By the end of the evening, Adelaide had regained the advantage.
The dinner had gone smoothly enough, because Major Parrish and Uncle Dickson found a great deal to talk about. Uncle Dickson had all sorts of questions about flying and Jennys and the Boeing Airplane Company. Allison thought it was interesting, though none of the other women seemed to agree. Except Margot, naturally, but then Major Parrish was—or was supposed to be—her fiancé. Margot had questions, too, questions that sounded smart, about the effect of altitude on pilots’ breathing and the limitations of their body weight. Allison listened to all this with admiration. She liked watching the way Cousin Margot and Major Parrish looked together. They leaned toward each other when they were speaking, and their eyes met directly. They laughed at the same things, and Margot’s eyes were bright with happiness.
It all made Allison wonder if such affection could survive the disappointments of actual marriage. Of course, Uncle Dickson was unfailingly kind to his wife, no matter how strangely she behaved, but her own parents lived in a state of constant tension. They spent their lives waiting to catch each other in any infraction of the rigid contract that was their marital relationship. Was it possible they had once been in love with each other, the way Cousin Margot and Frank Parrish so clearly were? Or had her mother simply seen Henry Benedict as a chance to achieve the role in society she craved?
They all trooped back into the big parlor after dinner for coffee. It was a room Allison had barely glimpsed before this evening, but there were so many of them—nine in all—that Blake had decided the big parlor would be more comfortable. Allison saw the room through her mother’s eyes, estimating the price of the long velvet divan, the massive cherry sideboard, the brocaded chairs, the cost of maintaining the large chandelier. The fireplace in this room was twice the size of the one in the small parlor, and when Blake and Thelma came in with coffee, they set their trays on an oval table inlaid with polished pink marble.
The room would have taken up an entire floor of their tall, skinny house in San Francisco, and Allison could guess that her mother would have a great deal to say about it when she was alone with her husband.
It was while they were drinking their coffee, Ramona trying to draw out her mother-in-law, Margot and Frank standing by the crackling fire, speaking quietly to each other, that Adelaide lifted her spear to mount a fresh assault.
“I do thank you, Dickson,” she said in her brittle voice, “for taking Allison in this winter. I hope she hasn’t been any trouble.”
“Not at all,” Uncle Dickson said. He was snipping the end of his cigar with little silver scissors, dropping the discarded end into the biggest cut-glass ashtray Allison had ever seen. He smiled at Allison. “It’s been nice having a young person in the house.”
Allison was surprised. It seemed to her that her uncle had barely noticed her presence.
“Well,” Adelaide said. “Perhaps you’re accustomed, having raised three children, but I think it can be a terrible strain.”
“Hardly know she’s there,” Dickson rumbled, and struck a thick match to light his cigar.
“Really? She can be so noisy. Even as a little girl, her voice was so loud, sometimes I wanted to put a pillow over my head.”
“Mother, don’t talk about me like that,” Allison said in a low voice.
Adelaide’s laugh sounded just as if someone had thrown a glass into the fireplace. “Oh, Allison, do have a sense of humor, for pity’s sake! You were always a handful, you know that.”
“Now, Adelaide,” Henry said, and Allison cringed. Whenever her father stood up for her, it was like throwing a gauntlet at his wife’s feet. She saw the stiffening of her mother’s neck and heard the resentment in her voice. She was aware of Cousin Margot’s sudden attention, and she wondered if she could hear it, too.
“Oh, Henry, how would you know? You were always at the office, or off at one of your business dinners!” Adelaide smiled at everyone in an effort to make her complaints seem playful. “You know how it is, don’t you, Edith? The men are off making money, and we women are left to manage the children.”
Aunt Edith looked up, startled at hearing her name. She didn’t respond, and Allison was fairly certain she hadn’t been following. Her mother, though, seemed not to understand this.
“And for you, so many children! You must have been exhausted. But perhaps, with three of them, they entertained each other. That must have been nice.”
Allison felt the sudden tension that gripped the room. Margot’s face had a fixed look on it, as though someone had said something offensive. Even Uncle Dickson, meeting his daughter’s gaze across the room, looked oddly sad. Or was it angry? It was hard to tell, the way his bushy eyebrows drew together, making a straight line across his forehead.
Adelaide, oblivious, pressed on. “I thought it would be easier during Allison’s debutante year, but there were so many invitations, and fittings, and all the dances and parties. I never had a moment to myself, and then there was her Grand Tour—”
Allison interrupted her, muttering, “Mother. I never wanted any of that.”
Her mother’s brittle laugh rang out again. “Oh, Allison, don’t be ridiculous! What girl doesn’t want that?” When Allison didn’t answer, Adelaide went on, “You were a success, too, if I do say so myself. Your picture was always in the papers, even though there were prettier girls.”
Major Parrish spoke up. “Hard to believe there were girls prettier than Miss Benedict.” Margot gave him such a sweet smile that Allison’s heart contracted.
But her mother was in full attack mode. “So gallant of you, Major, but we women have to be objective about these things.”
Uncle Dickson murmured, “Eye of the beholder,” but Adelaide paid no attention.
“Of course, I had to work to keep her slim,” she said. Allison dropped her gaze to her coffee cup, turning it and turning it in her hands, but she could
feel
Cousin Margot stiffen at this volley. “I can see you’ve been feeding my daughter well, Dickson!” This was uttered gaily, as if in thanks. “I suspect your cook of tempting her with all sorts of treats!”
Even Aunt Edith lifted her head at this remark. She said, “Oh, Hattie,” as if in answer to some unasked question. “Poor Hattie. A dear woman, but a terrible cook.”
It was such an odd, even inappropriate, thing to say that even Adelaide Benedict was silenced. Major Parrish, in his courteous, quiet way, set down his cup and said, “I hope you will all excuse me. I have to be on my way in the morning. Deliver the airplane back to the army. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Benedict.”
Aunt Edith made a vague, trembly gesture with one pale hand. Major Parrish said, “Sir,” with a nod to Uncle Dickson. Dickson hefted himself out of his chair to shake the major’s hand. “Good to see you again, son. Won’t you let me call Blake to drive you?”
“No, sir, thanks. Enough work for Blake to do here. I can catch the streetcar.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Cousin Margot said.
Ramona and Dick both said their farewells, and Papa stood up to shake the major’s hand before he and Margot left the room. When the door of the big parlor had closed behind them, Adelaide said, “Such a handsome man. Is he going to be your son-in-law, Dickson?”
Uncle Dickson settled himself back into his chair with a sigh and picked up his cigar from the ashtray. “I hope so, Adelaide,” he said, reaching for a match to relight the cigar. “I expect that will be up to Margot. That girl has a mind of her own.”
It was said with unmistakable pride. Allison heard it in Uncle Dickson’s voice, and recognized it in his small, satisfied smile.
Her mother missed the point entirely. “We certainly understand that, don’t we, Henry? Allison always has to have everything her own way.”
Allison shrank back into the corner of the divan and wished she could disappear.
C
HAPTER
18
The weather had changed dramatically since the night before. Margot stepped out onto the porch with Frank, pulling her collar high under her chin. The stars were invisible, and even the light of a half moon was obscured by the blanket of cloud that rolled in to embrace the city, softening its rooftops and chimneys, wrapping its steeples and the top of the water tower in gray, damp folds. “Will you be able to fly tomorrow?” Margot asked.
Frank was shrugging into his camel’s hair overcoat, throwing a plaid wool scarf around his neck. He carried his Stetson in his hand. “It depends on how low the cloud cover is.”
“It’s so cold, though, Frank.” She moved close to him, loath to let him go. His body felt warm and strong, and she could hardly restrain herself from pressing against him.
“Best for flying,” he said. “Cold air is denser. More lift.”
“You’ll be back soon?”
“Christmas Eve,” he said. “Already have my ticket.” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. “We’ll both do some thinking, Margot.”
“Yes.” She kissed him back, and then, on an impulse, slipped her hands under his coat and hugged him with both her arms. “Although I’ve already—”
He interrupted her by kissing her again, then whispering against her mouth, “I know, sweetheart. Give me a little time.”
“I wish you could just stay in Seattle.”
“Someone has to fly the airplane,” he said and chuckled. “It’s a hell of a lot of fun, Margot.”
She pulled one arm from behind his back and tweaked the lapel of his dinner jacket. “So I gather! You’re like a boy with a brand-new toy.”
He grinned down at her, looking very boyish indeed. “Yup.”
Reluctantly, she released him. As she slid her arm from beneath his coat something papery crackled against her elbow. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have gone out tonight, Frank, had a bit of time for just the two of us, but I didn’t like to leave Ramona to deal with Uncle Henry and Aunt Adelaide on her own. She’s been marvelous since—well, you know, since Mother fell apart. I don’t like to take advantage.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
“My aunt is awful, isn’t she?” she murmured, smoothing his scarf with her fingers. It didn’t need smoothing, but she couldn’t resist touching him, even if it was just with her fingertips. “She looks starved, but you saw her at dinner—she ate everything in sight, even Hattie’s lumpy creamed spinach.”
“Maybe thinness runs in the family,” he said. “Your little cousin isn’t much more than bones herself.”
“You should have seen her when she first arrived! I know I wrote you. She frightened me, frankly, but she looks much better now. The food at Benedict Hall isn’t always the best, but she recently started eating much better.”
“Not tonight,” he said, arching one dark eyebrow.
“No. I saw that, too. I worry that all her progress will be destroyed. As you saw, her mother’s hard on her.”
“It’s rotten,” he said. “Poor kid has no one to stand up for her.”
Margot moved back a little and hugged herself against the cold. “She has me.”
“Good,” Frank said. His eyes twinkled gently in the faint light of the moon. “Lucky girl.”
“There’s a diagnosis, something called anorexia nervosa, though I’d never heard of it until I went looking. The clinical research is awfully sketchy, but it seems some people—especially young girls—stop eating. At worst, they die. At the least, they harm their health, sometimes permanently.”
“Why do they do that?”
Margot shook her head. “I’ve been asking myself that question. There are three different ideas, from three different doctors.”
“You’ll figure it out,” he said with confidence.
She gave a small, tired chuckle. “That’s what Blake said. You both may have placed too much confidence in my skills.”
He kissed her one more time, a lingering, longing kiss. “I’ll see you Christmas Eve,” he said softly. He put his arms around her to draw her close. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and felt again the crackle of paper.
“You have something in your pocket, Frank,” she said, drawing back.
He frowned, and reached into the pocket to draw it out. It was a long envelope, creased and stained. He turned it over in his hand to read the address. “Oh! Forgot about that.”
“Something important?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t opened it.”
“Why?”
He hesitated, looking past her into the dim silhouettes of the shrubberies. “Not sure I want to,” he said.
“Have I—am I intruding, Frank?” They stood a little apart now, Frank with his hat in his hand, Margot with both hands under the fur collar of her coat. She wished she had never mentioned it, let the envelope stay unnoticed—perhaps forgotten—in his pocket.
He thrust his hand back into his coat pocket, and she heard the rustle of the unopened envelope against the silk lining. His jaw muscle flexed, but a moment later he turned his gaze back to hers and laughed a little. “It’s silly,” he said. “Mrs. Volger was holding this for me. It’s from Elizabeth.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” It was her turn to look away, to gaze at the mist-shrouded water tower, its brick surface nothing but shadow now, all detail lost in the darkness. She would have felt better if he had opened the letter, read it, and thrown it away. The act of keeping an unopened letter seemed to carry some sort of weight, have meaningful implications. Elizabeth’s horror over his ruined arm had been part of the reason he had never wanted Margot to examine it.
She was not so delicate as Elizabeth. She had seen nearly everything, and when she looked at his arm that night in the operating theater, all she could think of was how to repair the wound that was causing him such pain. Did that make her unfeminine? Possibly.
“Margot—I may never open it.”
She turned back to him, and she heard the slight edge that crept into her voice too late to soften it. “Of course you will, Frank. When you’re ready. She was—or is—someone important to you.”
His face, as she watched, seemed to harden. Of course, the memory must still hurt. Elizabeth’s reaction to his wound, while he was still in the hospital in Virginia, had been a nasty moment for him, a cruel punctuation to the suffering he had already experienced. But it worried her, that letter, and the uncharacteristic impulse that made him carry it in his pocket. He must mean to read it eventually. And what would it say? That Elizabeth was sorry, that she wanted to make it up to him? That she still cared?
It hadn’t been so long, after all. Not quite two years since Frank left the hospital and came to Seattle, hurt, bereft, in constant pain and persistent worry. It was all different now. He had a fine job, and his arm was repaired. The prosthesis worked well. He had prospects again.
He said only, “Yes. You remember.”
“Of course.”
He bent to kiss her one more time, a cooler kiss this time, as if he were distracted. Perhaps it was merely that his mind had turned to the flight tomorrow.
Or perhaps, she thought dismally, his mind had turned to the letter, to what it might say, to how he might respond. Perhaps he was thinking about Elizabeth.
She feared the shameful jealousy that burned in her heart. She didn’t want it to show in her face or in her voice. She made herself say, with as much dignity as she could command, “Safe journey, Frank.”
“Thanks.” They gazed at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then he was gone, striding down the walk, out through the gate, off toward Aloha. Margot watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight into the thickening fog. It would not do, of course, to run after him. Her dignity would truly be in shreds if she did that. She felt the urge just the same, and had to force herself to turn back toward the house and go inside.
The family and their guests were still gathered in the large parlor. Blake was just coming out with the coffeepot, the good silver one. He stopped at the foot of the staircase as Margot closed the front door. “Do you want coffee, Dr. Margot?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, Blake. I think I’ll leave them to it and just go to bed.”
“I could have driven the major home.”
“Father offered that, but Frank didn’t want to trouble you.” She sighed, thinking of Frank on the streetcar and, even more, in the air tomorrow, borne aloft by those preposterously fragile bits of wood and wire and metal.
Blake said gently, “Try not to worry, now. Major Parrish will be back before you know it.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I know that, Blake, but—” She felt an urge, as irrational as the one she had just resisted, to tell him about the damned letter, to see if he had some idea what it might mean. How strange that she, surrounded by people as she was in Benedict Hall, had no one to talk to about her romantic troubles! What normal woman had no friend to confer with, to turn to for advice? She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “Never mind,” she said. “I just need to sleep. Could you tell them for me?”
“Of course. I’m sure they’ll understand. Rest well, Dr. Margot.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
As she climbed the stairs, the murmur of conversation reached her from the big parlor. Aunt Adelaide’s voice sliced through the others with the piercing quality of a cat’s screech. It rose up the stairwell to pursue Margot into her bedroom. It was a relief to shut her door and close the sound away.
When she had shed her dinner dress and wrapped herself in her dressing gown, she went to the window. She settled into the window seat, pulling back the curtains so she could gaze out, past the winter-dry skeleton of the camellia, into the shifting mist that hid the park and the water tower from her view. Frank should be back at Mrs. Volger’s by now. She wondered if it was possible for him to feel as lonely as she did.
More likely, she thought, he was eager to return to Sand Point and his airplane, to rise above the trees and the lakes and the houses, to fly off over the mountaintops to the warm California valley full of other men just like him—aviators, engineers, soldiers. He couldn’t know how she hungered for him. Should she have told him? Was that what women did? Or did they instinctively, as she was doing, hold something back to protect that small, tender spot in the heart where love resided?
And why, oh why, was Frank carrying Elizabeth’s letter in his pocket?
She let the curtain fall, rose from the window seat, and crossed the room to her bed. As she extinguished the lamp and pulled the comforter up over her shoulders, she reflected that she was like two different women living in one body. She couldn’t imagine not being a physician. She couldn’t abandon the passion and dedication that had always ruled her life. But she was also a woman in love, in the manner of romantic stories, the most old-fashioned stories of all. That woman couldn’t bear the idea of life without Frank. She longed to find a way to merge both those women into one.
For some reason that line of thought brought her back to Allison. She released her worry over what would happen between her and Frank and fell asleep worrying about what was wrong between Allison and her mother.
She had been asleep for perhaps an hour when she woke to shouting in one of the rooms down the hall. In that first, heavy sleep of the night, she wasn’t sure what she was hearing. Accustomed to responding instantly to the telephone or to her alarm clock, she was out of bed and into her dressing gown almost before she realized she was on her feet. She threw open her door just in time to see Allison, her hair mussed and her cheeks flaming, charge out of her bedroom and down the stairs. The front door banged open, and an icy draft swept into the house and up the staircase.
Margot the physician knew better than to run in an emergency, but she strode so swiftly down the corridor it was almost a run. The door to Allison’s room stood open, and inside, huddled on the floor, wailing like a cornered cat, was Aunt Adelaide. She bent forward from the waist, her legs crumpled beneath her. Her dun hair tumbled every which way, with hairpins spilling onto her shoulders.
Margot reached her. “Aunt Adelaide, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
The face Adelaide turned up to her was a mask of bitterness. Her carefully painted eyebrows were smudged, and tears made rivulets through the powder on her cheeks. She sobbed, open-mouthed, and Margot thought she was very near a fit of hysterics. “My arm!” she cried. “That little bitch broke my arm!”
Margot would have said she was long past being shocked by anything she saw or heard, but somehow, hearing her aunt apply such a vicious phrase to her own daughter made her pull back in disgust. Adelaide, still weeping, pleaded with her. “Aren’t you going to help me? You’re a doctor! Help me!”
She was braced, shaking, on her right hand. Margot could see, even from where she stood, that her left arm was indeed broken. She didn’t need to palpate the forearm to know that it was fractured, both the radius and the ulna clearly deformed, and the left hand flopping, useless, over her thigh.
A voice from the doorway said, “What’s happened? Where’s Miss Allison?”
Margot glanced over her shoulder and saw Ruby, wide-eyed with alarm. She wore a thick chenille robe that fell to her toes, and her hair was braided for the night. “Ruby, there’s been an accident. Allison ran out the front door. Could you get your shoes and see if you can find her? I’m going to get Mrs. Benedict up on the bed.”
At this Adelaide wailed louder, and Margot repressed an impulse to slap her. She inched around her to lift her up, one hand under her good arm and the other, gingerly, under the opposite armpit. This caused Adelaide to screech that she was killing her, that her arm was shattered, and other complaints Margot didn’t bother to try to understand. Ruby had run for her shoes. Uncle Henry appeared in the doorway, at least five minutes after he should have, in Margot’s opinion.
“Uncle Henry,” she said in a flat voice. “We’ll need the motorcar. Could you go to the garage and tell Blake?”