Five Brides (44 page)

Betty nodded, although the answer wasn’t complete. How could she say, “I’m concerned, Mother, that if I marry Pat, I’ll become you”? That wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Completely hurtful to a woman who seemed content to be only what she was. And, who knew, maybe Chloe, in her own way, had done a world more good than Betty realized.

Chloe rested her hands on Betty’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she said into her ear. “No matter what happens, even if you trip and fall down the aisle, in an hour you’ll be just as married as if you managed without a stumble.”

Betty couldn’t help but giggle. “Mother . . .”

“But for the love of all that’s decent, please don’t stumble
or
fall. I’ll never hear the end of it at the club.” Her fingertips lightly touched the traditional veil crowning Betty’s head. “You are a good daughter, allowing your father the honor of drawing back the veil. I’m not supposed to mention it, but he’s been rehearsing his one line since last week.”

“‘Her mother and I,’” Betty said, drawing in a shaky breath as the door leading into the wide hallway opened. Betty swung
around as all her worries seemed to wash away. “Sister Brigit,” she breathed.

“Ah, there she is,” the old nun said, walking toward her. “The blushing bride.”

“Who—?” Chloe began.

“Mother, this is my friend Sister Brigit,” Betty answered as the sister crossed the room toward them. A keen sensation washed over her, and Betty knew that the sight of Sister Brigit had caused her to beam, partly out of admiration and partly out of relief.

Sister Brigit grabbed Betty’s hands. “You are a lovely vision of love,” she said, her Irish brogue thick on every word.

“Sister,” Betty said, squeezing the nun’s hands, “this is my mother, Chloe Estes.”

The nun nodded.

“Sister? May I have a few private moments with you?” Betty glanced at her mother. “I want the sister to pray with me.”

“Oh,” Chloe said. “Of course, then.” She corralled the bridesmaids into the hallway “for a minute or two.”

Betty led Sister Brigit to a couple of Queen Anne armchairs, exquisite roses carved along the woodwork, both upholstered in chintz.

“Now what is this about needing a prayer?” the sister asked.

“Sister, what I need more than prayer is an answer.”

“Prayer holds the answer, sweet one. All you have to do is be patient and listen.”

Betty smiled weakly. “Sister, I wanted to meet with you earlier, but—this week has been . . . Sister, Pat has asked me to consider
not
working outside the home. To become socially and civically aware like . . .” She looked toward the door.

“Like your mother?”

Betty nodded.

“Ah, yes. I can see the prominence in that one.” She moved her finger along the white of her wimple. “It’s in the brow.” She patted Betty’s hand as she’d done the day they first met. “Why don’t you compromise? You’ll work until you decide to start a family. Then you can become as socially and civically minded as the rest of them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” For an unmarried nun, she’d been quick with an answer.

“But there’s more, isn’t there?”

Betty swallowed past a small lump of emotion forming. “I love my mother, Sister, but I don’t . . . I don’t want to be
like
her. For all her
social work
, Chloe Estes is a bit of a snob. What if . . . what if by marrying Pat, I’m putting my foot on the road to becoming my mother?”

Sister Brigit laughed heartily. “You, my pet, have no worries there. What you are deep inside your heart,” she said, pointing to the sweetheart neckline of the gown, “you will always be. Like my da used to say, ‘Sweet old ladies come from sweet young ladies.’ I foresee that you will be a sweet lady, no matter your age.”

Betty released a pent-up sigh. Somehow, coming from Sister Brigit, she could believe the words. “Thank you.” She leaned over to kiss the dry and wrinkled cheek of a woman she’d come to greatly admire. “I’d half thought to cancel this wedding
and
this marriage.”

The door opened again and Chloe stuck her head in. “Betty. We must finish getting ready.”

Betty stood. “Sure, Mother. Come back in.” She smiled down at Sister Brigit. “I’m ready now.”

Plymouth, Minnesota

A thick mantle of snow clung to the ground, even as the sun beamed down upon it, sending glints of light shooting from it
like twinkling stars. Tree limbs, naked and achingly bare, reached upward to the sky like an old woman’s fingers reaching for a hand up. Evergreen boughs hung beneath the weight of the snowstorm that had come in overnight—winter’s last hurrah.

Inga hoped so, anyway. Although in Minnesota, one could never be quite sure.

She stood at the double-front windows in the living room of her childhood home, a drafty Victorian built in the late 1800s, peering out and waiting for her father to come home from work.

Waiting, as she had when she’d been a girl of about twelve, the day she’d been caught red-handed in a lie to her mother. Mor, aghast that her beloved daughter would do such a thing, declared that she would not punish her, but banished her to “wait for Far’s arrival.”

That wait had been the most excruciating of her young life, perhaps second only to the one she experienced now, as her mother sobbed upstairs in her bedroom.

Chilled by the cold creeping around the windowsill, Inga turned and walked into the kitchen to prepare a cup of hot tea. Something to warm her. To soothe her. Something to ease the queasiness in her stomach. A few minutes later, the whistle sent its shrill announcement into the room that the water had come to a boil, and Inga grabbed a dishcloth for the handle.

Her mother’s footsteps caused her to pause. Inga looked up, crushed by the sight of swollen eyes, wet and red with tears, then went about her task. “Can I pour you a cup, Mor?”

“Yes,” her mother said, barely above a whisper.

They prepared their tea in silence. Inga went to the old farm table, scarred by time yet highly polished, and sat. “Sit with me, Mor.”

Her mother did, although she didn’t sit close. “What I don’t
understand is . . .” Mor finally said, then paused as if waiting for Inga to finish the sentence.

“Mor, please just tell me that you still love me. That you won’t kick me out of your life.”

Her mother frowned, deep wrinkles creasing her forehead. “Don’t be silly. Of course I still love you. You are my daughter and . . .” She looked away. “That baby . . . that baby is my grandchild.”

Inga began to weep. “I’m so sorry. I never stopped to think . . . Mor, I promise you it happened only once. Only
once
. I’m not a harlot.”

Mor stood, walked the length of the table to where her daughter sat, and drew her close. “There will be no more of that. I don’t need the details to believe you. But you and I have to face your father when he gets home. It won’t be easy, for either of us, but we’ll face him together.”

Savannah, Georgia

Although her plan had been to put her feet to the pavement of downtown Savannah by Monday afternoon, Aunt Dovalou insisted that she “do no such thing.”

“I want you to take a day or two and just be,” the petite redhead said on Tuesday afternoon as they sat together in the expansive living room of the grand house on Victory Drive. While her aunt busied herself with some needlepoint, Evelyn kept looking beyond the tied-back sheers at the large-paned, floor-to-ceiling windows to the wide front lawn where dogwood trees and azalea bushes boasted of springtime, and fat old live oaks formed a canopy over a row of palms in the median.

“Golly, Aunt Dovalou,” she said, pushing up her glasses at the
twang of her accent. “I didn’t realize how much I missed the look of spring in the South until just now.” She closed her eyes against the internal sound of George’s voice, correcting her. Telling her to
“speak correctly.”
To
“listen to the inflection of your words, Evelyn.”

Against her better judgment, she rephrased her statement. “The South is glorious in the spring, is it not?”

“Now listen, hon. Don’t start trying to be something or somebody you’re not. There’s not a thing wrong with the way you said those words the first time. My gracious alive, what did that Yankee boy do to your self-esteem?”

Evelyn tried to laugh, but it came out more like a whimper.

“Oh, Evelyn . . .” her aunt exclaimed, stopped by the ringing of the doorbell. “Oh, good,” she said, throwing her handwork into the crafts basket at her feet. “I bet I know who that is.”

“Who?”

“Just hold on,” she said, darting out of the ladies’ parlor, her soft-soled shoes making whooshing noises against the wide-planked boards of the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

Evelyn’s eyes roamed upward, traveling along the hand-carved Corinthian columns between the parlor and the expansive foyer. As the front door rattled in protest at being opened, she tilted her head back to study the crown molding, elegantly trimmed in gold, which matched the gilding above the fireplace mantel.

“Evelyn,” her aunt said, bringing her attention back to the opening between the two columns and the handsome man standing there. “This is Brother Edwin Boland. He’s the preacher at the First Baptist down on Habersham.”

Evelyn started to rise, but quickly pushed herself back onto the settee.
“No, no, Evelyn. A lady never stands when approached. And you extend
your
hand first, not the other way around, darling.”

Darling . . .

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat as she held out her hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you, Brother—”

“Please,” the young minister said, his amber-laced brown eyes smiling, “call me Ed.” He took her hand in his. Unlike when she held George’s hand—or he held hers—rough calluses pressed against her palm. This was more than a man of the cloth standing before her. This was a man’s man, even with his blond hair worn long on top and swept fashionably back.

Aunt Dovalou stood proudly beside him. “Ed, why don’t I get you something to drink? A Co-Cola?”

He smiled at her, his full lips parting over slightly uneven, but white teeth. “That’d be nice, Miss Dovalou.”

She started to walk away, then paused. “Over crushed ice?” she asked.

The amber in his eyes twinkled. “Yes, ma’am.”

After her aunt left the room, Ed took to one of the delicate armless chairs across from where Evelyn sat. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he appeared to be perching on doll’s furniture. Evelyn couldn’t help but smile. “Brother—Ed—would you prefer to go into the gentlemen’s parlor? The chairs are much bigger over there.”

Ed Boland pinked like a schoolboy. “That might be better,” he said. They stood and made their way out of the room, across the foyer, and into a room much like the one they’d come from.

“Great thing about these old houses,” he said, waiting for her to find a seat. She chose to sit on the overstuffed divan. He, in turn, sat in one of the more masculine chairs left over from her grandfather’s era.

“You mean the two types of parlors?”

He crossed his legs as his arms draped easily along the armrests, looking as comfortable as George would have sitting among such
elegance. “That’s right. So, tell me more about yourself, Evelyn. Your aunt hasn’t been able to stop talking about your coming.”

Aunt Dovalou waltzed in about then, carrying a tray of Cokes and three glasses filled with chipped ice. Evelyn stood to take the tray. She set it down on a butler’s table. Aunt Dovalou leaned over the table to pour the colas.

Ed smiled as her aunt handed him a glass. “Oh, this does look good.” He took a long swallow—Evelyn could hear the liquid going down his throat from across the room—then smiled at them both. “I guess I was thirstier than I realized.”

They all laughed, giving Evelyn a new sense of ease. One she hadn’t felt since the doorbell had rung ten minutes earlier.

Evelyn took an offered glass from her aunt. “What brings you here today, Rev—Bro—Ed?” she asked. “Should I assume you are a friend of Aunt Dovalou’s?”

The young reverend smiled broadly. “Your Aunt Dovalou allowed me to live here for a while when the Baptist pastorium was getting a fresh coat of paint in between the old pastor moving out and me moving in.”