Betty never wanted to give Nannie and Zaide a reason to be sorry they’d raised her. Most girls didn’t have mothers, let alone grandmothers, who were as encouraging as Nannie. She kvelled at Betty’s grades and ambition as much as (or maybe more than) she acknowledged Betty’s beauty, even if she’d inherited that from “the other side” of the family. The side she didn’t know. In her grandparents’ hearts and eyes, Betty could do no wrong.
One outfit choice wouldn’t change that, no matter who sent it.
Betty’s best friends walked out of the main house behind her. It wasn’t a house in the ordinary sense, because no one lived there. Zaide had bought it in the twenties when it was a hotel. It stood two stories tall with white wood siding and a green pitched roof, green shutters to match, each showcasing a window box that would overflow with impatiens and honeysuckles as soon as there was no longer the fear of frost. A stoop led to the oversize front door with a brass knocker no one used. Once inside the lobby, the vast dining room was off to the left, with its chandeliers and brocade wallpaper and windows overlooking the beach and resort grounds. The social hall and smaller activity rooms sat to the right. The kitchen lived behind it all, sizzling and buzzing and transmitting mouthwatering aromas about eighteen hours a day. The upstairs rooms once housed guests in luxury, but now were used for storage.
Georgia and Doris bopped down the green painted steps, skittered and skipped toward Betty, and stood by her like sentry guards.
“Your grandmother asked us to make sure everything was set in the dining room,” Georgia said. “Since you were late. And I see why.”
“I wasn’t late,” Betty said. “I had to get ready.” She turned to Georgia. “Zaide said he hired a few new rising seniors. I just couldn’t wear a dress from high school.”
“Heavens no!” Doris laughed. She wore a madras shirtwaist Betty had seen a hundred times. It didn’t matter, though. Doris didn’t have plans for her summer other than a sensible suntan.
“You already look like a fashion writer, Betty!” Doris said.
“Fashion editor,” Betty said.
“Here, Miss Editor.” Doris handed Betty a paper name tag and a straight pin. Betty attached the name tag over her heart, as did the other girls. It was true. Her heart belonged to South Haven, at least for one more summer.
“This is going to be a blast,” Betty said.
Georgia laughed. “You say that every year. And working here every year is pretty much the same.”
Doris raised her arms over her head, faking jumping jacks. “And a-one, and a-two . . .”
“This year is going to be different,” Betty said.
“How so?” Doris asked. She was the little sister neither of the other girls had, even though she was the same age. Doris was four foot eleven and effervescent and a little naive, always finding the bright side of things and people. She was friends with everyone, and she truly liked everyone. Betty found Doris darling, but exhausting, with her romantic notions of Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. Betty liked boys—she really liked boys—but she was a little more practical.
“Boy-crazy Betty is looking for her summer love.” Georgia drew out the last word in a breathy voice.
“I’m sure you’ll have your pick,” Doris said.
“I am not looking for love. I just know a handsome boy when I see one. And I want to have fun.” What Betty wanted was to head to New York and not stick out like a country bumpkin.
“I don’t know why you’re thinking about the boys here anyhow,” Doris said. “You’re going to meet a boy when you go to Barnard. A Columbia student. Maybe someone studying to be a doctor or a dentist. Or a lawyer.”
“You sound like Nannie,” Betty said. She shook her head. “I just want to have a marvelous summer, and what could be more marvelous than a summer romance?” Betty asked. She turned to Georgia. “I’d say I’m looking for a fling, but it sounds so crude,” Betty whispered.
Georgia nodded, and Betty shivered from the breeze. Or anticipation.
“I’ll meet my husband in Chicago,” Doris said. She had a job lined up as a salesgirl at Marshall Field’s and was going to live in a rooming house in September. “It doesn’t matter that you’ll be in New York. We’ll still be each other’s bridesmaids, of course.”
“Life isn’t all about boys and marriage,” Georgia said.
Doris dropped open her mouth, and if Betty had had a peach, she could have popped one in.
Georgia was right, of course. She was heading to Northwestern University as a premed. She wanted to be a doctor, and Betty knew she would be. That’s why Georgia understood Betty’s dream of working at a glossy fashion magazine the way her other friends did not. Doris wanted an office job and an engagement ring, like most of the girls Betty knew.
Betty’s life would be about first earning her English degree and then landing a job as a fashion writer at one of the magazines she’d read until she’d worn out the pages. Seventeen. Mademoiselle. Vanity Fair. Compact. Then she’d work her way up to editor. That’s when she’d have a say about fashion and beauty trends and what women read about them. It would be her way of having an impact.
Secondary to that was the idea of meeting boys. Men, really, and to be fair, it was a close second.
Nannie and Zaide wanted “their girl” to be educated and to achieve, even if that meant leaving South Haven. Betty couldn’t have asked for kinder and more generous grandparents.
Georgia stood taller, checked her watch, and smiled at Betty, who felt small in a protected sort of way. Georgia was five foot nine and her presence commanded attention. Her ginger hair tumbled halfway down her back and a genuine tortoiseshell headband held it off her face. Freckles swept from one cheek to the other, and her eyes were emerald green, not a murky hazel. She wore tennis whites because she was the resort’s only tennis coach and she didn’t want any of the coeds to think they were taking her place.
Betty had tried to coax Georgia into wearing red lipstick today since she wouldn’t really be playing tennis. Max Factor’s Clear Red would have set her features ablaze against the all-white ensemble, but Georgia stuck with Dorothy Gray’s Sea Coral. Betty had to admit Georgia looked sophisticated, and for a moment she stung with jealousy. Then she remembered she’d worn the red lipstick. If it was good enough for Elizabeth Taylor, it was good enough for Betty Stern.
Betty wasn’t as glamorous as Liz, but she was all right. She’d heard it all her life. She stood five foot four, but little else about her was average. Her hair hung in soft curls without needing a hairdresser, though today she’d maneuvered it all into a red scarf and tied it like a bomb girl, with the knot at the top, pulling a few strands of curls forward to drift across her forehead. Betty’s curvaceous figure had sprung to life, so to speak, during tenth grade. The thing about Betty was that she was also a brain who’d earned all As and perfect attendance awards for her four years at South Haven High. She worked hard for her grades and was grateful for the peer recognition. Her classmates had voted her senior girl most likely to succeed and prettiest senior girl. That had clinched it. She had always thought she’d enter the Miss South Haven contest when she was eighteen, and her grandparents had encouraged it. With that confidence, coupled with the fact that the hands-down favorite, Nancy Green, was traveling in Europe, she might actually have a chance at winning.
Zaide thought she’d be a shoo-in.
“Win or lose, you’re my bathing beauty,” Nannie said.
Betty believed her, and she stood a little straighter thinking about the legacy of Miss South Haven, as well as the bragging rights and free publicity for her grandparents.
Three cars rounded the corner to the east, music blaring from the open windows. Summer was just a block away.
“How do I look?” Betty whispered.
“You look swell,” Doris said. “Like a real college girl. I wish I did.” Doris flicked at her short sandy-brown bangs, then dropped her hand to her side. Her plaid skirt was meant more for winter t
han spring, but Betty said nothing.
Instead of worrying about Doris’s clothes, Betty fretted about her own. Maybe she was a tad overdressed. Would the older girls mock her? Would the boys turn away? She’d brought shorts and tennis shoes to change into later. She didn’t have to unload cars and unpack steamer trunks, but she did want to blend in during the staff dinner in the dining room that evening.
Five cars pulled onto the resort’s circular drive, and three more turned the corner, all looking shinier and sounding noisier than ever—or Betty watched and listened more closely than she had before. Maybe next summer she’d take classes, or get a job at a magazine in New York. This could be the last summer she’d have the notoriety of her last name, with all its benefits and drawbacks.
The chrome and glass sparkled and danced like the lake at sunset, and exhaust fumes filled the air and held on to the music that blared from the radio.
When the cars were parked, the kids tumbled out. The wet, woodsy scent of aftershave mixed with the medicinal aroma of hair spray smelled as much like summer as Coppertone. Though she was dazed and overloaded, Betty didn’t want the spectacle to end. When the group started toward her grandparents, it broke her trance. In the Stern family, Betty would take second place to the staff and guests for the next few months.
She glanced across the lawn toward her grandparents but couldn’t see them anymore in the crowd. What Betty could see was that none of the other girls wore scarves. She’d felt grown-up and slightly scandalous when she’d opted for it over the pearl barrette Nannie had hoped she’d wear, but now she wasn’t so sure. Was she old-fashioned or fashionable?
Goose bumps scattered up her arms and across her shoulders even though it was seventy-five degrees. Michigan May could bring any kind of weather. At least there was no more snow.
It was then, the instant Betty thought about snow in May, that she saw a boy who made her heart shudder. Even from a distance, he was movie-star handsome—clean cut like all the boys but with a bit of a natural swagger that drew her attention the way a magnet draws nails. He wore tan trousers, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a tie. He had to be new. She would not have forgotten that face. Those shoulders. But she hadn’t seen him step out of a car. Was he an apparition? A manifestation of her dreams? He was bold in his fashion choice. None of the others wore ties. Now she recognized him! He looked like a young William Holden, dimples and all.
Betty unpinned her name tag and tore away her heritage, becoming “Betty S” instead of the more identifiable “Betty Stern.”
“Does my lipstick look okay?” She sent a silent prayer to Max Factor that it looked better than okay.
Georgia smirked. “Yes. It’s fine.”
Betty crumpled the half of the name tag she had removed and shoved it behind her belt buckle. Georgia watched.
“What? I just want to have a fun summer before college,” Betty said.
Georgia raised and lowered her sculpted brows. “He’s too old for you.”
“Who are you talking about?” Betty asked, her heart pounding with possibilities.
“The one with the dimple in his chin, smarty-pants.” Georgia pointed toward him with a tip of her head. “I know you, Betty. You’re going to get into trouble with that one.”
“Betty knows better,” Doris said. Sweet Doris. “What are you going to say if your grandparents see that?” Doris pointed to Betty’s name tag. “Do you want me to get you a new one? It’ll just take a sec.”
“They won’t notice,” Betty said. She looked at her William Holden talking to the other boys, but not standing in their circle. He smiled and nodded but kept a few yards between himself and the others.
Betty’s calves warmed as the sun stroked them, making her more conscious of her legs than she’d ever been and shifting her attention away from the burn on her arm. Then she turned her right heel toward the arch of her left foot.
“This isn’t a beauty contest, Betty.” Georgia pointed to Betty’s feet.
“I’m just practicing for Miss South Haven. You know I’m entering this year.”
Doris giggled. “You’ve told us a hundred times.”
Betty circled her hands and clasped them behind her back and stood straight, shoulders back. She knew what good posture did for her bustline, even when she was all buttoned up.
“You’re blushing!” Doris said. “Your grandmother is not going to be happy you’re flirting with staff.”
“Get over yourself, Doris,” Georgia said. “Betty’s just having fun. He’s not even looking this way.”
And then he was, but just as quickly he turned back toward the street and to the girls who weren’t Betty. He stood close enough for the girls to look, but not touch. Betty’s shoulders relaxed, and she dragged her arms around front, skimming the bandage covering her burn against her hip, which sent a shock wave not nearly as painful as being ignored. Or worse, not even noticed.
Turn around, turn around, turn around.
Nothing happened.
Turn around, turn around, turn around.
Then he did just that. Not only did he turn around, he saw her, and he smiled so wide that the girls nearby turned to see what, or who, he was looking at.
Goose bumps started at Betty’s neck and shot down her body like ice pellets.
“He’s looking at you,” Georgia said.
“He’s not even pretending that he’s not looking at you, you lucky duck,” Doris said.
Betty looked right back at him, or as right at him as she could from the other side of the lawn. Then she reached up with both hands and untied the knot in her scarf, releasing the fabric down her neck. It brushed across her shoulders, and Betty shook with shivers she didn’t even try to hide. She tipped her neck from side to side, releasing her cascade of curls in slow motion.
Georgia grabbed the scarf and pounded it into a ball, tucking it as much inside her hands as she could. “Don’t be a drama queen, Betty. Everyone knows who you are.”
“Not everyone,” she said.
Chapter 4
BETTY
The first weekend of summer passed in a frenzy of welcome activities. The resort had filled to capacity, of course, and Betty resumed her summer routine as if it had never ended.
Late Tuesday afternoon, she closed the front door of her family’s home and skipped down the patio’s cement steps, the skirt of her white broadcloth dress bouncing against her shins. The sun kissed the apples of her cheeks, already rosy from a dab of rouge. It was going to be a great night.
Georgia and Doris waited by the curb, both gussied up like Betty, wearing dresses they’d once saved for a high school dance. Georgia’s two-piece lavender-and-purple number with its modest V-neck and a princess waist, cinched tight with a thin white patent-leather belt, made her look as if she’d stepped out of a Seventeen magazine spread. Doris’s blue eyes sparkled, whether from the sun or her yellow taffeta dress, Betty didn’t know. The girls had taken her advice and worn lipsticks in shades that complemented their dresses, Georgia a deep russet, and Doris a bubblegum pink. Betty just had to know the colors and brands! Her friends looked so grown-up. Is that how she looked to them with her pink lips and her dress with its matching sweater that she’d buttoned just at her neck to show off her décolletage?
“No one will recognize us,” Georgia said.
“I think that’s the point,” Doris said. “These boys and their families will be the upper crust. We don’t want them to see us as part of the staff, but as possibilities.”
Georgia tapped Doris’s shoulder. “You mean as potential wives.”
“So what if I do?”
Betty set her hands on her hips. Nannie had asked Betty and her friends to act as hostesses for the first cocktail party of the summer and that’s where they were headed. The girls had done this before, chatting with the guests, talking up the resort activities and upcoming entertainment, listening for any special requests. The event was a delicious combination of socializing and spying.
“You’ll have to limit the flirting tonight, girls; we have to talk to everyone.” Betty sashayed ahead and looked back at her friends. “That means husbands, wives, and the children. Not just the boys our age.”
Her grandparents threw this cocktail party every Tuesday at five-thirty and then served dinner to the guests at six-thirty, as usual. The kitchen prepared the expected four-course meal. Soup, salad, a choice of four entrées—have as many as you wish—each with two sides, and the dessert plate for sharing at the table. And this was all before the midnight buffet, composed of breads, cakes, and fruit salads piled into watermelon boats, for the women who pretended to be watching their waistlines. This late-night indulgence was set out by the kitchen staff for guests to serve to themselves, many of them wrapping sweets in linen napkins and tucking the parcels into their handbags for the trip back to their cabins.
Stern’s serves three meals plus. Emphasis on the plus.
As they stepped onto the lawn, Betty stopped. “Before we get there, let’s make a pact. If one of us likes a boy, he’s off-limits, just like always.”
“You’re just calling dibs on the one with the dimple,” Doris said. “What if I like him too?”
“I keep seeing him in the dining room, but I haven’t met him yet. Not really. I can’t ask my grandparents to introduce me, or ask anything about him, or they’ll want to know why. According to them, this summer is about pitching in around the resort and getting to know my Barnard roommate. I got the assignment last week. She’s Italian. From New Jersey.”
“Ooh, exotic,” Doris said.
“Forget about exotic roommates,” Georgia said. “I’ve met your William Holden.”
Betty clasped her hands.
“His name is Abe Barsky and he’s an architecture major at Michigan. And he’s on the ice hockey team. Apparently your grandfather hired him last-minute.”
The Last Bathing Beauty Page 5
