Cate Campbell (32 page)

Margot gazed at herself in the mirror. “I—I must say—” she said, then stopped.

Ramona, forgetting her dignity, giggled like a girl. “Oh, say it, Margot! You look swell!”

They caught each other’s eyes in the mirror, and suddenly both were laughing. “Ramona, you’re amazing! How did you know what would look good on me?”

Ramona shrugged a little, and pursed her lips smugly. “I’ve had practice,” she said.

The saleswoman tweaked a seam here, a sleeve there, then stood back. “We’ll just take in the waist a bit, shall we? And perhaps a bit in the shoulders. I have other gowns, naturally,” she said. “But this sets off your coloring so nicely. And elbow-length gloves, I think?”

“Yes, definitely. Hair?” Ramona asked. She addressed the saleswoman directly, as if asking Margot would be a waste of time.

It would have been. Margot kept her hair short so she wouldn’t have to fuss with it. She listened with bemusement as the two other women discussed what might be done to dress it up. In the end, she accepted Ramona’s recommendation of a beaded bandeau to encircle her forehead. She only drew the line at a sweeping white silk feather. “I’d feel like a parrot,” she protested.

Ramona held the feather this way and that near her face, then, surprisingly, nodded agreement. “You’re right, Margot. It’s too much. But promise you’ll wear the bandeau!”

“As long as you don’t think it makes me look like a Red Indian.”

“Oh, no, Madame!” the saleswoman exclaimed. “All the ladies in New York and Paris are wearing them this year. They’re very smart. Very
avant-garde.”

Ramona had recovered her air of importance. “Have it all wrapped and sent to Benedict Hall, will you?”

“Of course, Madame. It’s been my pleasure to assist you.”

Margot couldn’t help but notice that there was no mention of the bill. It would appear on Father’s desk, she supposed, and be dealt with accordingly. Not until she and Ramona were shown to a table in the tearoom did she realize she hadn’t the faintest idea how much money they had just spent. Ramona ordered their tea without looking at the menu, and Margot accepted that as well.

“Ramona, thank you for your help today,” she said, when the tea and a plate of finger sandwiches were set in front of them. “I never know what to wear.”

“You’re going to look beautiful,” Ramona said with pride.

Impulsively, Margot said, “You’re so good at this! You could be a designer, or a buyer for this very store.”

At this, Ramona’s eyebrows rose. “Why would I do that? Take a
job?”

“I just meant—” Margot began, and then let her voice trail off. Women in aproned uniforms and frilled white caps moved among the tables, serving ladies in modish hats and summer wraps. She thought, observing the scene in the Frederick & Nelson tearoom, that she identified more with the waitresses than she did with the ladies at the tables. Than she did with her sister-in-law, or even with her mother.

She smiled across the china tea service at Ramona, and let it pass. For once, her sister-in-law had found something she could do for Margot, some way to showcase her own special abilities, and Margot felt real gratitude for it. For this one day, in this one instance, she supposed she didn’t need to point out the irony of the situation. She had just bought a very pretty frock, and she could hardly wait to see Frank’s face when he saw it. It was enough.

“After tea,” Ramona said decisively, “we must find you some shoes.
Peau de soie,
I think, and not too high a heel! You don’t want to tower over your escort.”

 

Frank approached Benedict Hall past a line of cars crowding Fourteenth Avenue. Saloon and touring cars, Model Ts, even an imported Stanhope were parked in the street. Drivers in caps and gloves leaned on their automobiles, smoking, waiting for their passengers. Music floated from the garden, a small ensemble playing light classics and popular tunes. Frank was a little late, as Mrs. Volger had labored over his uniform with her cleaning cloths and irons longer than he had expected. She had also insisted on laundering his shirt and polishing his shoes, fussing over him in a maternal fashion that made him smile even as he squirmed under the attention.

He had decided not to bring flowers, and as he came up the walk, he was glad of it. Benedict Hall was awash in flowers. They massed in white wicker baskets, draped over decorative arches leading into the garden, bloomed in nosegays in small crystal vases on every surface he could see. The sounds of conversation and clinking glasses spilled out through the neighborhood. A man he had never seen, wearing a butler’s coat and gloves, met him at the door, accepted his overcoat, and guided him around the wide porch to the garden. He announced him to the gathering, though no one seemed to pay the slightest attention.

Frank stood awkwardly at the edge of the porch, looking down on the colorful scene of women in silky long dresses and men in dinner jackets and bow ties. He didn’t know anyone except the Benedicts, and they were scattered among the guests. Edith stood near a woman who looked very much like her, and with them was a nice-looking young girl in a white dress and long white gloves who Frank guessed to be the honoree.

“Oh, you’re here. What a relief.”

Frank turned just as Margot came up the porch steps and walked toward him, her hand outstretched. He thought, if he had not known her voice, and recognized her purposeful stride, he might not have recognized her. He knew nothing of clothes, but the narrow, flowing dress she wore suited her perfectly, and the tiny crystal beads in it glittered subtly in the slanting sunshine. She had a narrow shawl of embroidered Chinese silk, sprinkled with butterflies and cherry blossoms, draped around her shoulders, and she wore a strip of beaded fabric around her forehead. It rather neatly contained her shining dark hair, and somehow fitted her strong features. He couldn’t find the words to tell her, but he saw by her smile, and the confident way she reached up to kiss his cheek, that she knew. He said, finally, inadequately, “You look so beautiful, Margot.”

She laughed. “Ramona’s doing. She has a real talent.” She came around to his right side so she could take his arm with her gloved hand. She led him down the steps and through the chattering crowd to a linen-covered table where cups and glasses were laid out. “We don’t really have cocktails, I’m afraid. Not out here in the open. Lemonade, some root beer, and tea, if you prefer it.”

“Nothing, thanks. I’d just have to put the thing down if anyone wants to shake hands.”

“Maybe later, then, Frank. Thanks so much for coming to stand by me.”

He smiled at her, resisting an urge to kiss her in front of everyone, settling for pressing her hand close under his arm. She took him to meet the debutante, who was shaking hands with a line of well-wishers.

Allison Benedict still had a girlish plumpness, and had fair, fine hair that curled around her face. Her eyebrows were painted in thin arches, and her features were as delicate as those of a porcelain doll. Her expression was one of pure boredom. Frank wondered, as he waited his turn to be presented, if that was a fashion among young people, or if she really found the party enervating.

Edith was standing beside her niece. When they approached, she said, “Oh, Major Parrish! You’re in your dress uniform! How handsome you look. Allison, this is Margot’s friend, Major Frank Parrish. Major, Miss Benedict.”

The debutante took in Frank’s uniform, his major’s insignia, his flattened sleeve folded into his pocket, and her blue eyes brightened, banishing the impatience in her expression. “How
do
you do, Major?” she said. As she shook his hand she leaned forward to add in an undertone, “I’ll bet
you
have something more fascinating to talk about than the weather!”

Margot said, “Allison, behave yourself.”

The girl pressed her cheek to Margot’s. “Oh, Margot,” she whispered, just loud enough for Frank to hear, “you’re the only interesting one in the family. Trust you to bring the best-looking man!”

Margot laughed, and with a gentle tug, urged Frank away. “That girl will cause everyone trouble one of these days, I can promise you.”

Frank thought that was a reasonable prediction, but he grinned over his shoulder at the youngest Benedict before he followed Margot to a spot where they could stand out of the swirl of people. He saw Preston wandering here and there, a glass in his hand, a notebook and pencil prominently displayed in his jacket pocket. He looked stylish and self-possessed in his white linen dinner jacket, but he avoided the spot where Frank and Margot stood.

Dickson Benedict found them, though, and shook Frank’s hand with a firm grip. “Thanks again for your help with the car, Major.”

“A pleasure, sir. Anything I can do.”

“Good man. Glad you could come tonight. Damned foolishness, this coming-out nonsense!” Frank thought his best recourse was to let this remark go unanswered.

Dickson disappeared into the crowd, but Frank found himself shaking hands with several other people, men in dinner jackets and women in dresses festooned with long necklaces and chiffon scarves. He would never remember who they were, but he did his best to appear polite.

As the sun set, the music grew louder. The hired butler came out to light the Chinese lanterns that had been hung from tree branches and from the latticework above the porch. A dance floor of polished boards was set up to one side. The strains of “Where the Lanterns Glow” filled the garden, and in the fragrant dusk, couples began to dance.

Frank leaned close to Margot and murmured in her ear, “I don’t dance, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, thank God, Frank! I always feel like an idiot when I try to dance. Let’s just go up on the porch and sit down.”

Together they forded the crowd, and went up the steps, where Margot leaned against a pillar, and Frank braced one hip against the porch railing. “How’s Blake?” he asked.

“He’s getting better,” she said. “It’s slow, but that’s to be expected. You remember Sarah Church?” He nodded. “Father hired her to care for Blake in the convalescent home. He’s walking a bit, with her help.”

“Good.” They were quiet for a moment. It was probably, Frank thought, a good time to tell her he had to leave Seattle, but she seemed to be enjoying the evening, and he didn’t want to spoil it. Instead, he said, “What’s your father going to do about the car?”

“It’s still in the garage. I don’t think he can bear to look at it.”

“I could drive it to a mechanic for him. Get it repaired. Then he can sell it, or do whatever he wants. Has anyone started the engine recently?”

“No.” She put out her hand to him, and when he took it, she pulled him up. “Let’s go try it. We’ve made enough of an appearance, I think.”

He followed her off the porch and across the close-cut grass toward the garage. The circle of light cast by the Chinese lanterns didn’t reach past the middle of the lawn. Warm darkness enveloped them, and Frank liked the feeling that they were suddenly alone, though the music still rang behind them, and chatter and laughter filled the garden. Margot fumbled in the dimness for the door latch. When she found it, she pulled the door back, and they walked into an even deeper darkness smelling of gasoline and rubber. Frank could just make out the gleam of the Essex’s headlamps and the shape of its crumpled fender. He said, “Is there an electric light?”

Margot, from the side wall, said, “I’m trying to find the switch.”

She was several steps away from him, feeling along the wall with her hand, when they heard Preston’s drawl. “What do you two think you’re doing?”

Frank spun to face the open garage door. Preston lounged there, his white jacket making a languid silhouette against the yellow lantern light. He said, lightly but coldly, “Hardly the moment, do you think, old man?”

“I beg your pardon?” Frank said. Margot started toward her brother. With each stride, the beads of her dress cast tiny prisms of light in the gloom. Frank said, “What are you talking about, Benedict? The moment for what?”

“Shall we say—an assignation? Or is it something nastier?”

Margot said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Preston.”

“Ridiculous? Come on, doc. It’s pretty clear you’re no better than you should be.”

Frank’s jaw tightened, and his arm began to burn. He made his voice as even and expressionless as possible. “Watch what you say to your sister, Benedict.” He walked toward the door. The best thing, he thought, was to take Margot’s arm, lead her back to the party, and deal with the car another time.

Preston took one step to the side, right into Frank’s path. “You know, Cowboy,” he said. “You should really go home to Montana. You don’t fit in here, do you? Why not go back to your cows?”

Frank stopped, an arm’s length from Preston. “Whatever your trouble is, Benedict, this isn’t the time or the place for us to have it out.”

Preston’s chuckle held no humor. “We’re not having it out, old man. I’m merely making a suggestion.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take it.” Frank took a step to his right, to go around Preston, but his adversary matched his movement.

Preston raised his head and sniffed. “Is that cow manure I smell?”

Margot said, “Preston, for God’s sake.”

Frank gritted, “Look, Benedict. I’m ready anytime if you’re itching for a fight. Right now I’m going to take your sister back to the party. I’m only here to support her.”

“Support her? With what?” Preston lifted his two hands, palms out. “This is what a man has, Cowboy. Two strong ones.”

“I don’t see that,” Frank snapped. “You have two hands, don’t you? They don’t stop you from acting like a spoiled boy.” Preston’s angry breath hissed in his throat. Frank took a long step forward, shoving him to one side with his left shoulder. He put out his hand to Margot and she reached to take it.

At that moment Preston seized his arm—his left arm, the stump—and yanked at it.