Five Brides (59 page)

They set about the task of hanging up the dress, all the while talking about getting a hoop for underneath and the right shoes for the length. “And for my son’s height,” Mrs. Zimmerman said.
“You are a foot shorter than he is, Joan. If you don’t have a shoe with
some
heel, you’ll look like a midget.”

Joan smiled at the thought.

Mrs. Zimmerman continued to stare at the dress, which now hung high from the closet door. “It’s certainly practical doing it this way, isn’t it?” She turned to look at Joan. “Thrifty.”

Joan loosely crossed her arms. “I just think of it as
fun
. We had such a good time that day. Very unusual, you understand, for us to even be together on a Saturday, much less to go shopping together. In fact, I’m not sure we’d ever done
anything
like that before. Certainly not after.”

Nancy walked to the bedside table for her tea and took a long swallow. “It’s trusting too. What if you had put in your share of the money, and let’s say the third bride had torn the lace or something?”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Zimmerman set about inspecting the dress more carefully.

“Nancy.” Joan walked to the chair and picked up the bunny. “What would you say to being my matron of honor?”

Nancy swallowed midsip before placing the glass back on the table. “Seriously? Mother? Did you hear?”

Mrs. Zimmerman blinked behind her glasses. “I’m standing no more than six feet away, Nancy. Of course I heard.”

“I would adore it, Joan. What will your colors be?” Nancy dropped to the arm of the chair, tucking her right foot behind her bent left knee.

“Colors?”

“Yes. You know, for the wedding. Mine were champagne pink and rose. The bridesmaids wore the champagne pink and Frances wore the rose. I still have her dress in the closet over there.” She jumped up, went to the closet, and carefully opened the door to
avoid disturbing the gown. She drew out a long zippered bag, which she then draped across the bed.

“Here we go,” she said, opening the bag and lifting a taffeta dress that rustled in protest. “Hey, I’ve an idea. Why don’t I wear this? Of course we’ll have to have it dry-cleaned too.”

“Nancy,” Mrs. Zimmerman said, “don’t you think you’re taking over just a tiny bit here?”

Nancy looked at Joan, her eyes wide. “Oh, Joan. I’m so sorry . . .”

“No,” Joan said. “I don’t mind. I’ve never thought about colors or dresses or any of those things. This makes it all quite easy, doesn’t it? Practical?”

“And you’re sure you don’t mind, Joan?” Mrs. Zimmerman placed her hands on her ample hips, not waiting for an answer. “Well, all right then. We need to start thinking about what Robert will wear. And his best man—whom I assume will be his daddy—and groomsmen and . . .”

Dizziness slid down Joan’s spine, turning the blood in her veins to dishwater. She eased herself down to the chair as Mrs. Zimmerman’s voice traveled down a long tunnel, then returned to the bedroom. Her heart hammered from deep within, ceased to beat altogether, then resumed beating with a flutter.

“Joan?” Nancy took her hand and viciously patted. “Are you okay? Mother, grab my tea over there.”

The thought of taking a drink of sweet tea brought Joan around. “I’m fine.” She raised her free hand. “For a moment there, I just . . .”

“Do you need me to get Robert?” Mrs. Zimmerman asked.

“Mother,”
Nancy answered for her. “We’ve got the dresses all over up here.” She looked at Joan. “This is normal. I think I canceled my wedding three or four times before we actually got to the day.”

Joan swallowed. “You did?”

Nancy squatted, her pretty face glowing with memory. “With the choosing of the flowers and the planning of the reception and the luncheons and teas and showers and brunches . . .”

Joan blinked furiously. “We have to—do
all
that?” She’d already been through such changes. Perhaps too many for such a short period of time. In five short years, she’d gone from British citizen to American, from living in Chicago to living in Germany and back again, from focusing solely on working and growing as an individual to falling in love and moving to soil more foreign than anything she’d experienced in Europe. And now . . . a wedding and all this too?

Mrs. Zimmerman walked to the door and opened it. “Nancy, you’ll give the poor girl a heart attack. Joan, I’m going downstairs to percolate some coffee. Come on down when you can and have a cup with me.” She nodded once. “Trust me, whatever is ailing you will vanish with a strong cup of coffee.”

Dear Joan,

I will keep this note short. I look forward to attending your wedding, to meeting Robert and to having you meet Edwin. We will arrive on Friday afternoon, check into our rooms at the hotel you suggested, and then go out for dinner. I know our time—yours and mine—will be brief on Saturday, but I wouldn’t miss your special day.

Well, Joan, you may want to sit down for this one. I am officially in love. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure after the Valentine’s dance, even with the tender kiss he gave me at the end of the evening, but now, after all these months, I think my fears have begun to dissipate.

That doesn’t sound too sure, does it? But I actually said it out loud the other night. I said, “I love you too,” and I meant it.

I know you will adore him. He is a good man. A patient man. And a godly man.

George Volbrecht has a lot to learn.

Fondly,

Evelyn

P.S. How are you surviving the South?

Dear Evelyn,

I look forward to seeing you as well, and to meeting your Edwin.

How am I surviving, you ask. Southern women, I have come to realize, are often portrayed as dolled-up and frail, ready to swoon at a moment’s notice. They are shown as silently standing in their husband’s shadow—unsure of what might happen next, incapable of making quick decisions, and almost too delicate for a decent day’s work.

In reality, they are the leaders of the South. While Southern men sit in powerful places of business, it is their female secretaries who keep them in line, who make sure they get where they need to be, when they need to be there, who remind them what’s next on the agenda and of its importance. This may be no different than in the North, but the Southern secretary—in the few times I have seen her at work—has a command one can read in her eyes. A wisdom that doesn’t need a title or a promotion (although, if I have anything to do with it, that will end on my watch).

If a Southern man stands behind a podium and makes a speech, I guarantee you both his wife and secretary read and approved the words therein. His wife also picked out his suit, his tie, and his socks.

While the Southern man believes himself to be the absolute head of his household, it is the woman he pledged his eternal allegiance to who dictates more of what goes on within the four walls of the home. She may be quiet, but she is powerful. Her children both respect and fear her, and with that combination, she is able to keep order. Her husband, oblivious to what happens while he is away at the office, only knows that when he enters the home at the end of his busy day, supper is waiting on the table, the children have been fed and bathed, and while a housekeeper may have been at work behind the scenes, it is the wife and mother who dictated when, where, and how.

I have come to see, Evelyn, even in the short time I’ve been here, that the Southern woman standing silent in the shadows isn’t doing so because she doesn’t have a spine. Rather, she is there to make certain things are run the right way. The only way.

The Southern way.

As Mrs. Blue (my wedding conductor) and Mrs. Zimmerman discussed the ins and outs of my wedding, I came to realize that if I want to have any say over my special day, then I’m going to have to be as strong and as “loud.” Not in voice but in character. And in my demand that Robert, and Robert only, be the one to walk me down the aisle. When you and Edwin sit as the only guests on the bride’s side, you will see that I have, finally, arrived in the South.

Fondly,

Joan

September 22, 1956

Joan chose a fingertip veil attached to a tiara of pearls and sequins as the one thing that would set her wearing of the dress apart from the others’. For Nancy’s bouquet, she chose hearty chrysanthemums. Nancy loaned her a prayer book marked only with an orchid for her to hold as she walked down the aisle.

The simplicity of it sent a flutter through Joan’s heart.

“What time is it?” she asked her soon-to-be sister-in-law as they stood in the bride’s room.

Nancy glanced at her delicate gold wristwatch. “Ten fifteen.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Zimmerman and Mrs. Coleman dropped the dress from Carson’s over Joan’s head. When they were done, when the final button had been fastened into place, Frances adjusted Joan’s headpiece and veil, draping the netting over her face.

Mrs. Blue—a woman truly in her element—breezed in and out of the room, directing each moment like the maestro of a fine orchestra. For a while, Joan stood at a window, looking out over the lush lawn of the church property, to the street beyond where cars slowed as they neared the parking lot. She sighed in contentment, knowing that one by one in the large sanctuary not far away, Robert’s family and friends were taking their places.

Organ music filled the room with each opening and closing of the door. Joan focused on the grandness of it. Bob Procter was, indeed, a fine musician.

“Joan?”

Joan turned at the sound of Mrs. Blue’s voice to see the older woman standing at the open door. “It’s time.”

Nancy snatched up her bouquet, then the prayer book and orchid, which she handed to Joan. “Just think,” she said with a smile. “In less than an hour you’ll be Mrs. Robert Zimmerman. Are you nervous?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “As far as I’m concerned, there are only two people in this entire church—Robert and me.”

Nancy’s eyes smiled before the rest of her face did. “Good answer.” She patted Joan’s hand and then turned and walked purposefully toward the door.

Mrs. Blue stopped Joan, fluffed the gown’s skirt, and mumbled, “Since you’ll see your groom outside the sanctuary doors, let’s make certain you’re all put together.”

After meeting her approval, Joan fell in step behind her, blinking furiously when she saw Robert, who stood elegant and dapper in his morning suit near the closed sanctuary doors.

He pressed his hand against his chest and smiled as he offered her the bend of his arm, which she took.

“By golly, boys,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “I believe I’m going to marry this girl.”