Five Brides (12 page)

“Merry Christmas, Adela,” Betty said, pressing her cheek against the colored woman’s. “Doesn’t Mother
ever
give you a day off?”

Adela helped Betty out of the fur-lined cashmere coat she only wore on special occasions, then draped it over her arm. “I wanted to be here,” Adela confirmed with a sure nod when they faced each other again. “I told her I’d be here this morning and for your Christmas lunch, and then I’d be with my own.”

Betty clasped Adela’s hands in her own, noting the perfectly shaped nails, tinted red with polish. “Did you make it to church last night?”

“You know I did. I’m not missing the Christmas Eve service, not for no one or no
body
. Your mama and daddy went to Mass. Did you?”

Betty nodded. “In the city. Mother wanted me to come here and go with them. Spend the night. But . . .” She allowed her words to drop off, unsure how to explain how she’d felt the night before. The need to be alone with God instead of alone with God and her parents. The recent chasm between them had left a wound, one she hoped might heal sooner rather than later. But one she didn’t know how to treat. And so came the need to be alone where she could listen, undisturbed.

“But you’re a big girl now,” Adela finished for her.

Betty grinned, then peered down at the large shopping bag resting on the floor by her feet. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“And I’ve got one for you too. Made your favorite pie for dessert.”

Betty gasped in delight. “Banana cream?”

“My own mama’s recipe. Baked two of ’em. One for here and one for you to take home.”

Betty started to thank Adela, but her mother’s voice coming from the top of the stairs cut her off. “Darling, is that you?”

Betty squeezed Adela’s hands once more before looking up. “Hello, Mother. Merry Christmas.”

Adela patted her hand before her heels clipped down the hall toward the back of the house, and Chloe Estes descended the staircase, one hand lightly trailing the banister. Her elegant red velvet wraparound gown cascaded around and behind her, displaying a chic picture of sophistication. Betty met her at the base of the staircase, kissing her cheek as soon as her mother made it to the final step. “Mmm, Mother. You smell delicious.”

Chloe’s fingertips traveled the length of her swan-like throat. “Your father gave me the scent last night as a surprise.”

“Hurray for Father,” Betty said, determined to keep the day festive and fun. “Where is Romeo? Upstairs still?”

Chloe looked over her shoulder. “He’ll be down soon.” Then, glancing at the shopping bag filled with wrapped packages, she said, “For under the tree?”

Betty nodded as she turned and reached for the bag’s handles. “Let’s put them there before Father comes down.”

Mother and daughter linked arms as they stepped into the living room, where the scent of pine reigned. A massive tree nearly reached the twelve-foot ceiling and dripped with silvery icicles and both large and small red, green, and blue ornaments. As much as Betty desired her independence, on Christmas Day she couldn’t imagine another place in the world she wanted to be than right here, among the sleek French-inspired pale-pink furnishings, offset by evergreen boughs on the hearth and brass baskets of cinnamon- and clove-laced pinecones. The parlor reflected her mother’s unusual and extravagant taste. Nothing about it appealed to Betty’s personal sense of style, yet
this room
beckoned her on this most holy of days.

Betty squatted before the tree and pulled three packages out of the bag, one at a time. When she had stacked them just so, she reached for a large box wrapped in blue foil paper and tied with a silver bow.

“Touch it and I’ll send you home immediately,” her father’s voice boomed from the open doorway.

Betty turned, duly scolded, but noting the joy on his face. “Oh, Daddy,” she said, using the term of endearment she saved for moments such as these. She stood, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms around him. His strong, beefy arms came around her, enveloping her in security and love. She kissed his cheek, taking in the scent of a morning cigar blended with aftershave. “Merry Christmas, Father.”

He kissed her cheek as well. “And to you, my child.” Then, releasing her, he barked over his shoulder, “Adela!”

Betty pinched his elbow. “Do you
have
to do that?”

Harrison’s eyes filled with mischief. “If she wants to be a part of the gift giving, I do.”

Betty turned to her mother, who’d draped herself over one of the sofas. “I thought we’d eat brunch first. Isn’t that what we usually do?”

“Not this time.” When Betty cocked a brow in question, Chloe continued, “This way Adela can go home early.”

“Oh,” Betty said as the sound of Adela’s footsteps neared the doorway. “Brilliant,” she added. Because it was.

Adela entered, bringing with her a tray of small crystal cups filled with eggnog, which she placed on the coffee table. After making certain everyone had a cup, she sat in one of the revered Hitchcock chairs, crossing her ankles and tucking her feet underneath the chair. With her hands holding her serving of eggnog and resting in her lap, she declared, “I’m now ready, Mr. Estes.”

Harrison Estes played Santa, passing out the gifts to everyone until neat little piles surrounded each of them. Betty, who had the largest number of presents, began the family’s tradition of opening one gift at a time so that everyone could see . . . and ooh and aah over the bounty. When an hour had passed and the room had been littered by torn paper and satiny bows, and when treasures had been returned to boxes for carrying upstairs or to their respective homes, Adela stood. She gathered the paper as she said, “Once again, I thank you all for your kindness. For making me a part of your family.”

Betty jumped up to help. “Oh, Adela. Whatever would we do without you?” Then, coming close enough for only Adela to hear, she said, “I truly hope you like the fruit bowl. I thought it one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Adela nudged her with an elbow. “I’ll treasure it the rest of my life. The earrings too. But I’m thinking you spent too much on me.”

Betty smiled, hoping Adela knew the clusters of pearls were real and not cheap imitations. “You are worth every penny.”

It seemed to Betty that her parents waited now, waited for Adela to finish her straightening and to leave the room. Adela felt it too; Betty knew by the way the woman’s lovely dark eyes met hers, almost in empathy. Betty felt her brow furrow.

As soon as Adela had gone, Chloe brushed imaginary lint from her gown and spoke around a sigh. “So, what are your roommates doing today, Betty? Did they go home to their families?”

Betty perched on the edge of the nearest chair. “No. Inga and Magda spent yesterday and today with their aunt and uncle. Christmas Eve is nearly as important in Sweden as Christmas Day, you know,” she said. “Joan has begged for quiet to sleep—she works three jobs—and there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that you know where Evelyn is.”

“Evelyn?” her father asked his wife. “Which one is she?”

“The mousy one Betty told us about,” Chloe answered.

“I never once said she was mousy.”

“Where did I hear that then?”

Betty crossed her legs and leaned into the chair as though she had not one care in the world, as though the joy of Christmas had not suddenly come to a halt. “I cannot imagine, Mother. Where
did
you hear that?”

Chloe’s eyes—older versions of Betty’s own—met hers. “I suppose Vivian Volbrecht said it.”

Betty couldn’t help but wonder where Vivian would have gleaned such a description, if not from George. “It’s Christmas, Mother,” Betty said, offering a silent prayer for her friend who would, soon enough, face the wolves known as the Volbrechts for the first time. “Can’t you just be nice?”

Evelyn sat on the passenger side of George’s 1951 Lincoln Cosmopolitan, her eyes struggling to take in the neighborhood he drove her through. She adjusted the cat-eye glasses for the fifth time in as many minutes and turned to George—who looked fine with his hand draped lazily at the top of the steering wheel. “These sure are some nice houses.”

He smiled at her. “You’ve said that already. Better said, ‘These houses are nice.’”

She blinked and looked out the windshield. “These houses are nice.”

George reached for her gloved hand, which she willingly gave to him. “Don’t worry, Evelyn. You’ll do fine.”

Evelyn searched his eyes for what might be going on behind them. For what he meant by his words. “Do you think . . .” She took a deep breath. “Do you think your mama and them will like me?”

“My
mother
and
father
will like you because I like you. They like what I like. I’ve told you that.”

Evelyn felt the sting in his voice. “And your baby sister will be there too?”

“Sandra, yes. With her husband and her baby.”

Evelyn shifted in the seat. “So you’re an uncle.”

His grin brought a shimmer of love into his eyes. “I am. His name is Martin and he’s everything and then some.”

“You love him.”

This time, when he looked at her, she didn’t have to try to read the expression. “Very much so.” He returned his attention to the road. “One day . . . when I marry . . .”

Evelyn felt the squeeze of his hand. Or had it merely flinched?

“I want a houseful of children,” he finished. “Mother and Dad only had the two of us, but I think deep down my father always wanted more.”

Evelyn’s heart pounded; he had just confided something about himself and about his family to her. And for the first time. “But your mama—your
mother
—didn’t?”

He seemed to calculate his answer. “Those are not the kinds of things we talk about in my family.” Then he smiled and the dimple returned, sending whatever reprimand Evelyn might have felt into oblivion.

She glanced out the window again. “And Betty comes from this neighborhood?”

George nodded. “A couple of streets over.”

“My goodness,” she whispered, just as he turned the car into a long driveway leading to a box-style, two-story house. “This is it? This is where
you
come from?”

George released her hand and shifted the car into park. “No, Evelyn,” he said, turning to face her. “This is not where I ‘come from.’ This is where I grew up.” He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “Remember what I told you. Try not to sound too much like a hick, okay?”

Evelyn bristled under the reminder, but only for as long as it took for George to say the words. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the bend in her finger. “I’ll try,” she said.

“That’s a good girl.”

He got out of the car and she waited until he came around for her. After helping her out, he folded the passenger-side seat forward, reached into the back, and produced a large bag full of gifts. “Remember what else I said,” he told her, closing the door. “You and I will exchange gifts later.”

She nodded happily. “I remember.” She looked toward the house and released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d kept pent up. “I’m ready, George,” she said, peering up at him. “And I promise you won’t be ashamed of me when this day is over.”

Betty alternated her stares between the opposite ends of the table where her parents sat. Christmas lunch—their version of Christmas dinner—had been served. Eaten. Enjoyed. Conversation had stayed clear of Evelyn and George and the Volbrechts and veered toward topics like work—both hers and her father’s—and some of the social events her mother had ahead of her in January.

And then . . .

With dessert nothing more than a memory of banana cream pie and hot, sweet coffee, Betty’s father cleared his throat and announced that they needed to have a talk. “Maybe today is not the day for this,” he said, “but I want to start the New Year off right.”

“Sounds like an ultimatum is about to be handed down,” Betty said, keeping her voice steady.

“Call it what you will, but I’m going to say this plain and simple.”

“Get on with it, Father.”

“Accept George Volbrecht’s proposal or lose your allowance.”

Betty sat in stunned silence for what seemed an eternity, but
could have only been half a minute. “I cannot believe this,” she finally breathed out.