Francie Comes Home (13 page)

“I still think so myself,” said Francie, sitting down. “Give, Pop, I can use that coffee … what's more, I guess Chadbourne thinks so too.”

“Well,” said Pop, “if young Munson doesn't agree, I don't know what you girls can do about it. Hadn't you better sort it all out between you?”

“We're all jumping to conclusions,” said Francie, laughing. “Poor Bruce!” Aunt Norah gave her a worried, searching glance, but said no more.

Francie went up to her room and read the letter. It was affectionate but somehow offhand, as Glenn's letters always were: tender just to a point, but no further. This settles it, Francie decided. “I'll be practical,” she said softly to nobody, “and put him out of my mind.” She turned to the other letters, and the sight of Penny's handwriting and the New York postmark that came with it no longer gave her pangs of homesickness. Her days were full; there was no time for moods like that in Jefferson when you were a working girl. But a letter to Penny was indicated for other reasons, and she sat down and wrote it. She rattled on cheerfully about the J.D.S. and
Charley's Aunt;
she chatted for half a page about the Birthday Box. Then rather wickedly—and with just a moment's hesitation, she described Bruce Munson. She told of the situation, as far as she could make it out, between him and Chadbourne.

The way it might be, he's a kind of business assistant and family pet all rolled into one; and if he were a little older I guess the town would be saying, with or without truth, that he was after Mrs. Fredericks. But he's unusually young for the position he's got there
—
he's awfully talented, I really believe
—
and there definitely isn't any kind of an understanding between him and Lottie, so perhaps we've only built up this other Chadbourne thing for lack of any better theory. Maybe there's nothing in it. In which case, is he fair game? That's what I would like to know. I really would: Because honestly, Penny, he's really attractive, and—oh, I don't know. All I know is, lately he's showed signs of falling for me, and I can't make up my mind what I want to do about it, or perhaps I mean what I want him to do about it. If it didn't sound conceited, I'd say I don't want to hurt Chadbourne, but that does sound conceited so I won't. I've always hated the kind of girl who says a pious thing like that
.

She addressed and stamped the envelope and then nearly tore it up after all. But you could trust Penny not to remind you later if you'd been indiscreet, and Francie did feel better now that she had that much of her perplexity off her chest. She decided to wait until morning before making up her mind: she couldn't mail the thing just yet anyway.

She brushed her hair carefully and took a long, drowsy, delicious time getting to bed. Her last clear thought as she pulled up the covers was of Bruce's face in the street lamplight when he was leaving. The silly!

“There's no future in it,” she tried to caution herself, but it was no good: she was too sleepy to think in language that made sense.

Marty Jenner came into the shop next day. Francie felt a bit guilty at sight of her. She hadn't had much time for the young set lately; when Marty or the others telephoned she had put them off. The pressure of an all-day job plus the few chores Aunt Norah asked her to do, plus the new play, really made up a full-time life, and anyway it had begun to be too much of a good thing, this being the leader of a pack of kids. Cousin Biddy was getting catty about it too. Still, when Marty came in with her hands in her jeans pockets, looking defiant and disagreeable as she always did when she felt most shy, and leaned carelessly against Mrs. Ryan's most fragile glass case, Francie was ashamed of herself.

“Haven't seen you lately,” she greeted the girl, taking the bull by the horns.

“No,” said Marty somberly. “You've been busy, haven't you?”

Francie agreed that she had been busy. There was no one else in the shop, so she began shifting things around, suiting the action to the word.

Marty looked at her feet in their flat-heeled slippers and hesitated. Something seemed to be on her mind. At last she blurted out, “I had a fight with Jinx last night.”

“Oh, did you? I'm sorry. You two are such good friends usually.”

“It was something she said,” Marty said, “about you.”

Francie stopped short. Then she went on moving articles and said, “You don't want to fight about me. I'm not worth it.” Marty remained silent. Curiosity overcame Francie; she asked, “Well, come on. What was it she said?”

“It was crazy,” said Marty. “You don't want to pay any attention to it.”

“Just the same, what was it?”

“Oh well.… She said she saw you a couple of times with that drip Chadbourne Fredericks's boy friend. Lucky Munson or whatever his name is. She said you were taking him away from the Fredericks female. And I said I didn't believe it, and anyway what if you were, and anyway it is none of our business, is it?”

“Well!” Francie felt a rush of anger. But there was no use just being sore with Marty, she reflected. It wasn't her fault if people were talking. And it did something wonderful for her pride—maybe it was high time that Jefferson knew Francie had come home, and was a success again, as she'd been before. “No, I don't think it
is
your business, any of you,” she continued in careless tones, “but just for your private information, Marty, it's not true. We're working together on this play, that's all.”

“That's all right, then,” said Marty.

“Anyway,” continued Francie in obedience to an irresistible impulse, “he isn't Chadbourne's boy friend.”

Marty looked at her shrewdly. “Then it
is
true,” she said. “I guess you know what you're doing, but maybe I ought to warn you he's got a funny kind of reputation around town. Jinx says she heard something about his methods in business. Her father says—”

“Oh, don't be such a nasty little gossip, Marty!” snapped Francie. “Can't you recognize jealous spite when you see it? This town always resents people who don't belong to the old guard.”

She paused, seeing that Marty had turned pale. The younger girl said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Excuse me.”

She walked out of the Birthday Box, and Francie didn't try to stop her.

CHAPTER 10

My dear Francie, he must be an absolute charmer
, wrote Penny by return mail,
and I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw a millstone. Do please watch your step. Especially as it looks to me as if you're innocently trampling all over your new friend Chadbourne's toes. (What a pathetic little bunny she sounds.) Of course it's quite possible, as you said, that her toes don't come into the picture. I don't suppose one could simply ask her man to man, face to face and all that, what her relations are exactly with the fascinating Lucky? No, I can see it wouldn't do. Perhaps you'd better ask yourself a few questions instead. How serious are you? How serious might you let yourself become if the coast were clear? And have you forgotten all about Glenn?

After she had read this letter Francie was doubly thoughtful. She had firm faith in Penny's judgment: Penny was always right. How characteristic that she should have summed up the matter so calmly and sensibly. But Francie reflected sorrowfully that it was also characteristic of herself not to follow such an admirable example and take Penny's advice just as calmly. She was determined to forget Glenn—and she certainly was intrigued with Bruce Munson. If he were engaged to Chadbourne—or to anyone else—it would be crazy to fall in love with him. But she was sure there was no engagement; if there were, why hadn't it been announced? Why should she believe rumors, against her inclination? Jefferson was a talkative town: everybody knew that. If a silly child like Jinx felt like starting a story right out of her own head, it was just too easy. No. As long as Chadbourne hadn't said anything and Lucky had as good as denied it, she would go on believing there was no engagement. They didn't act engaged, nor did Lottie Fredericks treat him like an aspiring son-in-law.

And anyway, she thought with a pleasurable little warmth, Bruce behaved toward her, toward Francie herself, like a man falling in love. He wasn't furtive about it, he wasn't complicated; he gave no signs of guilt. He was quite simply attracted to her. Francie wasn't a stranger to the signs. She thought and thought about it, and finally sat down and replied to Penny's letter.

He likes me all right, I don't think there's any doubt about that. But I can't figure out how much. There's a possibility, of course, that he's not being serious about any of us, Chadbourne or me or anybody else. Seems to me I remember some sage Penny advice on this question. You used to remind me that men just naturally don't think about getting married nearly as soon or as constantly as women do. I guess you're right. Oh well, half the time I'm sure that even if he did ask me, which seems unlikely, I'd say No. I can't really face marrying and settling down in Jefferson. Just think, forever and ever. Just think, being one of the old girls like Ruth. No, I couldn't, not even with a glamor-boy like Lucky, and not with somebody sensible and steady like Glenn either
—
not that Glenn's asked me. Let's face it, all this is purely academic. I'll be a bridesmaid all my life. I probably haven't got what it takes
.

She felt much better, once it was off her chest, and the letter mailed: besides, a pleasant evening at Mrs. Clark's was in prospect. Aunt Norah wasn't going—she didn't like to go out when she wasn't perfectly comfortable, but Pop went with Francie.

The little dinner party was just as enjoyable as she had expected. As always when she was with Anne Clark, she forgot to feel discontented with Jefferson. Whatever was wrong for her wasn't just a matter of geography, but sometimes she needed to be reminded of this, and Mrs. Clark's personality provided the reminder. They talked, they laughed, they had a good time, and for that evening Francie forgot the superior attractions of New York; she even forgot her role of Francie Nelson, the well-traveled young lady who knew her way around London and Lisbon and who had been to Paris. After all, Jefferson could be a lot worse. After all, the Middle West was fun.

They had a hilarious time over Francie's disappointment with the drama club's choice. “But you ought really to plan to produce it in the style of the period. Otherwise you lose half the effect,” said Mrs. Clark. “In any case, if you try to convince people that such goings-on are the ordinary thing at a university today, you're almost sure to fail.”

“You mean you know the play, too?” asked Pop, who was listening admiringly.

She said, “Of course I do; I've seen it in my day. Everyone has, except possibly people of Francie's generation. Don't you know it yourself?”

“Oh yes,” said Pop, “though I can remember only one line. How did it go?”

“The one about Brazil; it's what everybody knows,” said Anne.

“That's it. ‘Brazil, where the nuts come from.'” Pop chuckled. “I can't quite recall the rest of it, but I know it was pretty good of its kind.”

“Laughed yourself sick, I'll bet,” said Francie bitterly. “That seems to be what people do over
Charley's Aunt.”

“Yes, that's what I did all right: laughed myself sick.”

“Oh really, Pop!”

“Now, now, children,” said Anne Clark. “None of that.”

“Would you help us with the costumes if we do decide to play it in period?” Francie asked her. “I think I could easily persuade the others to do that, though I believe people generally bring it up to date when it's acted nowadays. The sets will be in period—I could design a nice corny Edwardian interior—I'm sure of it. The edition we've got from the library has been sort of rewritten; sometime in the thirties. And even
that's
up to date, comparatively, but it's going pretty far back for us kids in the club.”

“Oh, the fun would be in using really old-fashioned clothes,” said Mrs. Clark. “I'd count it an honor to be allowed to help, if I can. We can work something out, Francie, so don't worry.”

As the guests were taking their leave, Mrs. Clark said, “Francie, has Florence Ryan said anything to you yet?”

“No, nothing special. Why? Should she have?” asked Francie, pausing at the door.

“Let her tell you,” said Mrs. Clark. She smiled.

“Why, what is it? Is the Birthday Box going broke and pulling down the shades? Oh please, Mrs. Clark,” said Francie.

“I won't spoil it, but I'll tell you this,” said Anne Clark, “you're going to like it, I'm sure of that.”

Francie grumbled as she drove the car toward home. “That's a nice thing to do to me at this time of night, I don't think, when I can't even call up Mrs. Ryan and put myself out of my misery. I bet I don't sleep a wink for wondering what it's all about.”

“Bet you anything you like, you will,” said Pop cheerfully. He was in excellent spirits.

“Pop,” said Francie suddenly reminded of his situation, “what do you hear about—well, you know, about your affairs? Any news?”

“Nothing particular lately. Why?” asked Pop.

“I don't know,” said Francie. “I just wondered.”

She rushed into the Birthday Box next morning five minutes early. She hadn't lost any sleep, after all, over Anne Clark's hint, but her curiosity was pitched high.

“Mrs. Ryan!” she called. “Are you in the office?”

Florence Ryan answered from behind the door: she was stacking boxes and making notes in her stock file-cabinet. “Come here a minute, Francie. I want to talk something over with you.… Do you think you're experienced enough to do important bits of business on your own?”

“Why, of course, by this time I know everything about running the shop,” said Francie with genial irony. Her mind was leaping ahead, as it had done ever since waking up. Was Mrs. Ryan going to leave her in full charge for a week or two? Could she handle the job, if so?