Five Brides (4 page)

“I’m almost done with this chapter,” he answered without looking away from the book.

Evelyn smiled at him, at the red in his cropped hair and the way he’d managed to kick off only one shoe while the other stayed secure on his foot.

She walked out onto the front porch, where, sure enough, she found her daddy sitting in one of the rockers, pipe stem clutched between his teeth. The scent of it mixed with that of the leaves, and Evelyn inhaled deeply. “Hey, sugar dumplin’,” he said without turning his head.

Evelyn walked past him to the nearby swing hanging by two half-rusty chains. “Hey, Daddy.”

She pulled a postcard out of one of the side pockets of her skirt as she pushed her saddle oxfords against the narrow gray-painted boards, making the swing squeak. She made an effort to read the words on the back, but without the porch light on and with no moon to speak of, her endeavor went unrewarded. She sighed dramatically, hoping her father would take notice.

He did. “Whatcha got there?”

“A postcard from Joan.” Evelyn pressed her lips together as she waved it in his direction.

“She make it to the States all right?”

“Yes, sir. She mailed this from New York before she boarded the train. I reckon she’s made it to Chicago by now.”

Her father pulled on the pipe, causing the tobacco to glow. “Chicago, Illinois,” he said as though he were talking about heaven itself.

“Daddy—”

“I know,” he said before she could say much else. “You aim to go.”

“I do, Daddy, but—”

“Your Mama’s go’n be heartbroken, you know.”

“Even more than she is already. I know.”

Daddy pulled on the pipe again. “What about Hank?”

“I don’t love Hank, Daddy.” Evelyn struggled to keep her voice low enough that if Mama hovered near an open window upstairs, she wouldn’t hear. “Mama practically has my trousseau laid out, but . . . Daddy, Hank’s a good boy and all, but . . .” The rest was difficult to say. Hank Shute had been her boyfriend for all of their high school years. And he was a fine young man. Strong in his faith. Strong in body. He had to be to work his daddy’s farmland, which he intended to own himself one day. Hank was also strong in his love for her. And, as plain and homely as Evelyn had grown up to be, she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Still . . .

“But he doesn’t turn your skin to gooseflesh.”

Evelyn giggled. “What?”

Daddy laughed lightly. “When the right one comes along, you’ll feel your skin turn to gooseflesh every time you get around him. Hank doesn’t do that for you?”

“Did you? When you were dating Mama?”

Now he turned to look at her. “Yes’m. And I still do.”

Evelyn bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning. “Well, I haven’t had those feelings yet. Not with Hank. Not with any boy.”

Her daddy raised the toes of his work boots, which set the chair to rocking as he faced forward again. “Whatcha think you want to do once you get to Chicago, Evie-girl?”

Evelyn allowed her imagination to take flight. “I want to get an apartment—
not
live in a boardinghouse—and I want to get a job in a big company. I want to get dressed up every day to go work in one of those tall buildings downtown in the Loop.”

“The what?” He peered at her again.

“The Loop. It’s like the business area of Chicago.” Evelyn drew an imaginary circle in the air. “It’s kind of round so they call it the Loop.”

“Do you know where you’ll live?”

“Joanie is taking care of that for me.” At least she hoped so.

“What about money?”

“I’ve got some saved from my job at Mrs. Bryant’s Kitchen.”

Daddy remained silent for a moment. “When do you figure on going?”

Evelyn raised her brow. “Soon?”

For a few moments more, they swung and rocked in silence. “Tell you what let’s do,” her father finally said. “Give it a month.”

“Daddy—”
The air in Evelyn’s lungs rushed out and hung in the air between them like an old sheet on the line. “Then you’ll say it’s too close to Thanksgiving . . .”

But her father’s eyes held firm, locking with hers as best they could in the dark night. “Listen to me now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One month. If you still feel like you want to go, I’ll give you the money you’ll need to get set up and put you on the train myself.” He pointed the stem of his pipe in her direction. “Not a word to your mama, now. We don’t need to go borrowing no trouble.”

Evelyn’s heart raced, but she managed to stay calm. “Yes, sir.”
Then she smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. She hoped her father didn’t see. “I mean, no, sir.”

“Chicago, Illinois,” he said again, whispering the city’s name like a prayer. “You always were one step ahead of us here, sugar bear. I ’spect you’ll do all right amongst those city people. Still . . .” He turned the pipe upside down and knocked the tobacco into his calloused hand. “If you ever want to come back, this is always home.”

Highland Park, Illinois

Betty Estes sat with her legs crossed at the ankles as she’d been both taught and scolded to do, whether by her mother or by the nuns or during her time at finishing school. She stared down the long linen-draped dining room table where her father sat regally at the head, sliding his spoon into the broth that had been served as their first course.

“So, work is going well?” he asked her, peering beneath thick brows.

Betty suppressed the urge to run, knowing full well where this conversation was headed. The same place as always. She glanced at her mother, sitting at the other end. While Mother reminded her of an older Lauren Bacall, Father looked more like Ernest Hemingway, leaving Betty to feel nothing short of gratitude that she’d grown into more of her mother’s features.

She looked again at her father as she glided her own soup spoon through dark broth and inhaled the fragrance of beef and onion. “It’s going very well, actually, Father.”

“I still don’t understand—”

“Harrison, please,” Chloe Estes said as she nestled her spoon
between the bone china bowl and matching plate beneath it. She picked up a tiny silver dinner bell and rang it, summoning Adela to bring the next course and save them all.

The rotund colored woman with silver streaks in her hair, the one who had cared for the family as though they were her own since as far back as Betty could remember, entered through the swinging door separating the butler’s pantry from the dining room. She carried an ornate silver tray and, as was her custom, went immediately to Chloe. “Miz Estes, you haven’t hardly touched your soup,” she scolded. “Was it all right?”

Betty detected concern in Adela’s voice, though she couldn’t tell whether it was about the soup or Betty’s mother’s health.

“It was fine, Adela.” Chloe Estes smiled up at her as she swallowed hard. “I’m just ready for the next course, and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“Not sure how that could happen with a little soup,” Adela mumbled as she gathered up the dishes, then moved to the other end of the table. “How about you, Mr. Estes? Are you done?”

Betty’s father took another hurried spoonful before adding, “I am.”

Betty took a final spoonful as well. Best to do so while she could. These weekly dinners—plus the ones after Mass on Sunday—were sometimes the best food she ate. Not that she would admit that to her parents. And not to mention that no food anywhere in the state of Illinois could come close to Adela’s cuisine.

“Thank you, Adela,” she whispered before the housekeeper whisked the dishes away to another room. Then she looked at her father. “You might be interested to know that I recently received a raise from Mr. Ferguson.”

Her hopes that her father might be impressed were dashed by reality. Instead, he pointed a manicured finger at her. “You should
be running that department, not working as a secretary. When I think of the money I spent sending you to college and the diploma collecting dust in my office—”

“It’s doing no such thing,” Betty said before Adela returned with the next course. “Adela would never hear of dust collecting on anything in this house.” She smiled, hoping to get her parents to do the same. But a quick look at her father and then her mother told her they weren’t in the mood to play.

“Betty,” her mother said, pressing her fingertips against the edge of the table and making a show of pressing the linen, “have you heard from George?”

Betty’s stomach clenched. “You mean since he and his family were here on Sunday for brunch?” Her wheat-colored hair tossed as she shook her head. “No. Mother, we’re
not
a couple. We’re friends.”

“You’re twenty-six years old,” her father all but barked.

“I know how old I am,” Betty snapped back. “You reminded me on my last birthday by making sure the cake looked like a house on fire once the candles were lit.”

“At twenty-six, your mother was married with a child running underfoot. She was climbing her way to the top of social clubs, doing charity work . . .”

Betty blinked. “You act like I’m turning forty on my next birthday. Twenty-six is
not
an old maid. At least, not anymore.” She took a breath. “And Mother
never
had a child running underfoot.” Perhaps
Adela
had, but not Chloe Estes.

Her mother sighed so deeply Betty wondered if she’d forgotten herself. Ladies, she had often told Betty, do not show signs of emotion at the table. “The least you could do is
entertain
George’s affection toward you.” She brushed imaginary strands of hair from her brow, as if her locks would dare fall out of place. “When I
think of that splendid ring he gifted you with last Christmas . . .” Her voice trailed as Adela returned with the serving cart loaded with plates of steaming food.

“Saved by the serving cart,” Betty said.

“Are they picking on my girl again?” Adela asked as she rolled the cart between Betty and her mother.

“Aren’t they always?” Betty asked.

Adela set a plate in front of Betty’s mother before picking up another and walking it around to her father. In the interim, Betty grasped the opportunity to change the subject. “Mother, the new painting over the sideboard is amazing.” The artwork—a late-nineteenth-century piece depicting a French farm scene—had been recently snagged from a Chicago gallery for more money than Betty’s annual food bill. At some point between Sunday afternoon and this evening, her mother managed to get it to the house by courier and professionally hung.

How
did
she do it all?

“You like it?” her mother beamed, her eyes taking it in.

“Very much so.” At the very least, it brought a smidgen of color to an otherwise-pale room. What with the taupe drapes and seat cushions and the sand-colored carpet, even the crystal chandelier overhead couldn’t find enough color to cast rainbow prisms in the middle of a sunny day.

“She’s changing the subject,” her father said. “And doing a fine job of it. She knows good and well that if she brings up art, you’ll forget about George.”

Adela set Betty’s plate—filled with roast beef, asparagus, and julienned potatoes—before her. “Hold your own,” she mumbled.

Betty held her laughter as she glanced at her watch. “Can we please eat in peace? I have to catch the train back to Greenleaf soon.”

“Why don’t you spend the night here? In your old room?” her mother asked. “Leave early enough in the morning so that you’re not late to work.”

The suggestion was tempting, but Betty shook her head. “That’s okay, Mother. As much as I dread the train ride back, I’d really best be getting home.”

Joan stood at the front door of the Y, staring out at the rain-drenched sidewalk and street.

The one thing she should have packed without so much as a second thought—an umbrella—she’d left in the tiny closet she shared with her sisters. Although she wore an all-weather coat, it would do little to protect her from the deluge she now witnessed.

Joan squeezed her eyes shut; with the weather like this, she would be late on her first day at Hertz.

Her first and
last
day if the rain delayed her any longer.

A tap on the shoulder caused her to turn toward the dark eyes of the day manager, a middle-aged man named Samson. He smiled down at her, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the ebony of his skin. “Could you use one of these, Miss Joan Hunt from England?” he asked, holding an umbrella by its curved handle.