Five Brides (45 page)

“Pastorium?” Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like an institution.”

Ed laughed again. “Parsonage.”

“Oh.” She paused to think for a moment before asking, “And there weren’t any Baptist families who would house you?”

“Evelyn,”
her aunt quickly admonished. “I’m shocked.” She looked across the room, wide-eyed. “Forgive her, dear Edwin. I fear she’s been up north too long.”

Evelyn’s cheeks burned. “I’m sorry,” she said, washing down her shame with a sip of the cold drink. “I didn’t mean it like that . . .”

Ed threw back his head and bellowed with such vitality, his laughter echoed across the high ceiling. “Please, Evelyn,” he said
when he’d righted himself. “You are as delightful as your aunt insisted.” He half rose from his seat to place the glass—empty but for the remaining ice—onto the butler’s table. “Now, then . . . as to why I’m here.” He braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands together. “I understand you could use a job.”

Magda didn’t have only one decision to make, but several.

What to eat for lunch was an easy one.

By eleven that morning, after worrying since breakfast, she went to the phone in the hallway, called Barry, and asked if he’d like to meet her for a bite.

“With my favorite girl? Absolutely,” he said. She could see his smile through the wire. “How about a greasy burger at the Soda Shoppe?”

“Sounds yummy. Meet you there.”

Magda applied a touch of lipstick and powder before dashing out the door wearing nothing more than pedal pushers, a springtime sweater, and a lightweight jacket. She arrived at the small L-shaped café to see that Barry had already gotten there and managed to wrangle a table for two.

“It sure is crowded,” she said as he helped her remove her jacket.

“It’s a Thursday at noon and this is downtown Chicago.” He winked at her. “Or have you forgotten?”

“No. I haven’t,” she said, although she wasn’t sure if her words had been said loud enough to be heard.

“I ordered for us both,” he told her. “Burger and fries and a Coke. That okay?”

She nodded, momentarily remembering the grilled cheese and Harlan. “Perfect.”

Barry studied her for all of five seconds before reaching across the table and taking her hand. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Magda blinked and the tears she’d hoped to keep at bay spilled down her cheeks.

He squeezed her hand, sending sweet comfort throughout her body. “Magda?”

“I haven’t wanted to bother you with this,” she said, then swallowed. “I need to find a new place to stay.” She chuckled. “Or four new roommates by the end of the month, which doesn’t really give me a lot of time.”

“I don’t understand.” He released her hand when the waitress approached the table.

“Burger all the way, hold the onions, with fries for the lady,” she said, setting the steaming-hot food in front of her. Magda used the diversion to swipe the tears from her cheeks. “The same for the gentleman and—” she reached for two tall glasses—“two colas.” Her gum popped as she smiled at Barry, all but ignoring Magda. “Anything else? You got your ketchup and mustard right here.” She pointed to the table.

“Thank you,” Barry said. “I think we’re fine for the time being.”

When she’d walked away, he returned his attention to Magda. “Now, what’s this all about? I know Joan and Betty are gone, but what about the others? Evelyn and Inga?”

“Evelyn left on Sunday for Savannah. She’s moved back home.” She grabbed the ketchup bottle and shook a good-size dollop onto her plate near the fries, then lifted the butter-greased bun and made a fat circle around the slice of tomato. “As for Inga . . .” Magda handed the bottle across the table. When Barry took it, she dropped her hands into her lap. “My sister has gone back to Minnesota.”

Barry stopped halfway through a shake of the condiment bottle. “Why? What about her job?”

Magda looked at the napkin holder sitting between them. Somehow, she found it easier to say the words to paper and chrome than to her boyfriend. “She quit. She’s . . . she’s pregnant.”

He brought the bottle back down on the table with a thud. “You’re kidding.” He paused. “How long have you known?”

“Since before Christmas.” She looked up.

His eyes locked with hers, refusing her the consolation of looking away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place. Besides, it’s a little—I mean—if
Nana
knew, she’d really hate me.”

Barry remained silent for a moment, a clear indication that she was right. “What about the baby’s father?”

“He doesn’t believe the baby is his. He offered for them to live together, but . . .” She blinked. “Inga told Mor and Far on Monday. Far still hasn’t spoken to her, other than to say he has to pray until God gives him an answer.”

Barry sighed as though it were the end of a long week. “I don’t understand some men . . .” He looked up. “Not your father—I understand
his
reaction—I’m talking about
the
father.”

Magda let the words resonate within her, to bring warmth to the part of her soul that had ached since late December. “Just like you not to blame my sister. To not call her names, but to criticize the man.” She tried to smile.

She dipped a fry into the ketchup before popping it into her mouth, then blew out. “Still hot,” she said around it.

Barry picked up his burger. “Okay, well . . . I think this has pretty much made up my mind on things.” He bit down on it, then made a show of chewing his food.

Fear crept along her spine, tickling the hair at the nape of her
neck. “Meaning . . . ?” Would he end his relationship with her over her sister’s sin?

He put the burger down. “I wanted to wait. I wanted to court you for at least a year . . .”

“Court? How beautifully antiquated.”

He waved a hand in the air. “I wanted to give Deanne time . . . and my—Nana—”

“Time? For what?”

“To accept you. Us. You and me.” His finger darted between the two of them.

Magda blinked. “Are you . . . are you proposing
marriage
, Barry Cole? In the middle of a greasy spoon, me in a pair of pedal pushers and sneakers, and you with burger grease on your chin?”

“Would you love me any more or any less if we were all dolled up, dining in the finest restaurant Chicago had to offer? I know firsthand, Magda. Marriage isn’t always easy. It’s not always rose petals and candlelight.” Barry pulled a napkin from the holder and wiped his hands with it, leaving it nothing but a shredded ball. He reached for her hand again, which she readily gave to him. “But I know I love you. And I believe you love me.”

“You know I do.” She couldn’t have put up with Harriet Nielson otherwise.

He grinned. “If you’d like, I’ll get down on one knee, right here and now.”

Magda coughed out a chuckle. “No. Please, no. But . . . you really
do
need to talk to Deanne and
Rock
.” She sighed. “And Nana.”

His face grew solemn. “My children don’t run my life, Magda. The day I make them my friends will be the day they’ve grown up and no longer need me to be their father.”

“Will that ever happen?”

“Sure it will. I consider my dad my best friend. But that didn’t happen until I became a father myself.”

“I see.” She reached for her drink with her free hand, then raised the glass toward him. “Can we at least toast the occasion?”

Barry picked up his glass, laid the rim against hers, and said, “Miss Christenson, what will it be? To our marriage or to your finding a gloomy room for rent?”

Magda grinned as she tapped her glass against his. “To us.”

Munich

Joan stood in the lobby and all but ripped open the envelope with the red, white, and blue stripes across one corner.

Dear Joanie,

Greetings from Savannah. Yes, I have returned to the Southland. To the land of cotton where old times are not forgotten.

That probably makes no sense to you, having lived in England so long and all.

She was correct. It didn’t.

I had hoped to get this to you sooner rather than later, but I suppose by the time it crosses the ocean, it’s later no matter what. You know the old saying, “Nothing stays the same but change”? Well, it’s true. As I write this, Magda is the only one of the five of us left in the apartment on Greenleaf. Inga moved back to Minnesota (I don’t know why, but I will tell you she left her job too, so obviously something is up). You are in Germany. I am here. And Betty is, of course, on her honeymoon.

Oh, Joan! The wedding was lovely. I admit I’d never been to a Catholic service, but it was so full of meaning. And the way Pat looked at Betty while they exchanged vows was something to behold, I tell you. You should pat yourself on the back, Joan, for bringing those two together.

I am adjusting to my new life here in Savannah, which is completely different from life in Portal. My aunt’s home is on Victory Drive, which is lined with grand old homes of a bygone era. If George could see me in this house, he’d have to rethink my humble beginnings. Although my mother married a poor farmer, she came from good stock. But even though my aunt has inherited the family house, I don’t think there’s a lot of money left in the bank, if you get my meaning. She tells me that she is existing just fine but that, one day, she wants to turn the house over to the church so they can house the preacher and his family.

Speaking of which. My aunt did the most amazing thing. She arranged an interview with a Baptist preacher—who, I will tell you now, is entirely too young and too good-looking to be a man of the cloth—who was in need of a secretary. The Baptists don’t hire their own when it comes to the books nor do the Methodists, so when he (his name is Edwin, but he likes to be called Ed) told Aunt Dovalou that he would need a new secretary soon, she told him I was coming and . . . well, I got the job. I start next week.

I’m a tad concerned about working with a single man, Joan. I don’t want people to gossip. And there’s nothing Southern women like more than a juicy tidbit.

Besides, it’s going to take me a long time to get past George Volbrecht.

Oh. If you are wondering about Hank Shute, he and Dixie are engaged. So, any thoughts I might have had about coming back home and rekindling something with him are out.

Write soon.

Love,

Evelyn

Joan folded the letter, pondering.
Any thoughts . . . about . . . rekindling . . .
She sighed. “Poor Evelyn,” she said, stuffing the paper back into the envelope. “I’m sure God knows best.”

She darted up the staircase leading to the apartment she now shared with Ruby, excited to write back to America, and to include details of her weekend adventures of exploring old German castles.

Plymouth, Minnesota

Inga and Mor sat like bookends on the living room sofa, staring across the room to where Far stood, his back to the grand piano. The steely displeasure at his oldest daughter remained stamped on his face, his lips drawn more thin than Inga ever remembered seeing them, and his eyes like black coal, waiting to ignite into flame. Behind the piano, past the front windows, rain fell from the gray sky, pattering the lawn and cracked sidewalk—a sure sign they’d see more snow before morning.