Five Brides (28 page)

“Don’t have to be what?”

“Alone. God is—”

He squeezed her hand and she stopped. “Magda,” he said, his eyes focused on hers. “Are we going to talk this nonsense for an entire lunch hour? And, more importantly, are you or are you not coming away with me this weekend? That’s why we’re here, remember? To make our plans.”

She pulled her hand from his. “I don’t see talking about God as nonsense, Harlan. And, no. I’m not going away with you. That’s against my
beliefs
.” She pursed her lips, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But he did not. He only stared at her, the green in his eyes churning, dark and stormy for a moment before turning
back to their original pale state. “I’m sorry,” she said, finally. “I believe in . . .
that
. . . belonging only in the marriage bed.”

“My gosh,” he breathed out at last. “You
have
become provincial.”

“No,” Magda said with a toss of her hair. “I
always
was. I’m just now realizing it, is all.” She reached for her purse and slid out of the booth. “Good-bye, Harlan. And thank you, sincerely. For everything.”

Spring released herself to summer, and summer inched to autumn during that first full year of Joan’s return to the States. Life had settled down for her in many ways. She continued to work at David & DuRand—though only a few nights a week—and her job with the Callahan Agency had been more fulfilling than she’d imagined it could be. She’d been able to send money back to England on a regular basis and still build a small savings fund for herself while adding an outfit or two to her closet. With shoes.

She rarely saw the others, it seemed. When Evelyn—whose new personality she hardly recognized at times—wasn’t working, she was with George. George, who had taught her the proper way to sit, to talk, and to walk. George, who had instructed her on the finer points of theater and music and books. Books Joan knew Evelyn hated, but books she read nonetheless. What burdened Joan the most, however, was that Evelyn had expressed her joy that God had answered her prayers through George. That she would not live out her days as a farmer’s wife, struggling. Always struggling. Or forever sad, as her mother had become.

Over the months, Betty had managed to reestablish a fairly decent relationship with her parents. Although she didn’t take the train to Highland Park
every
weekend, she managed
most
of them.
She and her mother had even gone out for dinner and a movie a few times in the middle of the workweek. Missing her own mother the way she did, Joan felt a certain satisfaction on Betty’s behalf regarding the relationship mend.

Magda had mainly returned to her room. When she wasn’t working for Olson during the day, she worked diligently on her own manuscript, privately, at night. Sometimes, when only she and Joan were at the apartment, Joan managed to cajole her into reading a few pages aloud. When Magda finished, Joan praised her appropriately. “I’ve loved to read my whole life,” she told her once. “And I don’t believe I’ve ever read anything quite as good as your work, Magda.”

She meant every word of it too.

Inga, on the other hand, continued to sulk and bemoan her new route with the airline, threatening on a weekly basis to quit, but never carrying through. From April until the end of October, when the air turned chilly and the scent of home fires burning wafted through the evening air, Inga carried with her a dark cloud of misery.

One brisk November evening, however, the tide turned. While Joan and Magda sat in the living room, listening to music on the Philco and talking about Magda’s next literary move, which was to show her manuscript to her boss, Barry Cole, Inga burst through the front door—nearly scaring Joan half to death.

Inga dropped her luggage at her feet and sang out, “I’m returning to LA! Frank Martindale, here I come!”

Betty interrupted her scramble around the kitchen to throw a simple dinner together and ran out to join them after the announcement. She ran the palms of her hands along the frilly bib apron she wore. “Well, thank the good Lord. Maybe now you’ll stop being such a gloomy Gloria.”

Inga grabbed Betty by the shoulders and drew her close for a dramatic hug, and Joan laughed as she did. “Oh, Betty. You’d be gloomy too if you loved someone like Frank only to not see him for months on end. To only hear his voice from the long wire of a telephone, never knowing for certain if he’s alone or with another woman.”

Joan crossed her arms. “If I had to worry as to whether or not he’s with another woman, I’m not sure I’d
want
to talk to him on the phone.”

Inga straightened, angling her chin toward Joan and her sister. “This, coming from someone who doesn’t even date.”

Joan chose to remain silent, waiting until Inga had walked down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Betty. The truth was she’d rather remain dateless than to worry about a man who might date other women simultaneously.

Betty pointed to her watch. “Dinner in ten,” she said and returned to the kitchen.

“I wonder when she flies back west again,” Joan asked Magda.

“Can’t be too soon for me,” Magda remarked with a toss of her hair. She reached for the manuscript she’d laid between them when Inga had walked in. “So you
really
think I should show this to Mr. Cole?”

“Absolutely,” Joan said, nodding. “First thing. Tomorrow.”

Magda went about her usual early morning duties, readying Mr. Cole’s office for his arrival and striving to keep her nerves at bay. When she sat at her desk and Mr. Cole hadn’t yet come in, she closed her eyes and offered up a prayer. “I believe you gave me this talent,” she whispered, “not to hide under a basket but to use appropriately. I only ask that you give me a chance, if that is your will.”

The door opened and she jerked. Barry Cole stood there, looking
nearly as startled as she felt. “Did I scare you, Miss Christenson?” he asked with a smile. “Were you sleeping on the job already?”

“Oh, no, sir. I was just pra—I, um—” She straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Cole?”

Her boss closed the door behind him. “What is it, Miss Christenson? You look positively petrified.”

She tried to laugh, but it only came as a cough. “I have . . . a little something I . . . I wrote, Mr. Cole.” She drew in a deep breath and said the rest quickly before she could change her mind: “And-I’m-wondering-if-you-would-mind-looking-at-it.” She blinked. “Sir.”

He chuckled. “Why, Miss Christenson. I had no idea.” He moved to the front of her desk, his hat still on his head and his briefcase hanging from his right hand. “Of course. I’d be happy to.” He grinned down at her.

Magda reached into the bottom drawer, where she’d hidden her purse and the manila envelope holding evidence of her months of hard work. She brought it out, extending it to him. “Only if you have time, Mr. Cole.”

He took it. “I look forward to it, Miss Christenson.” He started toward his office door. “Well, then. I suppose I should get my day started.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “You have a nine o’clock with Mr. VanMichaels.”

“His office or mine?” Mr. Cole asked.

“His, sir.”

“Ah.” He smiled again, calming her nerves. “Then I’d best get to it.”

Inga could hardly believe her good fortune. Just the day before she’d been told she’d return to the Chicago-to-LA route, and that
morning her supervisor called instructing her to pack her bags and be ready for an early afternoon flight. She hadn’t even minded being awakened by the neighbor pounding on the door to tell her she had a call waiting for her in the building’s hallway.

As soon as she’d hung up, she placed a long-distance call to California to let Frank know she’d arrive that evening. That they could have dinner together. And that another picnic in the hills could be marvelous.

The phone rang several times before his roommate mumbled a sleepy hello.

She looked at her watch. It was not quite nine o’clock in Chicago, which meant the seven o’clock chime had yet to ring in LA. “Oh. Sorry,” she said. “Mitch, this is Inga Christenson calling for Frank.”

“What time is it?” She pictured him, dark hair tussled, eyes barely open, standing in his pajamas in the small living room of their apartment.

“Not quite seven. Again, I’m sorry, but can you please call Frank to the phone?”

A slow exhale met her ear. “He’s not here, for crying out loud. Call later. He should be back before work.” With that, he ended the call.

Inga hung up, both puzzled and startled. If it wasn’t quite seven in California, where on earth would Frank be? A sudden, sickening feeling came over her, and she tightened her robe as she padded back to her apartment only a few feet away. Closing the door, she laid her forehead against it, pressing in, trying not to think about the obvious. Frank . . .
Frank with another woman.

Their night overlooking the city came back to her, the way he had laid her on the blanket. The tenderness with which he had kissed her. The words he used to tell her that he wanted more. So much more.

And she’d said no.

She turned, resting her shoulders against the door and squeezing her eyes shut. “Well, no more,” she said. If a real woman of the world was what Frank wanted, then a real woman of the world she’d become.

“Tonight,” she said decidedly, then started toward the bedroom . . . her uniform . . . and an empty suitcase to pack. “Tonight,” she said again, her hand gripping the doorframe to the empty bedroom. “I won’t lose you to another woman, Frank Martindale,” she spoke into the room as if he could hear her from wherever he now lay.
With whomever.
“Not to my mother’s silly rules of chastity, least of all. I’m not losing my future. Not like
this
.”

Excitement reigned at the Callahan Agency that late October day as the company prepared to roll out the new campaign for Supreme Soups. The company’s president, Mr. Clinton, was expected to arrive in the building’s boardroom at any moment along with a number of his high-ranking executives. Joan had prepared the room to look more like an intimate restaurant. For the better part of the last half hour, while Joan made sure their hired waitstaff readied themselves, Pat Callahan had worked feverishly on getting the presentation board ready. Joan glanced to the front of the room and watched him fidget for a few moments before she stepped forward to help in any way she could.