Francie Comes Home (10 page)

“It'll only take five minutes if you drive fast,” said Chadbourne. She looked around for her mother, but Lottie had disappeared.

Francie said, “Oh, I don't have a car. I'm walking.”

“Walking? You can't. It's too late; it isn't safe,” said Chadbourne, scandlized. “Somebody'll take you down; just wait a minute. Lucky! Come here a minute. Lucky, can't somebody drive Francie back to her house? She says she's walking, but I don't think—”

“I'll do it,” said Bruce Munson promptly.

“Oh no. Please don't bother. Really it's perfectly safe; I
always
—” The rest of Francie's protests were cut off as she was bustled to the door. Another meeting of the club was discussed and dismissed—“After all, I see you every day; we'll fix it up tomorrow,” said Chadbourne—and then she was in that smart blue car she had seen so often, gliding smoothly down the Fredericks driveway.

Lucky's famous profile looked rather stern as he drove, and for a block he didn't speak. Francie had just decided that they would probably finish the evening that way, soundlessly, when he said, “Well, how do you think it went?”

“Oh, well enough,” said Francie. “If only everybody goes on being so enthusiastic, we'll probably produce something pretty good. Certainly if Chad—Chadbourne—carries on as she's started, and with you to provide the professional touch—”

“What do you mean,
professional?”
he growled. “Chadbourne been filling you with that story?”

“Yes, she thinks a lot of your ability,” said Francie.

“Oh well … she's a good kid,” he said, “but all her geese are swans.”

There was a pause. Francie said, “She surprised me tonight.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she's not at all like what I thought she was,” said Francie. “She's younger. And not so sure of herself. And rather sweet, really.”

Bruce laughed. “I don't have to ask what you did think of her, then. Yes, Chadbourne's all right, or would be if the old girl hadn't pushed her around such a lot.”

This sounded rather disrespectful, considering that Mrs. Fredericks was his employer. Francie wasn't sure if she approved his way of putting it, however much she agreed with the sentiment. Still, he was awfully good-looking. She said something more about Chadbourne's friendliness, and Bruce said, “She's all right, considering. I'd hate to be married to her, just the same.”

It was a harmless remark, but it startled her because until then she had assumed that he and Chadbourne had what Aunt Norah would call an “understanding.” Was she wrong, or had he dragged the statement in on purpose? Somehow he had sounded overemphatic.

The car drew up at her driveway, and she climbed out without having decided the point.

“Thanks. I'll be seeing you at the next meeting,” she said.

“Good!” he smiled cordially and drove off.

He was dangerously attractive, Francie decided. This might stir up Glenn—rumors of this handsome man and Francie. And if he didn't really belong to Chadbourne, where, after all, was the danger?

CHAPTER 8

“Oh dear,” said Florence Ryan, peering down the street from her vantage point in the show window. “Francie, you aren't going to like this I'm afraid.”

“What do you mean? Let me see!” Francie ran over and craned her neck. She groaned. “Oh, Mrs. Ryan, how right you are.”

Cousin Biddy was marching along, bearing down determinedly on the Birthday Box. Her determined stance didn't really mean anything; Biddy always looked that way. She looked and walked rather like a long-legged bird—a heron, perhaps; and she had a bird's beady eye. She was very thin and her clothes never seemed to fit properly, and when she turned her head suddenly in her loose collar, it had the same startling effect as when a parrot or an owl turned its head on its neck without ruffling a feather. By the time she had stepped across the threshold of the Box, Francie was demurely back in position near the counter.

“Hello, Florence,” she said. “Well, Frances Beatrice.”

“Hello, Cousin Biddy,” said Francie resignedly. “You out shopping?”

“I was in the next block and I thought I'd ask about Norah and your father. I thought Norah sounded a little tired on the phone this morning. It's two weeks or more before the new help comes. You're not letting her overwork, are you?” The beady eyes looked coldly accusing. Biddy herself had helped them when they were looking for a woman to come in part-time in the mornings for housework.

“Of course I'm not. At least, I certainly hope I'm not. I know I try to prevent it,” said Francie. “
I
didn't think she was tired.”

“She looked fine to me yesterday when I saw her,” said Florence Ryan, coming to the rescue. Biddy, outflanked, changed the subject.

“How are things going? Have you learned to make change yet?” she demanded. This was a subtle reference to a mistake Francie had made during the first days she worked at the Birthday Box, when she had short-changed an acquaintance of Biddy's and had to run down the street after her, to correct the matter. This was something Francie didn't mind being reminded of; it was a trifle. She laughed and said she was catching on better nowadays.

While Biddy's henlike gaze darted around the shop, she began a long conversation with Mrs. Ryan over a set of coral earrings; she was thinking, she said, of buying them for a present. Mrs. Ryan was getting them out of the window as Lucky Munson's car drove up and parked, as usual, at the curb between the two shops. Chadbourne climbed out and so did he. They saw Francie through the glass and waved on their way to the front door of Fredericks & Worpels. Biddy, of course, spotted it, though she wasn't facing their direction. Pop always said she had eyes set in the sides of her head.

“Who was that, Frances Beatrice?” she demanded, and when Francie told her she said, “Huh. I didn't know you were friendly with people like that.”

“My goodness, Cousin Biddy, who said we were so friendly? They only waved, after all.”

“I don't think much of that young man,” said Biddy without replying. “He looks flighty to me. Like a gigolo. Don't you think so, Florence?”

Florence Ryan said she was quite sure what a gigolo looked like. “I haven't had much opportunity to find out,” she added apologetically; “I don't think there are many in Jefferson.”

“Nonsense. You've seen them in the movies, the same as me,” said Biddy, “and that's just what he looks like. I can't imagine what Lottie Fredericks thinks she's
up
to. As for that girl—but then, young people today are all alike.” She shook her head. “Still, some of them have manners,” she added, brightening. “Frances Beatrice, I wonder if you remember David Bean. Do you?”

Francie certainly did remember David. He was the one who had always asked her to dance, though she had wished he wouldn't, when they were both small children attending the dancing school on Saturday morning. He had been shorter than she was, as little boys so often are in the growing-up period, and he had adenoids that made him puff when he pushed and pulled her around the floor. She recalled now that his mother had always been a good friend of Biddy's.

“Well, he's living in Jefferson,” said Biddy triumphantly, “and I saw him yesterday, and he was asking about you. What do you think of that? Let me tell you, Francie, you might do a lot worse.”

This time she drew blood. Francie flushed with rage. She was about to say something she would undoubtedly have been very sorry for the next minute when, fortunately, another acquaintance passed the window—Mrs. Clark. From the way her step slowed as she reached the door, then quickened again at sight of Cousin Biddy, Francie had the impression that she had meant to come in but was frightened off, which wasn't surprising.

“Isn't that Anne Clark?” demanded Cousin Biddy. “I should never have known her. No, never in this world. And she was such a pretty girl!”

Mrs. Ryan let it pass, but Francie couldn't. She said firmly,
“I
think she's very nice-looking.”

Biddy brushed it aside. “I suppose she must have seen a lot of trouble, that explains it—traipsing around the world the way she did with that husband of hers. It never does a woman any good, all that sun.”

“Mrs. Clark spent most of the time she was abroad in Shanghai,” said Francie, speaking in careful, stilted tones. “The climate there is no worse than it is right here in the Middle West. She told me herself that she'd always felt awfully well in China.”

“That's nonsense,” said Biddy briskly. “Conditions there must have been appalling. You've only to look at the woman's skin. Malarial, I would call it; I shouldn't think she's, known a healthy day since she left this town and went out there.”

There followed one of the wrangles with Cousin Biddy that one somehow got into every time. Francie was always furious with herself later for having fallen into the same trap once again, but there was something about Cousin Biddy's flat way of announcing wrong-headed facts that she could never let pass. It would have been better, she knew, to behave like Mrs. Ryan and never take up Biddy on anything, but such behavior was beyond attainment. What on earth, she now asked, did Cousin Biddy mean, anyway, when she said “out there”? Was she referring to Japan, or Malaya, or China? Because Mrs. Clark had lived in all three places.

Biddy's face set in a mulish expression. It was apparent that she didn't quite know what she meant; it was equally apparent that she had no intention of admitting it. Instead she said, “Don't be so stubborn, Frances Beatrice, talking up to your elders like that. I knew Anne Clark before you were born.”

“Well, I know her now,” said Francie. “In fact, I'm going to ask her over for supper pretty soon, so there. I think she's very, very nice.”

Cousin Biddy said she hadn't said anything to the contrary, had she? A few minutes later she took her leave. “Well, good-by, Florence, I don't think I'll take those earrings after all,” she said; “I don't think they're real coral—they couldn't be at the price.” She said good-by to Francie without rancor. She was used to people losing their tempers with her. Francie felt ashamed of herself as soon as her cousin's bony figure had disappeared.

A few minutes later Anne Clark returned and, seeing the coast clear, came in. Francie felt her ruffled feelings lying down like feathers in the other woman's comfortable presence. It was nearly closing time. She helped Mrs. Ryan brew coffee and bring it out; she set the little card table. In a few minutes they were all cozily drinking and eating little cakes. This was a ceremony that had lately become almost a daily occurrence. Mrs. Clark looked around the shop, her quick glance taking in several additions that had been made that morning when a shipment arrived from the East.

“Really, Florence, you ought to be put in prison,” she said when she noticed a new pair of hideous book ends.

Mrs. Ryan said calmly, “The way you talk! Cake? That pair of book ends, it might interest you to know, will probably be sold this evening or, if not today, most certainly tomorrow morning. I've had inquiries about them already. It's the kind of thing women buy to give their husbands.”

“Oh, I never thought you'd be stuck with it,” said Mrs. Clark. “The worst part of your sort of business is that these things do sell. I know it, and that's why I think you ought to be in jail. I appeal to your assistant; I'm sure Francie agrees with me don't you, Francie? Isn't that pair of book ends offensive?”

“I'm not crazy about them myself,” admitted Francie. She added loyally, “But Mrs. Ryan's right about their selling. They've attracted a lot of attention just in the little while they've been here, and that's what a shop is for, isn't it?”

“That's my girl,” said Florence Ryan.

Francie's flaring up in Mrs. Clark's defense with Cousin Biddy hadn't been merely a natural response to irritation. She genuinely admired Mrs. Clark now, and enjoyed her visits to the Birthday Box; she liked her droll way of talking. It was always a relief to see her after some of the silly salesmen and gushing customers, and Mrs. Clark did know a surprising amount about some of the things in the place—as now, when Francie cleared away the coffee things and began to unpack more of the packages that had arrived in the morning delivery. She opened a flat shiny white box that had come from San Francisco; it revealed a set of eight glazed porcelain horses of Chinese design. Mrs. Clark was delighted with them, told her why there were eight to a set, and promised to unpack and show Mrs. Ryan and Francie a Chinese painting she possessed, of those same eight horses disporting themselves in a field. She knew a lot of interesting things about Chinese decoration—the rules of symmetry, for instance: the way Chinese people liked to have scrolls in pairs, and tables and chairs in pairs, too.

“Well, whatever they signify, I'm certainly glad to see they're letting those little horses come through,” said Mrs. Ryan. “We couldn't get them for a long time. The customs people were difficult about letting that sort of thing in because they suspected it didn't originate in Hong Kong, and you know there's a law now against importing anything at all from China itself.”

“But these
were
probably made in Hong Kong,” said Mrs. Clark. “The place is full of new little factories, so I'm told.”

“You just try to convince the customs people of that,” said Mrs. Ryan with a sigh.

Anne Clark picked up her shopping basket, and Francie spoke quickly for fear she would be too shy to say it if she waited. “Mrs. Clark, I was wondering—do you awfully much mind going out at night? Because Aunt Norah would be very pleased, I know, if you'd come in to supper some time soon, and maybe we could play Scrabble or something later. Or watch television.”