Five Brides (56 page)

Evelyn had taken her idea of blending instruction on etiquette with their required PE and health classes to the school the previous September. These classes were somewhat different from what the boys and girls who attended the Victory Drive School of Etiquette received, and, Evelyn hoped, they would prompt new business for the evenings. So far, the plan had worked, but it had also put extra work on her and Ed in addition to their roles at the church.

More than anything, she feared that people in town—and especially the people at Ed’s church and most especially
Ed
—were starting to view them as a couple.

She sighed. “On one condition,” she told him. “You and I will not arrive together and we will not leave together. We must exhibit the utmost in decorum, Ed.”

A long pause met her statement. “All right, Miss Evelyn, if that’s what you prefer.”

“It is,” she said, though she had to pinch her arm to keep from grinning at his light form of endearment.

She ended the call and turned to see Aunt Dovalou standing in the hallway behind her, arms crossed. “Let me guess,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “He’s asked you out
again
and you’ve turned him down
again
.”

Evelyn smiled politely but walked past her and toward the kitchen. “Aunt Dovalou, I’m just
not
ready.”

“Darlin’,” she said, falling in on her heels. “Let me tell you a little secret. Once upon a time, I thought I wasn’t ready too. And look where it got me.”

Evelyn spun around, nearly colliding with her aunt. “What?”

Her aunt took her by the elbow, guiding her into the kitchen where an apple pie baked in the oven and filled the room with
spices and warmth. “His name was Rood Whiting,” she said, jerking an oven mitt from the hook by the oven.

“Rude?”

Aunt Dovalou frowned from across the room. “Get the cooling rack, will you? And it was
R
-
O
-
O
-
D
—a family name.”

“It would have to be . . . ,” she muttered, pulling the rack from the shelf where her aunt kept it.

“Evelyn Ruth Alexander . . .” Aunt Dovalou’s voice was both firm and playful.

Evelyn swallowed as she placed the rack on the countertop near the oven. “Sorry.” She stood back. “So, what happened?”

“My own stubbornness.” She opened the oven; a whoosh of heat sped past them. “Whoo!” She pulled the golden-topped pie out, set it on the rack, and kicked the door shut in one smooth movement. “He loved me and I loved him—no two ways about it—but . . . well, he was much like your daddy in that he hardly had two plugged nickels to rub together.” She went to the Frigidaire, opened it, and brought out a bottle of milk, then set about pouring a couple of glasses. “Let’s sit out in the wicker room,” she said. “Too warm in here.”

Evelyn followed her aunt into the glassed-in room at the back of the house filled with old white wicker furniture. Aunt Dovalou handed her a glass of the cold milk before they sat together on the divan. “Now, Judith had just run off with that sweet daddy of yours and got married. Mama and Daddy were both beside themselves and . . .” She took a drink of her milk. It left a small moustache along her top lip, which she licked off. “I kept telling Rood that we only needed to wait awhile. Let my parents get over the shock of it. Then Mama died, and I told him we needed to wait until Daddy got through the mourning period.” She paused, her eyes scanning the room as though a scene had unfolded in front of her.

After long moments passed, Evelyn found the courage to speak. “What happened?”

She looked into her glass of half-drunk milk. “He got tired of waiting, especially after this pretty little thing started batting her eyes at him.”

“Where is he now? Still here?”

Aunt Dovalou nodded. “He goes over to the Episcopal church so I don’t see him—well, hardly ever. But sometimes we run into each other at the Piggly Wiggly.” She smiled through tears, forcing Evelyn to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying. “They had three children—all grown by now—and then his wife took off with a Fuller Brush salesman.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

“When?”

“About five years ago.”

Evelyn shifted on the little sofa. “Aunt Dovalou! You are—what? Fifty-one? Fifty-two?”

Aunt Dovalou feigned shock. “And your point?”

“You should tell him how you feel. Because I can tell you still feel something for him.”

Her aunt pointed a perfectly shaped nail at her. “That’s not the point. Now you listen to me, little missy. A good man is hard to find.”

“You’re telling me . . .”

“Is all this about that Hank boy back in Portal?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No.” Evelyn inhaled deeply. “Aunt Dovalou, that pie smells so good.” She stood. “What’s say we cut a slice and pour another glass of milk?”

Aunt Dovalou stood. “I can tell when you’re dismissing me. I can only hope you heard me.”

Evelyn leaned over to kiss her aunt’s pretty face. “I was listening, Aunt Dovalou.
And
I heard you.”

Chicago

Robert had been back in the States a month before he flew up to Chicago—because of a business meeting, but also to see Joan.

“I’ll go to my meeting,” he told her on the phone the week before. “Then I’ll pick you up at your work.”

Shortly after she’d gotten resettled back into life in the States—this time in Evanston, where she moved into the same boardinghouse that Magda had once resided in—she found a job at the National Industrial Recreation Association, a forward-thinking company that placed recreational equipment in businesses so as to get their employees “moving.”

“We’ll go out to dinner. Just the two of us,” he continued. “Anywhere you want to go.”

“I can hardly wait,” she told him, and it was true.

“See you soon, then.”

Joan couldn’t be entirely sure how, but somehow on the day of their first meeting since leaving Germany she managed to complete the tasks in front of her. At the end of the day, she pulled the typewriter cover out of the drawer and placed it over the machine, then retrieved her purse and coat and dashed out of the office toward the elevator. She pulled on her gloves while waiting for the doors to open, pausing over the left hand, staring longingly at the ring finger, wondering—fleetingly, but wondering—if Robert had come to Chicago with a ring in tow. And, if he had, what it might look like.

A deep breath escaped her lungs. “Oh, dear,” she said, placing a hand on the wall to steady herself. As much as she loved Robert, she couldn’t say with all honesty that she was certain of a future with him. Joan had heard a lot about the South—from the news,
from Lucy, and from Evelyn. She couldn’t imagine someone like herself living there. Surviving and thriving there.
If
he proposed and
if
they married, would she be expected to become a full-time homemaker? Would she be expected to get up every morning to cook her husband’s breakfast, tidy up behind him after he’d left for the office, wash and fold the laundry, and then prepare a dinner feast for when he came home?

Or would there be a maid for that, like she’d heard nearly every Southern woman had?

“Oh, no,” she said to no one as the elevator doors slid open to reveal an empty lift. “Not me,” she said, stepping in and pushing the button marked
L
.

She couldn’t bear the thought of becoming one of
those
women who hired other women to clean their homes and then paid them meager salaries. Then again, she told herself, perhaps everything she’d read, everything she’d seen in the movies—all of it—was nothing more than propaganda for the purpose of drama.

“And besides,” she said as the elevator rattled to a stop. “Maybe Robert has no intention of proposing.” The doors slid open again, revealing highly polished, black-and-white faux marble linoleum . . . and a pair of highly polished men’s shoes.

Her eyes traveled up the length of the man—all six feet, four inches of him, dressed in a dark-blue suit and a narrow navy-and-white tie—looking so remarkably handsome that her feet froze and her breath caught in her chest.

“Robert,” she finally managed.

He smiled, deep dimples digging into his cheeks. “Joan.”

She practically jumped out of the lift and into his arms, her feet leaving the floor by a good six inches. His lips, warm and moist, found hers. The kiss, tender and sweet, left her dizzy.

When her feet finally found the floor again, she tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. “Hi, there.”

They both laughed. “I worried I’d never see you again,” he said. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Savannah, Georgia

Evelyn stood in the entryway of her home, back against the door, eyes closed. Her fingertips continued to grip the doorknob, but only barely.

She sighed.

Unexpected, that’s what it had been. Edwin had been the epitome of a gentleman during the entire evening, and while they’d danced together about a half-dozen times, he’d not said or done anything that made her feel uncomfortable.

Maybe it had been the sweetness of the event . . . of watching the students swaying under twisted crepe paper and twinkling lights . . . of being all dressed up . . . of feeling special. Or maybe it had been the way Edwin placed his hand on the small of her back and held her hand so she wouldn’t slip on the icy patches of winter as he escorted her to her car. Whatever it had been, combined with the way he said her name as she started to get into her automobile, had enticed her to turn her face up to his and to allow him to kiss her. Sweetly at first, like a butterfly landing briefly on a spring flower. Then, after a smile and breathing an “okay?” against
her lips, she nodded, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his slid around her back.

“Make no mistake about it, Evelyn,” he said after the kiss had ended but the moment continued to linger. “I’m in love with you. Whatever or whoever hurt you before, I’ll wipe away the memory, if you’ll give me a chance.”

“I’ll think about it,” she’d said. But, standing here now, she knew . . . There was little to think about. Edwin Boland loved her. He
loved
her.

He loved
her
.

Greensboro, North Carolina

Before March came to its official windy close, Joan flew into Greensboro early on a Friday evening, slated to return to Chicago Sunday night following her official “meet-the-family” visit.

Robert met her at the airport, and, as it had in her office building’s lobby, the greeting soared sweetly between them. If he had suggested they find a cozy table in one of the airport’s new restaurants and remain there the entire weekend, it would have been fine with Joan. Instead, his hand dropped to the small of her back, and with gentle pressure, he guided her toward the exit.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

She looked up at him, at the concern in his face. “Not really. Not too much.” While they’d been in Germany, Robert’s mother and sister Nancy had always included little notes to Joan in their correspondence to him. In many ways, she felt they already knew one another. That they were friends.