Five Brides (27 page)

“When?”

“Sunday.”

“After church?”

Betty nodded. “I can let Adela know we’ll be there for afternoon coffee and dessert.”

“I’d like that. It’s a date.”

Pat Callahan—a handsome-beyond-words bloke of Irish descent—turned out to be as vivacious in personality as anyone Joan had ever met. Unlike Mr. Ferguson and Mrs. King, who’d been on the other side of their desks during her job interviews, Mr. Callahan (who insisted she call him Pat) sat in one of the two occasional chairs—both golden yellow and boxy—in the midst of a true workingman’s office.

The man she hoped would be her next employer wore dress slacks and a white shirt, its long sleeves cuffed, exposing tanned arms with thick red-blond hair. He also sported a shiny gold watch, which she suspected was more than just
toned
. Pat Callahan seemed the kind of man who’d wear only the real deal or nothing at all.

Joan kept her legs crossed at the ankles and her back straight as an ironing board, gripping the lifeline—her purse, the one thing on her that didn’t belong to Betty. Pat leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. He held her résumé loosely between the index and middle fingers of both hands. A hi-fi phonograph in the corner of the office played a Dean Martin tune, and his right toe tapped in time.

“So,” he said, glancing up at Joan. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?”

He chuckled. “Let’s stick with the short version. You’re currently with Hertz?”

“I am.”

“Working in finance.”

“A secretarial position wasn’t available,” she told him. “At the time.” Then she smiled. “But I’m a
very
good secretary.”

“And everything before this? You’re from England, this says.”

As if her accent wouldn’t give it away. “Leigh, Lancashire.”

Pat straightened as he folded her résumé. “That’s near Manchester, isn’t it?”

“It
is
,” she said.

“I spent a little time in England.” He winked. “What made you decide to come to the States?”

“Actually, I was born here.”

“You don’t say?”

“But my father is from Ireland and my mother from Leigh, and in the midst of the Depression, they decided it best to move closer to family. So, when I was a little girl, they packed up the whole lot of us and we returned.”

Pat batted his lips with an index finger. “Interesting.” He opened the résumé again. “And you say you’re a good secretary?”

“
Very
good.”

Again, he leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, Joan Hunt, let me be honest.”

“By all means.”

“You aren’t the most qualified or the most experienced, but . . .” He cocked his head. Light streaming through the windows caught on the red in his blond hair and made his green eyes seem all the greener, like the ocean at midday. “I learned a long time ago to go on my gut. It’s the only way to do business, Joan.” He stood and
cast the résumé over to his desk. It slid across the rest of the papers and files like an airplane gliding onto a landing strip.

Joan gripped her purse all the tighter, instinct telling her she had a new job.

“You’ll want to put in a two-week notice, of course.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Of course. Mr. Ferguson has been kind to me. Like a father, really.”

“I know Jim Ferguson. He’s a good man.” He folded his arms in front of him and rested against his desk. “So? Meet me right here,” he said, pointing to the floor as though it would be the exact spot where they would reconvene, “in two Mondays. Can you do that?”

Joan stood and extended her hand in one movement. “I can do that.”

Pat Callahan laughed. “Something tells me, Joan Hunt, that you can do just about anything you put your mind to.” He took her hand and squeezed.

“I like to think so.” She turned and walked to the door. As she reached it, Pat said, “By the way . . .”

Joan looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”

“I really like that suit. Sharp. Real class.”

On Thursday morning, the same clock Magda had watched a few days earlier taunted her as the noon hour drew near. She wished—no, she prayed—that Mr. Cole would call her into his office and tell her that he had some important project to take care of and would she mind skipping lunch. Just this one time.

Not that he had ever done such a thing in the past, but there was a first for everything. Only, not today. Today, as the hour and minute hands came together to announce the noon hour, she covered her typewriter, put the few papers and files she had on her
desk into order, and retrieved her purse from the desk drawer that kept it safe during the day. She opened the catch, removed her gloves, and put them on. Slowly, working each finger into them, lacing the fingers of both hands for a final shove.

Barry Cole’s office door opened and she turned in time to see him sliding his arms into his suit-coat sleeves. “Ah, Miss Christenson,” he said. “I’m on my way out to lunch too. Glad I caught you.”

Magda brightened. “Do you need something, sir?”

“Yes,” he said before stepping back into his office. When he returned he held a stack of manila interoffice envelopes. “I apologize that I didn’t get these to you sooner.” He laid them on her desk. “When you return from lunch, would you get right on this? The one to Mr. Freeman needs to reach him sooner rather than later.” He moved toward the outer door.

“Should I take care of that now for you, sir?” Magda asked, hopeful.

“No, Miss Christenson. It can wait until you’ve had your lunch.” He smiled at her and her heart hammered.

Could she possibly have a heart attack at such a young age? “How . . . how was your daughter’s show the other night?” The words shot from her mouth.

He turned fully. “Deanne had a solo. Did I tell you that?”

“No, sir.”

Pride washed over his face and he looked away, as though reliving the moments of his daughter’s performance. “Never could a father have been prouder. She has quite a singing voice. Much like her mother.”

“Mrs. Cole has a lovely singing voice, does she?”

Barry Cole blinked a few times before looking at her again. “Like an angel.”

“She’s very pretty.” When he said nothing in return, she pointed toward his office door. “The photo.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. That was a few years back. I think the kids were six and eight.”

“Oh? How old are your children now?”

“Douglas is twelve. Dee is ten.” His brow furrowed and then he chuckled. “That would be correct, wouldn’t it?”

Magda smiled. “I would imagine so, sir. If they were two years apart then, they’d be two years apart now.”

Barry Cole laughed. “All right, Miss Christenson. Have a nice lunch.” With that, he opened the door and walked out, leaving it ajar.

Magda blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing in the process. “Oh, well. I may as well get this over with.”

At twenty after, she walked into Tillie’s Café, spotting Harlan immediately in one of the booths running along the left wall of the restaurant. When he saw her, he nodded and slid from the seat to wait for her.

She crossed the room as well as she could on legs made of gelatin. “I was beginning to wonder,” he said, kissing her cheek.

Magda took the bench seat across from his. “Mr. Cole had some things he needed to talk to me about,” she said, wondering if her excuse was a half-lie or half-truth.

“Ah,” Harlan said, returning to his seat. He held up a finger for a waitress standing nearby and said, “We’re ready now.” Then, to Magda, he said, “I’ve ordered for us. Coke and grilled cheese for you. Burger and coffee for me.”

She smiled. He knew her, Harlan did. He was also, she decided, looking at him, incredibly good-looking in an offbeat sort of way. Handsome? No. But there was something about him, especially right now with the sunlight coming in from the storefront window, casting
highlights on his dark-blond hair. And she adored that special something in him, something so deeply intellectual within his eyes that she felt she could drown in them and be happy for the dying.

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I cannot tell you how excited I am about this weekend.” He reached for a pack of cigarettes sitting next to the rolled silverware at his elbow, then dropped them back on the table. “You know, I’ve never asked a woman—not any woman—to come to the cabin with me,” he said, as if the revelation had just come to him.

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone I wanted to take there with me. It’s a sort of . . .” His eyes wandered around the room, then back to her. “I suppose you could say that when I’m out there, I’m in my sanctuary.”

“Like a church?”

He reached for the cigarettes again, this time pulling one from the pack. “I suppose you could say that.”

“I did say that.” She waited for him to respond, but he only lit the cigarette in silence. “Harlan, do you go to church?”

A stream of gray smoke shot upward from his lips. “Whatever for? ‘Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.’”

“Karl Marx?”

Harlan chuckled. “You know the quote. That’s refreshing.” He seemed both genuinely pleased and fully shocked.

“Yes, I know it—” Magda stopped speaking as the waitress dropped two plates in front of them.

“Be right back with your drinks,” she said.

Magda chose to wait until after she’d returned to finish her thought, even as the aroma of butter and cheese wafted upward,
enticing her to forget her decision and dig right in. But then, in her mind’s eye, she saw Far standing behind the pulpit, preaching to his flock about the hunger the Lord Jesus endured during his forty days of testing in the wilderness.

Perhaps
this
was her test. Such temptation . . . A handsome, brilliant man who wanted her to go away with him . . . and her favorite lunch, all at one table. She closed her eyes, praying the moment would pass.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

She looked at him. “Yes. I’m just waiting for—” The waitress returned and placed a cold glass with a bobbing straw in front of her and a steaming cup of coffee next to Harlan’s plate.

“Anything else?” she asked Harlan.

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

Magda waited a moment before speaking. “To some degree, Harlan, I agree that religion is the opium of the people. Opium is a drug, after all. It alters the way those who take it feel about things or look at life. But opium is a killer—or, it can be. And so, in that respect, I disagree.” She took a long swig of her drink, watching as he bit into his burger and chewed thoughtfully. Listening to her words—truly listening. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps she’d been too quick to judge his invitation so harshly. Maybe he intended them to have separate bedrooms. Perhaps his intents were purely platonic in nature—

“And?” he said after swallowing.

“Oh,” she said. “Um—I know religion has gotten a bad name of late. The things we’ve heard about and learned in the last five or six years are . . .” She stopped, unsure if she could go on, but deciding she must.

“I’m not talking about
religion
, Harlan,” she said. “I’m talking about
faith
.”

He swallowed. “Whose?”

“Mine.”

“You have faith?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

He sat back and crossed his arms. “I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about it. I didn’t grow up in a very religious household, Magda. My father was a drunk and my mother worked more hours than most men on the block. If God exists, he certainly didn’t bother showing up on my street. What you see here,” he said, extending his hands, “is all self-made. I clawed my way up and out and never looked back.”

“I didn’t know that,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing to talk about,” he said, sliding up to the table and taking the burger back in his hands. “My father is dead, my mother is dead, and I’m still here. Alone.”

She reached across the table, palm up, encouraging him to take her hand. He placed the sandwich back on the plate before sliding his hand on top of hers, twisting them until they became like a fist. “You don’t have to be.”