Five Brides (11 page)

“Evelyn,” Joan whispered. “What—”

“Close the door,” Evelyn whispered back.

Joan did, then walked to the bed and sat on her side, looking at Evelyn over her shoulder. “Are you okay? Is it your mum?” She eased her shoes to the floor.

Evelyn shook her head. “No. Not my mama. And it’s not my daddy or my brother. It’s Betty.” She hiccupped softly. “She’s so mad at me . . .” The gentle flow of tears became a silent flood.

Joan scooted closer. “Betty? No. Betty doesn’t get angry.”

“You don’t know,” Evelyn said. “You weren’t here.” She looked at her accusingly. “You’re
never
here.”

Joan sighed. As much as she hated leaving Evelyn alone so often, she knew she’d hate even more telling her she’d just taken another job at the Museum of Science and Industry. Saturdays only—and only for a few hours—but . . . “Tell me what happened.”

“George came over, before dinner.”

“George? Who is George?” Joan opened her purse and pulled out a handkerchief, then handed it to Evelyn.

“They’re old friends. He said so.”

“When? When did he say so?”

“At dinner.”

“He came for dinner?”

Again, Evelyn shook her head. “No, no,” she said, her voice continuing to whisper. “He came to see Betty—to take
her
out to dinner—but she wouldn’t go with him. So he asked me if I would like to go and . . .” She drew in a shaky breath as she pressed her hand against her chest. “I’ve never seen a man so good-looking, Joanie. He’s like one of those men you see in the movies.”

“And he’s Betty’s friend? And you went out with him?” Joan tried to remember if Betty had ever mentioned a George. Or even a boyfriend. None came to mind. Then again, she was tired and hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch.

“Only to dinner.” Evelyn blew her nose into the handkerchief before handing it back to Joan.

Joan waved it away. “Keep it.”

“He’s asked me out again, Joan.”

Evelyn’s face glowed and, Joan determined, not from tear tracks. “He has?”

“For Friday night. He’s really nice and I said yes because . . . Oh, Joanie, no one who looks like George Volbrecht has
ever
asked me out on a date, much less two of them.”

Joan patted Evelyn’s hand. “I see. What happened when you told Betty?”

“She started huffing around, telling me that George Volbrecht is a cad. A womanizer. That he was up to something and she’d get to the bottom of it, no matter what. The worst of it is that George wanted me to tell her that her father is issuing some kind
of ultimatum—I don’t know over what—and that he’s cutting off her allowance.”

“Her allowance?” Joan had no idea Betty received an allowance. Here Joan worked two-soon-to-be-three jobs to help her family, and Betty’s income had been supplemented by her father? “Did you then? Did you let her know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The tears began again. “With all the huffing going on, I’m afraid I just forgot.”

Betty stood rather than sat across from George’s expansive oak desk. “George Volbrecht, what are you up to? And don’t tell me nothing,” she said, shoving her fists into her sides, which caused the coat she refused to remove to bunch up. “Because I know you, and you’re most definitely up to something.”

George swiveled in the tufted leather chair, his elbows resting on the arms, a pencil twirling between his index fingers.“What makes you think I’m up to anything?” The swiveling stopped. “You’re the one, Betts. You’re the one playing games.”

Betty turned and paced the finely decorated room with its rows of built-in shelves lined with volumes of law books, exquisite reproductions of Renoir paintings—
Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette
,
The Theatre Box
, and
Two Sisters
—the expensive, dark furniture. When she had collected her thoughts, she stopped and said, “George, if you have a shred of decency in you, you’ll listen to me. That girl you took out last night—”

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice like the snow-white pappus of a dandelion, caught up by a breeze. “Lovely name—Evelyn.”

Betty felt her spine tingle. “
Evelyn
is an innocent girl from a small town in Georgia. She’s a farmer’s daughter—”

“I know. She told me.” George dropped the pencil onto his
desk and sat straight. “What are you trying to say, Betty? You don’t want to marry me but you want me to take on the role of a priest? Am I never to marry then?”

Betty knew she had to take a better tack. She walked around the chair where earlier she’d deposited her handbag and sank slowly into its soft leather. “George,” she said, leaning over and resting her forearm against her crossed knee. “You are
not
interested in marrying someone like Evelyn Alexander.”

His eyes met hers. “I find her charming.”

“And what do you think will happen here? You’ll take her home to meet your parents on Christmas Day? Your mother will eat her for lunch and spit out the seeds.”

George stood, came around to the front of his desk, and took Betty by the hand, helping her to stand. “Come this way, Betty,” he said, reaching for her purse and leading her to the paneled door.

Betty slipped her hand from his, which only resulted in his placing the hand at the small of her back, which arched under his touch.

When they’d made it to the door, he turned her around, slid her purse over her wrist, and cupped both hands under her elbows. “Listen to me, Betts. I get it.
You
don’t want to marry me. Although
why not
I can’t comprehend.
No one
can.”

Betty searched his face, remembering the years they’d played together as children. The talks they’d had under the canopy of low tree branches in her backyard as they’d neared adolescence. She’d told him everything. Trusted him with all her secrets, as he trusted her with his. But then . . . puberty hit and he had gone from a cute little boy to an entirely too good-looking young man. A fact neither he nor any girl in their school had missed. His attentions, however, had always stayed on her. Maybe, Betty surmised, he
did
love her. Or at least he thought he did, or did as
much as he was capable. And maybe he saw their marriage as the perfect union between their families—as did their parents. But she knew his faithfulness wouldn’t last a year. Six months, tops. George Volbrecht needed beautiful women like every other human needed air.

And love.

Real love. That’s what she wanted.
Needed.
A man who adored her
not
for her father’s social status and business position, but for herself. A strong woman. Independent.
Somewhat
independent. But a woman who knew her own mind and what she wanted. Superficiality had no place in her life. She wanted the real deal.

She released a sigh. “George.” She rested her hands on the hard muscles of his upper arms. “George, if you are playing some kind of game . . .”

His eyes stayed on hers. “I’m not. She’s a sweet kid and I’m really hoping to get to know her better.”

“A kid. She’s a full-grown woman, George. With feelings. And dreams.” She applied pressure to his muscles with her thumbs and felt them flex beneath her fingertips. “If you hurt her, I am telling you now, I’ll call her daddy,” she said, accentuating the words in her best Blanche DuBois voice, “and I’ll tell him to load his gun full of buckshot and run you from one end of this city to the other.”

George chuckled. “Cute.” He turned her as he opened the door. “By the way, did Evelyn tell you what I told her to tell you?”

Betty paused, unsure, not wanting to admit she’d spent more time stomping around the apartment than speaking to Evelyn after she’d returned home. “Of course she did. We’re roommates, after all.”

George’s brow shot up. “And you’re okay with it, still? Not changing your mind?”

Changing her mind could only mean one thing. “I’m not marrying you, George Volbrecht. Get that through your head.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, I have to go. I told Mr. Ferguson I’d be late, but I didn’t count on
this
late.” With that, she walked past George’s entirely too-gorgeous secretary, whose eyes she felt following her. With all the dignity she’d learned in charm school, she stepped into the hall, closing the outer door behind her. There she quickly removed her gloves from her purse and shoved her fingers into them as she approached the elevator. When its doors finally opened, she stepped in and turned. Only then did she realize George had followed her halfway and that he now stood in the office doorway, watching her every move.

Inga could barely keep her mind on her work as the plane careened across the clear blue December sky toward Chicago. She stood at her station in the back galley, getting trays of food together for the passengers in her rows, watching her hands do their job automatically. But her thoughts were elsewhere. They lingered in the restaurant where she and Frank had eaten the night before. Eaten and talked . . . and talked and kissed . . . until the candles were all blown out and the management begged them to leave.

“Young lovers,” the manager had said as he opened the door for their exit. “Such a nice thing to see, but I have my own love to go home to tonight.” Then he chuckled, and they’d laughed with him.

They walked together back to the hotel, their arms linked around each other’s waists, holding one another close, commenting on the Christmas lights twinkling from lampposts. They both agreed that cold weather around the holidays made the season seem more festive, but they weren’t complaining either.

When they neared the hotel, Frank had scooted her into an alley where he’d been so ardent and yet so tender that she’d thought her knees would buckle had he not held her so tightly against him.

When he finally released her, he whispered in her ear. “I can’t believe we’ve just met and you have to leave tomorrow.”

The warmth of his breath sent chills down her spine and she shuddered as she promised, “But we’ll be back. Soon. We don’t always stay overnight, but sometimes we stay for longer than a day.” She buried her face in his neck, breathed in his scent, setting it to memory. “I’ll call you.” She planted her lips against the most tender spot on his throat, then broke away and dashed into the hotel lobby as quickly as she could.

“Bet I know what you’re daydreaming about,” Henrietta now said, coming up beside her.

Inga felt the temperature rise in her cheeks. “What makes you think I’m daydreaming?”

Henrietta pointed to one of the trays. “You just put two desserts on this tray and two breads on another one.”

Inga laughed, correcting her error. “Oh, Retta. He’s so amazing.” She looked into the face of the auburn-haired beauty. “Did I mention that already?”

“About ten times after you came in and woke me so I could watch you gush all night. It’s a miracle I’m standing upright at all, I’m so tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t,” Henrietta teased. “And I’m not sorry either.” She studied Inga’s face. “By golly, he’s put more pink in those cheeks than God already blessed you with.” She glanced up the aisle. “Now, you’d better put Mr. Hollywood on a back burner before Mrs. Bricker comes back here and finds you mixing up the meal orders.”

Inga nodded. “Thanks, Retta. You’re a true friend.”