Five Brides (23 page)

“Leigh, Lancashire.”

“Quite interesting, when you think about it, isn’t it? Did you all know one another before—?”

Joan plucked at the fabric of the skirt, making it fuller. “No. Not really.” She looked again at her reflection. She’d always been so practical, never dreaming of wearing such a dress as this. No doubt she’d marry in a suit, more like the one hanging in her dressing room. Nothing like this. Nothing so—

“Let’s get you out to the others,” Mrs. Marchman said with a sweep of her hand. “And then get you back in here to re-dress.”

“I daresay,” Joan admitted, stepping to the floor, “that you’ve had your fill of us.”

Mrs. Marchman stopped short. “Obviously, there won’t be any commission made off of this past hour and a half, but I do admit it’s been rather charming watching the five of you.”

Charming?
Yes. Charming to watch. But more than that, the afternoon’s adventure had been great fun and a wonderful diversion from what Joan usually did on a Saturday.

By the time Joan re-dressed and joined the others, a strange buzz vibrated between her flatmates. Hearing her, they turned. Evelyn pressed her lips together while Betty grinned like a cat. Magda linked the fingers of both hands, holding them up as though saying her prayers. Inga sat off to one side, legs crossed, the top one swinging lightly.

“What?” Joan asked. “What’s going on?”

Betty took her hand and pulled her to one of the settees. “Joan . . .”

“Oh, dear . . .”

“Here’s what we’re thinking . . .”

“Please say yes, Joanie,” Evelyn interrupted, sitting on the other side of her while Magda squatted in front of them.

Looking over to her sister, Magda said, “Inga?”

Inga raised her hands, palms upward. “I’m right here. I can hear every word.” She shrugged. “Besides, I already said I’m in.”

Joan looked from one anxious face to another. “In what?”

“Did you like the dress, Joan?” Magda interjected. “The wedding gown?”

“Wearing it was . . .
amazing
, really. Quite honestly, if I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror, I’m not so sure I’d have recognized the little girl from Leigh.”

Betty cut her eyes toward Inga, then back to Joan. “That dress,” Betty whispered, “is three hundred dollars.”

“Three hundred . . .”
A near fortune.

“But,” Evelyn said, now standing.

“But . . . ,” Betty chimed in quickly, waving Evelyn back to her seat, “if we were to each put in sixty . . .”

“Sixty?”

“Quite inexpensive when you think about the cost of a wedding gown.
Any
gown.”

“But for what possible
purpose
?”

“For our weddings,” Betty said. “The deal is that we
all
wear the dress.”

Evelyn quivered. “Betty has it all figured out.”

Joan looked at the woman she’d known nearly since her first day in the States. Betty smiled slowly, as though she were about to give away the map to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s secret garden.

Mrs. Marchman exited the dressing room, the dress now draped from its original hanger and ready to be returned to a rack
of exclusivity. “Ladies, something tells me you’ve had a fun afternoon. If there’s nothing else I can do for you—”

“Hold on,” Betty said with a voice of authority. She eyed Joan again. “Your vote is the only one we need, kiddo.”

Joan shook her head. “This is all quite mad. We’re going to buy a dress for weddings we’ve not yet received proposals for? And what if one of us
never
marries? Or waits. A
long
, long time.” She pressed her hand against her chest. “As I intend to do.”

“What if . . . ,” Inga began, and all faces turned to her. “Let’s say we do this. What if, when the time comes, we are no longer rooming together?” She looked at each of them in turn. “That’s a real possibility, you know. If Frank were to give me the slightest hint that he wants me to move to LA, I’m out of this blustery city on the next flight.” She nodded toward her sister. “Magda could move back to Minnesota, Evelyn to Georgia, and Joan to England. We could completely lose touch.”

Attention moved back to Betty. “Good questions, all of them. Let me think.”

Mrs. Marchman cleared her throat. “While you
think
, I’m going to hang this dress up, if you don’t mind.”

Betty waved a hand, dismissing the salesclerk. Then, as though she thought better of her attitude, she added, “Thank you, Mrs. Marchman. Give us a few minutes. We may not have wasted your valuable time after all.”

After the clerk shrugged and walked away, Joan said, “Well?”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I’m a Chicagoan. Always have been. Always will be. So, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be the ‘keeper of the dress.’ No matter where we are in this whole wide world—Chicago, Portal—” She looked at Joan. “England. You all stay in touch with me, and when you need it, I’ll send the dress.”

Evelyn’s eyes grew wide at the thought. “Genius. Pure genius. That’s what you are, Betty.”

“The bride,” Betty added, “will wear the dress, have it dry-cleaned once she’s returned from her honeymoon, box it up, and send it back to me, ready to wear for the next bride.”

“Okay, okay,” Magda said. “But what happens after the fifth bride wears the dress?”

Betty nodded. “Another good question.” She paused. “Fifth bride keeps the dress. Forever.”

Joan burst into laughter. She couldn’t help herself. “We’re talking about ourselves as
brides
and yet—did I mention?—none of us has an engagement ring.”

Evelyn’s hands flew to her mouth. “But, Joan,” she said, lowering her fingertips, “there’s the
hope
of one.” She held out her left hand. Her eyes misted over as they held a faraway gaze. “There’s the dream of a certain someone who will slip a ring on this finger right here and say, Evelyn, will you do me the honor of—” her attention returned to the rest of them—“being my wife and the mother of my children.”

Even Magda sighed. “Yes . . .”

Joan exchanged a look with Betty as Inga stood and took deliberate steps toward the others. “I think,” she said, “that we should do it.” She smiled. “And, to be perfectly honest, I imagine
I’ll
be using it sooner rather than later.”

Magda rolled her eyes. “Inga . . . if you think Far is going to allow you—”

“Allow? Do you really believe I need his . . .
allowance
?”

“Permission,” Betty interrupted, standing. “I’m the one in need of an allowance.” She looked each of them in the eye. “If we don’t do something like
this
. . . well, quite frankly, I don’t see my father ever paying for it.”

Evelyn looked down. “Betty . . .”

“I’m not asking for pity, Evelyn. I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking to it.” She patted Evelyn’s hand. “And aren’t you glad?”

Evelyn’s eyes found Betty’s. “Yes. I am,” she whispered.

“All right then. Let’s make a decision. Joan? You’re the only one we need to cast a vote really, but I’ll get us started anyway.” She raised her right hand. “Who’s in?”

Inga repeated the action. “Me.”

Then Evelyn. “Me.” She looked at Joan and bit her lip.

Magda raised her hand. “Me.”

Attention settled on Joan, who laughed out loud. “I’ve always been such a sensible girl, you know.”

“And?” Betty asked.

“I mean to say that the craziest thing I’ve ever done is step on a boat and cross the Atlantic with only a little more than thirty dollars in my purse.”

“So then,” Magda urged, “what’s sixty?”

“And now you have a job, Joanie,” Evelyn reminded her.

“More than one,” Joan said, locking eyes with Evelyn, hoping she remembered her desire to somehow manage with
only
one.

Inga dropped her hand. “Just say yes, Joan.”

Joan giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Inga asked.

“Your accent,” she admitted. “It becomes stronger when you’re—”

“
My
accent?” she asked, attempting to sound like royalty.

All hands dropped and Betty cleared her throat. “Ladies.” She lifted her hand again. “Me.”

Evelyn followed. “Me.”

“Me,” Magda and Inga said together.

Joan sighed, raising her hand and then, teasingly, dropping it again before lifting it high. “Me.”

And then, as though they’d known each other all their lives, they drew one another into a group embrace.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Joan said.

“Me neither,” Evelyn whispered into her ear. “Thank you, Joanie.”

Joan closed her eyes and chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

Betty sashayed into George Volbrecht’s secretary’s office, closing the door behind herself in one fluid movement. “Is he in?”

Josephine reached for the phone.

“No, no,” Betty said, waving her hand.

“Miss Estes, I must—” Josephine continued in her efforts to perform her secretarial duties, as Betty walked past her desk, where the unmistakable scent of Chanel swirled around her movements. “Mr. Volbrecht, Miss—”

Betty opened the door to George’s office to find him sitting on the edge of his desk, a golf club resting against his knee and the phone in his hand. He smiled as she stepped in, locking eyes with hers. “That’s okay, Jo. Miss Estes has a way of thinking she owns the world.” He replaced the phone’s handset. “To what do I owe this pleasure? And so close to the lunch hour. Hungry?”

Betty closed the door. “Stop it. Tell me, do you always call your secretary by a pet name?”

He shrugged, taking the putter in hand before closing the distance between them. He kissed her cheek, lingering long enough to say, “You smell delicious, Betts.”

She pulled back. “Well, it’s not Chanel, but for a poor working woman, I suppose English Lavender will do.”

He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “But not entirely your style.” He returned to the game of office golf in the center of the room.

Betty crossed her arms as he rested the putter against the cratered white ball, gave it a gentle bop, and watched the ball head straight into a glass tumbler. She clapped lightly. “Bravo.”

George tossed the club up and caught it. “Step aside, Ben Hogan.” He pointed toward the wet bar. “Something to drink?”

Betty ignored him, choosing to sit on the long sofa, which she instantly regretted when George joined her. He leaned against the back, stretching his arms and resting them there. “So why are you here, Betts? Need an attorney?”

She shook her head as she removed her gloves and shoved them into her purse. “George, something has . . . happened. I’m sure Evelyn hasn’t told you, but I feel you and I must talk.” She looked at him then, noting the furrow in his brow.

He shifted, turning more toward her. “What? What has happened?”

“I can’t say, really.” How would she ever explain the purchase of one wedding dress by five women? Not only would it sound ridiculous—especially to a man—but she knew he’d waste no time telling his mother, who’d tell her mother, who’d report it to her father. “Not the details, anyway.” She sighed. “George Volbrecht, what are your intentions toward Evelyn?”

George stood, crossing the room to the bar where he poured himself a glass of water. He took several sips before placing the glass on the counter and leaning against it. “Does there have to be a plan, Betts?”

Betty pushed her purse onto the sofa and stood. Walking to him, she said, “George. Please. Evelyn is—”

“Really becoming quite something, isn’t she? I mean what with your influence and all.”

She stopped. “The beauty that is Evelyn has always been in there . . .”

“Just hidden? Is that what you are saying?”

“George?”

“Hmm?” he taunted.

“If you don’t think this is heading toward matrimony, please, by all that is sacred—”

“
Matrimony?
So what if it is?” He took another drink of water. “Well, why shouldn’t it be? After all, she’s single. I’m single. She loves me—don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—and, well, I myself am rather fond of me.”

“George!” Betty stomped a foot, but before she could say another word, he grabbed her by her shoulders, brought her to himself, and kissed her. Hard at first, then more gently, holding her with such ardor she couldn’t have broken away if she’d tried.