Five Brides (40 page)

We will be here for two weeks and the first is nearly over. By the time you receive this, I will have arrived at my first assignment, which will be in Munich. I’ve already been told that Ruby and I will be roommates there.

As soon as I’m settled, I will write again. Please share my letter with the others. I miss you all.

Fondly,

Joan

Chicago

With only five weeks until the wedding, Betty wasn’t sure if she wanted to go out the evening of Valentine’s Day or not. “We have so much to do,” she told Pat the previous weekend. “It seems we should concentrate on other things.”

But he had reservations, he told her, at one of the swankiest restaurants in town. “And romantic,” he mentioned as he nuzzled his nose against hers. “You like romantic, don’t you?”

Betty shook her head in defeat. “Only on Valentine’s Day, I’m afraid.”

And so it was settled. On Tuesday, she managed to rush to Peck & Peck after work to find the perfect dusty-rose chiffon gown, one she intended to reuse as a part of her trousseau. Perhaps, she thought as she struggled to tug the back zipper into place on the night of the fourteenth, her father had been correct. Maybe she
had
become thrifty.

Betty worked her fingers into cream-colored elbow-length gloves, then leaned over her dresser for a final pat of her hair, which she’d swept behind her head and clamped into place with a rhinestone-and-pink-pearl comb. Her only other accessories were
pink pearl earrings—tiny droplets of elegance—and her engagement ring.

The last thing to do was wait for Pat to arrive, which a look at the bedside table told her should be any moment.

Betty picked up her jewel-encrusted clutch and left her bedroom, her dress swishing with femininity as she made her way up the hallway and into the living room, where she found Magda standing over a sniffling Evelyn. “Oh, dear,” she said, stopping. She frowned at robe-clad Evelyn before sending a smile to Magda, who had chosen a red formal gown of satin and netting for her date with Barry. “You look enchanting,” she said.

Magda’s eyes thanked Betty while her lips pouted. “Evelyn’s sick.”

Betty set her clutch on the nearby end table. “When did this start?”

“Earlier today.” Evelyn’s voice was scratchy and her nose so stuffed up that she sounded as though it had taken a recent punch. She brought a delicate handkerchief to her watery eyes and dabbed behind the lenses of her glasses. “I called George around three and told him I didn’t think I could make it this evening.” Her weepy eyes became floodgates. “He’d made reservations for us . . . somewhere.”

“Oh, dear,” Betty said again, this time sitting on the sofa next to her. “I fear those are real tears now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Evelyn squeaked. “It’s just that . . . I had hoped that . . . George would . . .” She hiccupped softly. “Tonight would be the night he . . .” Her words faded into sobs.

Betty looked to Magda, who frowned as she said, “Evelyn? If he were indeed going to propose, then there’s always another night.” She glanced at the front door. “What I mean to say is, it may not be as romantic as if it were on Valentine’s Day, but there couldn’t
possibly be anything worse than a marriage proposal received while deathly sick with the flu.”

“Speaking of which,” Betty said, “why aren’t you in bed?”

Evelyn blew her nose. “I wanted to see what the two of you were wearing,” she said, her eyes darting between Betty and Magda.

Betty patted her back. “Well, now you’ve seen us. Get up, little one.”

Evelyn stood and reached for the afghan her mother had knitted.

“There’s a good girl,” Magda said, stepping back to allow her to pass.

Betty stood as well. “Go on with you, as Joan would say. I’ll check on you when I get in.”

“Me, too,” Magda called to Evelyn’s back.

They said nothing until the bedroom door closed. “What do you think?” Magda asked. “Would George have proposed tonight?”

Betty reached for her clutch. “Quite doubtful, but with him, one never knows.” She looked around. “Is Inga in LA?”

Magda nodded as she readjusted her wrist-length gloves. “She is.”

“Does she have anything spectacular planned with her Mr. Wonderful out there?”

Magda looked up sharply. “I think she’s planning to talk with him, but . . .”

“
Talk?
Are they no longer—?”

“No.” Magda turned toward the occasional chair where her own clutch waited. “But I think Inga is hopeful that perhaps
this
trip will change that.”

“All I’m asking,” Inga said into the pay phone at LAX, “is for fifteen minutes to discuss this. Logically. Like two adults.”

The sigh Frank emitted was strong enough that she thought she felt his breath against her ear. “I don’t see the point, Inga. You told me over a month ago—a month and a half ago—that you’re expecting a child. Congratulations. I’m sure you and the father will be very blessed.”

Inga pressed her forehead against the boxlike phone. “Frank. I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again . . .” She righted herself, then turned her face toward the back of the phone booth when a man stepped into the one connected to hers. “Frank,” she said, lowering her voice, “you
are
the father. Don’t you care? Aren’t you even
concerned
about the welfare of your child?”

Frank sighed again. “Look, love. I’m at work, as you bloody well know. I can’t stand here and discuss this.”

“Which is why I’m asking for time tonight. After I get to the hotel.”

He paused before answering. “Where are you now, then?”

“LAX.”

“Tell you what. I have a date tonight but I don’t pick her up until eight.” Inga’s heart squeezed at the news, but released at the tone of his voice, which was hopeful. “Why don’t we meet for cocktails at five thirty?”

Cocktails.
The very notion . . . “All right. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Meet me in the hotel bar.” A final sigh and he said, “Until then . . .” before the line went dead.

Betty would say one thing for her fiancé: he knew
romantic
when he reserved a table for two in the back corner of it. The restaurant he’d chosen reminded Betty of something out of an epic Roman novel. Large Corinthian columns wrapped in wide ribbons of pink silk stood like softened foot soldiers around the
large marble-floored room. Fat silver urns spilling with flowers in shades of red and pink surrounded the base of each, giving the appearance of the columns bursting from the arrangements. On the bandstand, a string quartet accompanied a pianist performing a haunting version of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”

“Oh, Pat,” Betty whispered as she slipped her arm into his. They followed behind the maître d’, a classy, older man dressed fashionably in a navy-blue fitted tux. “I admit, this is worth a night away from thinking about flowers and bridesmaids’ dresses.” She turned slightly to peer down at one of the urns. “Although, I must say, these flowers—”

Pat tugged her back to attention. “Oh, no, you don’t.” He removed her hand from his arm as the maître d’ presented a table glistening with white china and silver and sparkling crystal atop pink linen. A single red rose lay diagonally across Betty’s plate.

“I’ve got this, my man,” Pat said to the maître d’, then helped Betty to her seat.

Betty picked up the rose and inhaled its sweetness. “Pat, this is lovely,” she said as he sat across from her. “I’m nearly speechless.”

He winked. “Nearly . . .”

The maître d’ handed them each a menu, reported that “Maurice will be with you shortly,” and stepped away.

The small orchestra’s tune changed to a simple version of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” “Listen,” Betty said, her heart leaping in her chest. “I learned to play this song on the piano when I was—” She turned to look at the bandstand and came up short. Her smile fell and her eyes blinked for clarity.
Surely not . . .

“What is it, sweetheart?” Pat asked, his hand reaching for hers.

Betty turned back to look at him. “That’s George over there.”

Pat’s neck stretched as he strained to see over her to the other diners. “Where?”

Betty looked again, if for no other reason than to make sure . . . then turned to Pat again. “The weasel in the corner booth for two with his lips buried in that woman’s neck.”

“Ohhhh. Yes, yes, yes . . . They are definitely making use of the shadow from that column, aren’t they?”

“How dare he?” Betty looked again. George had graduated from his date’s neck to her earlobe. She, in turn, had thrown her head back. Luxurious blonde hair, swept over her ear and held back with a rhinestone comb, brushed along her bare shoulder. Together, they re-created a Renaissance painting of unbridled passion.

Betty stood, her gown twisting around her legs.

“Betts,” Pat warned.

She looked at him.

“This is none of your business, sweetheart,” he warned.

Betty straightened the gown and took a step away from the table. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Pat. This
is
most definitely my business.” Seeing the troubled look on his face, she placed a gentle hand on his. “I won’t be but a minute.”

She waltzed to the opposite corner, pausing in front of the small U-shaped booth. The woman noticed her first, her eyes opening from her moment of rhapsody. She looked up slowly, as if she were waking from a dream; then her eyes widened as though the dream had become a nightmare.

“George,” Betty announced her presence, her voice firm.

Only then did his nibbling cease. Only then did he look up, blinking. “Hmm?” he said. But when recognition finally hit him, his face visibly flushed. He pulled at his bow tie and cleared his throat. “Betty . . . Don’t you look lovely this evening.”

“Georgie?” The woman pouted, her voice both sugary-sweet and venomous.

“It’s okay, dar—It’s okay.” He made an attempt to slide out of the booth. “This is an old friend—”

“Stop,” Betty ordered, and he did. “An old friend, my eye.” She crossed her arms. “How could you? How could you do this to Evelyn, who is at home right now, so upset over not getting to come out with you this evening she can’t stop crying?”

“Who is Evelyn?” the woman asked, her shoulders flattening as her neck grew long.

George placed his hand over the woman’s. “No one, sweetheart. Just—” He made another attempt to slide out of the booth, but Betty quickly blocked his path. He pointed beyond them. “Say, is
that
your fiancé?”

“Never mind him. When I
think
of the hours Evelyn spent trying to please you. Repeating over and over every little thing you taught her, setting it to memory like some puppy on a leash. And the
French
. Learning a foreign language
just
to impress your
mother’s cousin
, George. With someone like Evelyn bowing at your feet, hoping for the moon,
how could you
?”

The blue in George’s eye flashed and his jaw set as the orchestra’s selection eased into the “Moonlight Sonata.” He leaned back in the seat, drawing his date’s hand into his. Even from where she stood, Betty could see that he caressed it as only a lover would.