The Diary (7 page)

The old woman's expression softened, her washed-out blue eyes brightening a bit. “You get ahold a him, you tell him his grandma was asking after him, hear? He's a good boy, even if he did get hisself into a bit of trouble there a while back. Hopefully he's straightened hisself out.”

Elizabeth was reminded anew of the beatings AJ had been forced to endure at his uncle's hands while his grand-parents had stood silently by, and she replied with a sweetness that masked her outrage, “Oh, I don't think he needed much straightening out. He had plenty of that growing up, I've been told. You know how you can iron out almost anything if you hammer at it long enough?”

With that she'd taken her leave.

But she was still no closer to tracking down AJ. He could be anyplace there was a county fair, and in July, in the Midwest, that meant anywhere from the northernmost reaches of North Dakota to the Mexican border. Eventually he'd turn up, she knew. But by then it might be too late.

Too late for what
? demanded a voice in her head. Her gaze dropped to her left hand, which if her friend's hunch proved correct would soon sport a diamond ring. She now approached this long-held dream with something close to dread. Yet if Bob were to propose to her, how could she say no? More to the point, what possible reason would there be to refuse him?

It wasn't that she didn't love him. Her love for Bob was something she took for granted, just like the air she breathed. Like the air, it wasn't something she thought much about, either. It was simply there, a simple fact of her existence. Less than a month ago she wouldn't have hesitated to accept his proposal; it would have been as natural as … well, as taking the next breath.

What had happened to change that?

The answer came to her with a dull throb: AJ.

It seemed impossible that someone with whom she had only just become reacquainted could have captured her imagination this way. But stranger things had been known to happen. Who would have thought her whole life could get turned upside down chasing after a runaway watermelon?

Reluctantly Elizabeth shook herself free of those thoughts to concentrate on the business at hand. The door to Mr. Arno's office was shut and the button for his phone line lit, which meant he was on an important call—but as soon as he got off, he would be expecting the letter he'd just dictated on his desk. If she didn't have it typed by then, he'd be justifiably annoyed. Just as he had been when she'd sent that check to the wrong address, and before that when she'd misfiled the paperwork for one of their biggest accounts. If she didn't shape up soon, no amount of persuasion on her mother's part would prevent Mr. Arno from firing her.

The prospect didn't depress her as much as it should have.

Her desk sat facing a long glass pane, which provided a view of the factory floor below. A brigade of blue-uniformed figures was hard at work operating the steam presses, cutting and gluing lengths of felt and shaping them on forms resembling large wooden eggs, and applying what Mr. Arno called “the furbelows.” At one end of the factory stood row upon row of metal trees sporting finished hats waiting to be boxed and shipped. It made her think of a forest, foliated with feathers and faux flowers instead of leaves. That, in turn, led to thoughts of the weeping willow under which she and AJ had sat, sharing confidences and perhaps something more, on that hot Fourth of July afternoon when life as she'd known it had abruptly veered off course.

Her reverie was interrupted when her boss, a big-bellied man with his few remaining strands of white hair arranged as evenly over his otherwise bald crown as stripes on an awning, thrust his head out of his office to bark, “Where's that letter, Miss Harvey? I haven't got all day.”

Four hours later
, Elizabeth was standing in the tiled foyer of the gracious red-brick Georgian Revival that was her home, giving herself a last once-over in the mirror before heading off to her best friend's party. She was pleased with the gown she'd chosen, a strapless one that flowed like poured water over her slender form, its gathered silk bodice a deep sapphire, with layers of voile in graduated shades of paler blue falling from its cinched waist. It was eye-catching without looking as if she were showing off, which was only fitting since this was Ingrid's big night. In the same understated vein, the only jewelry she wore were the dainty pearl-and-sapphire earrings that had been a birthday gift from her grandmother Judith when she'd turned sixteen.

Mildred Harvey stood before her, buttoning the brocade jacket that matched her brocade pumps. It was too warm outside for a jacket, but that wasn't going to stop her from wearing one. She wouldn't have dreamed of attending a fancy dress party, or any function, without being properly attired.

“You look lovely, dear,” she said after a lengthy, purse-lipped inspection. “A bit too décolleté, perhaps, but I suppose that's the style these days.”

Elizabeth felt suddenly self-conscious. But there was no time to fetch her wrap, which would have meant another trip upstairs. Her mother didn't like to be kept waiting. Anyway, she didn't think her boyfriend would disapprove of her dress being cut so low. Bob was always proud to show her off.

“Thank you, Mother. You look nice, too,” she replied dutifully.

Her mother was perfectly turned out, as always. Her wardrobe wasn't up-to-date with the latest fashions, but her clothes were classics that never went out of style, according to Mildred. For tonight's party, she was wearing a navy Lanvin gown that had made its debut more than a decade ago at the opening-night gala of the opera house in Lincoln. Similarly, her flawlessly made-up face, once as beautiful as Elizabeth's but grown soft and lined with middle age, owed its artifice to an earlier era. Her dark-red lipstick formed a little bow above the natural line of her lips, reminiscent of the actresses of the silver screen, and her eyebrows were plucked as thin as fingernail parings. Her marcelled coif, unchanged since her debutante days, hugged her head like an embossed silver helmet.

“Come, dear,” said Mildred, as though Elizabeth were the cause of the holdup. “I know Gertrude always says the party doesn't start until we get there, but even so, we don't want to be late.” Her gaze swept over Elizabeth once more as they headed out the door. “Do stand up straight, darling. You don't look nearly as pretty all slouched over like that. Remember, a woman's true beauty is in her carriage. How do you think Ingrid got that ring on her finger? It certainly wasn't because of her looks.”

Elizabeth was quick to jump to her friend's defense. “Ingrid's pretty in her own way.” Maybe not pretty in the way Mildred defined it, but she was so full of personality that you didn't notice her flaws.

“All I meant was you don't have to be beautiful to get a husband. Though, of course, it never hurts.” Mildred patted her daughter's cheek with a gloved hand. “Take you and Bob, for instance—”

“So you're saying Bob only loves me for my looks?” Elizabeth broke in before her mother could finish.

“Don't be silly, dear. He loves everything about you. But you have to admit a man like Bob could have any woman he wanted. You have to ask yourself, would he have been attracted to you to begin with if you hadn't been pretty?”

Her mother's words had the opposite of their intended effect: Instead of making Elizabeth feel beautiful and lucky to be so, they made her feel shallow and unworthy, the flirty-eyed temptress of AJ's caricature. But it was useless to argue—her mother always got the last word—so she said no more as they continued along the brick path to the driveway, where Mildred's car, a black Packard with whitewall tires, was parked. The sky was still light and the Olsens' house less than a five-minute walk away, but Mildred had insisted that they drive. Arriving at a party on foot, in her view, was strictly for the lower classes.

“You'll see when you're my age.” Mildred opened the driver's-side door and slid behind the wheel, easing her posterior in first before swinging her silk-stockinged legs around in a graceful little arc: a model of comportment, as always, even in the absence of onlookers. “You take it for granted when you're young, but it doesn't last forever. Enjoy your looks while you can.”

Minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the Olsens'. Ingrid's family home was also a Georgian Revival, only built on an even grander scale, with twice the number of bedrooms and a whole separate servants' wing instead of just one maid's room. Dirk Olsen owned stockyards which supplied half of the state's beef to retailers across the country, and Gertrude, the daughter of a Texas oil tycoon, was wealthy in her own right. Ingrid was the eldest of their three daughters, all with the same tomboy build and horsey features, which they'd inherited from their mother. “Not a beauty among them,” Mildred was fond of observing, which was just as well; otherwise she might not have been on such friendly terms with the Olsens. It was a point of pride for her that, though she wasn't in their league money-wise, her daughter outshone all three of the Olsen girls put together.

Ingrid rushed over to greet them the moment they walked in, dragging Elizabeth into a corner of the thronged foyer while Mildred stood chatting with Gertrude at the door. “You look positively
sinful
in that dress! You're easily the best-looking woman here,” Ingrid declared without a trace of envy. One reason she and Elizabeth were such close friends was because Ingrid didn't have a jealous bone in her body. Thanks to doting parents and now an adoring fiancé, she was confident in her lovability and saw no reason to wish for what she didn't have. She was one of the few among Elizabeth's female friends who were able to look beyond her surface beauty to appreciate her many good qualities.

Mildred wound her way over to the two friends as soon as another guest arrived to claim her hostess's attention. “There you are! I swear you girls are joined at the hip.” She cast her daughter an arch look before turning to give Ingrid a bright smile. “You look stunning, my dear. That dress suits you to a T!”

Ingrid smiled and gave a little twirl in her peach-colored gown. “It does, doesn't it? But that's only because Elizabeth helped me pick it out. You know me; I'm hopeless when it comes to fashion.”

Mildred brought her gaze back to Elizabeth, still smiling but more forcefully now, and suggested, “Dear, don't you think you ought to mingle? You mustn't keep the bride-to-be all to yourself.”

After she'd grandly sailed off, as if to set an example, Ingrid murmured teasingly to Elizabeth, “You don't have to do a thing but stay put. They'll come to you.” She gestured toward a group of young men, former classmates of theirs, who'd just arrived and were darting surreptitious looks their way.

“They don't appear to be in any rush,” Elizabeth observed with amusement.

Ingrid snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Elizabeth. “That's only because they know you're practically engaged,” she said. “But Bob's not here yet, so you're free to bat your eyes all you like. There'll be time enough to be dull and settled once you're married.” Ingrid's brown eyes twinkled. With her dark-blond hair in a smooth chignon, wearing the gown that indeed suited her angular frame, she looked prettier than Elizabeth had ever seen her.

But Ingrid's teasing remark about becoming dull and settled struck a sour note. Elizabeth had always envisioned marriage to Bob as being like the movies she'd seen in which married couples were either gay and glamorous or cozily romantic. She'd never imagined it as being anything like the marriages of her mother's friends. Now she looked around her at the older couples chatting among themselves, most of them staid and not at all romantic-seeming. Would she and Bob be like that someday, just another stout, silver-haired couple bragging to people at parties about the accomplishments of their children, more interested in the offerings of the buffet than any delights to be had later on in the bedroom? She felt a shiver go through her at the thought and quickly downed her champagne, grateful for the heady rush of warmth it brought.

Just then, as if on cue, she caught sight of Bob coming through the door with his parents, both as tall and well-built as their son. All thoughts of being dull and settled were instantly swept away by the sight of him. He was so full of life, so positively vibrant with it, that he radiated a kind of glow, as if he had more blood coursing through his veins than ordinary men. Even in his suit and tie, he looked as ruddy as if he'd just come off the playing field. She watched him pause to greet Mr. and Mrs. Olsen. After chatting with them just long enough to be polite, he excused himself, quickly cutting through the crowd to Elizabeth's side.

“Wow. I'm not sure I can trust the other fellows with you looking like that.” He gave her a long, admiring look before slipping an arm around her waist and leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. Her worries faded at once. Whether or not she was the prettiest woman at the party, she was certainly the most fortunate. “You look lovely, too,” Bob said, turning to Ingrid, the perfect gentleman as always. “Rosy as a bride, and it's not even your wedding day. I just hope Jeb—” Ingrid's fiancé, Jebediah Dejarnatte III—“knows what a lucky man he is.”

Ingrid's eyes glowed, and her cheeks went pink. Though a realist about her looks, she wasn't above being charmed by the flattery of a handsome man. “Speaking of my intended, I should go see if he's all right,” she told them. “Daddy probably has the poor boy cornered, talking the price of beef cattle and boring him stiff. Why don't you two lovebirds find a quiet spot where you can be by yourselves? I'm sure you have lots to talk about.” She shot Elizabeth a meaningful glance as she hurried off, and Elizabeth felt herself break out in a light sweat.

She and Bob made their way into the next room, into which most of the partygoers had drifted, pausing to exchange pleasantries with those they knew. Bob made sure to pay his respects to Elizabeth's mother, who beamed at him in approval, and not just because he was complimenting her on her dress. Never mind that his father was a midlevel engineer and his family lived in a house the size of the servants' wing at the Olsens'. As they stood chatting, Mildred basking in his reflected glow, even flirting a little, Bob might have been the heir to a throne. “That boy is going places,” she would always say in excusing the fact that he wasn't in their social class. “He'll make a fine husband.”