Five Brides (19 page)

“Since I’ve never been wined
and
dined before, you won’t have to try too hard,” she said, keeping her voice as sultry as she dared . . .

As always, she nearly left Henrietta in her dust. When their cab arrived in front of the hotel, she grabbed her overnight bag and skipped to the revolving door, pushing it with all her strength. When she entered the lobby, she turned right toward the concierge desk, expecting to see the man of her dreams standing behind it, waiting only for her. Instead, he was leaning intimately close to a tall brunette, who looked to be about the same age as she, dressed in a form-fitting cocktail dress.

Fury rose up in her like bile, but she squared her shoulders
and walked purposefully to the edge of the desk, placing her hand lightly upon it. “Hello, darling,” she cooed.

Frank turned, pinked, and then gathered himself and said, “Hello. Be right with you.” He continued then with his instructions to the hotel’s guest, who gave Inga a look of contempt. A look that said,
Who do you think you are?

Inga stepped away from the desk and joined Henrietta as she arrived. “It just dawned on me, Retta, that my future husband’s job requires him to talk to far too many beautiful women.”

Henrietta threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, bringing her twinkling eyes back to Inga’s. “He could say the same about your job, you know. Only, in your case, you spend too much time talking to good-looking passengers.”

The woman said thank you to Frank loudly enough to get her point across, then spun on her high heels and walked past Henrietta and Inga as though they weren’t there, her shoes tap-tapping on the polished tiles.

“Retta,” Inga said. “Go get our keys for us, will you?”

“Happy to.”

Inga turned her attention to Frank, cocking a brow as her coworker walked to the registration desk. “Well, well,” she said after she’d crossed the floor again to stand near him. “I suppose you have women all over you, all the time. I shouldn’t be so shocked.”

He winked. “You look delicious.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I look like I’ve been on a plane for the last several hours.”

“And powdered your nose in the cab.” His thick eyelashes cast a veil around his eyes as they traveled to the tip of her nose and lingered there. “I’d kiss you right now if my boss weren’t six feet away, watching me. Wondering who the leggy blonde is.” He smiled and she melted. “It’s my job, pet.”

Inga pouted once more for effect, mainly because she understood all too well. “What time should I meet you down here?”

“Seven.”

“And where are you taking me . . . so I know how to dress.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Well, that’s the thing. I couldn’t get a reservation on such short notice. Not in this town and not with a premiere tonight.” He must have read the anxiety building up in her. The disappointment. They couldn’t possibly spend their first Valentine’s Day sitting in some out-of-the-way café. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I have a plan. Dress casually.” He looked toward the revolving door. “And be sure to bring a sweater. Nights get chilly in the hills.”

Evelyn looked to the mirror’s reflection of Betty and Joan standing behind her. For over an hour, she’d stood there primping, fluffing, and puffing. Dreaming and hoping.

“You’ll answer the door, won’t you, Betty?”

Betty smiled back. “Absolutely. And I promise to be nice.”

“And Joanie,” Evelyn said while turning to face them, “you really think this dress is all right?” She ran her fingertips over tiny freshwater pearls and rhinestones encrusted along the V-neck and bodice of the seafoam-green gown, then adjusted the full, floor-length skirt. “The color, I mean? And me in it?”

Joan laughed. “Don’t worry, Evelyn. Betty wouldn’t steer you wrong. After all, she suggested Bobby for your do-over and, my gracious, just
look at you
.”

Betty picked up a pair of opera-length gloves from the dresser. “Enough of that. Final touch.” She handed the seafoam gloves to her. “And I promise you, Evelyn, George never saw me in this gown. Not once.”

Evelyn took the gloves, turning again to the mirror. She blinked behind the glasses she now wished she didn’t need. Leaning over, she inspected the dark kohl outlining her eyes, the sweep of her
lashes, and the arch of each perfectly tweezed brow. Her cheeks blushed pink and her lips looked almost pouty beneath dark-red lipstick as she tried to prevent herself from nibbling the bottom corner. “All right, then,” she said with a rumbling sigh. “I guess I’m ready for when George—”

The knock on the apartment door caused her to suck in her breath with such velocity she nearly choked. Joan and Betty giggled.

“Betty,” Evelyn gasped, shoving her hands into the gloves.

Betty waved a hand at her. “Remember, Evelyn. A lady never panics.”

“Then I’m not much of a lady, am I?”

Another knock on the door and Betty said, “I’m going. I’m going.”

Joan picked up the tiny perfume bottle Betty had brought in earlier and, with her fingertip, dabbed droplets behind Evelyn’s ear, at her temples, and along the length of her throat. “You now smell as wonderful as you look.”

Hearing George and Betty’s muffled exchange, Evelyn gave a final tug of the gloves. “I’m nervous as a cat.”

“Go have fun,” Joan said, pressing their cheeks together.

Evelyn lifted her skirt like she’d rehearsed a dozen times already only to take shaky steps to the door. She looked over her shoulder.
“These heels.”

Joan smiled. “Square your shoulders the way Betty showed you . . . There you go. Now, walk.”

Evelyn turned the corner and stepped down the hall, waiting for the moment George saw her. She’d imagined it for days. The look in his eyes. The slight upturn of his mouth as he tried not to gape. She’d dreamed it over and over, reveling in her own imagination.

When she turned the corner she received all she’d hoped for. “Evelyn,” he breathed.

Her eyes went to Betty, who smiled and nodded, then back to George. “Good evening, George.”

“I—uh—I have . . .” He extended a small white box. “This is for you,” he said, then blew a breath from his lungs and collected himself. “Your corsage.”

Betty took a step back so that she stood behind George. She pointed to her wrist, then to him.

Evelyn understood. “Would you put it on for me, please?”

“I’m happy to.” He removed the bunch of tiny pink carnations from its package and slipped it over her wrist. He handed the empty box to Betty, mumbling something Evelyn couldn’t understand. When he turned back, he ran a hand down the front of his tuxedo, then extended his arm. “Shall we?”

Evelyn slipped her hand into the warm place between his arm and his heartbeat. “We shall,” she said, smiling up at him. Then, looking over her shoulder to Betty and Joan, she whispered, “See you later.”

Joan closed the door behind Evelyn and George, waiting until she heard the outside door open and close before turning to look at Betty, who stood grim-faced, holding the empty white box.

Joan leaned against the door and crossed her arms. “If he hurts her, Betts, I’ll—”

“You don’t have to say another word.” Betty walked to the window, lifted the hem of the ruffled Dutch curtains, and peered beyond the frosty glass to the snow-lined sidewalk and street.

Joan crossed the room. “What did George say to you? Just then, when he turned his back?”

Betty flattened the box so it became only a sheet of white cardboard. “He said, ‘This has
you
written all over it.’”

“What does that mean? Is he playing her?”

“Like a fiddle.”

“Betty,” Joan groaned past the anger building inside. “Are you sure?”

“I couldn’t be more sure.” She cut her eyes to Joan, who read the absolute certainty within them. “We’ll never convince Evelyn, though.”

Joan took the disassembled box from Betty and folded it in two, preparing it for the trash. “What do we do then?”

“Only one thing to do, Joan—give Evelyn all the skills she needs to overcome that rascal. Because when this whole thing comes crashing down on her, she’s going to need all that and then some.”

Magda didn’t care that Harlan Procter’s idea of a date on Valentine’s Day was to go to the same club they always went to. It only mildly bothered her that he seemed more interested in talking about point of view than listening to the sultry music coming from the stage. And she tried not to think about the fact that while couples swayed on the dance floor, woven so tightly together they appeared to be one, she and Harlan sat two feet apart having what amounted to a business meeting.

But what had her nearly beside herself was the realization that this—whatever she and Harlan had together—wasn’t enough. She wanted Harlan, yes, but she also wanted more than coffee and shoptalk. More than hearing his voice reading her own written words out loud so she could hear the “inflection of voice.” She wanted . . .

“You have this scene in the point of view of the weaker character,” Harlan said, pointing to the paper resting between them on the table.

“Hmm?” Magda tore her eyes away from his face to the page.

“Are you even listening to what I’m trying to tell you, Magda?”

“It’s not easy, Harlan,” she said, glancing at the woman standing behind a microphone. The now-familiar singer cupped her hands around the mic’s chrome head as she purred “Tennessee Waltz.”

“I suppose you are one of those romantics who wants to sit and listen to every ballad of perfect love on Valentine’s Day.” He leaned into the booth’s back and reached for his coffee.

Magda rested her left shoulder against the tufted, velvety cushion. “Not really.
I’m
not one of those girls who thinks life is a movie script.” She smiled, hoping to draw the same from him.

It didn’t work.

“What makes you so sure you’re not?” he probed.

She thought before answering, knowing him well enough by now to realize he was trying to bait her to dig deeper into herself. “My sister, Inga . . . She’s the romantic. I look at her and then at myself and see such a difference.”

Harlan pulled a Pall Mall pack from the inside pocket of his jacket. He popped the bottom, sending one cigarette straight out. She watched him, frowning. Even though smoke hung like a cloud in every office and restaurant in the city, she’d never much cared for the odor. Harlan had told her if she wanted to be a real writer she needed to do three things: write, smoke cigarettes, and drink coffee.

Magda told him she’d stick to numbers one and three and leave number two to more sophisticated writers. He’d only laughed at her.

“What other differences do you see? Between your sister and yourself?” he asked after blowing out the first intake of smoke.

“She’s beautiful. She’s—”

“Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself say that, Magda?” His eyes held something akin to anger. Or maybe frustration.

“Saying what?”

“That your sister is beautiful and you are somehow insufficient in that department.”

She shook her head slowly, calculating her answer. “I suppose . . . I suppose I just don’t like living in her shadow.”

Harlan blew smoke from between his lips before returning the cigarette to the ashtray. “Then don’t,” he stated simply. Before she had time to ask how she should accomplish that, he cupped the back of her head with his left hand, lacing his fingertips between the strands of her hair and drawing her lips to his.