Five Brides (24 page)

She raised her hand to slap him. Just as soon as—

“Betty, Betty,” he whispered against her lips. “Just say the word. You know how I feel about you. Just say the word and I’ll—”

The door to his office opened and they broke apart in time to see Evelyn standing there, her hand on the brass doorknob. She gasped. “I knew it,” she cried. “I just knew it!”

“Evelyn!” Betty pushed George away, then darted after Evelyn.

Joan utilized her lunch hour to run down to the Automat with a handful of nickels and a copy of that day’s want ads from the newspaper. In spite of the crowd inching its way along the vending machines, she managed to get a tray of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans over to a table in the corner. She had hoped to
avoid Betty and Evelyn while she put in her search. Fortunately, Betty had left the office early, quite evasive about where she was off to. And Evelyn had a prearranged lunch date with George.

“What are you looking at so intently in the newspaper?”

Startled, Joan looked up to see the face of Magda. “Hallo,” she said. Then, seeing that she held a tray, she added, “I didn’t expect to see you here. Join me?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Magda said, placing her tray opposite Joan’s. “What are you looking at?”

“The want ads. By chance are there any jobs over at Olson?”

Magda shook her head. “Not that I know of. Excuse me,” she said, bowing her head for a silent prayer, and Joan waited until Magda looked up. “Is something wrong with where you’re at?”

Using her fork, Joan cut off a piece of meat loaf. “Nothing at all. I just need more money, and I’m a little overworked between Hertz and D&D and . . .” She slipped the fork between her lips.

Magda reached for the folded paper Joan had laid on the table between them. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to an ad with her fork. “The Callahan Agency is looking for an executive secretary.”

“The Callahan Agency?”

“I’ve heard of it. The home office is somewhere else, but I read an article about it. It’s supposed to be quite the up-and-coming business.”

Joan took the paper from Magda, her eyes wandering over the small advertisement. “Pat Callahan . . .”

“What?”

“The ad says to ask for a Pat Callahan.”

“That’s right,” Magda said, brightening. “The Callahan Agency is owned by the Callahans out of Milwaukee, I think.”

“What do they do? The Callahan Agency?” Joan looked at the ad again. “It doesn’t really say here.”

“They’re an advertising agency.” She wiggled her brows. “And, if I remember correctly, they’re located on the second floor of the twenty-story high-rise next door to the Drake Hotel. You know, where all the
beautiful
people go and live.”

“Perfect,” Joan said, only half-feeling the sentiment.

“Joan,” Magda said, her voice as authoritative as she’d ever heard it. “You’re in financial over there at Hertz, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What I mean to say is, you’re not a secretary, much less an
executive
secretary. Do you think you could handle the change?”

Joan squared her shoulders. “Magda, you’re looking at a girl who can do anything she puts her mind to.” She shook her fist in mock salute. “I’ll apply for that job. I’ll interview for that job. And I’ll
get
that job. And if you don’t believe it, just watch.”

Magda smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “I like that about you, Joan. You’re not afraid to try new things.”

“What about you then, Magda? How’s that book coming along?”

Magda placed her cup back on the table. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I think I’m heading in the right direction and then I meet with Harlan and . . . he sort of . . . dashes all hope. He’s told me my writing needs work, but he spends more time asking me about
me
than getting into the facts of my characters.”

Joan speared a green bean. “Maybe by getting to know yourself better, you
can
create better characters.”

“Now you sound like Harlan.”

Joan reached across the table, clasping her hand around Magda’s. “Just keep believing in yourself, Magda. You’ll do just fine, I’m sure of it.”

Betty had run to the end of the block before she realized two things: One, Evelyn was nowhere to be found; and two, her purse and gloves were still in George’s office. Her shoulders dropped and she turned to make her way back when she spied the opened doors of a church—its facade massive and imposing—across the street.

Churches—especially Catholic churches—always had an open-door policy, she knew. But the doors of this one were literally wide open, and she took it as a sign.

Betty darted across the street and ran up the narrow cement steps, keeping her eyes on the Celtic cross silhouetted against the brilliance of the early afternoon sky. Until she stepped through the doors and into the chill of the narthex, at least; and then into the nave, where the scents of old furniture polish and melting wax met her.

She crossed herself, then walked down the center aisle under a canopy of angelic beings soaring so high she almost couldn’t make them out. She continued toward the altar, taking a seat on one of the hard, finely polished benches, and folded her hands in her lap. “What a mess I’ve made of things,” she whispered, hoping none of the others who had entered to pray could hear her. “What a mess all the way around.”

Besides making a cataclysmic mess of her own life, she’d done even more to poor Evelyn’s. She would surely never understand. And probably never forgive her. Not that she could forgive herself.

She felt more than saw the presence of another and looked to the end of the row, where a nun stared down at her.

Betty stood. “I’m sorry . . . This isn’t my—”

The woman’s face showed a great number of years and wrinkles. She shushed Betty as she batted her hands, palms down. “Sit, sit,” she said.

Betty did, and the nun sat beside her, her rosary falling into the folds of her habit. “You seem greatly distressed, my child,” she said, patting Betty’s hand as she smiled. “I saw you when you came in and couldn’t help but notice.”

“Oh, Sister,” Betty said, keeping her voice whisper-soft. “I’m afraid I’ve hurt someone I have come to care about.” Betty poured out the story, leaving out almost no detail. When fifteen minutes had passed and she’d come to the story’s conclusion, she took a breath and said, “Now I don’t know what to do. I saw the opened doors and I felt that . . .
God
. . . I felt him direct me inside.”

The nun patted her hand again. “Tell me your name, child,” she said, her voice holding the lilt of an Irish brogue.

Betty laughed lightly. “Betty Estes. And you are?”

“Sister Brigit. Now then, let’s see where I should begin.” Her hazel eyes twinkled behind frameless, octagon-shaped glasses, made all the more prominent by the tight wimple. “If you want me to begin, that is.”

“Please.”

“You say you have not seen your parents since they cut you off.”

Betty looked down, shaking her head. “I know I should have, but—I’ve hardly known what to say and I don’t like arguing with them.”

“Before you can go changing things in the lives of others, you must first change the messes in your own. So, first things first. The Bible tells us that we are to
honor
our father and mother.”

Betty sat straight. “So I should marry George?”

The old nun looked up, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Good heavens, no.” She chuckled. “But you should make amends with your father and mother.” She pointed at Betty’s chin. “Hold your ground,
but
be respectful.”

“What about Evelyn? How am I ever going to fix this with her?”

“Tell her the truth.” She peered at Betty, blinking once. Twice. “It’s all you can do. But
you
must know the truth first.”

“What do you mean?”

“
Did
you feel anything when this George fella kissed you?”

Betty smiled. “As kisses go, it was pretty nice. But . . . no. I’m not interested in marrying George.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find the right one.”

“The Good Book says that ‘a man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.’”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that right now, even as you sit here with me, the Lord is at work—whether you know it or not—directing you to the right path. You only have to trust him with your steps.”

Betty smiled, albeit briefly. “I do, Sister, but . . . but I think that what I’m more concerned about—even more than whether or not God has a special someone for me—is that George is leading Evelyn on terribly. She thinks
he
is her special someone and I . . . I know he’ll never marry her.” She captured the nun’s eyes with her own. “I
really
don’t want her to get hurt.”

Sister Brigit nodded. “You can only tell her the truth. How she reacts is up to her, not you. She must make her own way down her own path. But when you speak to her, remember these words from Saint Paul: ‘Let your speech be always with grace, seasoned with salt, that ye may know how ye ought to answer every man.’”

“That’s good advice,” Betty said, then looked down at her watch. “I have to go, Sister. I’m late as it is.”

Sister Brigit stood with her. “I will pray for you, dear. And that your boss will be most understanding.”

“Thank you, Sister.” She stepped around the old nun, pausing at the end of the row. “Maybe I’ll see you here at Mass sometime.”

“That would be nice, child. Most pleasant indeed.”

The large-faced clock on the opposite side of Magda’s office ticked loudly, its minute hand inching too slowly toward the twelve. Seven minutes more and she could clock out. Go home. Work on the story that had played itself out in her mind all afternoon. She knew now what needed to happen next. What her characters should say to each other.

They’d been talking in her head since lunch; the only way to silence them was to put their words on paper.

The door to Mr. Cole’s office opened and he stepped through it. “Magda, good. You’re still here.”

She smiled appropriately—not so much as to seem forward, not so little as to seem annoyed. “Where else would I be, Mr. Cole?” She looked from the paperwork on her desk to her boss, who now stood over her. “Besides, don’t I always say good-bye at the end of the day?”

He smiled, his face warm and kind. “You do. Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” He ducked his head to top it with his hat. “My daughter has a school function tonight, and she’s a little upset already that I won’t make it home in time.” A fatherly grin slid across his face. “I’m leaving a little earlier than usual to make certain I don’t lose my Father of the Year status.”

Magda laughed. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, Mr. Cole.”

Barry Cole crossed the room for the door. “Well, wish me luck that the trains are all running on time and that Deanne will do well in her little play.”

“Deanne? That’s your daughter?”

His brow furrowed. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say her name, sir.”

“Hmm,” he said, opening the door and looking over his shoulder at her. “I suppose I haven’t. Well, I should rectify that. Deanne is my daughter. Douglas is my son.”