Five Brides (48 page)

Eight months later

December 1953

Lake Forest, Illinois

Magda parked Barry’s car in the diagonal space in front of the storefront café Betty had given her directions to.

“In the middle of downtown Lake Forest,” she’d said. “You can’t miss it.”

Magda tugged at her wool gloves before exiting the car. Lake Michigan sent a bitter wind to slap at Magda’s face before pushing her body against the car as she tried to walk around it to the snow-lined sidewalk.

A struggle ensued, but she eventually made it to the garland-trimmed door of the café—head down and face buried in her hand-knitted scarf. Once inside, she brushed snow flurries from the shoulders of her coat and looked around. Betty had already
arrived and sat in a corner booth for two, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, her painted-red lips blowing into it. When she spotted Magda, she set it on the table and waved.

Magda grinned, moving between the tables—each decorated with tiny evergreens. As she moved toward her old roommate, Betty slid out of her seat, extending her arms.

“Look at
you
,” she exclaimed over the din of noise from the other diners. From somewhere way back in the kitchen, a radio played the controversial hit of the previous year, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

“Me?” Magda grinned after their quick hug. “Look at
you
!” She reached out a hand to touch Betty’s swollen abdomen, then stopped. “May I?”

Betty nodded. “Why not? Everyone else does.”

Magda pulled her right glove off before placing her palm against the baby growing inside and, within the time it takes a baby to bat its eyelashes, felt a thump against her fingertips.

Both women laughed.

“Sit. Sit and tell me everything,” Betty said.

Magda hung her coat and scarf on the booth’s brass hook before sliding in and looking for their waitress. Spying the middle-aged woman holding a coffeepot and walking toward them, she pointed to the table and said, “Coffee, please.” She removed her other glove and stuffed both into her purse. After she’d been served, she set about preparing the hot drink. “Can you believe Barry and I are
finally
getting married?”

Betty rested her chin on her hand. “What
took
you so long?”

“A lot of things. First, there was Inga . . .” Magda made a face, hoping to lighten the issue that—even so far in the past—still made her feel uneasy.

“How is she?”

“Good. She had a little girl back in July, you know. Seven pounds, six ounces.” She sighed. “Born with lots of dark hair. You’ve never seen so much. I told Axel—her husband—to put all his money on shampoo stock.”

The women laughed again, and Betty sobered first. “I’m sorry that happened to her, but . . . she’s doing okay?”

Magda nodded. “She doesn’t talk about her life much. She really . . . She’s trying to be a good mother. Focus on the baby.”

“What did she name her?” Betty’s eyes grew large as she brought her cup of coffee to her lips. “And please don’t tell me
Frances
.” She drew in a sip.

“No. It took Far a month after the wedding to speak to either of us—what with Inga wearing the wedding dress and all. If she’d named the baby after
her
father, I think
our
father would have disowned us.”

“Well, then?” Betty set the cup on the table.

“Emma. She named her Emma.”

“Emma,” Betty breathed out the name. “If we have a girl, we’ve decided to name her Patricia.”

“For Pat.”

“Yes.”

“And if it’s a boy?” Magda wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, allowing the heat to penetrate the cold in her bones.

Betty smiled. “After his father.” She patted Magda on the arm. “Now tell me. Details. I want details. Other than Inga, why have you waited so long?”

“Okay.” Magda took her first sip of coffee. “Yes, Inga. That was the first thing. But the biggest is that I keep hoping, somewhere along the way, Barry’s daughter and the children’s grandmother will come to accept me.”

“Not yet, huh?”

“We’re not even close to acceptance. In fact, sometimes I feel that things have gotten worse.” She dipped her chin. “So, I put my nose to the old grindstone, keeping my focus on my work. Until Barry convinced me that if we wait until
they
come around, he and I will be too old to care.” She laughed lightly. “By the way, where’s the dress? You brought it, right?”

Betty’s eyes traveled to the door of the café and she raised her chin. “Tucked away in the trunk of my car. Say, Pat read in the paper that you won an award recently.”

Magda shrugged even as a smile crept from deep inside her. “I had this story idea one night while sitting on the porch with Barry. I wrote it, submitted it to a contest, and . . . voilà. But—wouldn’t you know it—Harlan Procter was the one handing out the awards.” She shook her head. “I could have done without his condescending attitude as he handed me the plaque.”

“Does Barry know? About the two of you?”

“There’s really nothing to know. We dated a few times and he gave me some pointers on how to be a better writer. That’s it.”

Betty raised a brow. “And you thought you were in love with him . . .”

“No. Well, maybe I did
then
, but since Barry I see things much differently. There’s love . . . and then there’s
love
.”

Betty grinned. “I can’t argue with that.” She gave a half laugh, then said, “Sister Brigit says that even though we make our plans, the Lord orders our steps. No matter what we think we want, he’s always got it under control.”

“I agree with that.” She placed both hands on the table. “So, Betts. What do you do with yourself all day now that you are a woman of leisure?”

Betty laid her hand across the top of her belly. “Mostly, I’m getting the house ready for this one. I’m doing a little charity
work—organizations my mother and Pat’s mother have gotten me involved in.” She raised a finger. “Before you go thinking something—”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Magda teased.

“Well, before you do, I am
not
becoming my mother.” She sighed. “I do enjoy it, though. The work. Far more than I thought. Oh, and Sister Brigit has encouraged me to work with the St. Vincent de Paul charity.”

Magda rested against the back of her seat. “That’s good.” She sighed. “
Good
for you.”

“Do you ever hear from—” they said together and then laughed again.

Betty pointed across the table. “You first.”

“I was going to ask if you ever heard from Evelyn or Joan. I assume you were about to ask the same.”

Betty nodded. “I got a letter from Evelyn . . .” She trailed, biting her bottom lip as though she contemplated the date. “Gosh, I guess it was back in September. She’s working at a Baptist church in Savannah.”

Magda grinned. “I should go see Evelyn sometime. I think I should become immersed in the Southern culture so I can write the next great Southern novel.”

“Move over, Samuel Clemens.”

Magda chuckled. “Or maybe Flannery O’Connor. Hmm . . . then again, I
am
getting married in two months. Oh, well. I don’t guess I’ll be running down to Georgia anytime soon.” She pursed her lips. “Unless I can talk Barry into taking me there on our honeymoon.”

Betty waggled a finger. “No, no. The Caribbean is
definitely
all it’s cracked up to be.”

Magda twirled her coffee cup before taking another long sip.
“So, has Evelyn managed to get over George? Is she seeing anyone down there? What was the guy’s name she left behind?”

“Hank. And, no. He married. And . . . she says she’s not seeing anyone, but she went on for a page and a half about the preacher she’s working for.” Betty nodded. “She
did
ask about George. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we see him from time to time, a different girl on his arm every night, so when I wrote her back I just didn’t mention him at all.”

Magda sighed. “Poor Evelyn. She’s so much better off without George.”

“Aren’t we all.”

“So, then, what about Joan? Do you ever hear from her?”

Betty slid her coffee cup to the edge of the table, alerting the waitress of her need for another cup. “I do . . . about once a month.” She twisted a little to open the purse sitting in the seat beside her and pulled out a letter. “I got this just this morning, actually.” She pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded the paper while the waitress poured another cup and walked away. “It says:

“Dear Betts,

“I have been relocated to Nuremberg, Germany, where I will soon begin work as the secretary of Major General Richard C. Partridge, US Army. I will work for the Special Activities Division, US Forces in the Palace of Justice. I believe I will be here for the duration of my time in Germany, which should be another year.

“When I arrived in Nuremberg, my heart sank. This onetime-beautiful medieval town still lies in ruins. But I will say the Germans are very smart; the first thing they did after the war was repair the transportation system and the heart of their communities—restaurants, bakeries, bistros. However, there are still gutted buildings with only half their walls standing jagged against the backdrop of devastation. Even after such a long time, I find this to be depressing.”

Betty paused to take a sip from her coffee, and Magda used the break to shake her head and interject. “Nuremberg and the Palace of Justice . . . What else does it say?”

“After arriving in the city, I went directly to the Palace of Justice, where I met with the major general. He is a kind man. Tall. Stout. Serious. Old enough to be my father, of course. I can see now that he and I are going to get along famously. I was given my housing address (see the front of the envelope for future correspondence), then taken on a tour of the offices (which are more than a little impressive. Posh actually). Ours, the one I will work in, looks over the center of the courtyard, which is also the parking area. Or, I should say, the general’s office windows look over the center of the courtyard. Ha. Ha. When I sit at my desk, I will have a direct view of a line of dull office chairs for those who wait to see General Partridge and, if I turn to the right, I can spy down a long hallway leading to the mail room and other offices. Not that I care one whit about the view. I’m here to work, not to gaze out of windows.”

“Same old Joan.” Magda chuckled. “Work, work, work.”

“It’s part of her charm,” Betty replied.

Magda nodded toward the letter. “Anything else?”

Betty returned her attention to the pages in her hand.

“I drove my trusty Austin to my new residence—fifteen minutes toward Old Nuremberg. It’s a small, fully furnished cottage that is part of civilian housing where I will live alone. I’ve met my neighbor, a nice woman, who lives with her two oversize German shepherd dogs. Lucy Cole is her name, and while she is probably forty if she is a day, I can see where we’ll get along.

“This is a first for me, living alone, as you know. I have come to a new place in my life. I live alone and I work for the US Forces in Europe. Don’t pinch me. I’m afraid I might wake up. (In other words, I think coming to Germany was a good thing for me to do.)

“Fondly,

“Joan.”

Nuremberg, Germany

For her first day working for Major General Partridge, Joan chose a classic dress she’d purchased from Chicago’s Peck & Peck. Long-sleeved charcoal gray bordered with pink gingham checks, a narrow belt, and hidden buttons from the hem to the neckline. She checked herself no fewer than three times in the vanity mirror before leaving her new home, which was, remarkably, smaller than the flat she’d shared with Ruby.

Joan arrived at the Palace of Justice precisely fifteen minutes early to better acclimate herself to her desk, the offices, the filing cabinets. Her shoulders squared, she entered through the main doors using her clearance badge. After passing through security, Joan rambled around the cavernous hallways for a good ten minutes in search of her new office.

The first part of the morning went smoothly. Then, sometime between her morning break and lunch, General Partridge called on the interoffice phone. “Can you come in for a moment, Joan?”

Joan entered the inner office, where the aroma of cigars filled the room, clinging to the oil paintings and hugging the draperies and the dark-brown leather sofas and chairs. “Yes, sir,” she said,
poised in front of the general’s desk. She held a pad of paper in one hand and a number two pencil in the other, ready to take notes.

“Joan.” He looked down, his attention on a file spread across his desk. “I need you to head down to the TWX office.”

Her brow rose. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say ‘the twix office’?”

He looked up, his poker face in place. “
T
-
W
-
X
. Very important office. That’s where all messages meant for me are deciphered and prepared.”