Five Brides (58 page)

“Easy . . .” Robert said, taking her by the elbow as they crossed the lawn to the narrow strip of cement leading to the front porch steps.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said.

Before they were halfway up the steps, the main door opened and Rodney pushed the screen door open. “You’re back, Uncle Robert.”

Robert looked down at his nephew. “Where is everyone?”

“Back in the den.” Rodney tilted back his head for a better look at his uncle. “Did you do it?” he whispered.

Joan held up her left hand and smiled. “You mean this?”

Rodney grinned. “I guess that means you’ll be my aunt Joan now.”

“Soon enough.”

They entered the house and made their way through, following the sound of conversation and laughter.

“Joan,” Mrs. Zimmerman exclaimed. She rose from her favorite chair nestled in the corner under the wide, open window. “You made it.”

With a smile, she threw out her hand. “Is this what you’ve all come to see?”

The three women gathered around, showering both her and Robert with hugs before Robert’s father gave Joan a swift kiss on the cheek, followed by Nancy’s husband, and finally a dark-haired man who prefaced his hug with, “Hi, Joan. I’m Vic. Frances’s husband. Welcome to the family.”

When the frivolity had settled down, Joan glanced toward the door leading to the kitchen to see Marie wiping her hands on a small dishcloth. Her eyes searched first the crowd and then Joan’s hand.

“What do you think, Marie?” Joan asked.

“That’s right nice, Miss Joan,” she said, her white teeth shining bright against the chocolate of her skin. “Right nice.”

Quickly, before anyone had a chance to react, Joan hurried across the room, threw her arms around Marie, then drew back, resting her hands on her shoulders. “I’m so glad you think so,” she whispered. “Because we’re going to be great friends. I just
know
it.”

For their wedding date, Joan and Robert chose a Saturday in late September.

For Joan,
that
would prove to be the easiest part.

In June, after moving to Greensboro and renting a room in Mrs. Bennett’s Boardinghouse down the same street where Robert’s parents lived, Joan set out to find a job, accepting one at J. P. Stevens with a Mr. Charlie Baxter.

Or, rather,
they
accepted
her
.

“What I mean to say,” Joan told Robert as they walked from his home to hers, “is that
I’m
going to make Mr. Baxter an offer.”

“
You
are?”

“Mmm . . . what the South offers women in the workplace is sinful. So, I’ve decided to offer to work for a salary instead of hourly wages.”

Robert chuckled. “I’m listening . . .”

“Three hundred a month.” Joan paused at the walkway leading to Mrs. Bennett’s front porch and door. “When you figure that the average person works two thousand hours per year or forty hours a week—give or take an hour—then multiply the three hundred by twelve . . . that means I’d work for around a dollar eighty an hour. Give or take a penny.”

Robert wrapped his arm around Joan’s shoulder and they ambled toward the porch steps. “Well, if Charlie Baxter isn’t impressed by your math and reasoning, then I don’t know.”

Joan grinned up at him. “If he accepts my offer, I’ll make over
double
minimum wage.”

“I am
doubly
impressed.”

“Plus,” Joan added, “I can walk to work, they offer wonderful benefits to their employees, and there seems to be a great deal of opportunity for advancement, especially in the PR department.” She linked her arm with his and continued up the concrete steps. “Not to mention they offer amazing deals to their employees for all the products they sell—sheets, pillowcases, towels, curtains. As an employee, I’ll pay a third of the retail cost.” Again she smiled. “For two young marrieds, that will come in handy, don’t you think?”

“You are nothing if not practical.”

“Growing up in England with eight brothers and sisters, I had to be.” She poked him playfully in the chest. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “There surely isn’t.”

Charlie Baxter accepted Joan’s offer.

Now settled in a new town and a new job, Joan’s next assignment—given to her by her future mother-in-law—was to accompany her to see a Mrs. Blue, who would “direct” the wedding.

Having a wedding
directed
felt as foreign to Joan as the fried chicken and sweet iced tea she hadn’t gotten used to—and thought she never would. But if she thought it odd—this directorship—Mrs. Cora Blue found Joan to be equally unusual.

“What do you mean, your parents won’t be here?” Mrs. Blue
reminded Joan of a schoolmarm, and she wore a look of shock and dismay after Joan had explained that
she
would be the only member of her family in attendance the day of the wedding.

The three women sat in Mrs. Blue’s parlor, Mrs. Zimmerman and Joan sharing a bloodred velvet settee while Mrs. Blue sat alone in a matching chair. Between them, a low coffee table boasted a silver tray and coffee service along with three china cups and saucers.

“My parents and siblings live in England.” Joan took a sip of her coffee.

Mrs. Blue looked at Mrs. Zimmerman, her mouth forming an O, and then gazed back at Joan. “But . . . this can’t . . .”

“Joan.” Mrs. Zimmerman spoke softly as she returned the cup and saucer to the tray. “Isn’t there
any
way your parents, at the very least, can make it?”

“Mrs. Zimmerman,” Joan said respectfully, “I don’t think you understand the condition of most of us in England after the war.”

Her face showed both care and concern. “Of course. Of course.” She looked at Mrs. Blue. “We’ll just have to make do, Cora.”

Mrs. Blue continued to appear aghast. “But
Margaret
, people will think Robert is marrying an orphan!”

Mrs. Zimmerman shifted in her seat. “Then we’ll have to explain it in the newspaper.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Simple. We’ll say it matter-of-factly and be done with it.”

“Which brings us to another point.” Mrs. Blue’s fiery eyes widened with concern. “If neither her father nor her brothers are going to be here to walk her down the aisle, who will?”

“Perhaps one of her brothers-in-law . . . ,” Mrs. Zimmerman replied.

Joan wondered if the women had all but forgotten she sat in the same room.

“Bob will play the organ, of course.” Mrs. Blue brought her coffee cup to her lips and sipped its contents delicately.

Joan’s brow shot up.

“Of course, Cora,” Mrs. Zimmerman answered. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Excuse me,” Joan interjected. “Do you mean Bob
Procter
?”

Mrs. Zimmerman smiled, then laid her hand on Joan’s. “He’s a wonderful organist.”

“Is music . . .
necessary
?”

The two older women looked at her like she’d dropped in for a visit from another planet. Apparently, it was. A new thought came, one Joan hoped would set her in good standing again. “Perhaps Nancy would serve as my matron of honor?”

“Before we dash off to that subject,” Mrs. Blue insisted, “
who
will walk her down the aisle? Vic?”

Mrs. Zimmerman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Joan answered. “Why don’t I have Robert walk me down the aisle?” The idea seemed so practical.

Mrs. Blue shook her head. “That would never do.”

“Joan, dear,” Mrs. Zimmerman said, “that kind of thing is just not done in the South.”

“Then,” she said as diplomatically as she knew how, “can we decide this after I talk with Robert?”

“Of course we can,” Mrs. Zimmerman said. “And how nice of you to think of asking Nancy.”

Mrs. Blue dabbed at the corner of one eye. “Now, let’s set a date when we are all available to shop for your dress, Joan.”

“Oh, no worries there,” Joan exclaimed. “
That
I already have.”

Small birds, Joan thought later, could have made nests inside Mrs. Blue’s mouth. No doubt about it.

While Robert set out to find a starter home for Joan and himself, Mrs. Jack Coleman declared it her mission to teach Joan to cook.

“But I know how to cook,” Joan told Robert one evening.

“Southern food,” Robert said out of the side of his mouth.

“Oh.” Joan frowned. “I can hardly get used to eating it; now I have to learn to
cook
it?”

Robert laughed. “You’ll do fine.”

Betty mailed the dress in late August; it arrived the first day of September. When Joan walked through the Zimmermans’ front door that evening for dinner, it was to see Nancy walking into the foyer with a tall, sweating glass of iced tea in her right hand. Joan’s eyes immediately went to the long box taking up residence on the living room sofa.
“My dress,”
she exclaimed.

“I told Mother that’s what it was.
Mother!
” Nancy’s face shone with anticipation. “Joan is here.”

Mrs. Zimmerman hurried from a back room, her pumps clomping softly on the carpet, her deep-blue housedress bringing out the color of her eyes. She held a crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers, which she placed on a table. “You’re here,” she said. “I had to positively force Nancy away from your parcel.” She reached behind the package on the long, formal living room sofa and pulled out an envelope. “This also came for you.”

Joan took it. “A letter from Evelyn.” She placed it with her handbag. “Shall we take the dress upstairs for further inspection?”

“Let’s take it up to my old room, Mother.”

Joan hoisted the box into her arms and followed the two women to the airy bedroom that housed Nancy’s childhood. In spite of her not having lived in the home for several years, the room continued to boast her personality—frilly Priscilla curtains
at the windows and a four-poster bed draped in pale-pink chenille. In the corner, an overstuffed chair held a bunny of the same chenille as the spread. He appeared forlorn at the long stretch of Nancy’s absence.

Nancy and her mother stood on the opposite side of the bed and gasped as Joan tugged off the box top—the one with the Carson Pirie Scott & Co. emblem—and pushed back the tissue paper, revealing a treasure of white lace. She lifted the dress by the shoulders and drew it out, laying it against her frame.

“Joan,” Mrs. Zimmerman breathed out. “It’s positively . . .”

“No
wonder
you don’t mind sharing it with four other women,” Nancy said. She set her glass of iced tea next to the princess lamp on the bedside table. Both women came around the bed to fondle the lace on the sleeves and skirt.

“We’ll need to send this over to Macy’s Dry Cleaners. Mr. Macy does the best work with bridal gown steaming,” Mrs. Zimmerman said. “I wouldn’t trust another living soul with something so elegant.”

Nancy laid the point of one sleeve in the palm of her hand. “And three other women have worn this already?”

“That’s right.”

“And you don’t get to keep it,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No,” Joan said. “That will go to Evelyn, I suppose.” She returned the dress to the bed.

Nancy opened the closet door and brought out a padded hanger. “Here.” She brought it to her nose and sniffed. “Oh, good. It still smells like roses. Let’s hang the dress on this and maybe some of the creases will fall out.”