheek. “Drive carefully.”

In spite of being on board with the trip, Lucy woke on Friday morning with such a head cold that she bowed out of both work
and
the ski trip. When Joan went down to the TWX office for the general’s messages, she told Robert the bad news.

“I may have a solution,” he said. “Leo’s been pouting. He really wants to go but I told him we already had a full car.”

“Can three of you bunk down in one room?”

Robert grinned. “We’re soldiers, Joan. Bunking three to one room at a resort hotel after a day of skiing isn’t exactly a hardship.”

Joan pointed at him playfully. “Got it.”