The Bridegrooms (19 page)

“It all my fault, you know. That we lost.”

She kept walking, knowing exactly where this conversation was going.

“When I get up to bat, I just freeze. Don’t even take one swing. Let them all fly by,
un, deux, trois
. All this muscle,” he held out his arms, “and I can’t move a-one.”

Vada allowed herself one sidelong look at his arm, then picked up her speed. He had no trouble matching it.

“So you see,
belle
, why I need those buttons.”

They were on Commercial Street now, weaving their path through men and women on their way to shops and offices. She nodded to a few familiar faces, ignoring their curious glances to her left, hoping they would think the handsome man beside her was nothing more than a coincidence of proximity.

For the first time that morning, it occurred to her that she might run into Garrison himself. She never had, given the rigidity of his routine, but how unlucky would it be for this, of all mornings, to be the one he decided to start his day with a delicious pastry instead of Mrs. Paulie’s poached egg?

She clutched her shawl more closely around her and took one wide step to the right, increasing the distance between them. And while it would be easy enough to avoid his company on the streets, the bell-strung door of Moravek’s bakery loomed ahead, and there would be no escaping him in that small space.

“You need to leave now.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “You can’t go in there with me.”

“La boulangerie? Pourquoi?”

She stopped and looked at him, full in the face for the first time since seeing him in front of her house. “I have a note.” She pulled the folded paper out of her skirt pocket. “It’s his. And I need it translated so I can know something…”

“And this knowin’,” he said, the sideways grin back, “it will make him better?”

“Of course not.”

“But it will make you feel better?”

“I suppose.”

“So you see, it is not so silly for me to want two little buttons. To
think how I might hit the ball if I had this kind of treasure.” His fingers inched toward the folded square, and she snatched it close to her before he could take hold.

“This is a private, intimate correspondence. You will not turn it into some good luck charm.”

“And how you know it be so intimate?”

Heat rose to her neck. “It’s-it’s s-signed by a woman. Named Katrina.”

“Well then, by all means
belle
, go inside and find
l’amour
. I await you here. But I make one request.” He inhaled deeply, expanding his chest, and rubbed his narrow belly. “It smell
si bon
in there, you must to bring me a little something sweet.”

The way he looked at her made Vada feel as if she herself were sprinkled with sugar, about to be devoured right there in the street. She tried to squash the deliciousness of the feeling and set her lips firm.

“Then you’ll need to give me a nickel. Or a dime if you want two. What would you like?”

LaFortune dug deep into his pocket and produced a dime. He lifted her hand and pressed it into her open palm, and that sumptuous feeling crept over her again.

“I trust you to know.”

She walked inside before she could melt.

There was a modest line at the pastry counter—not more than four or five people. Vada was acknowledged by the gentleman directly in front of her, allowing her to wander off to the side and study the contents of the glass case. She finally decided the swirled buns with raisins and cinnamon would be perfect, seeing the cinnamon color so closely matched the color of his hair, and its sprinkling across the bronzed, baked surface was not unlike the pale freckles that dusted his cheeks—

“Miss Allenhouse!”

Vada straightened and looked into the flushed, impatient face of Mrs. Moravek.

“Tell me. Tell me. We got more peoples.”

Two more people had come in behind Vada, one of whom she knew from the Ladies’ Auxiliary luncheon committee. “Why don’t you all go ahead of me?” she said. “I’m still deciding.”

Hoping no more customers would come in, she waited patiently as Mrs. Moravek filled their orders, and when the little bell rang on the closing door behind them, Vada stood alone on the customer side of the counter.

Approaching shyly, as if she’d never been in the establishment a day in her life, Vada took the folded note and handed it across the counter.

“
Vat
this?”

Last night Vada and Hazel had spent the last few minutes before sleep concocting the story. “It’s a note. We found it near our home and were curious to know what it says.”

Mrs. Moravek looked at the open paper, then at Vada. “You know who is?”

“No. It might belong to one of our father’s patients. We thought if we knew, we could return it.” She was struck by how easily the lie came to her.

“It not my business.”

“But if it’s important, and we know whose it is, we can return it. And it might be important, Mrs. Moravek. So I promise you, whatever the note says, it will stay between us. I won’t tell a soul.”

By now Mrs. Moravek’s own curiosity was shining through, and she inched the note across the glass before picking it up and bringing it first close to her nose, then out a little farther, until finally settling on a proper reading distance.

“Oh,” she said. Then, “Oh my. Oh, is sad. Is too, too sad.”

Vada was now on her toes, ready to leap across the counter but, trying to remain true to her story, she rocked back on her heels and waited for Mrs. Moravek to lift the corner of her apron and dry the tear that left a thin track down her flour-dusted face.

“Well?”

“Oh, is tragedy.”

Breathless, she asked, “Can you read it to me?”

Mrs. Moravek took in a deep breath. “It say, ‘My dear Eli. I wish you had found me here in the way we dreamed together. But I was a silly girl then. And so young. Mother say never believe the promises of youth. I did love you, of course I did. But was the love of a child for another child. And when your heart has mended, I wish you to find a woman worthy of your love. Always your fond friend, Katrina.’”

By the time she finished reading, Mrs. Moravek’s voice was thin, and Vada felt her own throat burning with the threat of tears.

“I do not believe that young man who dropped this note ever want to have it back. I go trow it in oven.”

“No!” This time Vada did leap, snatching the paper right out of the woman’s hand. “Let me ask my father if he has a patient named Eli. If he doesn’t, I promise I’ll throw the note away. But if he does, well, he has a right to know…”

Before Vada could finish, Mrs. Moravek stomped out to the back room and came back with a tray full of warm
kolaches
. She opened the back door to the display case and began tossing them onto the shelf.

“Dat evil, evil girl. Breaking dat poor boy’s heart. And he love her so much.”

“You don’t know that.” Vada’s hand shook as she repocketed the note. “Maybe he didn’t really love her either.”

“Of course he did. For years he did.”

“If he loved her, he would have married her.”

“What, marry? They was children.”

“See?” Vada fumbled with the note, clutching for truth. “They grew out of it. That happens sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“She grow out. He don’t. Oh, it is so, so sad.”

Vada folded the tragic little story and stashed it back into her pocket.

Evil girl
. Evil, indeed. Perhaps Katrina had simply found somebody else. Somebody not an ocean away. Nothing evil about that. In fact, it could be downright divine.

Vada continued her musings until, the shelf restocked, Mrs. Moravek wiped her hands on her apron and, with a voice full of business, asked Vada what she would like to order. One glance out the window revealed the ever-present Mr. LaFortune. He stood, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expansive chest puffed out, his lips puckered as if whistling.

Evil girl
.

At once, the rows of swirled cinnamon had lost all their appeal. “Nothing, thank you. I just needed you to read the note.”

“Next time, then? And you bring dat nice young man with you.”

“Of course.” She forced a smile and turned to see an elderly woman standing impatiently behind her. Funny, she hadn’t heard the bell ring.

Outside, LaFortune was at her elbow the minute she stepped onto the sidewalk. “And did you find out what you want?”

“Yes.” She stared at the ground, nearly choking on the word.

“Hey,” he said, making a show of searching around her. “Where my treat?”

She dropped the dime, warm from her hand, into his outstretched palm. “Go on in and buy your own. I didn’t know what you wanted. And
here”—she opened the clasp on her little purse and found the two buttons—“take these.” She pressed them against the ten-cent piece and closed his fingers around them. “Now you have no reason to speak to me again.”

If he protested, the sound was lost in the ringing bell of the bakery door. And it never occurred to Vada to look back.

Vada didn’t go straight home, harboring some irrational fear that LaFortune might follow. Instead she made her way around the block, weaving in and out of people, stepping in and out of shops, hoping to lose herself in the crowd.

She found her feet following the familiar path to church. The distinct sound of laughter and rejoicing called her attention, causing her to slow her steps, then stop altogether at the sight that came out from behind the building.

First came a little girl, her hair a mass of thick sausagelike curls that flew behind her as she ran. She had an enormous pink bow on top of her head, and she wore a dress of pure white silk with a matching pink sash.

Behind her came a little boy, not nearly as elated as the girl. He wore a little sailor suit fashioned of pale blue silk with a wide white collar. He trailed his steps, dragging one foot behind the other, causing the little girl to turn back and run circles around him, as if herding him to the front steps of the church.

Vada laughed at the sight.
Here, then, is the picture of marriage in miniature
. She made a note to remind herself to share this with Hazel when she got home and was about to leave when the rest of the party came around the corner and took her breath away.

Half-a-dozen older girls—young women, really—walked as one ruffled, feathered mass, their dresses identical sweeping things with pale
striped skirts and lavender bodices. They carried bouquets of purple lilies and wore hats made of purple straw festooned with long curling feathers. And in the midst of them, the bride, her arms encased in close-fitting white silk, flounced broad at the shoulder. Her skirt smooth, pure white silk, trimmed in white silk roses. The thin veil hid her face, but nothing could disguise the face of her father. He appeared set in stone as he looped his black jacketed arm through his daughter’s.

Vada allowed herself a luxurious moment to imagine her face behind the veil, looking out at the world through yards and yards of delicate lace. She could picture her father beside her, Hazel, Althea, and Lisette trailing behind. And she longed to believe that Garrison would be behind the church door, waiting at the top of the aisle. More than that, she wanted Garrison to imagine the same thing. To want the same thing.

She looked closer, trying to make out just who was getting married. She didn’t remember an announcement in the recent weeks, and she certainly hadn’t received an invitation. But she supposed there were those who wouldn’t come to church to worship but would use it for a wedding.

And what a morning for a wedding—bright and cool, a promise of warmth later in the afternoon. Inside the church there would be promises, later there would be dancing. This was the day that would change that woman’s life, and Vada was half tempted to follow the party inside and join in the celebration. After all, her shawl practically matched the wedding party’s colors.

Instead she simply stood, watching, while the girls got the children in order and the first strains of organ music could be heard through the doors. It wasn’t until all had filed in and the doors were once again closed, the music muted, that Vada took the next step. She may have stumbled upon this scene through aimless wandering, but she left it with a new sense of purpose and an urgent one at that.

Continuing up Cleric Street and over to Chancellor, she found herself outside the door of Garrison’s office building. He was three floors up, and if he were to look out his window at that precise moment, he would see the top of her hat. He might even recognize the plum-colored shawl, though he might be disconcerted by the sloped shoulders beneath it.

She looked straight up, willing him to come to the window. But he wasn’t the type of man to take a frivolous glance on a chilly spring morning. So, against all logic, she walked not only to the door, but through it and up the stairs that creaked under every step until she reached the landing of the third floor and a door etched with Benedict, Parker, and Hughes, Attorneys-at-Law in swirling gold letters. It wouldn’t be easy to add Walker to the door, should Garrison ever realize his goal of making partner.

Inside, everything was uniformly dark, heavy, and brown, save for one crooked, amateurish painting depicting a studious boy studying under an apple tree. A brass plate mounted to the frame read: The seeds of the future are planted in youth.

Beneath the painting, a thin, pale man sat at the desk in the front office, pounding the keys of a typewriter. Vada had to clear her throat several times to get his attention. When she did, he extended a single pinky to hold her at bay, never interrupting his rhythmic typing.

“There now,” he said after a final, flourishing stroke. “With whom do you have an appointment?”

“Nobody, really. I’m here to see Garrison Walker.”

“Ah, you have an appointment with Mr. Walker?”

“Not an appointment. I am just here to see him.”

“Without an appointment?”

“That is correct.” Smile frozen on her face, she matched his game of formality.

“Well, this is highly unusual.” He tapped his fingers in a circular pattern across the top of his desk with the same enthusiasm he’d used earlier in his typing. “And whom shall I say you are?”