After lunch Frances and I ran some errands, and then Frances wanted to go over the guest list. To keep Dot from being bored, Charlie offered to leave work early and take her to the movies. Helen begged to go with them, but he brushed her off. By dinnertime, they still hadn’t returned.
After dinner I lingered on the porch with a glass of iced tea, trying to sort things out in my head. If I went ahead with the wedding, I’d be marrying a man I didn’t love. I’d be living a lie, even if he promised me a safe, secure life as a doctor’s wife. The man I thought I might love—or was mighty attracted to, anyway—was back in Chicago, selling neckties and moonshine. I couldn’t see living out the rest of my life as a gangster’s moll, either, or pining away for a man locked up in prison, if he ever got caught. What should I do?
A familiar honk sounded from the street. I looked up to see Richard’s sedan pulling up to the curb. He stepped out, slammed the door, and walked up the sidewalk.
Now, Marjorie, do it now, said an inner voice that I took to be an answer to prayer. Tell him you can’t marry him.
I stood up. You don’t waste time, do you Lord? You didn’t even give me time to rehearse what to say. Oh, well. Here goes.
Richard strode up the porch steps. “Hi, sweetheart.” He leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head and his kiss landed on my cheek.
“Richard, we have to talk.”
“I know.” He pushed up his spectacles. “That’s why I’m here.”
I looked at him in amazement. “You know?”
He took both my hands in his and looked earnestly into my eyes. “Sure. You’re still mad at me about last night.”
“What?”
“I know I acted like a jerk last night, Marjorie, and I’m sorry.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “I’ve just been feeling so lost without having you here.”
“Richard, don’t—”
“I worry all the time about your living on your own in the city, whether you’re safe or whether you’re lonely. And then you act as if you don’t want to come home. You talk about your exciting job and your art class and your new friends . . . it’s like you don’t miss me and our life together at all.”
I swallowed hard. “Richard—”
He dropped my hands and walked to the edge of the porch. “And then you finally come home, and I can’t wait to see you, but you look so different. You even talk different.”
“I do?”
He turned back and faced me. “So I came over to apologize. I’m really sorry, Marjorie. I have no excuse for acting the way I did last night. Will you forgive me?”
My heart started to crumble. This was going all wrong. “Oh, Richard. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Just then Frances opened the screen door and poked her head out. “Richard! I thought I heard your voice. Won’t you join us for some cake?”
Richard glanced at his wristwatch. “Thanks, Frances, but I’m on break from the hospital and have to get back. I just came by to tell Marjorie something.”
“Well, then, you’ll join us for dinner after church tomorrow, won’t you?” Frances said.
“I’d love to.” Frances went back inside, and Richard held out his arms for an embrace. I breathed in his familiar scent and an ache formed in the back of my throat.
“Thanks, Marjorie. I knew you’d understand.”
“But—”
He bounded to his sedan and drove off, leaving me standing on the porch, my unspoken farewell speech dangling from my lips. I’d have to tell him tomorrow. No more dillydallying.
A short time later, Dot and Charlie returned from the movies, and the three of us sat out on the porch, drinking in the peaceful summer evening.
“How was the movie?” I ventured.
“It was all right,” Charlie said, looking at Dot. “Not much of a plot.”
“The lead resembled Peter Bachmann a little,” Dot said. She turned to Charlie. “Did Marjorie ever tell you that there’s a fellow at work who looks just like her old boyfriend, Jack?”
Charlie looked at me. “Yes, she did. As a matter of fact, she thought she was seeing a ghost.”
I felt my face redden. “Don’t remind me. I know for sure now that Peter is not Jack. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“How do you know for sure?” Dot pressed. “What was the clue?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “The important thing is, he’s not Jack.”
“Now aren’t you glad I told you not to tell anyone else your suspicions?” Charlie said. “Anyone besides me would think you’re a nutcase. Me, I already know that you are.”
“Ha ha.”
“He’s right,” said Dot. “Imagine if Richard had heard you talking about some other fellow.”
“Speaking of, where is the dear doctor tonight?” Charlie said.
“On call at the hospital.” I was dying to talk to them about what was going on, to spill the whole story about me and Richard and Peter and Chicago and everything. Dot already knew bits of it anyway . . . the bits I’d chosen to tell her. But now didn’t seem like the time. I sensed an odd tension in the air between them.
Dot took a cigarette out of her bag but stopped short of lighting it. Later, after Charlie had gone inside to listen to the news with Pop, I found her out in the backyard, cigarette in hand.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Sure. Just enjoying this good clean country air.”
“You’d enjoy it a lot more if you didn’t cloud it up with that thing,” I teased, waving away the smoke.
She gave me a smirk, but dropped the cigarette and ground it into the grass with the toe of her shoe. Then she leaned against the picnic table and looked up at the sky.
“There sure are a lot of stars out here,” she said. “A lot more than you can see in the city.”
“The city has just as many stars. You can just see them better here because it’s so dark.”
The night was clear and still. Crickets chirped, and lightning bugs flashed in the hedges.
“Did something happen at the movies? You’ve been quiet since you got back.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s nothing. Charlie said some things that made me think. That’s all.”
“I think he really likes you.”
“Yeah. He’s a nice kid.”
“Kid?” I laughed. “He’s older than you are.”
“Well, I feel older. He’s very different from Louie.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Your whole family’s nice. Even your stepmother.”
Heat rose in my chest. “No, she’s not. She’s been just horrible, making rude judgments about you based on the way you look.”
Dot didn’t take her eyes off the stars. “Maybe she’s right.”
“She’s not.”
She looked down at the grass. “I suppose I am a floozy, by the standards of Kerryville, anyway.”
“Don’t say that. We all admire you. We think you’re independent and glamorous.”
“Glamorous,” she spat, and turned to face me. “I’m just doing what I have to do to survive, Marjorie. It’s important to me that you know that.”
“What do you mean? Working at Field’s? Modeling? Singing at the club? Dating Louie?”
“Everything.” She looked away again.
I tried to choose my words carefully. “Dot, I know you need to make a living, but you don’t need to take off your clothes at an art school to do it,” I said. “And you don’t need to break the law by working in a speakeasy. And you certainly don’t need to lower your standards and stay with a man who treats you as shabbily as Louie does.”
“My standards,” she said with a harsh laugh. “It’s all I know.”
“No, it’s not,” I argued. “You were raised in a Christian home. You know there’s another way.”
Dot snorted. “If that’s the only other way, then no, thank you.”
Lord, give me the right words to say. “Look, Dot, I know your home life wasn’t perfect. But just b
ecause your father let you down doesn’t mean God will do the same. He has something better for you—I know He does—if you’ll just put your trust in Him. He’s in control.”
Dot gazed up at the night sky. “Is He? I wonder.”
“Of course He is. God orchestrated the entire universe. He put every single one of those stars in place. If He did that, He most certainly cares about Dot Rodgers.” And Marjorie Corrigan, I added silently.
She didn’t reply. A moment later, a shadow filled the yellow square of light from the kitchen door and Helen’s voice called out, “Hey, you two. Come inside and have some cake.”
“You know nothing about it,” Dot murmured to me in a chilly tone. But by the time we walked into the warm kitchen, her sparkling smile was back in place.
Charlie said, “What were you two doing out there?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Just looking at the stars.”
On the kitchen table Frances had set out a pot of coffee and a delicious caramel cake. Pop took his serving and headed for the living room, where he could read the evening newspaper in peace. The rest of us gathered around the table, laughing and joking. Helen peppered Dot with questions about the latest fashions. Charlie sat quietly, but I caught him sneaking frequent glances at Dot.
Finally Frances said, “After we clear the dishes, let’s get back to work on the guest list, Marjorie. We need to finish it up so we can order the invitations.”
“I’m so pooped, Frances,” I protested. “Can’t we do that tomorrow? Anyway, we have company.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Dot said. “I’ll even help. I’ll read off the list of names and you can tell me stories about all the good citizens of Kerryville.”
Helen giggled. “That will take all night.”
“I’ll go change, and then we can begin.” Frances headed for the stairs. Dot and I cleared the table, then went to join Pop in the living room, leaving Helen and Charlie to wash the dishes. Pop puffed his pipe and scanned the evening paper. Idly Dot picked up one of the sections he’d discarded. “The Daily News?” she said. “You get the Chicago papers all the way out here?”
“It’s the only way to get any real news,” he muttered around his pipe stem. “The local paper is pretty worthless.”
“Unless you’re interested in who’s vacationing in the Dells, and what kind of sandwiches were served at the ladies’ bridge tournament,” I added.
“Well, I think it all sounds charming,” Dot said. “And I adore bridge. At least the Kerryville newspaper is not all about gangsters and shootings. Do you mind if I take a peek at the entertainment section?” Pop handed it to her. “I want to see if that new Pola Negri movie is—oh, my word.” A look of dismay came over her face as she stared at the paper.
“What is it?” I craned my neck to peer over her shoulder.
Her eyes looked enormous against her pale skin. “It’s—oh, it’s nothing. Just something silly,” she said, with a nervous giggle. She folded the paper and handed it back to Pop. “The movie must not be out yet. I think I’ll go see about helping with those dishes.”
As she left the room, Pop and I looked at each other. I opened the paper and scanned the page she’d been looking at, but saw nothing unusual, just a smattering of movie reviews and notices about upcoming concerts and other entertainment coming to town: a circus, a religious revival meeting, a flower show. Shrugging, I handed the page to Pop. Then I seized the moment.
“Say, Pop, while we’ve got a few minutes alone, I wanted to talk to you. I’ve made a decision.”
“Hmm? A decision? About what?”
“About the wedding, and . . . everything.”
With her usual impeccable timing, Frances chose that moment to come back downstairs.
“There you are, my dear.” Pop set down his pipe. “I was just thinking, what do you say to a round of bridge to entertain our guest?”
“Oh, Melvin.” Frances sounded exasperated. “You know Marjorie and I need to work on that guest list.”
“We can work on it later,” I said, desperate to avoid all things wedding-related.
Pop stood up. “Let’s show Miss Rodgers a good time, Kerryville-style.”
Frances set her mouth in a line, but she acquiesced. “Oh, you two. All right, I’ll get the cards.”
As she left the room, Pop turned to me. “What is it you were going to tell me?”
I smiled. “Nothing, Pop. It can wait.” But deep in my heart, I knew it couldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
On Sunday I attended church with the family, letting Dot sleep in.
“Why, Marjorie Corrigan, just look at you,” exclaimed Mrs. Varney, my former teacher. “I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s good to have you back.”
She welcomed me with a hug. A few women gathered in little whispering clumps, but I chose to take no notice. If I’d earned a reputation as that crazy Corrigan girl who ran off to the city, then so be it.
In the stifling church, the back of my pale blue dotted Swiss clung damply to the pew. I fanned myself with the bulletin, as did so many others that the congregation looked like a flock of flapping seagulls preparing to take off.
Richard joined us in our pew. My heart twisted as I thought of what I was going to do him—to us—right after supper. No waffling. No second thoughts.
Then first thing in the morning, Dot and I would go back to Chicago, where I’d track down Peter and I’d say . . . why, I’d march right up to him and say . . .
Well, I could figure out that part later.
In place of the regular pastor, a guest speaker delivered the sermon. A church elder beamed as he introduced C. Herbert Lemmon, renowned lecturer on the Chautauqua circuit. Clearly the Lord had His eye fixed firmly on me—the scarlet woman ready to hand her heart over to a bootlegger—because C. Herbert’s chosen topic was the evils of alcohol.
“After all is said that can be said upon the liquor traffic,” the speaker boomed, “its influence is degrading upon the individual, the family, politics and business, and upon everything that you touch in this old world. For the time has long gone by when there is any ground for arguments as to its ill effects.”
I glanced over at Frances, who was nodding her head in vigorous agreement. She would have lifted her hands in the air and shouted “Hallelujah,” if ours had been the sort of church where things like that were done.
“I go to a family and it is broken up, and I say, ‘What caused this?’ Drink!” the speaker continued. “I step up to a young man on the scaffold and say, ‘What brought you here?’ Drink! Whence all the misery and sorrow and corruption? Invariably it is drink.”
I squirmed. The man I loved apparently made a tidy profit from liquor. Obviously the Lord—or at least C. Herbert Lemmon—was warning me that to have any further dealings with Peter would be a grave mistake. But would it really? Would it really help him if I turned my back on him?
As C. Herbert continued his blustery speech, my gaze drifted to the stained-glass window, etched with the words, “And the greatest of these is love.”
Suddenly I knew. Rays of sunshine shone on me from a heavenly realm. Somewhere an angel chorus sang. Because all at once I saw the light.
Love was the answer. I needed to love Peter, not turn my back on him. I’d never be his sweetheart—not as long as he was a bootlegger—but maybe I could be his friend. But first, I had to make a clean break with Richard, and inform my family that no wedding would take place on September fifteenth, after all. I looked again at the comforting stained-glass face of Jesus and silently poured out my heart. I was going to need all the help I could get.
Like most men over the age of ten, Pop was utterly charmed by Dot. Over Sunday dinner he listened keenly to her stories of city life and the goings-on at Field’s, even looking impressed when she told him about my merchandise displays and the praise they’d received from Mr. Simpson. Only Frances and Richard remained thin-lipped and silent on the topic of my Chicago experiences.
Pop helped himself to another serving of green beans. “I’m glad you’re having such a good time in the city, Marjorie. But I hope you’re not planning to make a lifelong career of working at Marshall Field.”
“Probably not, but why do you say that?”
“I’ve always expected you’ll take over Corrigan’s one day. You and Charlie.”
“You can count on me, Pop,” Charlie said. “You know that.”
“You can count on me, too.” I said, shooting Charlie a look. He wasn’t Pop’s only loyal offspring. “But don’t you think that the experience I’m picking up at Field’s will be useful in the future when—”
Richard interrupted me. “Melvin,” he said to my father, “I know you’ve been counting on Marjorie’s help. But she and I have been discussing it, and we’ve determined she will be too busy running our home and social calendar to be of much use to you in the store.”
I nearly choked on my iced tea. “What? When did we say that?”
“Right before you left for Chicago.”
Pop set down his fork. “Is that true, Marjorie? You’re quitting the store for good?”
My face grew hot. “No, I’m not.”
“Of course she is,” Frances interjected. “A new bride has her hands full just learning to run a household. Besides, Marjorie will be moving in a different social circle, and will have many obligations in the community that perhaps she isn’t aware of yet.”
“Hello, I’m right here. I can speak for myself.” My glare traveled from her to Richard to my father, back to Richard. “What Richard means to say, Pop, is that we’ve discussed it, but we haven’t decided. Not definitely.”
Richard returned my glare. “Sweetheart, I thought you agreed running our home was the most important priority.”
“Of course it’s important, but so is Corrigan’s. And so is Field’s.” And so is Peter, I added silently. How had I gotten myself into such a pickle?
Richard faced my father. “Of course, Melvin, I know she’s a great asset to you, and I have no objection to her helping you out when the store is especially busy. At Christmastime, say.”
You're the Cream in My Coffee Page 17
