Five Brides (20 page)

They were soft. Tender. Almost caring, she thought. Magda tilted her head, laying it against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of aftershave and old smoke. She moaned, or at least imagined she did. Women being kissed for the first time by a man of such literary intrigue
should
moan, she decided. So she moaned again, in case she had only dreamed the first one.

When he released her, she looked at him through her lashes, studying his eyes, hoping to find something there. Something like love. Or adoration. Or . . .
something
.

But he only seemed to study her in return. “That was nice,” he said. Then, after looking out on the dance floor, he asked, “So what do you think? Would it make you happy if I asked you to dance, Magda?”

As much as Evelyn had dreamed of George Volbrecht taking her into his arms and kissing her for the first time, nothing compared to the intensity of the actual moment. Hank Shute, in all
his countrified sweetness and with all the kisses he’d bestowed on her, had an awful lot to learn from this city boy. “George,” she whispered, her body wanting nothing more than to drop like a noodle at his feet.

He kissed her again, this time quickly. A peck, the way her mother kissed her father before he walked out to work the farm and when he returned at the end of the day. Not that she minded the brevity. Kissing George Volbrecht, no matter how ordinary or passionate, had just become the best part of her life. One day she’d tell her daughters—hers and George’s—about the great and magical love their parents shared. Maybe even their granddaughters. “The night your grandfather kissed me for the first time . . . ,” she’d begin.

George slipped her glasses back onto her face. “Now all we have to do, Evelyn, is take care of these—” he kissed her again, gently—“for more of these.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tell me,” he said, extending a hand for her key. “How do you really think Betty is doing with all this?”

Evelyn dug into her clutch until her fingertips found the key. She handed it to George before answering, “I think she’s happy for us. Betty is one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known. She seems intent on making sure other people are blessed, rather than herself.”

“Blessed . . . ,” George repeated as he inserted the key without turning the lock. “Where did you come up with that word?”

“
Blessed
is an important word in my vocabulary, George,” she whispered, unsure as to whether one of her roommates might be close to the other side of the door. “I would think it would be in yours as well.”

George leaned against the doorframe. “In what way? In what way is it important to you?”

“I think . . . ,” she began, closing the clutch fully and staring at its shiny handle, “I think that . . .” Evelyn’s eyes found his. “I’m more than just a person who goes to church every Sunday, George. I love God. I believe in him. In what my faith stands for. I think . . .” She drew in another shaky breath, struggling to find the right words. “I think God has
blessed
me, first with having Joan as a pen pal, then with meeting her here in Chicago. Because of that I met Betty and because of meeting Betty, I’m now standing in front of my door with you.”

“Is that what you
think
? Or is that what you
know
?”

Evelyn raised her chin to the question. “Is there a difference?”

George crossed his arms and sighed. “Yes, there is. If I tell you I
think
the sun will rise in the east tomorrow, you
assume
I know what I’m talking about. But if I tell you that I
know
the sun will rise in the east tomorrow, I have then spoken with authority. You can take my words to the bank, so to speak.”

He reached over and turned the key. The lock clicked open, telling Evelyn their date—their magical, wonderful date—had come to an end. George pressed his lips to hers again, whispered, “Good night,” and stepped away. “I’ll call you soon. Sleep tight.”

Los Angeles sparkled like a million diamonds under a bright light.

Frank wrapped his arms around Inga from their place on the blanket he’d laid earlier. She leaned against him and he kissed the lobe of her ear, then twirled the bracelet he’d gifted her with—a simple strand of pearls that shone in the moonlight. “You really like?” he asked.

“They’re exquisite.”

He nuzzled her neck, sending shivers up her spine and down her arms.

She allowed a light moan to escape, then said, “You were so right . . .”

“About the bracelet?”

“No, silly,” she said with a giggle. “About coming
here
. No city restaurant could compare to this.”

“I’m always right,” he teased. “There’s nothing like looking down over Los Angeles at night.”

She turned enough to kiss him, then shifted again to face the glory of the sparkling landscape laid out beneath them.

“Every time I’m up here,” he said, “I can’t help but wonder what stories lie within each of those lights.”

“Now you sound like my sister.”

He squeezed her. “Maybe I’m out with the wrong sister, then.”

Inga pinched his arm and he pretended injury. She took in a breath of satisfaction in their evening, thinking she couldn’t wait to share the details with Retta. To tell her of driving up to the hills, of finding the perfect out-of-the-way spot, of laying the blanket on the ground near the car and then eating a picnic dinner with a man so utterly romantic she thought her head would spin off just being near him. She’d tell her how the car’s radio played one love song after the other and how Frank had sung along with several of them, as though they’d been written for her alone.

He squeezed her again and she snuggled deeper into his arms, feeling their warmth against the chill of the night.

Then it hit her. She pulled herself free of him and shifted until she rested on her knees, facing him. “And just how many times
have
you been up here?”

He chuckled. “A few.”

Inga crossed her arms. “With whom, might I ask?”

Frank didn’t answer right away. Instead he pulled her closer until they stretched out side by side on the blanket with only black
sky and brilliant stars to cover them. “No one you should worry about,” he spoke against her lips. “Right here, right now, there is only you and me.”

Inga allowed the kiss to take over, to melt her like butter on a hot plate, and to turn her mind into mush. Frank eased her onto her back, looming over her. “I want to love you,” he said.

Tiny moments passed before Inga understood what he’d said, the words playing like a song inside her. Here she was, exactly where she wanted to be, looking into the eyes of the man she planned to spend the rest of her life with. What could be more natural? What could be more right?

She opened her mouth to say yes. To give him permission to take all of her love and to give all of his in return. But as she did, her mother’s teachings on virtue and purity rose from somewhere deep inside, and became louder than the music from the car radio.

Her muscles tightened at the cacophony. At the dream of one and the logic of the other. She’d hate herself in the morning, she knew. She’d hate herself and Frank, too. But breaking the magic would be so difficult . . .

Inga moved out from under him and sat up straight. “Frank,” she said, keeping her voice as firm as she could against its quiver. “I think it’s time to take me back now.”

A Saturday morning in March broke with a cool breeze passing through the open window and beyond the draperies of the bedroom. The wafting air tickled Joan awake, inviting her to rise early and start the day.

After a stretch, Evelyn turned and asked, “Do you work at the museum today, Joanie?”

Joan shook her head and sat upright, slipping her feet into her house slippers before reaching for her robe. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, Evelyn,” she said, shoving her arms into her robe, “I’m looking for one job that will pay enough to help eliminate working so
many
jobs.”

Evelyn reached for her glasses on the bedside table. “Do you ever . . .” She adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Do you ever
think
about anything more than working?”

Joan shrugged. “I enjoy working. Prefer it, really, to parties or sitting around doing nothing.”

“But what about finding someone special? I have George, and Magda has Harlan, and Inga has someone out in California.” She shrugged. “I worry about you and Betty.”

“Worry about us?” Joan stood and grinned at her friend. “Don’t be silly. Finding a man is low on my list, Evelyn.”

“But if you found the
right
man—you know, one with lots of money—you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Joan sighed. Sometimes when she looked into the eyes of someone like Evelyn, it felt as if a needle had screeched across the record of her life, reminding her how truly different she was from most every other single woman. Like an alien in a foreign land of hopeful brides-to-be, Joan saw “once upon a time” and “happily ever after” through a different lens.

“Trust me, Evelyn. If I found the most wonderful man in the world and he came with more money than Rockefeller, I’d still want to work.” She pointed to the closed bedroom door. “Let’s make some coffee and see what’s what for breakfast. I’m starving.”

They made their way down the hall, where the aroma of brewed coffee met them, and into the kitchen to see their other roommates gathered around the table.

“Well, this is highly unusual,” Joan said.

Betty smiled at her. “I was just saying the same thing. And that
someone
should go get some pastries from the bakery.”

“I’ll go,” Evelyn said. “Give me a few secs to get dressed.”

Minutes later, as Joan sipped on a cup of coffee with the others, Evelyn returned from her room wearing a blue-and-white gingham blouse with pedal pushers, a pair of sneakers, and a scarf tied around her hair. “I won’t be long.”

“I almost can’t believe this,” Joan said, when Evelyn had returned with a box of delectable treats. “Both sisters. Betty. Evelyn. And me. Sipping coffee and nibbling on warm delights. All of us here together.” Joan set her cup on its saucer. “We should
do
something. Together.”

Magda leaned her elbows on the table. “A movie perhaps?”

Inga glared at her sister. “Do you have a fever or something? I’ve never known you to want to go to a movie.”

Magda frowned across the table. “I like a good movie every now and then. It’s story.”

Inga, her blonde hair already styled and her face put together, shrugged. “I only thought that, knowing you, you’d want to lie in bed and read all day.”

Betty chuckled. “You two really don’t know much about each other at all, do you?” She raised a hand. “Don’t bother answering. Tell you what—I’ll run over to Mrs. Cline’s next door and borrow her newspaper. See what’s playing for the matinee.”

“Mrs. Cline?” Magda asked. “Since when is Mrs. Cline ever up at this hour?”

Betty winked. “She won’t be. I’ll simply borrow the paper and we’ll have it back before she stumbles out of bed.”

They all laughed her on her way.