“Marjorie, what have you done to your hair?”
“Golly, Frances,” Helen said. “Doesn’t she look like a movie star?”
“Don’t say ‘golly,’ Helen. It’s vulgar.” Frances quickly recovered, since one of her ironclad rules is “Make No Scene with Company Present.” Nevertheless, her disapproval of Dot’s and my appearance was so apparent I could almost touch it.
But Dot didn’t seem to take any notice. She simply smiled and said, “How do you do, Mrs. Corrigan. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”
“If you ladies will excuse me, I need to be getting back to the store,” Charlie broke in. He grinned at Dot and then said to me, “Dinner’s at seven, right, sis?”
“Right.”
Earlier, over the telephone, Charlie had been frankly unenthusiastic about being pressed into service to escort my roommate to dinner. However, meeting her had clearly brought about a change of heart. I reckoned he’d be stopping in at the barber for a shave and haircut on his way back to the store.
After showing Dot around and getting her settled in my room, we gathered back on the front porch, grateful for the slightest breeze on the warm afternoon. Ever the meticulous hostess, Frances made polite conversation as she poured lemonade into tall glasses.
“Miss Rodgers, Marjorie tells us you’re from Indiana.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you do in Chicago?”
Dot said, “I’m a singer,” at the same instant that I said, “She sells hats.” She looked at me quizzically as I elaborated. “She’s an associate in the millinery department at Marshall Field & Company.” Now was not the time to raise the topic of singing jazz in cabarets. Not with Frances Corrigan, president of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, Kerryville chapter.
Dot lifted an eyebrow, but went along. “Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Corrigan. I sell hats.”
“Oh, I see,” Frances said. “I suppose you helped Marjorie find that . . . yellow hat.”
She didn’t say ridiculous yellow hat, but I mentally filled in the adjective, knowing that’s what she meant.
“Selling hats sounds like such fun,” said Helen, sprawled in a wicker rocker. “I bet you get to see all the latest styles before anyone else does.”
“Oh, yes, Field’s is the last word on what’s fashionable,” Dot said. “In fact, we currently have a jaunty red beret I think would look quite fetching on you.”
“It would?” Helen’s eyes shone.
“You have plenty of hats, don’t you, Helen? Please sit up straight, dear,” Frances said, effectively ending that line of conversation.
“Not a red one,” Helen grumbled.
We all sat up a little straighter and sipped our lemonade.
“My word, it’s hot today,” I eventually said, for lack of any wittier observation. Murmurs of agreement all around. When in doubt, fall back on the weather.
Dot beamed at Frances. “When will I get to meet Mr. Corrigan?”
“Before you girls leave for dinner, I hope,” Frances said, “if he gets home in time.”
“Pop just brought in the niftiest red tartan plaid at the store,” Helen piped up. “Marjorie, will you make me a skirt for school? With pleats?” She heaved a dreamy sigh. “It would look just darling with a red beret.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Helen.” Frances cut me a glance. “Your sister has no time to sew a skirt. She has more than enough wedding chores she’s been neglecting.”
Helen leaned back in the wicker chair and said sweetly, “That’s all right. I don’t really need it until the weather turns, anyway.”
I reached over and patted her knee. “I’ll look at the material. Plaid can be tricky, especially with pleats. But I’ll see what I can do.” I still felt terrible about breaking my promise to her about the Spring Fling and wanted to make it up to her, even if it meant sewing plaid with pleats.
“Applesauce,” she scoffed. “Pleats won’t be a problem for you. You can sew anything.”
Dot glanced at me in surprise. “You sew, Marjie? I didn’t know that.”
I shrugged. “A little, I guess.”
“Don’t let her fool you, Miss Rodgers,” Helen said. “She’s the best seamstress in Kerryville. She’s even going to sew her own wedding dress.”
“If she ever gets around to it,” Frances muttered under her breath.
Dot’s face lit up. “Say, how are you with alterations? I have this one costume that needs a little something.”
Frances lifted an eyebrow. “Costume? What sort of costume?”
“An evening gown. It’s gorgeous, maroon satin with sequins, but it sags a bit in the bust, and I—”
“A sequined evening gown.” Helen sighed. “It sounds heavenly. What kinds of places do you wear it?”
Before we could travel further down that conversational road, I interrupted. “Frances, did Richard happen to say what time he’d be picking us up?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I forgot. Richard telephoned earlier. He said he’s tied up at the hospital and will meet you at the restaurant.”
“I simply can’t wait to meet the famous Richard.” Dot nudged me and giggled.
“You must be so eager to see him after all these weeks,” Frances said.
“Of course.” I nodded vigorously.
“First thing tomorrow, Marjorie, we need to go over the guest list and make some firm decisions about the invitations. Tempus fugit.” Frances turned to Dot. “Honestly, I’ve never known a bride to take less interest in her own wedding preparations.”
“That’s not true,” I said, a bit too loudly. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
“Busy with a lot of nonsense, if you ask me,” Frances sputtered, but then she apparently remembered Rule Number One and pressed her mouth into a thin line.
Dot tactfully cleared her throat. “I think I’ll go and wash up before dinner, if I may.”
“Of course, Miss Rodgers.” Frances started to stand, but Dot motioned for her to sit.
“I’m sure I’ll find my way. You and Marjorie sit and catch up.”
Frances smiled stiffly. “Upstairs on the left. You’ll find some nice clean towels on the edge of the sink.”
Dot went into the house, trailed by Helen, whose offer of help no doubt coincided with her desire to explore Dot’s cosmetics case. Frances banged empty glasses onto a tray.
“Honestly, Marjorie. Art classes,” she sputtered. “Clerking in a department store. And now you come prancing home with short hair and rouge on your face, looking like a—like a—”
“Like what?” I challenged.
“People are already whispering about you, and you’re just pouring gasoline on the fire. I’m sorry we ever let you go to that city.”
“Let me? You practically pushed me out the door.”
“To see the doctor, Marjorie. Not to transform yourself into the Vamp of Kerryville.” Frances shook her head sadly. “I dread to think what your father will say.”
“Frances, it’s just a haircut,” I said, struggling to remain calm. “It’s just a little rouge.”
“And you had such beautiful hair.” She sounded on the verge of tears.
“It will grow back. It’s just hair. For goodness’ sake, no one has died.”
But somewhere deep inside, I felt a little as if someone had died—the old, compliant, mousy Marjorie. She was gradually being ousted by a new, different Marjorie, who wore High Society Red and spoke her mind. Most of the time I barely recognized this new Marjorie. And to tell the truth, sometimes she scared me half to death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In spite of Frances’s hand-wringing, in the end Richard said only, “I see you cut your hair.” This, after giving me a rather perfunctory kiss in the vestibule of the Tick-Tock Café, where we met to have dinner with Dot and Charlie. It was hardly the type of greeting a girl would expect after being away for six weeks, but it was Richard’s way of letting me know he was still angry tha
t I wasn’t ready to come home for good. Then again, he was never one to make grand displays of affection in a public place. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
I had to admit, he looked handsome. I could tell Dot thought so, too. His hair was freshly cut and he wore a new suit. I understood why any girl would feel lucky to marry him. Any girl except me. I needed to come clean, and soon, but I didn’t know how.
As we were shown to our table, Dot looked around. “Oh, isn’t this just adorable? I love small-town restaurants. So quaint.”
Charlie looked deflated. “Kerryville must seem pretty unsophisticated compared to what you’re used to in the big city.”
Dot laughed. “Honey, Kerryville is the Big Apple compared to where I came from.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“A tiny burg in Indiana. Nothing more than a crossroads, really.” She peered at the menu, then glanced sideways at Charlie, showing off her coquettish dimples. “So, Charlie. You must bring girls here all the time. What do you recommend?”
He puffed up a little. “I rather like the steak, myself.”
I flashed a bright smile at Richard, hoping to dislodge the coolness between us. “What do you feel like eating tonight, darling?”
“I’m not terribly hungry, sweetheart,” he replied stiffly. We sounded like two actors reciting lines in a play. “I ate a big lunch at the hospital.”
Dot perked up. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about your work at the hospital, Dr. Brownlee,” she gushed. “It must be terribly fascinating.”
“I don’t know about fascinating, but I find it interesting,” he replied. I waited for him to say, “Please, call me Richard,” or some other friendly comment, but he said nothing further, and scanned the menu as if choosing his entree was suddenly of the utmost importance.
In a corner of the room, a dance band warmed up their instruments. I recognized Mr. Tyler, the high school band director, on saxophone.
“Since when does the Tick-Tock Café have a dance band?”
“Since the Lilac Lodge over in Harley hired an accordionist,” Charlie said. “They wanted to stay ahead of the competition. The band’s not too bad, if you don’t get too sick of ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas.’ They play that one at least three times a night. But they’re building their repertoire,” he added quickly, lest Dot think we were a town full of uncultured rubes.
“Oh, I love that song,” she assured him.
Live music helped fill in the conversational lulls. But I needn’t have worried about lulls with Dot around. When she failed to get any useful conversation out of Richard, she turned her long-lashed gaze back to Charlie.
“Tell me all about what you do, Charlie,” she purred.
My brother sat up straighter. “Well, I work down at the dry goods store with Po—with my father. And with Marjorie here. Of course, I’m the one in charge.” He gave a little grimace to signify the gravity of his weighty responsibilities.
Dot looked duly impressed. “You are?”
“Well, Pop is the big gun. He founded the place. But I’m really the one who keeps things humming down there, with Pop being out on the road so much.”
“Oh, and I suppose I’m just there for decoration,” I joked.
“Well, you haven’t been of much use there lately, have you?”
Touché.
By the time the waiter had taken our order, Charlie had pretty much established himself in Dot’s eyes as the dry goods king of the greater Middle West. Over dinner he described his efficient new system for inventory management in excruciating detail. Dot hung on his every word, as if the inner workings of the store held the universal secret to happiness. Meanwhile, Richard and I sat in near silence, like a couple of chaperones. I was dying to have it out with him, to make a clean break and clear the tension hanging so heavy between us, but that was impossible with so many people around.
I was prepared to head straight home after dessert and coffee, but Charlie had other ideas.
“Let’s stay and listen to the band for a while. They sound pretty good, for Kerryville.” Kept from dancing on account of his bum leg, he sat back and casually slung an arm over the banquette behind Dot.
Richard extended a hand to me. “Shall we?” We stepped out onto the dance floor. Being in his arms again felt nice—comforting, in a way. Why couldn’t I feel this contented with him all the time? I leaned close to murmur in his ear.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” His response was cool.
What next? “I’ve missed you.”
“Have you? Whose fault is that?”
Step-together-step. Change of topic.
“So? What do you think of her?”
“Of who?”
“Of Dot, silly.” Step-together-step. “Don’t you think she’s lovely?”
“She looks sort of . . . fast. She sticks out in a crowd, and not necessarily in a good way.”
I shrugged. “She does have a different attitude toward life than most people we know. You’d never know her father’s a preacher.”
Step-pivot. “He is? No, you’d never guess.”
“But she’s been a good friend to me.”
“I don’t think she’s a good influence.”
“Richard, you don’t even know her. Can’t you at least try to be nice?”
Step-step-glide-spin.
We danced past the table where Charlie and Dot were billing and cooing like a pair of doves. I flashed a brilliant aren’t-we-having-fun smile, even though they weren’t looking at me.
“When are you heading back?” Richard said.
“Sunday evening.”
Step-together-step. “Don’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Marjorie, I don’t want you to go back to Chicago. You know that. You should send Dot back by herself, and stay here in Kerryville where you belong.” Step-step-clunk. “Ow.”
I’d lost my footing and come down hard on his shiny black oxford.
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m going back.” Glide-glide-turn.
His voice chilled even further. “Look at what the city is doing to you. You’ve already changed so much, I hardly recognize you.”
“Is that what this is about?” I said. “I may look different, Richard, but I’m still the same girl on the inside.” Even as I said the words, I knew they were false. “Anyway, I’m obligated to stay in Chicago until the end of the summer. I just . . .” Peter’s sweet, crooked smile flashed unbidden through my mind. “I need some time.”
“Time for what, Marjorie? For selling bathrobes and running around with . . . who knows who? Good grief, girl, you have obligations. Your place is here with your family. And with me.”
Suddenly I found it hard to catch my breath. “Can we sit down, please? I’m getting winded.”
We returned to the table.
“Richard,” I started to say, then thought better of it. If I was going to call off our wedding, I needed to do it in private, not in the middle of the Tick-Tock Cafe with Charlie and Dot as witnesses. We didn’t talk much more after that. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say.
Later, when we were getting ready for bed, Dot said, “Is everything all right between you and Richard? You didn’t seem like yourself tonight.”
“Didn’t I?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but suspected I was failing. I was tired of people telling me I didn’t seem like myself. I didn’t even seem like myself to myself.
Dot put her hand on my arm. “Doll, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but you and Richard seem so . . .” She groped for words. “I don’t know. Mismatched, somehow.” She slipped her arms through the sleeves of her filmy peignoir. For once I was glad we were the sort of household that got fully dressed before going down to breakfast. “Where did you two meet, anyway?”
“At the hospital,” I said. “Helen fell on the sidewalk while roller skating and needed stitches in her lip. Richard was the attending physician and, well, I suppose one thing led to another.”
She
kicked off her feathery mules and slipped under the covers. “I don’t think he approves of me.”
“Who? Richard?”
“Who else?”
“Oh, take no notice of him. He’s just miffed at me about—about everything.” Eager to focus on somebody else’s love life instead of mine, I said, “You and Charlie really seem to be hitting on all cylinders.”
“He’s sweet.”
“Looks like he feels the same about you.”
In the mirror I swear I saw her blush, which startled me. Dot wasn’t the blushing type. But she quickly reverted to her usual insouciant attitude. “Oh, he’s just being gentlemanly toward his sister’s houseguest. Surely he has a nice little sweetheart hidden somewhere.”
“You don’t know Charlie,” I said. “True, he used to be sort of a big-man-on-campus type at our high school. But he hasn’t shown any real interest in any particular woman since he came back from the war.” Since Catherine gave him the heave-ho, I added silently.
Although it amused me that Charlie and Dot seemed to be hitting it off, I had to admit to a few misgivings. How suitable was it for a man who needed to steer clear of alcohol to take up with a woman who spent every weekend singing in a gin mill? A gin mill owned by her boyfriend? A boyfriend with a reputation for being, as Kurt Steuben had said, menacing?
But they weren’t necessarily “taking up,” I reminded myself sternly. They were simply two people enjoying each other’s company on a summer weekend, and there was certainly nothing wrong with that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You’d better get to work on that wedding dress, Marjorie,” Frances urged on Saturday morning. “September is fast approaching.”
I touched the bolt of heavy white satin with listless fingers. I dreaded telling Frances about my change of heart concerning the wedding, and wouldn’t dream of telling her before I’d told Richard himself. Although when I would work up the nerve to do that, I did not know.
“It’s too hot today for sewing,” I said. “I can’t bear to handle heavy satin on a day like this. I’ll just take the fabric back to the city with me.”
“You were the one who chose satin,” Frances reminded me. “I thought it was a mistake from the start. Well, maybe you can hire one of the seamstresses at your fancy department store to help you. They’d probably finish it faster on their modern machines, anyway.”
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