Five Brides (16 page)

Her head felt fuzzy, her thoughts scrambled. She walked to the
train by instinct, but as she neared one of the restaurants along the way and the aroma of cooked food reached her, she felt her legs buckle. The semidarkness of the evening became a blanket, growing heavier as her body crumpled to the sidewalk.

Joan awoke in the sterile environment of a hospital, still dressed in her clothes but covered with a crisp white sheet. The room was cold, permeated with the smell of alcohol and Betadine, and the light over the bed shone bright. Too bright.

“Hallo?” she called out.

A nurse padded into the room almost immediately. “Ah. Good. Let me get the doctor,” she said as soon as she stepped over the threshold. “Please lie still.”

Joan complied, waiting only a few moments before a doctor—middle-aged, balding, and wearing half-glasses low on his nose—stood over her. “Hello,” he said, gripping a metal chart cover and flipping the top. “I’m Dr. Kauffman.”

At the risk of sounding cliché, she asked, “Where am I?”

“Do you know what happened to you?” he asked, without answering her question.

“Well, I assume I passed out.”

“Do you know your name?”

“Of course I know my name.” What kind of fool question was that? “Joan. Joan Hunt.”

“Miss Hunt? Mrs.?”

“Miss.”

“I see.” He jotted a few notes in the chart. “
Miss
Hunt, is it possible you are pregnant? Are you with child?”

Joan’s head jerked toward him. The way he towered over her was reminiscent of Father O’Malley when he’d caught Joan and
her sister running through the halls at school, which was strictly forbidden. “I don’t believe so,” she answered. “Not unless, that is, Jesus is coming the second time in the same way he did the first.”

The doctor peered over his glasses. He forced a smile as her stomach growled again. “Miss Hunt, tell me; when was the last time you ate?”

She laid her hand over her stomach. “I had a pastry for breakfast.”

“And before that?”

“Lunch, I think. Yesterday.”

The doctor closed the chart. “Is there a reason you have not eaten in so long?”

Joan explained about her work. Her family back in England. He shook his head, turned toward the door, and called out, “Nurse James?”

The nurse who had gotten the doctor stood at the doorway. “Yes, Doctor?”

“Get Miss Hunt some food, would you? There’s nothing wrong with this girl.” He winked, genuine and fatherly. “She’s just overworked and underfed.”

Joan called home as soon as she was allowed, thankful that Betty was the one to hear the phone in the hall and answer. “You have to eat, Joan,” she admonished after Joan recounted the details.

“I know,” she said. “They brought me a hot meal.”

“I don’t mean just tonight.”

“Yes, of course. I know. I will.”

“And maybe you need to not work so many jobs.”

“I’ve already thought about it, Betts. I’m going to look for another job. One that pays more than Hertz. Enough so that I can make in one job what I’m making in three or four.”

Her comment was met with silence. “You’ll leave Hertz?”

“If need be. For now, I’ll drop the Manpower job and ask to not work
every
night at David & DuRand.”

“When do you think you will be home?”

“In the morning,” Joan said. “The doctor wants me to stay overnight. I’ll be at work, though, first thing.”

Betty paused. “Get a good night’s rest, Joan. I’ll let Evelyn know you won’t be home tonight, and we’ll explain to Mr. Ferguson tomorrow if it turns out you’re late.”

“Evelyn made it home all right then?”

“Yes.”

Joan felt more than heard the tension. “Don’t be mad at her, Betts. She’s never known anyone like George. She’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“It’s not that.”

“What then?”

Betty paused again before answering. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with tonight. Now be a good girl and get some sleep.”

Joan giggled. “Yes, Mummy.”

Harlan Procter was everything and more that Magda had dreamed a writer—a real writer—could be.
Should
be. Dark. Moody. Mysterious. Wonderfully brilliant and authoritative. In an underground café she’d never be able to find in the light of day, he’d ordered for them like she’d seen men do for their dates in the movies.

What few movies she’d seen, anyway.

They sat in a corner booth, where the flicker of a candle jammed into a squatty wax-dripped wine bottle provided scant light. Harlan did most of the talking. Mostly about himself. Although, if Magda really thought about it, he’d revealed little. With the meal complete and nothing left but two half-consumed
demitasse cups of coffee before them, Magda offered him a notebook filled with her writings.

He held it on the other side of the candle, his eyes shooting back and forth like a tennis ball at Wimbledon. Magda remained quiet, keeping her eyes on him and her ears tuned to a woman standing next to a grand piano at the front of the restaurant. Her sultry voice crooned “I Only Have Eyes For You.”

When Harlan finished scanning several pages, he closed the notebook and handed it back to her with a slight smile. Try hard as she could, there was no reading the expression, so she waited.

Finally, “What are your thoughts, Magda? What are your dreams? Your aspirations?”

“To write books like Madeleine L’Engle.” She leaned forward. “Have you read any of her work?”

Harlan stared as though he’d gone into a catatonic state. Then, “No. Tell me about her.”

“She’s only written a few titles, but . . . I think she’s marvelous. She’ll be a household name one day.”

He rested his elbow on the small, linen-draped table, and his chin on the pad of his palm. “Is that what you desire? To be a household name?”

She felt herself blush, her cheeks grow warm. “Is that wrong? To want to be more than just an average writer or . . . or a secretary at a publishing company?”

He laughed. “Not at all.” He tapped the notebook between them with his middle finger. “Your characters are one-dimensional. You’ve not gotten to know them well enough for them to be fleshed out properly.”

She shifted, turning fully toward him. “Tell me what to do. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

His hand, the one he wasn’t using to prop up his head, came
up suddenly, brushing the hair away from her face. He studied her, the contours of her face and, tilting her head back, the length of her throat. “You’re very pretty; did you know that?”

Magda pulled away and looked to the stage. To the piano player and the singer who now sang Doris Day’s “It’s Magic.” “My sister . . . Inga . . . She’s the pretty one.”

His fingertips caught her chin and turned her face back to his. The candlelight cast new shadows, giving him a softer look and a harder appearance, all at once. Magda exhaled sharply. She wanted to run.

And she wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and beg him to teach her. To hold on tight and plead with him to make her the most remarkable writer of all time.

But before she could do either, his fingertips became a memory and he said, “Write in your notebook a letter that your character—your Jenny—might write to her sainted mother. Then another that she would write to her father, who left the family when she was only three to marry this other woman, this . . . Constance. Then to the man she loves, but who doesn’t know the depth of her true feelings. Her fears of losing him as she lost her father.” He paused. “Do that and we’ll have dinner again so I may check on your progress.”

The thumping of her heart began again and she wondered if he could hear it as well. She barely managed to push out, “When?”

“Let’s see,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Tonight is Wednesday. I’d say Saturday evening should give you enough time.”

Saturday?
She’d have to endure three days before she saw him again?

“I can do that,” she said.

“Good. I don’t have to tell you, do I, that our meetings should not be shared with Barry?”

“Of course not.”

On Friday afternoon, Inga wearily slipped her key into the apartment door’s keyhole and turned it. Before she could push the door, it opened from the other side.

“Magda,” she said, reaching for the cosmetics case she’d set next to her feet. “What are you doing home from work so early?”

“Come in,” she said, her face grim. After she shut the door behind her sister, Magda turned and clasped her hands together. “Our mother and father are here.”

“Mor and Far?
Here?
” She looked around the tiny living room, then peered into the kitchen.

“Not
here
,” Magda clarified, her voice a panicked whisper. “At Uncle Casper’s and Aunt Greta’s.”

Inga handed the smaller of her two cases to her sister. “Here. Help me take this into my room.” She started down the hall with Magda behind her.

“They called me at work, Inga.
At work.
Fortunately, Mr. Cole goes easy on these sorts of things. They—”

Inga opened the door to the bedroom she shared with Betty. Together they dropped the luggage onto the bed, which squeaked in protest. “They what?”

“They want us to have dinner with them tonight.”

Inga pulled the regulation cap from her head and kicked off
her shoes. “Tonight?” She placed the hat on the dresser, pulled off her gloves, and unbuttoned her uniform jacket. “I’m exhausted. Why not tomorrow night?”

“No.” Magda grabbed her sister’s hands. “Tomorrow night, I’m going out to dinner with Harlan.”

“Who or what is a Harlan?” She stepped out of her skirt, tossing both the jacket and the skirt over the back of a chair before unbuttoning her blouse.

“Harlan Procter, Inga.”

Inga stopped in the unbuttoning and smiled. “Well, don’t be so frustrated. A man, Magda?”

Her sister crossed her arms and huffed. “Yes, a man.” She stared at Inga for a moment before the arms dropped and she collapsed onto the bed, grasping the wrought-iron footboard. “But more than a man. He’s a
brilliant
writer.”

Inga stood in her slip and nylons and giggled. “Oh, Magda.” She sat in the chair, crossed her legs, and worked one stocking down her leg, then the other. “Can’t you find a man who is just . . .
a man
?”

“That’s not very nice.”

Inga looked up. Magda wore her temper as she always did—red hot and between her ears. She laughed again.

Magda stood. “We’re having dinner with Mor and Far tonight at Uncle Casper’s. Take a bath and get dressed.” She crossed the room to the door. “We need to leave in an hour. I’ll meet you in the living room.” With that, she slammed out.

Inga stared after her for nearly a full minute before laughter overtook her.